Opening the wooden lychgate, I let the quiet surround me. A grey squirrel scampers by me clutching a nut that looks like it’s been liberated from a birdfeeder. I make my way to William’s grave. The headstone hasn’t been erected yet as I’m still waiting for the stonemason to finish it. It’s my fault it’s taken so long as I just couldn’t decide what to put on it. How can you sum up an entire person’s life in a couple of meagre lines? How will people know how much Will meant to me, to the children, from a few basic dates and details? Beloved Husband, Loving Father. That doesn’t even begin to encompass what Will was to us. In generations to come, when I’m long gone too, will people come to weddings, christenings or funerals here at St Mary’s and glance at his grave as they pass? William Matthew Ashurst, Aged 42. Perhaps I should have added, Taken From Us Too Soon. They won’t know that he was a wonderful cricketer or that he made a mean spaghetti bolognese. Will they care that his favourite tipple was a good red wine or that he liked his chocolate cold, straight from the fridge? Would they smile if they knew how he used to decorate the house with black and orange balloons every Halloween and drape every surface with fake cobwebs and skeletons, playing Michael Jackson’s Thriller at full volume to make the children shriek with excitement and fear? Would it warm their hearts to know that after more than a decade of marriage he still cuddled up on the sofa every night with his wife for a few snatched moments in their busy lives and that he never minded her putting her cold feet on him in bed? How can I reduce a full and fabulous life to a few lines chipped out on a headstone? I think my husband deserves more than that, but it can’t be fitted on a small slab of stone and so Beloved Husband, Loving Father it is.
All that marks the grave is the patch of recently turned soil. It has sunk now so that it’s nearly level with the rest of the ground. Someone has sown the top with grass seed and by next spring it will have nearly blended in with the rest of the lush, well-maintained lawn in the churchyard. How much does that say about the transience of life?
I sit on the grass next to William even though the ground is cold and damp, knees under my chin. It’s still not that chilly for the time of the year, but I pull my coat around me nevertheless. Toying with the grass at my feet, I say softly, ‘I miss you.’
The church here is on a small, comforting scale and it’s not hard to imagine the christenings, weddings and funerals that have taken place here over the centuries that it’s been standing at the centre of this community. Now it’s not that well attended, but there are a few stalwarts who keep the place going. The weathered stone is well settled into its surroundings, a constant in a changing world.
‘I’ve been so rudderless without you,’ I tell my husband. ‘I don’t know what to do. Making all the decisions by myself seems so difficult. We’re in a terrible mess financially. I’ve sold the house – your dream home. I don’t know how I can do that to you, but I’m trying to do what’s best for me and the kids even though I’ve no idea what that might be.’ I pluck up some of the grass and let it fall through my fingers. ‘Is this making any sense to you?’
I watch the squirrel charge back and forth. He’s obviously found a rich stream of food from somewhere and I’ll swear that he’s smiling. Nothing else moves in the churchyard. One thing I must do when we get back to London is sit still and watch the world go by. But then, I think, London isn’t the kind of sitting-still place.
‘And I’ve had feelings for someone else,’ I carry on. ‘But you probably know that. In case you don’t, it’s Guy Burton. The vet. You really liked Guy and I do too. He’s been a fantastic friend to me. But I think I let my emotions run away with me because I’m feeling so vulnerable. I’ve let him get very close to me, to the children. Perhaps that’s wrong. I feel like I’m betraying you. Betraying you because I’m moving on, thinking about planning a life without you. How can I do that so soon when you were the sun, moon and stars for me?’
I want to hear Will’s voice telling me that everything will be okay, that I’m doing the right thing. But nothing comes. Nothing fills the empty space.
Rain, which wasn’t forecast, starts to fall. I hear it pattering on the branches of the trees before I feel it on my skin. At first it’s a gentle shower and then, steadily, it grows heavier. My eyes fill with tears. And I lie down on the cold ground next to my beloved William, getting wetter and wetter, and letting the water flow down my face.
Chapter Sixty-One
‘This didn’t go well, did it?’ Guy said.
He’d brought Laura back to his house after her accident, whereupon she’d disappeared into the shower and hadn’t reappeared for a very long time. Now she was standing in the living room in clean clothes, overnight bag at her feet. The thoroughly wet designer boots were in a plastic bag.
‘It was an interesting reunion.’ She had the good grace to try a laugh. Something which had steadfastly eluded her as he’d dragged her out of the icy stream at Staincliffe Cove with the help of another burly hiker and in front of a sizeable crowd.
‘I don’t suppose that you’ll be in a hurry to repeat the experience?’
‘We’re different people,’ she said.
Guy shrugged. ‘We were before we parted.’
‘It was wrong of me to come here hoping to rekindle what we had. We can’t do that – I know that now.’ She came and put her arms around his waist. ‘Can you forgive me for trying?’
He nodded even though he wasn’t entirely sure of Laura’s motivation for her trip back in time.
‘We could be friends though,’ she continued as she toyed with the fabric of his sweatshirt. ‘Friends who’ve been through a lot together and have come out of the other side of it.’
‘I’d like that,’ Guy admitted.
‘You can come to London once in a while to remind yourself how horrible it is. I can come and visit you once a year and you can subject me to torture by Hamish.’
At his name the dog wagged his tail. Guy had thought about locking him in the kitchen in disgrace, but it was pointless. Hamish was an untameable beast and it was wise to work round that – particularly if you wanted your door-frames or furniture to remain intact. ‘The dog’s going back to his owner this very afternoon.’
‘That’s Amy?’
‘Yes.’
‘You talk about her a lot.’
Did he?
‘Is there something special between you?’
‘No, no,’ Guy said with a laugh, but his heart beat faster nonetheless. Just the thought of seeing Amy later today lifted his spirits. ‘She’s recently widowed. I’m just trying to take some of the pressure off her.’
‘You always were very soft-hearted.’
He didn’t like to tell Laura that his heart had become a lot more brittle, thanks to her. But that was all water under the bridge now.
‘I should be going.’ Laura closed her eyes and kissed him softly on the lips. It was a great sensation, but there was no passion behind it – for either of them.
She was a beautiful woman, no doubt. Many a man would be flattered to have her attention, but what he’d once felt for her had now gone. It had been replaced by a friendship – of sorts. He wondered whether he ever would go to London, whether Laura would ever risk the dangers of the countryside again. Perhaps not. And perhaps that was for the best.
Chapter Sixty-Two
When I get back from the cemetery, Serena is peeling potatoes. She looks up from her task. ‘You look a bit teary. Okay?’
I nod. ‘Just having a good old weep. Feeling sorry for myself.’
My sister puts down the spuds, wipes her hands and comes to give me a hug. ‘You’re doing fine.’
I’m not so sure about that.
‘Get some booze down your neck.’ I see that she’s already cracked open a bottle to help pass the time while she does her kitchen duties. ‘That will make you feel much better.’
She sploshes some wine into a glass for me and I know better than to disobey my sister, so I take a good swig. The wine’s smooth, f
ruity and very welcome. It does actually make me feel better. ‘Where are the children?’
‘I pasted them at Operation. Oh, yes!’ She punches the air in celebration of her victory, which makes me smile. ‘Now they’re watching a DVD. Can’t remember what.’
‘I’ll come and do the carrots.’ I open the drawer and search for another apron.
Serena goes back to the sink. ‘You had two phone calls while you were out.’
I raise an eyebrow in interest. ‘Yeah?’
‘One from Guy saying he’s going to bring Hamish back, so I asked him to stay for dinner.’ She gives me a what-do-you-think-about-that look.
‘And is he coming?’
‘In about half an hour.’
‘That’s great. The children will be pleased.’
‘Thought it might put a smile on your face too,’ she adds.
I refuse to rise to the bait. ‘Who was the other call from?’
‘Gavin someone.’ My heart skips a beat. There’s a Post-It stuck on the fridge and she cranes her neck to read it.
‘Morrison,’ I supply.
‘That’s him.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Don’t know. Says you’re to call him.’
‘Now?’
‘It’s as good a time as any, I guess.’
Peeling away the Post-It, I study it. This number used to be on speed dial in my mobile phone when I worked for him. I ceremoniously deleted it when he ceremoniously gave me a piss-off pill. Sitting at the kitchen table, I stare at the number. Wonder what he wants now?
Before my courage deserts me, I punch in the number. After one ring, Gavin answers.
‘Hello, Gavin,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘You called.’
‘That arts programme we talked about,’ he barks down the phone. ‘We just got a green light. Looks like it’s going to happen after all. You were on the top of my list. Fancy it?’
‘A job?’ I say.
He laughs at that. ‘Yes, a bloody job. Told you I’d come good for you.’
Did he ever tell me that? I seem to remember that he told me in no uncertain terms to get stuffed.
‘The pay’s a bit worse, but the terms and conditions are the same. It’d be a one-year contract. Up for it? Or are you happy up to your knees in cow pats?’
I feel like telling him to get lost. He treated me so badly, but how can I look a gift horse in the mouth? It was me who raised the prospect of this arts programme with him. How can I turn it down now? Why would I want to? This is the confirmation I need that I am doing the right thing. I always knew that I’d have to go back to London to get into the groove again. Gavin Morrison has just thrown me a lifeline.
‘Yes, yes. Of course I’m up for it.’ I can’t keep the glee out of my voice. ‘I’ve sold my house. When do you want me to start?’
‘I’m looking at February-ish.’
‘That would suit me perfectly.’
‘Good, good,’ Gavin says. ‘I’ll get HR to send the paperwork through. Welcome back on board, Amy.’
‘Thanks. Thanks so much.’
Putting down the phone, I turn to Serena. ‘I’ve got a job,’ I say. ‘Back at the BTC.’
‘Fabulous!’ She abandons the potatoes again and comes to twirl round the kitchen with me.
‘I’ve got a job!’ My heart is pounding high in my chest. I’m back in the ranks of the employable and you just don’t know how good that feels.
Chapter Sixty-Three
‘I’ve sold the house,’ I tell Guy.
He nods slowly. ‘It’s what you wanted.’
‘Yes.’
Guy brought Hamish back about five minutes ago and already the dog is making out with one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Hamish,’ I shout. ‘Stop trying to have carnal knowledge of the furniture.’ The dog completely ignores me. I sigh to no one in particular.
The children, unlike me, are delighted to see the mutt back. Jessica has made Hamish a necklace of pink glass beads which he’s wearing with pride, and he has a row of pink hairclips on his ears which he’s less impressed with but he’s tolerating. Tom has already slipped him three chocolate biscuits that he thinks I don’t know about. They say chocolate is poisonous to dogs – chance would be a fine thing! Then I look at how happy they are with Hamish and my insides churn. They’re going to hate leaving him behind.
I give Guy and my sister a glass of wine. A small one for Serena as she’s driving back to Town late tonight.
‘I’ve got the offer of a job too.’ The relief I feel inside at that nearly balances out my guilt. But not quite.
‘I’m pleased for you,’ Guy says, but he doesn’t look it.
‘Thank God this place is off your hands. And you’ll have some cash coming in,’ Serena says, raising her glass in the air. ‘To getting back to civilisation.’
I see Guy’s face darken and he doesn’t join my sister’s thoughtless toast. Some people love this area and wouldn’t be anywhere else. She chinks her glass against mine. ‘To civilisation,’ I echo weakly.
‘I don’t want sillyvisation,’ Jessica pipes up.
‘Civilisation,’ I correct.
‘I don’t want it,’ she repeats, unabashed. ‘I want to stay here.’
‘Me too,’ Tom adds, when no one has even asked him.
What am I to do? How am I to convince my children that they want to go to London, having spent the first few months we were in Helmshill convincing them that what they really wanted was not to be in London, but to be here? It’s making my brain ache and it will take more than a glass of passable red to ease it. ‘Mummy’s got a job there. Aren’t you happy about that? Now you’ll be able to do all the things you want to do. And we can see more of Aunty Serena.’
‘She won’t let us win at Operation,’ my daughter notes, then gives an exaggerated sigh which I take as the end of the conversation.
In the Aga the roast dinner is cooking and it’s wafting delicious smells across the kitchen which I view as a good thing. Before I clear off I want to cook at least one decent dinner in this ruddy thing. Everything else I’ve tried has come out raw or burned or two days too late. We’ve got a leg of lamb and I hope that Daphne, Doris and Delila can’t detect the scent of one of their kinfolk slowly roasting.
‘The people who’ve bought the house seem like a nice couple,’ I tell Guy brightly.
‘Weekenders?’
‘Yes,’ I say, feeling guilty about the fact that Helmshill Grange will stand empty for the majority of the time. The estate agent said that all the locals are being priced out of the market and a lot of the houses are being sold to people for holiday homes. That makes me feel bad too. ‘But I think they’ll be here regularly. They loved it.’
Guy doesn’t look convinced. ‘They won’t keep the animals then?’
‘No,’ I admit. I think they’re planning to spend their weekends with their feet up and a bottle or two of decent Shiraz, not cleaning out henhouses and shovelling sheep shit.
‘I’ll try to rehome them for you,’ Guy says.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ he grumbles before returning to his wine. ‘By the way, I’ve organised for someone to come up tomorrow and help you. His name’s Alan Steadman. He’s lived in Scarsby all his life, in one of the farm cottages. He used to work for Brindle’s before he retired.’
‘I really appreciate this, Guy.’ I open the Aga and check that my roast will be ready before midnight. Hmm. Looking good. ‘And it’s all funded by this EU grant?’
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘I’m stunned. Not that I’m complaining,’ I complain, ‘but it’s about time I had something out of this bloody government.’
‘Alan’s a good man. He’ll see you right. Give him a list of all the jobs that you want done.’
‘It seems such a shame now that we’re going.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ he says.
I put my hand on Guy’s sho
ulder. His sweatshirt feels soft and warm against my palm and very good. Quickly, I withdraw my fingers. ‘You do too much for us.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ he says. ‘The house sale will probably take a while to complete, anyway. Alan will be happy looking after the animals until you go.’
‘The Gerner-Bernards might keep the animals on if Alan’s here.’ Well, I can still hope.
I desperately want to ask Guy about the mystery woman with the movie-star looks who shared his weekend, but I can’t. I don’t even feel on safe enough ground to tease him about it and he’s giving nothing away. He hasn’t even mentioned running out on us all at the village hall dance.
Hamish, possibly bored by the lack of romantic response from his chair, comes to lie down at Guy’s feet. He huffs, puffs, snuffles and eventually settles. Jessica sidles over, leans casually on Guy’s chair and then, in a series of subtle moves, manages to wriggle herself to sit on his knee.
‘It’s nice to have you and Hamish here,’ she says to Guy. Then to me, ‘Isn’t it, Mummy?’
‘Yes.’
He smiles self-consciously at me over my daughter’s head. An outsider observer would see this as a perfect domestic scene. No one would ever guess the turmoil and heartache that lie just under the surface.
Chapter Sixty-Four
‘Do you know much about pot-bellied pigs?’ Cheryl asked.
‘Yes. I’ve dated quite a few in my time,’ Guy quipped.
‘Very funny. Well, there’s one on its way in with an upset stomach,’ his receptionist told him. ‘It’ll be about ten minutes. I said you’d have a look at him before you go off on your rounds.’ Cheryl folded her arms across her ample chest and raised her eyebrows. ‘Meanwhile, you’ve got more than enough time to tell me about the black-haired woman who Mrs Tilsley said you had in your car at the weekend.’
Guy opened his mouth to protest. Should a man really be subjected to this, first thing on a Monday morning?
‘And don’t be telling me that it was Mrs Ashurst’s dog again because Mrs Tilsley said that bloody hound was in the back seat.’ Cheryl gave him a knowing look.
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