“History happened. I like that,” Hal says thoughtfully. A gust of wind catches his hair and ruffles it – and for a second, I can’t stop myself from wondering what it feels like.
His hair.
Okay.
A path leads off the side of the drive, dividing into two, marked with a signpost cut out of a huge lump of tree trunk. One arm of the post points down a long, gentle slope while the other follows the line of a gravelled track, twisting off through the trees. The first one is marked Grotto. The second, Lake.
In front of them, Hal stops and folds his arms. “Which way do you want to go? They probably join up somewhere, so it doesn’t really matter, but…”
Lake or grotto.
Which way do I want to go?
Backwards…or forwards?
What’s waiting for me on either path – and will I like it? Will it help?
Lake or grotto?
“Grotto. Let’s go to the grotto.”
“Cool.” He takes a step forward – then stops, puzzled. “I forgot – did you say there was something you wanted to do here?” He nods towards the signpost. “We can go down to the lake if you want?”
“Oh. Umm…” The water glistens emptily through the trees at me. “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
Another rumble overhead makes us both look up. “Grotto it is then.” And he magics his sunglasses out of his bag then stuffs his hands into his pockets, setting off down the slope, his hair like a beacon.
And I let him lead me away from the house and the lake, and on to the grotto.
The way down to the grotto winds through trees and big overgrown plants that flump across the path…and then narrows to a tunnel with steep sides and an arching brick roof.
It. Is. Dark.
“This isn’t exactly how I pictured it,” Hal mutters somewhere ahead of me in the gloom. There’s a scuffing sound as he trips on the uneven floor. I’m not even going to risk getting my phone out for light – if I drop it, it’ll definitely smash.
I reach a hand out to steady myself against the walls. My fingers sink into cold, damp moss. At least, I hope it’s moss. “I was definitely expecting something…prettier.”
“Hang on – it’s lighter ahead.”
And it is. We stumble out of the dark and into a brighter cave, the floor made of big pebbles sunk into the ground in swirling designs, the walls and ceiling lined with hundreds – no, thousands – of shells. I can’t tell where the light is coming from, but it’s soft and white and beautiful. Not just pretty, but flat-out beautiful.
“That’s more like it.”
Hal is crouched down in the corner, so busy peering at the collection of little ferns growing around a poem engraved on the floor that he hasn’t even noticed the rest of it.
“Hal. Hal, look.”
Nothing.
Slowly, I reach out a hand and touch his shoulder. His head snaps round like a whip. And then he sees.
At the far end of the grotto is a figure emerging from a pool of water, life-sized and carved from stone so white that it glows.
“The River God.” My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. I don’t mean it to, but apparently that’s how the grotto works.
“This is where she came.”
“To whisper his name into the water.”
We both walk to the edge of the statue’s pool and stare down into the water, as though Albie’s name is still in there. Side by side, we stand and we listen – and as we do, the water starts to shine. Brighter and brighter, like it’s silver – and then brighter again, until it isn’t water at all but liquid light, throwing shimmering patterns across the roof, the walls, us. Like it’s a sign.
“There must be a light well in the roof somewhere,” Hal says, tilting his head back to look for it.
Of course there must be. It’s part of the design – a magic trick, an illusion meant to have exactly this effect…But a chill still runs down my spine as the light flickers around us. “Kind of a coincidence, though, isn’t it? The sun coming out right now?”
“I don’t believe in…oh.” He turns around, so close to me that I could count every freckle on his face, count the pale eyelashes lowered over his eyes – and when his eyes meet mine the chill turns warm, sliding into every limb, spreading across every centimetre of my skin.
“I know.”
Outside the grotto, there’s a low rolling rumble – and there’s no way to pretend that isn’t thunder.
“And you’re going to tell me that’s a sign too, are you?” Hal’s words echo as we follow the cobbled path back into the dark.
We make it outdoors again, and he follows my gaze up to the sky…right as the first fat raindrop hits my face.
“Yes. It’s definitely a sign. A sign we should go.”
Another drop. Another. Another and another and the air is suddenly heavy with the thick scent of wet earth and the hissing sound of a million raindrops all coming right for us.
We outrun the rain as far as the slope down from the drive, and then the heavens split completely open. I open my mouth to say that we’re not going to make it before we’re soaked through, but I don’t get that far because quickly, carefully, perfectly naturally, his hand closes around mine. He starts running for the car, pulling me into him with one arm, the other holding his bag above our heads like the world’s worst umbrella…And all the while the biggest raindrops I’ve ever seen are hammering down around us and drumming on the ground, on the roof of the car, splashing into the fountain and sending up a dozen tiny echoes of themselves. When we make it to the car and yank the doors open and throw ourselves in, I don’t know if I’m more out of breath from the running or the laughing. Or both.
We look at each other and he’s grinning, even as he’s wiping the rain from his face.
“Let’s get out of here,” I say, pushing my damp hair out of my eyes.
“You didn’t like the house?” He rubs the heels of his hands up and down his face, trying to dry it off. All it does is make his eyebrows stick out.
I don’t answer. How can I tell him about the things that bother me about Fallowmill’s past without telling him about mine? Instead, I wipe a drip of water off the end of my nose and try to make it look casual.
There’s a long silence, and then quietly he says: “I’m glad you came, anyway. I know it sounds kind of selfish…”
I lean back in my seat, studying him. The tips of his ears are turning pink again as he leans over the steering wheel. “You wanted the company. I get it.”
It feels like this is going…somewhere. Somewhere I don’t quite know how to handle.
Does my mood match the moment?
My hands pick this exact point to start shaking. A lot. I tuck them both under my knees, pressed into the seat.
“It’s not just that. I mean, it is that, but…”
But what?
If my heart beats any louder, I’m not going to hear anything he says. I press my lips together.
“It sounded like you really wanted to come, like it was important, and…” He clears his throat, coughs again and scratches at the back of his neck. And then we speak at the same time:
“I was so happy you did, because I didn’t really want to do this without you.”
“Fallowmill doesn’t matter – there was a…a thing, but really I think I just wanted to come and do this with you.”
Our voices fill the little car with something so much bigger than words. And no sooner have I said it than I’m panicking: what did I just do?
The silence is elastic, stretching tighter and tighter until it snaps.
“You did?” he asks.
I nod.
“Flora.” The way he says it fills my heart and it rises, like a balloon, like a banner, until it soars up and up and above me and away.
The cloudburst is short, and as we drive out of the gates of Fallowmill House, the sky has already started to lighten. Up ahead, there’s even the slightest suggestion of a rainbow. Maybe. Half a rain
bow, anyway.
Half a rainbow is all I need.
Hal keeps his hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road, but the car feels different. As though something important just happened.
It did. It was.
Sitting in an old car in a downpour, and the way he said my name.
It is.
As he turns back onto the single-lane road, a pheasant takes off out of the hedge, swooping in front of us with a clatter-clatter-clatter of wings – and Hal swears under his breath.
I try not to laugh. “They do that a lot. Don’t take it personally.”
“How do those things even live? They’re so stupid. A car comes along and they just…throw themselves at it. And anyway, what is with these roads?” This, as the whole car bumps sideways into a massive pothole with a splash – and now I can’t not laugh. He’s getting so cross. “What?” He’s still not taking his eyes off the road, but this time I think it’s because he’s too scared to.
“Nothing.”
“You could do better, could you?”
“Oh, I’m not criticizing. I don’t actually drive, so.”
There’s a pause, and he risks a glance away from the windscreen at me.
“You don’t drive? How does anyone manage without a car out here?”
“We have these newfangled things called ‘buses’. I mean, they only started running a couple of years ago, and it was really confusing at the start. The old people didn’t know what to do with them – they’d run in from the street saying there was a monster swallowing people…”
Another pause. Then: “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Only a bit, though.”
“Yeah, all right. I probably deserve it.” He laughs back, and it’s like I’m hearing the sound his soul makes. It’s a lock springing open, a key turning, a door opening. “You said you don’t drive – don’t or…?”
The question hangs. It’s not the first time I’ve been asked it. Round here, most people have their test booked the day they turn seventeen. It was always a thing at school, another coming-of-age ritual. I always figured it was one I’d go through too, just like everybody else – but that was before the therapy session when Sanjay pointed out that me being in charge of a ton of fast-moving metal while manic might not be the best idea. Same went for me being in charge of a ton of fast-moving metal while depressed. So that ruled out the L-plates for me. Just add it to the list.
Hal’s gaze flicks over to me and then back again, and all I can hear is the sound of my blood rushing through my head, even over the sound of the engine…and then I’m saved from having to reply because Hal drives us straight into a river.
I mean, it’s not a river. Not technically. Technically, it’s just an old bit of road crossed by a stream – a ford. Which would not normally be a problem, because it’s summer and we’re in a car and it’s all fine.
Except it really did rain a lot over the weekend. And that downpour at Fallowmill might have been quick, but it definitely hasn’t helped.
Hal swears and grabs for the gearstick between us, his hand brushing against my knee as he lunges – he snaps it away like I’ve burned him. “Sorry. Sorry.” He splutters out the words, but I can’t even tell him it’s fine, not to worry, because all of me is quite unexpectedly focused on the tiny spot where his hand grazed me.
There’s a horrible mashing sound from the engine, followed by a clonk and a loud scraping as the car jolts backwards and then down at an angle. Whatever he was trying to do, he seems to have found the deepest part of the ford in the form of another pothole.
Hal yanks his sunglasses off his nose, throwing them onto the dashboard and staring at the water streaming past us. “This isn’t good.”
“It’s fine. Just, you know, drive through it.”
The engine, clearly hearing me, makes a strangled grating sound, then huffs…then stops.
Hal huffs too.
“Okay. So maybe don’t drive through it.”
“Nobody could drive through this.”
“Charlie never has any trouble with the Land Rover.” Beside me, I see Hal open his mouth to reply, then change his mind and close it again. “Hal…”
“What?”
“Should my feet be getting wet right now?”
We both look down into my footwell, where the slow drip that started as soon as we drove into the ford has become a steady trickle – and is in serious danger of becoming a gush.
“No, Flora. Your feet should not be getting wet.”
“Right. Okay. Thought that might be the case.” A large puddle has formed in front of my seat…and it’s not getting any smaller.
“Oh,” he says. I lean over to peer down at his feet and see water starting to creep in around the pedals too. “This isn’t good.” He tries the ignition, and there’s a crunch and then a click…and then nothing.
He looks at me.
I look at him.
“Any thoughts?” His hands are still resting on the steering wheel – like that’s going to help.
“Mostly wondering whether your car does this a lot?”
“It doesn’t usually have to drive through rivers.” His voice is higher by the end of the sentence. A bit like the water.
“It’s not a river – it’s a ford.”
“Ford, river…it’s still wet, isn’t it?”
He sounds so baffled by it that even though I try – I try so hard – I don’t quite manage to stop the laugh from bubbling up.
When he looks wounded, I clamp my hands over my mouth. “Sorry,” I mumble – but that just makes it worse, and now I really can’t stop. His lovely(ish) old car is flooding, and he’s just sitting there, and I’m laughing.
And then his frown breaks, and he’s laughing too, because how can he not? How can we not?
“What the hell do we do now?”
I peer out of my window at the water. “I think we start by getting above the high water line. You coming?”
“You’re not…” He watches me undo my seat belt and open the door – and just like I couldn’t hold back my laugh, he can’t stop the anguished yelp as more water washes into the car over the door sill.
“Oops. I may have miscalculated a little.”
I have miscalculated quite a lot, in fact. I thought I was opening the door over a couple of centimetres of water and I could just kind of hop over it to the edge of the ford with no harm done. But not only is there a lot more water out there than I thought, the front wheel of the passenger side of the car is sitting in a pothole – a deep one – which means that “a couple of centimetres of water” is actually a massive understatement. Cold water gushes into the footwell over the sill – and the edge of the ford is at least two metres away in any direction.
“Change of plan!” I haul myself up out of the door, moving my feet from the floor to the seat, and then onto the headrest, and then – carefully, because of course I would be wearing a dress for this, wouldn’t I? – up again and out onto the roof of the car. The metal clunks under my weight, but nothing disastrous happens – and a minute later, Hal’s bag, then his face, then his shoulders appear on the other side of the car and he pulls himself up to join me. I shuffle sideways to make space for him to sit, both of us resting our feet on the bonnet.
“You flooded my car,” he says.
“I think you’ll find that actually you flooded your car by driving into a river.”
“I thought you said this was a ford.”
“No.” I look at the water surrounding us for emphasis. “I think this really does qualify as an actual river.”
The current rushes past and around us. Through us, in the case of the car.
“I really didn’t think the water was that deep when I opened the door. Sorry.”
He snorts and waves my apology away, turning his face to where I can’t see. He doesn’t actually seem angry. I would be, if I were him.
And then I see his shoulders are shaking.
Oh god. I broke his car
and I think I made him cry.
He wipes the back of a hand across his cheek, and I can see the tears. I did. I made him cry. I mean, not that it’s really my fault, but I do feel kind of responsible…
And then he drops his hands and turns back to me and he is crying…because he’s laughing so very, very hard. Tears are streaming down his cheeks and his eyes are pink; he’s trying to say something, but nothing’s coming out of his mouth because he just can’t get the words out past the laughter.
Instead, he holds out both his arms in a helpless look at this gesture, and his laughter is a river that sweeps us both away.
It doesn’t take long for the sun and the breeze up here to clear the worst of the cloud and dry our rain-damp clothes – and if it wasn’t for the fact we have become our own island, it might be hard to believe just how much it poured earlier.
“What do we do now, then?” Hal shades his eyes with his hand, looking up and down the road.
“We can wait for a farmer to come along with his tractor and yell at us for being in the way, and maybe tow us out, or I can phone Charlie.” I pull out my phone. The reception’s pretty bad, but at least I have some.
“How come you’ve got reception?” He peers over my shoulder at my screen as though he can’t quite believe it.
“Country phone, obviously. Didn’t you pick one up at the border?”
“Yeah, all right. I get it.” He shakes his head. “I could probably get hold of my breakdown service…”
“What, and sit here for four hours waiting?” (Maybe that’s not such a bad thought…) “Charlie’s closer.”
“Your brother won’t mind?”
“Probably. But he’s kind of used to me calling him to rescue me.”
Hal looks thoughtful. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who needs rescuing,” he says quietly.
I’m not sure how to answer that. I’m not even sure I’m meant to have heard it. So I make it obvious that I’m concentrating very, very hard on dialling my brother’s number (rather than just hitting the favourites button like I normally do).
Charlie answers after a couple of rings. “How’s Fallowmill?”
“Oh, fine. Fine, fine. Listen – I need a favour.”
The Pieces of Ourselves Page 11