by Karen Clarke
Digging my hands in my coat pockets, I walked further into the field, inhaling a lungful of pure, clean air. Feeling a prickle at the base of my neck, I turned. Skip had doubled back into the woods and disappeared. ‘Skip!’ My voice sounded reedy and thin, lost in the space around me. ‘Here, boy!’ I tried to execute the complicated whistle my grandfather had taught me, using my fingers, but nothing came out. ‘Skip!’ I yelled, cupping my hands around my mouth.
Suddenly, he was there, panting in the mouth of the gate, his head cocked as though wondering what the fuss was about. Relief thudded through me. I ran over, crouching down to ruffle his fur and kiss the top of his head. ‘Where did you go, silly boy?’
As he whined and licked my cheek, I heard the sound of a twig cracking somewhere to my left. The woods were deeper there and the trees seemed to lean together, leaves whispering. My nerves jumped as I peered into the gloom, but Skip seemed unbothered.
‘Hello?’ Idiot, I chastised myself. People were allowed to walk through the woods without having to make themselves known. Only … it was so far from civilisation out here. ‘Come on,’ I said to Skip, a tremor running through me. ‘Let’s go.’
Straightening, I froze, spotting something in the churned-up mud by the gatepost: a set of boot prints, facing the field where moments ago I’d been standing, and beside the indented earth a glimmer of gold. Trembling, I reached down and picked it up, fear tightening my throat as I recognised the dull glint of sapphire.
My grandmother’s ring.
Chapter 12
‘Do people camp in the woods?’
Morag looked at me from the driver’s seat of the van. ‘Is that the start of a joke?’ she said. ‘Because I never get jokes.’
‘No.’ I made myself smile, knowing it looked unconvincing. ‘It was a serious question.’
‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I mean, they could, in theory. It’s not part of the Forestry Commission, so they wouldn’t need permission.’ She shook her head, changing gear as she bumped the van onto the road to Fenbrith. ‘I suppose if someone decided to pitch a tent they could, but it’s too far from the pubs for most visitors and the weather’s unreliable, especially at this time of year.’
‘What about hikers?’
‘Again, I’ve never seen any, but I don’t spend much time in the woods.’ She flashed me a quizzical glance. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason, just that it’s so nice out here. In the countryside, I mean.’ I adjusted the seatbelt across Lily, pressed against me in her carrier. I needed to get her a proper car seat. ‘I’m surprised there aren’t any holiday homes out here.’ If there were, the owner of the footprints could be holed up in one. ‘It’s an ideal spot for tourists.’
‘There was a company a few years ago that wanted to set up one of those glamping sites, but it never took off, thank God. I wouldn’t be living there otherwise.’ Morag seemed lost in her own thoughts for a moment, probably imagining the horror of other people encroaching on ‘her’ territory.
When I’d arrived back at the cottage, out of breath from stumbling over snarled roots, scared a hand was going to reach out and grab me, I’d almost blurted out the whole thing – the footprints; the ring now buried in my pocket, which I’d inexplicably found in the woods; the note I’d thrown on the fire that meant someone had been in the cottage. But something stopped me. Morag was in the kitchen where I’d left her, performing a makeshift puppet show for Lily, one hand stuffed in a sock, which she’d hidden behind her back as though embarrassed. A wave of relief had washed through me at the sight of Lily’s innocent face, bringing tears to my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words that would change things. Not now I’d found a place to be. Nothing had really happened. I wasn’t hurt. Lily was safe – for now. Carry on as normal. It wasn’t a very good plan, but until I figured out a better one, it was all I had. Instead, I told Morag, as casually as I could, that I was going to take a shower and scrubbed myself under the stream of hot water until my skin felt raw and my mind had quietened.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I found it unbearably quiet at first.’
Morag’s voice snapped me back to the moment, to being in the van with Lily breathing softly in my arms. ‘Sorry?’
‘Living here after …’ Her jaw tightened, as if holding back the names of the places she’d been before. ‘But the countryside’s never really quiet when you get to know it.’
I looked at her profile, seeing the lines scored around her eyes, her mouth. A lived-in face; witness to unimaginable scenes. ‘It must have been a big adjustment,’ I said, trying to picture her moving among collapsed buildings shelled beyond repair, desperate screams ringing in her ears, broken and bloodied bodies strewn at her feet. I used to think of my aunt on Bonfire Night, or any time a volley of fireworks exploded in the sky like gunfire, wondering where she was. ‘Where did you live between assignments?’ I was ashamed that I didn’t know, even though there was no reason why I would when she’d chosen to keep our contact to a minimum.
‘I had a flat in London – Camden – but was rarely there.’ A pulse twitched in her jaw. ‘I shared with a friend, Jilly, a reporter. She was killed in an explosion in Iraq.’
I stared at her, shocked. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Morag’s hands gripped the top of the steering wheel as she accelerated. ‘Came with the territory,’ she said. ‘It nearly got me too. I still have problems with my back if I’m not careful. We got too close that day.’
‘We?’
‘The television crew that Jilly and I had got in with.’ Morag took a corner too fast and pressed her foot on the brake. ‘Nearly all blokes back then, of course. We stood out as females, had to try to blend in.’
‘Must have been hard.’ I wanted her to continue. It was good to focus on Morag and not my own thoughts. ‘How did you cope?’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘We just did,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think about it at the time.’
It struck me how far her world had been from mine, how I’d never experience the things she had. Morag knew what real jeopardy was, had lived with it for years. Now, she’d found contentment and I was in danger of ruining it. ‘You shouldn’t be sleeping on the sofa if you have a bad back.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s comfortable, don’t worry.’
I looked at her properly. ‘Mum couldn’t understand why you didn’t stick to portraits, or wildlife photography.’
Morag’s bark of laughter startled Lily, who jerked under my hands. She turned to look at her great-aunt with saucer-eyes. ‘I had a daredevil streak. Taking photos in a studio, or at a wedding, didn’t appeal.’
‘Mum was proud, you know, of how you got your job.’ I remembered the story often told at Sunday lunch – until Mum fell out with Morag. About how her sister’s winning picture in a national newspaper competition, of a bare-knuckle boxing match she’d infiltrated with a friend, led to the editor inviting her for an interview. ‘She just didn’t expect it to become your whole life.’
I thought I’d gone too far, until Morag said without rancour, ‘She’d rather I’d been like her, but we were never going to be the best of friends. We were too different.’ My mind dialled back to the day Dad died before quickly swerving away. They were more alike than they realised. Both possessed a determination to survive, but in different ways.
As the fields and hills gave way to grey-stone houses at the side of the road, I remembered how intensely green Wales was, how even the air felt green, the countryside as close as the buildings had been in Manhattan. In winter, those buildings funnelled frigid air that bit through clothing and trapped the fumes from congested traffic. Here, I remembered from visits to my grandparents’ in Conwy, the cold was different; purer, cleaner. Mum would gulp it down like champagne, and we’d return from a walk with rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, feeling more alive. Dad rarely came on a walk unless it ended at the pub.
‘What made you want to retire?’ I
asked Morag as we drove past the sign for Fenbrith.
‘It was time.’ Her tone was even, but something about the way her knuckles whitened around the steering wheel told me there was more to it. I decided not to press her. I knew all about keeping secrets.
‘So, how did you find the cottage?’
‘By chance, out walking,’ she said. ‘I was looking for somewhere remote. It used to be a shepherd’s home and was pretty derelict. I got it cheap and spent a bit making it habitable.’
‘Do you ever go back to Conwy?’
She shook her head. ‘No point.’
Mum had always claimed that Morag wasn’t the sentimental type, but something about the set of her jaw told me that wasn’t true; that she stayed away because it was too painful to be in the town where she’d grown up, now that her family wasn’t there.
‘I’ll get my stuff from the back,’ she said, jumping out of the van as soon as she’d parked round the back of the pub and switched the engine off.
While she sorted through the boxes of vegetables she’d brought, I got out and walked to the pavement, jiggling Lily as I looked up and down the street, checking for … what? A figure hiding in the shadows?
The clouds parted, spilling sunlight across the rows of pastel-coloured buildings, bringing the place into focus. Apart from the creeper-clad pub, there was an old-fashioned bakery with people queuing under a blue and white awning, and a busy butcher’s shop opposite, where a chalkboard on the pavement advertised ‘home-made pies’. Next door was a florist’s, silver buckets of daffodils arranged out the front, and slotted between a chemist’s and a newsagent’s was a shop displaying handcrafted gifts and knitting wool in the window.
On the corner, outside the village store and post office, a pair of middle-aged women in ankle-length coats were chatting. One held the handlebars of a black-framed bike with a basket on the front, her friend the lead of a glossy spaniel. Only the sight of a mobile phone in her other hand convinced me I hadn’t travelled back in time.
‘Are you going in?’
Startled, I swung round, breath catching in my throat. ‘What?’
‘I wondered whether you were going into the pub.’
I realised I was standing right outside, blocking the way. ‘Sorry.’ Tightening my grip on the carrier, where Lily was trying to look around, I stepped to one side.
The man stepped the same way. ‘Oops.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘Did you want to dance?’
Flustered, I moved the opposite way, briefly meeting a pair of smiling eyes. ‘I am going in,’ I said firmly.
‘In that case, after you.’
He extended his arm and, moving past me, pushed the pub door open. I felt I had no choice but to duck inside, catching his spearmint smell of toothpaste as I stepped down two shallow steps into the dark interior.
The deep-set windows and timber-beamed ceiling didn’t offer much brightness, but the atmosphere was cosy rather than oppressive. A stained-glass panel illuminated the bar, and the exposed stonework was hung with photos and paintings, candle-like sconces in between radiating soft light. Most of the floor space was occupied by chunky tables and pew-like seating. In front of a blazing log-burner, an older couple were sipping coffees on a wine-coloured sofa, a Labrador at their feet.
I thought of Skip, tied up outside the cottage at Morag’s insistence, in case he chewed the furniture. Hoping he’d deter – or even bite – the intruder, should he pitch up again, I turned as the man joined me.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ He had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the beams, his shoulder brushing mine. ‘Sort of old-fashioned with a modern twist.’
‘Lovely,’ I said politely, fussing with Lily’s hood so I didn’t have to look at him.
‘There you are.’ Morag came in, boots clattering on the red and black quarry-tiled floor, a sagging box of vegetables in her arms. ‘You find somewhere to sit while I drop these off and have a word with Annie.’
It sounded like an order. I found a table for two in the corner, partly concealed from view. I didn’t want to stand out as the stranger in the village, though the couple by the fire were engrossed in their drinks and barely looked up. Perhaps they were visitors to the area too.
The door opened again and Ifan came in, rubbing his hands together as though to warm them up. He didn’t notice me as he made his way to the bar where the stranger was leaning, waiting to be served.
I unstrapped Lily, holding her while I unwound the scarf that Morag had lent me – a long, stripy Dr Who affair. I placed it on the pew beside me before sitting down and laying Lily on top of her padded carrier on the table. She smiled and kicked and the sight of her rose-pink cheeks and bright eyes dissolved some of my anxiety. ‘Hey, baby, you OK?’ I tickled under her chin and was rewarded with a lopsided smile that took my breath away. The first time I saw it, I’d told myself it was probably wind, but there was no mistaking it this time. Smiling through a blur of tears, I unzipped her all-in-one, wondering when she would say mama. Not for a long time, according to the parenting websites I’d looked at, but I repeated the word a couple of times all the same, sounding it out while she blew bubbles.
‘Cute.’ The man was back, holding a pint of foaming beer. I studied him as I shrugged off my coat. He looked to be in his late thirties, his dark blond hair thick and longish, a covering of light stubble tracing his jaw. His eyes were an unusual shade of green and as they met mine, a strange sensation passed through me; as though I knew him. Then it was gone, leaving an unexpected fizz of warmth inside my belly. ‘I don’t normally drink this early in the day,’ he said, as if reading disapproval in my glance. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m good, thanks.’ I wasn’t much of a drinker, mindful of how alcohol had affected my father, changing him from easy-going to unpredictable after a couple of glasses.
The man nodded at Lily. ‘I’m guessing she’s under age?’ His lips were full and smiling but there was a tension to his posture.
‘Just a bit.’ I drew the baby carrier closer as Lily craned her neck to look more fully at the stranger. There was something outdoorsy about him – the navy, waterproof jacket, worn-in jeans, lightly tanned skin. As my gaze fell to his feet, I stiffened. My pulse started to race. He was wearing army-style boots caked in mud.
Chapter 13
‘I’m surprised they let you wear those in here.’ My voice was strained with the effort of sounding normal.
‘Didn’t realise they were in such a state.’ I looked up to see him wince. ‘I’ve got a hole in one of my socks, so I’ll risk keeping them on.’
My mind spun. If the footprints had belonged to him, why was he here? Was this part of the plan? Was I supposed to act dumb? ‘You don’t have a local accent,’ I said, deciding to play along.
‘Neither do you.’ He looked amused as he gestured at the seat opposite. ‘Mind if I join you?’
I looked around, but there was no sign of Morag. I gave a reluctant nod, feeling outmanoeuvred. ‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘Are you?’ He put his pint on the table and unzipped his jacket as he sat, playfully widening his eyes at Lily as she kicked and stretched a chubby arm in his direction. ‘She looks like you.’
Despite myself, I was pleased by his comment. Morag had said the same thing. Of course, they’d never met Patrick. She had the same colouring as him, but I had dark hair and eyes too and I could detect my mother in the shell-like shape of her ears and slant of her nose. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘I’m Declan Walsh.’ Irish. He held out a hand but I pretended not to notice as I drew a muslin cloth from my bag and dabbed at Lily’s chin.
‘Do you live locally?’
‘Do you?’ he fired back.
‘Do you always answer a question with a question?’
‘Only in pubs in the month of March, when talking to attractive women.’
Heat stained my cheeks. ‘Does that happen often?’
‘Now who’s asking questions?’
>
My flush deepened. ‘Doesn’t seem like the best way to get to know someone.’ And a good way of avoiding answering.
‘We’re talking, aren’t we?’
‘That’s another question.’
‘Is it?’
‘Isn’t it?’ It was starting to feel like flirting, something I’d never mastered and had no time for, but despite the warmth of his smile, I sensed him holding back. If this was a game, if he was acting, he wasn’t that good at it. Then he laughed. It was a good laugh, throaty and deep, and elicited a stream of excited babble from Lily that made him laugh again. My shoulders unclenched a little. Maybe I was overreacting. So what if his boots were covered in mud and he’d made a beeline for me? I was the only other person in the pub, apart from the couple in front of the fire. Now that I looked, the soles of their hiking shoes were muddy too. ‘So, where are you from?’ I said.
‘Here and there.’ Perhaps seeing something in my face, he leant forward and rested his elbows on the table, his expression opening up. ‘If you really want to know, I grew up on a remote farm in Ballyfin in Ireland, with one sister, two parents and my grandmother, who came to live with us when my grandfather died. I left home as soon as I could to see the world, but I like to get back and visit at least once a year.’
‘Your accent’s not very strong.’ I was suddenly reminded of the night I met Patrick, right down to the tug of chemistry I was trying not to acknowledge.
‘I’ve been away a long time,’ he said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Just outside London.’ I kept it non-specific, glad he hadn’t detected an American intonation in my voice. Then again, if he was here on Patrick’s behalf, he’d know things about me already.
‘On holiday?’