His Other Life

by Beth Thomas

  In the room, we tiptoe around each other as we wash and get ready for bed. Every time we almost crash in the bathroom doorway – and for some reason this keeps on happening, over and over again – I feel a small jolt of electricity, which is not entirely unpleasant. But then I just catch sight of Adam in my periphery, or he’s disappearing out of sight in the mirror, and it doesn’t feel right, to be experiencing any of these feelings I have for Matt. Adam and I were together for three years, after all, and married for one of them. And he is still my husband, which I’m very mindful of, no matter how secretive, sly and missing he is.

  Totally accidentally, I catch sight in the bathroom mirror of Matt’s smooth caramel back behind me in the room as he pulls his tee shirt off, and quickly I hop into bed and pull the covers over my head. ‘Night.’

  The next morning after breakfast we drive the short distance into Linton itself, and finally I find myself travelling through the countryside that Adam drove through that night. Or, given the distance away, probably the early hours of the next morning. It’s surreal, seeing it, the sweeping fields, the hedgerows, feeling the sun on me and hearing the birds, enjoying the beauty and serenity of the place and imagining him here, polluting it all. In my head he’s a crouching little imp, gnarled and ugly, creeping around the place like Gollum in his own patch of stinking darkness. It’s hard to imagine what was going through his mind at that moment. Did he give a thought to me left at home? Did he dismiss me and our life together as soon as he stepped out of the house that night? Did he come here to meet someone? And why did he leave the car here, abandoned in a church car park?

  But all these questions leave my head the instant we set off. The area is absolutely breathtaking. The road we come in on is edged with a low stone wall on both sides, and beyond that are hedgerows or long grass, and beyond that is rolling national parkland, flat or hilly, smooth or rough, stretching away to the distant sky in peaceful partitioned quadrangles. Sometimes the view is obscured by trees, hanging over the road, dappling it with sunshine and shadows; sometimes it’s a clear, bright sight right to the edge of everything.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘I know.’

  I look at him. ‘Have you been here before?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. But I’ve seen it on Location Location Location.’

  He slows down as we drive because it seems wrong to speed past. The lane is narrow anyway, but the entire ambience of the place is leisurely, relaxed gorgeousness. Birds are gliding around in lazy circles; rabbits are lolloping along slowly with nowhere to be; even the squirrels are taking a gentle stroll. To rush through this would be like wolfing down a gourmet meal, or running round an art gallery. I want to stop and drink it in, but there’s no need: the scenery is perpetual, the beauty is everywhere.

  ‘This is incredible,’ I whisper. ‘I kind of almost don’t blame Adam for coming here.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Except … He just dumped his car here. Who knows whether he even stayed one day?’ I drag my eyes from the vista and turn to Matt again. ‘Why would he do that? Take a perfect, beautiful, unspoilt part of the country like this and add an old car to it? Terrible.’

  ‘Shocking.’ He slows down further and brings the car to a standstill in the middle of the road. We’ve come to a crossroads and there’s a sign saying ‘Linton ¼ m’ pointing right.

  There’s no other traffic around anywhere. He turns off the engine and we both listen for a few moments. Nothing, except the ticking of cooling metal.

  ‘Shall we go up there?’ he says, inclining his head towards the sign.

  ‘Well, that’s where his car was found, so …’

  ‘OK.’ He makes no move to turn on the ignition. ‘Seems a shame.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  We fall into silence as we gaze around us, and I imagine a camera panning out from Matt’s car, getting higher and higher, the car getting smaller and smaller until it’s just a little red blob, all alone in the expanse of silent, undulating green.

  ‘We could be miles from anywhere,’ I whisper.

  Matt looks at me. ‘Grace, we literally are.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’

  Eventually a car comes up behind us and waits good-naturedly while we start up and get moving again. No immediate impatient honking here. Matt takes the right turn and we start along the road to Linton itself.

  The lane is very similar to the one we’ve just turned off, but this view is not getting old. I can’t get enough of looking at the landscape, the stone walls, the rustic beauty of everything, the inherent peace of the place. I bet the people never argue here. I bet there are no neighbourly disputes or car crashes or petty theft. It’s all summer fayres on the village green, and home-made jam. I bet husbands never take their passports when they go out for take-away food. To be honest, there probably isn’t a take-away place here anyway.

  Shortly we come across our first building for ages – what looks like a farmhouse, made of beautiful yellowish-grey brick right next to the road. It has a sign on it that says ‘The Arthur Anderton Memorial Institute and Men’s Reading Room’.

  ‘Wow, look, there’s a men’s reading room.’

  Matt glances at it but we’ve already gone past. ‘Probably isn’t that any more. I expect the sign is from a bygone era.’

  I stare at him, a wide smile on my face. ‘You said “bygone era”. I can’t believe it!’

  He grins back. ‘I know. I think it’s this place.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. It does kind of feel like we’ve gone back in time, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘What’s a reading room anyway?’

  Further on there is another small cluster of buildings, obviously homes, with little lawns out front and washing in the back, all built from the same beautiful greyish stone; and on the left-hand side of the road is a sign nestled in the grass saying ‘Linton’, and a request to drive carefully through the village.

  ‘I guess we’re here.’ Our voices have been very soft since we started driving this morning, and now mine is barely more than a whisper.

  Matt nods, but says nothing.

  We carry straight on for a few more hundred yards, passing more beautiful houses, more stone walls, one or two parked cars tucked away under the trees, until eventually we glimpse through the greenery on the left the lovely little stone bridge I saw on Google all those days ago; and then the view opens out into what is obviously the village green.

  Matt turns left here and quickly parks the car on the side of the green. Before us is the most idyllic picture of village life I’ve ever seen. Behind us, at the bottom end of the green, is the stream and little stone bridge that we saw earlier; ahead of us at the top end is a large, striking building, presumably an old stately home of some kind, built from the same greyish stone as every other building, with an imposing front, a wing either side and what looks like a bell tower with a weather vane on top. It’s looking down on the green and all the villagers like a kind of benevolent giant, or overlord.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Our mouths have literally fallen open. We sit and stare for a few moments, before eventually Matt says, ‘Come on,’ and gets out of the car.

  On the other side of the road is a low, white building housing an old pub called The Fountaine Inn, and Matt jerks his head towards it. ‘They’ll know where the church is.’

  ‘Plus we can have a drink while we’re here.’

  He turns to gaze at me. ‘You’re so … practical.’

  I sit down at one of the tables on the pavement outside while Matt goes in. The sun is hot on my shoulders and there’s not a breath of wind. In the distance I can hear the occasional shout of a child, presumably playing with a hoop in the nearby fields, interspersed with a variety of faint animal noises – baaing, neighing and barking; and, more rarely, the sound of a car going past on the road. They’re always driving very slowly, there’s no revving or speeding here. It’s just gone eleven
o’clock, so the place is pretty deserted, but a man walking past with a small black dog says ‘Marnin’’ to me. He’s actually wearing a flat cap and wellies. I feel like I’ve just walked into All Creatures Great and Small, and smile back, not a hundred percent sure what he’s just said. By the time I realise and say ‘Morning!’ he’s too far away to hear me. Vaguely I wonder what jobs the people of Linton do. Obviously some work here, in the inn, but what else is there? There’s no supermarket, no factory, no high street. I can’t see any office buildings, or even imagine any here. Maybe they all make cakes and jams and sell them to each other.

  ‘Farming,’ Matt says, coming out and sitting down opposite me. ‘There you go, try that.’ He puts a tall glass full of cloudy pink liquid down in front of me, and takes a deep swig from his own.

  ‘What about farming?’ I eye the glass. ‘Are we on the cocktails already? Matt, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning!’

  ‘And I’m still a police officer, wherever I happen to find myself. No, this is not a cocktail. It’s pink grapefruit cordial. And it’s bloody lovely.’

  I take a swig – it’s sweet and bitter and cold and delicious. ‘Mm. I knew I’d like it. Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure, milady.’

  I put my glass down. ‘Why’d you randomly say “farming”, when you came out?’

  He shrugs. ‘I could see you looking around the place and presumed you were wondering what everyone does for a living round here. I reckon it’s mostly farming.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing. That’s exactly what I was thinking. How did you know?’

  ‘Elementary, my dear Grace. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning on Saturday and there’s not many people around. You’d have been thinking it’s quiet, not many people, where is everyone, are they all at work at the weekend, what do they do. Simple.’

  I stare at him in awe. ‘It’s like you can see my soul.’

  He chuckles. ‘I have known you for a very long time, Gracie.’

  ‘I know, but still.’

  ‘Well anyway, what do you think? Farming, right?’

  I nod quickly. ‘Oh, yes, the same, farming. Of course. Not much else they could do here, is there?’

  ‘Well, yes, there’ll be a post office and food shops somewhere. Hairdressing, car washing, doctor, definitely vet. All the standard things.’

  ‘Mm.’ I sip my drink. Definitely not telling him about the cakes and jams idea.

  ‘So anyway, the woman in there says that the church is back the way we’ve just come. Apparently it’s on Church Lane.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ I don’t want to move right now, though. ‘Did you ask about Adam in there?’

  ‘No, just the church.’

  ‘Maybe they’ll remember him?’

  ‘OK, we’ll give it a go.’

  ‘Actually, you know what I really want to do?’

  He stares at me for what feels like a very long time, as if he’s got something he wants to say, but eventually he looks down and picks up his glass. ‘What, fair maid?’

  I snigger at that. Something about this place is making us both feel so old-fashioned. ‘What I really want to do is check out of that Premier Inn in Grassy Town and stay in there,’ I nod towards The Fountaine, ‘for the rest of our stay.’

  He looks up at the building and nods. ‘That’s not a bad idea. OK. Shall we see if there’s a room free?’

  There isn’t. There are only five rooms in the first place, and it being July, and one of the most idyllic settings in the whole of the Yorkshire Dales, and winner of the Best Accommodation Operator award 2014, there was never going to be any chance. Matt and I walk glumly out onto the pavement, feeling let down.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he says to me, brightening.

  I brighten too. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

  ‘It’d have been lovely …’

  ‘But the Premier is nice enough.’

  ‘Yes it is. And we’re still here …’

  ‘In this breathtaking area …’

  ‘And we could always come back here one day,’ he finishes softly, looking at me.

  We lock eyes and I nod, absorbing the importance of what he’s just said. ‘One day.’

  ‘Come on then,’ he says, unlocking the car. ‘Let’s find this church.’

  Church Lane is easy to find – straight over at the crossroads where we turned right earlier – and we follow it all the way down, past more homes made of the same beautiful yellow-grey stone, to the end. The further we get down this road, and the nearer we get to the church, the less and less bouncy and light I’m feeling. It’s as if gravity is increasing as our distance from the church decreases. My shoulders feel heavier, and start to sag under the weight of the air; the light, easy smile I’ve worn since setting off this morning is slowly slipping; even my head bows slightly as we move. Outside, the sun is still shining, but somehow now it seems like fake brightness, like it doesn’t really belong and was only put here to try to hide the darkness pressing in on us. I notice an ache in my hands and find I’m gripping the seat so tightly, my knuckles are white; and every muscle in my body is tensed and ready for … what? It feels like something bad is coming, and I am preparing myself to flee.

  There’s no actual car park, more of a turning area where the road simply ends next to the boundary of the church property, but there’s one car parked here now. There is no sign of the owner, or of anyone, or that Adam, or his car, were ever here.

  Matt parks next to the other car, and we both get out. I walk slowly around the edge of the road stump for a few moments, trying to picture Adam here, in the very early hours of the next morning after he left. He drives slowly down here from the crossroads, headlights on, tyres crackling on the gravel, swings the car across the road and pulls up there. He turns off the ignition and kills the lights, then sits in the driver’s seat for a few moments, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. He is breathing heavily with the anxiety, and only now feels a modicum of relief. He’s made it. After a minute, he lifts his head, looks around briefly, then gets out, leaving the keys in the ignition. Standing here in the grey half-light, he takes one last look at the car, the last vestige of his old life, his home, his marriage. He touches it briefly, leaves his hand on the roof as he closes his eyes and perhaps whispers, ‘Bye Gracie’, as he gently brushes away a single, solitary tear. Then he opens his eyes, removes his hand, and is off up the road like the dead are after him.

  I shiver. This place feels like a graveyard.

  ‘Nice graveyard,’ Matt says behind me suddenly. ‘It must be ancient.’

  We walk through the churchyard to the church itself but see no one. The place is as silent as the graves. When we try the door to the church, it’s unlocked, so we step gingerly inside. The smell is musty and cold, from aged pages and dusty old cassocks, achingly familiar from childhood and school services; but still there is no one around.

  Matt looks at me as we stand at the front near the altar. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asks quietly. His voice booms around the silent church like an abomination.

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’ I’m whispering. It seems right. ‘I thought … I don’t know. I thought it would be obvious when we got here.’

  He nods. ‘Well, there is one other car here. Let’s have a wander and see if we can find the owner, and maybe ask them if they remember anything.’

  ‘OK.’

  Back outside the sunshine burns our eyes like the seventh circle of hell. ‘Christ almighty!’ I blurt out, squinting and blinking and shielding my eyes with my hand.

  ‘Yes?’ Matt says in a deep, resonant voice at my side.

  I look at him quickly. ‘Matt, you can’t do that. Not here. It’s … illegal or something.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Impersonating … you know.’ I mouth it silently. ‘You could get struck down.’

  ‘Oh, OK, so would it be all right if I did it somewhere else?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Why?
’

  ‘This is holy ground.’

  ‘But isn’t God omnipresent?’

  ‘Well yes, but—’

  ‘And didn’t God make the whole world?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘So surely any bit of this world that we’re standing on is just as holy as any other bit?’

  ‘Oh hello!’ I call out, ignoring him. Over by the gate back to the road, I’ve spotted a woman in jeans and a purple anorak. She looks like she’s making for the parked car. She turns round and I wave and start trotting towards her. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, could you help me, please?’

  ‘Ah’ll trah,’ she says, smiling at me. I’m very relieved to see this – she could have been forgiven for legging it.

  ‘Oh thanks. Um, I was just wondering if you knew anything about the car that was found here a few days ago?’

  She shakes her head straight away. ‘No, love. Ah know nothin’ abou’ tha’.’

  ‘Well, it’s just, a car was found here, about ten days ago. It was my husband’s.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. And, well, he’s missing now, so …’

  ‘Oh, ah’m sorry to ’ear tha’.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. It’s been difficult. But, the thing is, his car was found here, after he disappeared, so I was wondering whether …?’

  She’s shaking her head again. ‘Ah’m sorry, love, ah honestly don’ know anything ’bout a cah.’

  ‘But he left it here, it was found, by the police …’

  I feel a big hand on my shoulder and a breath in my ear as a deep voice says, ‘She doesn’t know anything, Grace.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Come on, let’s leave her in peace.’

  Something in his voice reminds me of a public information film about road safety. I glance up at him and he’s got his eyebrows up sternly, as if he was expecting better from me. I nod, and when I turn back to the woman, her face looks relieved. I hadn’t realised until I saw her relaxed that she had been looking anxious. ‘Oh. OK. Sorry.’

  The graveyard is a dead end. Literally and figuratively. I don’t know what I was expecting, going down there. Answers in the gravestones? A grainy photo of Adam handing cash to a shadowy be-hoodied person? Adam himself? All ridiculous. We drive back to The Fountaine, because it feels too soon to leave Linton, but we have nowhere else to look.