Summer at the Little Cottage on the Hill_An utterly uplifting holiday romance to escape with

by Emma Davies

  And then there were just the two of them, standing rather awkwardly in an almost empty hall.

  ‘Well… that didn’t quite go according to plan.’ He hoped that Isobel could see the funny side of it. To his relief she smiled.

  ‘No… but then I don’t suppose we can begrudge Lily time with her friends. She is a bit of a star, isn’t she?’

  Tom looked proudly in the direction in which she’d left.

  ‘She is. An absolute credit to Kate. She’s had a tough time, but you’d never know it looking at Lily.’

  He was, he realised, immensely proud of Kate too. Her journey had been far harder than Tom’s, but although in a way she’d had to carry on for Lily’s sake, he doubted that he would have come through the way she had were he in her shoes. He was full of admiration for her.

  ‘Have they been split up for long?’ asked Isobel politely. ‘Kate and Lily’s dad, I mean… your brother.’

  A flash of pain passed through Tom. ‘Not exactly, no.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I just assumed…’ He could feel her watching him. ‘You must feel quite awkward about meeting her new man then, when everything is still quite fresh.’

  He turned his face away from her then, staring out across the hall. ‘We should go,’ he said, steering her into the hallway. He waited until they had left the building, nodding their thanks to the head teacher, who was standing by the door as they passed. They walked to his car in silence.

  ‘It’s been two years actually,’ he said as he beeped open the car doors. ‘But you’re right, it’s still hard. I often wonder whether it might have been easier if they had split up, just drifted apart like couples do. But they didn’t, and I’m not sure how I feel right now. I’m glad for Kate – it’s been a long time, too long to have to bring up a child on your own.’

  Isobel looked at him over the roof of the car. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow…’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Kate’s been on her own these last two years,’ he said, ‘ever since my brother committed suicide.’

  Chapter 11

  Isobel took a step backwards in shock. ‘Oh.’ It was clear she had no idea what to say. ‘Tom, that's awful, I'm so sorry.’

  A wave of shame washed over him. He should never have just come out with it like that. He’d put Isobel in the most awful position.

  ‘No Isobel, I'm sorry…’ He walked around the rear of the car so that he was standing next to her, and reached out a tentative hand, which hung in the air between them. ‘I shouldn't have come out with it like that,’ he said. ‘But in all the time since Matt died I've never yet managed to find a way to soften that sentence.’

  He looked down at his feet. ‘I'm only thirty-two, Isobel, my brother was two years younger than me. Whenever I tell anybody that he died, they automatically think it was through tragic circumstances. More often than not, their first instinct is an accident, or possibly some incurable disease. You always end up having to explain, and there’s never an easy way to say that someone took their own life.’

  ‘No, I can see that. But you mustn't apologise; it was my fault, I shouldn’t have asked.’

  She was staring at his hand, and embarrassed, he suddenly withdrew it, thrusting both hands into the pockets of his jeans. He shrugged.

  ‘You weren't to know,’ he said. ‘And your question was a natural one to ask. My brother and Kate might just have easily been separated or divorced, it would have been the far more logical explanation given the circumstances.’

  ‘Now you're just trying to make me feel better,’ she said.

  Tom gave a slight smile. ‘And what would be the point of trying to make you feel worse?’

  The silence stretched out between them, with him scuffing at the tarmac and her fiddling with the strap on her bag. Tom could bear it no longer. He pulled his hands from his pockets and raised them in a helpless gesture of surrender.

  ‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘Neither of us knows what to say right now, and I don't know about you, but I could do with something to eat now that the prospect of tea has disappeared. How about we go out for some food? It's a perfect evening and there’s a great place I know along by the riverside. Nothing fancy, just simple well-cooked food, but we could carry on our conversation in a slightly more relaxed setting.’

  He looked at her, waiting for her reply, but Isobel looked like her mind was a total blank; a rabbit caught in headlights.

  ‘It's just a bite to eat,’ he added, wondering if she thought he was asking her on a date. ‘And maybe a wander along the river, but it's no problem if you'd rather not.’

  ‘No, I…’ she said quickly, touching a hand to her skirt. ‘Thank you. As long as you think I’m suitably dressed?’

  Tom looked down at his own worn jeans and tee shirt. ‘Perfectly,’ he said.

  It didn't really occur to Tom what he was doing until they were practically halfway there. Had he fallen into his own trap, without even realising it? Because this was what he did, he took women out for drinks and dinner when he was feeling low – in fact, he was well practised in the art. But this wasn’t a date and asking Isobel out had simply been a reaction to his sudden realisation that, for the first time since his brother had died, he had a real urge to talk about Matt; or rather he had an urge to continue talking about him with Isobel, which wasn’t quite the same thing. It was an extraordinary feeling, and Tom wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

  The Bumble Bee was a tiny place. He had come across it purely by chance one evening while out walking along the river. In fact, its idyllic position was probably the only reason it managed to stay in business. Hidden from the road, and with no discernible signage, the best way to access the pub was from the river itself, and the moorings which ran the whole length of its garden were well used. Despite the perfect evening, there were tables still available in the garden, and Tom led Isobel across to one beside the river’s edge. The gentle sway from a weeping willow provided a pleasantly soothing background to their conversation.

  Isobel folded her hands underneath her thighs as she took her seat, looking around her.

  ‘It’s so beautiful here,’ she said. ‘I can see why you like it.’ She had hardly said a word on the drive over and, it was only now, seeing the beauty of the gardens, the air full of scent from the burgeoning flower beds, that she found her voice. ‘The river looks so pretty.’

  Tom followed her gaze. The river was lit with rippling gold as the lowering sun caught the surface, mirroring its colour.

  ‘I'll pop and get a couple of menus, shall I?’ he asked, anxious to be doing something. She nodded gratefully, and he made his way back into the bar.

  At first, he thought she’d done a runner on him. Returning to the table, all he saw were two empty chairs, but then as his eyes scanned the garden anxiously, he realised that she had simply moved to stand beside the river. A swan was moving sedately downstream, a clutch of cygnets swimming close by, and as Tom went to join Isobel the swan steered towards the bank.

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she said, eyes still on the water. He could see she was counting. ‘There's seven of them, look. Do you think she's hungry?’

  ‘Opportunist perhaps,’ replied Tom. ‘I would imagine there's fairly rich pickings along this stretch of water, and the boaters are probably a good bet for a slice or two of bread.’

  Isobel nodded. ‘Do you know, I don't think I've ever fed swans before, or ducks for that matter.’

  ‘You must have.’

  She frowned. ‘No, I don't think so.’ He could see she was about to say something else but then she changed her mind, and held out a hand instead. ‘Are those the menus?’

  He pulled out one of the large folded cards from under his arm and passed it to her. ‘They've got two specials on today as well,’ he said. ‘Either beef Wellington or mushroom stroganoff if you don't fancy anything else.’

  Isobel carried the menu back to the table and began to study it. ‘I’m not usually very good with food.
It’s rare for me to fancy anything, but…’ She trailed off, lips moving as she read through the choices.

  ‘Well I’m afraid my problem is exactly the opposite, especially now Trixie’s with us,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘I’m getting far too used to her wonderful cooking. Of course, being outside in the fresh air all day helps as well.’

  Isobel looked back up and stared out across the garden. ‘You have a very physical job,’ she said. ‘But you know I am trying to take your advice.’ She gave a shy smile. ‘I think I've been outside more over the last couple of weeks than I probably have in the last six months. I even managed to go for a walk yesterday.’

  ‘And I had a meeting with Maddie,’ Tom replied, keen to show that he was keeping up his end of the bargain. ‘She’s going to put together a website for me so that I can at least try and drum up a bit of custom for the business and get things in order. Sadly, I won’t be at Joy’s Acre forever. Once the cottages are done I shall have to move on. Good for you though. I can't imagine working the way you do, even though I'm full of admiration for your work ethic. I'd get cabin fever within a day.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s only just struck me that there is a choice about such things.’ Isobel spoke without looking up, and although she had tucked her hair behind her ears to read the menu he still couldn't see the expression on her face clearly. But then he didn't need to; the edge to her voice cut the night air like a knife. She dropped the menu down suddenly. ‘Sorry, we didn't come here so that you could listen to me. You were going to tell me about your brother?’

  ‘Was I?’ His mouth went suddenly dry. It was easy to think, sitting here in a beautiful garden with a beautiful woman, that they were here for an entirely different reason, and he had to remind himself that they weren’t. ‘Maybe we should order first?’ He bent his head back down to make his own choice.

  ‘Well, I think I’m going to have the crab cakes,’ said Isobel.

  She was smiling, and Tom was grateful that she hadn’t pressed him. He wasn’t quite sure what he would have said. He held out a hand for her menu. ‘And what would you like to drink?’

  ‘Just some water please, sparkling, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Fine, unless you’re sure you don’t want anything stronger? The local cider is very good.’

  ‘I’m sure, thank you.’ Her answer was very final, and Tom wondered whether she didn’t drink or just didn’t want to drink tonight.

  He nodded. ‘Back in a sec.’

  He desperately wanted a drink. In fact, he desperately wanted more than one drink. It felt like it was the only way he would be able to cope with this evening. But as he approached the bar he realised he couldn't possibly. Not only had he made a promise to himself, but he had driven Isobel here, and although she wasn't drinking, there was no way he could ask her to drive them both back to Joy’s Acre. And so, reluctantly, he gave his order for sparkling water for them both.

  There hadn’t been many occasions when Tom had even felt comfortable talking about Matt, and to do so now without even a drop of alcohol to ease his passage seemed foolhardy in the extreme. He was rapidly beginning to regret asking Isobel here in the first place, and he almost smiled to himself at the absurdity of this statement. Normally he would have given his eye teeth to be in the company of someone as beautiful as her.

  From the entrance to the bar Tom had a clear view across the garden to where Isobel was sitting. Her posture was self-conscious and it came again, the weird flash of recognition he had experienced before. There was something about her neck, or her hair, maybe? But the longer he looked at her, the more the odd feeling receded, until his thoughts were reduced to simply observing how ill at ease she looked, as if she wasn’t used to being out in public, or alone with a man. It was odd, given how beautiful she was – he would have thought that her past life had been littered with potential suitors queuing up for a chance to get to know her – but he had no desire to make her feel even more uncomfortable. It would be much easier if he were to simply say that he'd rather not discuss his brother just now… Though if he did that there was every possibility that Isobel would think he had got her here under false pretences, and who would blame her?

  He placed both glasses on the table with a smile, and sat down, stretching out his legs in front of him. He patted his stomach. ‘Hopefully the food won't be too long.’

  Isobel picked up a glass. ‘Were you very close?’ she asked, taking a sip of water.

  Tom's heart nearly skipped a beat. He had been trying to appear relaxed, as if he were just enjoying the soft evening air, and hoped that Isobel might follow suit. That way the two of them might have sat companionably for a few moments, giving him a little extra time to decide what to say. Instead, Isobel had jumped right back into the conversation as if he had never been away. He could feel her watching him, and he licked his lips.

  The fact of the matter was that, against all odds, he and Matt had been very close. They shouldn't have been really, they were chalk and cheese in many ways. It wasn't until his brother had died that Tom realised quite how alike they were in one very important way, which was how they had both felt about their parents. The only difference had been the way in which they expressed their pain.

  He turned to look at Isobel. ‘Matt and I were best friends,’ he said. ‘And had been ever since we were children.’

  ‘So, then I expect it's the guilt that's the worst thing, isn't it? I imagine it must be.’ Her eyes were like rich brown cocoa. ‘Losing someone so close to you must be awful. I can't even begin to think what that must feel like. Thinking that for all those years you'd known what that person was like, what they were thinking, how they were feeling, so surely you should have seen how unhappy they were. How had things got so bad that you didn't realise until it was too late?’ She looked down at the ring on her finger, and turned it slightly before looking back up. ‘You must have felt there was some way you should have been able to stop him from taking his life.’

  Isobel looked up at him, a gentle expression on her face, and Tom stared at her. Her words were quite blunt, and yet she delivered them in such a way that Tom was certain she understood exactly how he was feeling. Her eyes were warm and soft with sympathy.

  In all the years since Matt had died Tom didn't think he had ever heard anyone say these things to him, and yet he had always wished they would. He was fed up with saying thank you to people who had told him they were sorry. Or worse, telling them it was okay when neither of these things was true. He was neither thankful nor okay, and yet he continued to follow this accepted pattern of platitudes.

  People always asked him how he was as well, in the special gentle tone that was reserved for people who had experienced a terrible loss. Except that they never really wanted to know the answer, and so he would tell them he was fine, you know, getting there. He wanted to scream at them. How could he possibly be fine when he was the most fucked up he had ever been in his life and couldn't see how that would ever change?

  And the very worst thing was when people tried to commiserate with him by sharing stories of their own family bereavements; a hideous death from cancer, a life cut short by a tragic accident, or the simple comfortable death of an elderly relative. He wasn't interested, and he certainly wasn't about to turn his brother’s death into a competitive league table of sorrow.

  What he had always wished for was someone to hurl his guilt and anger at. Someone to agree with him that he had failed his brother by being so busy looking the other way, and behaving in a ridiculous way to prove a point to his parents, that he hadn’t noticed how screwed up Matt was. Someone to acknowledge that Tom could have saved him, if only he had been paying attention.

  He never wanted people to make him feel better. He only wanted his grief to be accepted for the very real thing it was, not glossed over, but instead a thing that it was okay for him to feel and that he could express in any way he chose. And now here was Isobel doing the very things that he had longed for all this time. Not even his sister
-in-law, who understood more than most, had done more than just allude to it.

  He stared at her, taking in her expression, her calm acceptance of his guilt. Unquestioning. Non-judgemental.

  ‘How can you say that?’ he asked, and then stopped himself. No, that came out wrong. ‘What I mean is, how is it that I’ve only just met you, I hardly know you and yet you've had the guts to hit the nail right on the head? You’ve said the things that no one else would even admit might be a possibility. No one else has ever done that before, not even Kate.’

  Isobel's expression remained unwavering, as she thought for a moment before speaking again. ‘Well, you could have contradicted me, jumped down my throat after my very first sentence. But you didn't, and that in itself says as much as your words ever could.’ She gave a slight smile.

  Tom shook his head. ‘But people don't want to hear about my guilt, and if I even so much as try to talk about it they always tell me I’m being foolish, and that I mustn't think that way, I’m just upset. It's like they want to move on from the subject as quickly as possible, just in case there is a teeny tiny chance I might be right, and then what would they do?’

  ‘Run a mile probably, if my experience is anything to go by. Of course, now I'm going to go and ruin it all by saying that just because you feel guilty doesn't mean that you are guilty, but I assume you know all that. It's probably the question you ask yourself over and over. It's the thing that keeps you up nights, the thing that makes you drink too much, yes, I recognise the signs… And what's worse is that it's a question that will never go away, because the only person who can ever answer it is Matt.’

  To his surprise Tom actually chuckled. ‘Okay… you're slightly beginning to scare me now. How come you got to be so wise?’

  Isobel lifted her glass. ‘Oh, that's easy,’ she said. ‘It’s because I'm just as screwed up as you are.’

  Chapter 12

  It must be the heat that was making her so agitated. But as Isobel paced across the living room floor, she knew that she was just kidding herself. Her distress had nothing to do with the weather. It was a hot day, but she was wearing a short cotton shift dress, had bare feet, and her hair was tied up into a loose ponytail that left her neck and shoulders exposed. She wasn’t that warm.