Once the Clouds Have Gone

by KE Payne

  “Whoa.” Skye’s eyes widened as she opened the bag. “Thank you.” Tag adored the exuberance and sheer childish joy that poured from her as she widened the opening further and peered inside. She flipped the bag upside down, her jaw hanging open in delight as dozens of small plastic soldiers fell out and bounced around the floor, scattering by her feet. Some were crouching, some were running, some were crawling on their bellies. Most of them, though, were standing to attention, waiting for Skye to place them inside her palace so they could guard the Queen.

  “Soldiers?” Freddie picked one up. She inspected it, turning it around between her fingers. “That’s so damn cute,” she murmured, her voice sending shivers down Tag.

  “Every kid loves soldiers, don’t they?” Tag cut her glance away, watching as Skye started lining them up in a neat parade on the rug. “Besides, you can’t have a palace without soldiers.”

  “Well, most girls prefer dolls apparently,” Freddie said, “but fortunately Skye has never been a doll girl.” She placed her hand on Tag’s thigh, mouthing a “thank you” to her as Skye began the important task of setting her platoon to work, a look of determined concentration on her face as she did so. Tag looked from Freddie’s hand, so at home on her leg, then back to Freddie. She closed her hand over it, pulling it into her own.

  “You’re welcome,” Tag mouthed back to her.

  “Woody’s not a doll,” Skye announced loudly, not looking up. “Bethany Davies from my class said Woody was a doll, but he’s not. He’s from Toy Story.”

  Tag reluctantly released Freddie’s hand and clambered over to Skye. “Woody’s most definitely not a doll,” she confirmed. “You ask Bethany Davies from your class how many dolls wear a gun holster and a Stetson.”

  Skye’s eyes widened again as she nodded solemnly.

  Lunch, once Skye’s soldiers were settled into their task, and it had been confirmed beyond any more doubt that Woody wasn’t a doll, could finally get under way. After making sure Skye was sitting in front of the TV to await her food, Tag joined Freddie in the kitchen, where she found her preparing to make sandwiches.

  “I think you might be even more of a hit with my daughter than you were last week, if that’s possible,” Freddie said, pulling slices of bread from their packaging. “Anyone who gives soldiers as presents is beyond awesome to her.”

  “I like to do it,” Tag said truthfully. “The look on her face is worth it all.” She captured Freddie’s eye and held it. Freddie’s actions slowed.

  “Can I have the crusts off?” A small voice sounded down by Tag’s hip, breaking the gaze. “When you cut my sandwiches for me.” Skye stood up on tiptoe and stared at the buttered slices of bread, practically balancing herself off the edge of the counter with her chin. “Please?” she beseeched.

  “Crusts make your hair curly, you know,” Tag said.

  Skye bounced back on her heels. She held her hands out to the side of her, then pointed with both index fingers to her untidy mop of curls.

  “Fair point.” Tag turned her attention to the sandwiches.

  A silence returned to the kitchen.

  “When we’ve eaten, I’ll show you these adverts I was talking about.” Freddie joined Tag at the counter. “For the mill.”

  The mill. Tag smiled to herself. That’s why she was here, wasn’t it? In the warm comfort of toy soldiers and sandwiches, she’d quite forgotten.

  “I’m going up there tomorrow,” Tag said. She placed cheese and slivers of tomato in Skye’s sandwich. “Thought I’d take some photos while the place is shut.”

  “The ones you’ll give Magnus to recreate?” Freddie asked.

  Tag nodded. “Old machinery, the waterwheel. Stuff like that will be perfect.” She squared Skye’s sandwiches. “Then I thought a meeting up at the cafe one day next week with everyone would be a good idea.”

  “Can I have my water in my Spider-Man mug as well, please?” Skye joined Tag at her side again.

  Tag put down her knife, then straightened her back and saluted smartly. “Anything else, ma’am?” She grinned widely, making Skye giggle.

  “I don’t think so.” Skye replied, holding her hands up to accept the plate of sandwiches that Tag handed her. She turned and walked carefully back to the lounge, plate held carefully in both hands. “She did squares,” she whispered to Freddie as she passed her in the doorway. “Charlotte never did squares, even though I always asked for them.”

  Freddie stopped dead. Skye had mentioned Charlotte again, but this time, the sound of her name wasn’t like a knife to her heart. She looked across to Tag, busy slicing more bread, then back to Skye, eating her sandwiches. Skye occasionally glanced back to Tag, laughing through a mouthful of bread each time Tag pulled a silly face at her. Tag was so lovely with Skye, her attention constantly on her, asking her if she was okay or wanted more. And Skye had her undivided attention too, laughing with her, pulling faces back at her. It had been too long, Freddie thought, since she’d heard Skye laugh as much. Tag had that effect on her. Skye was enraptured by her, over the moon because Tag was there making faces at her and because she’d done her sandwiches just as she liked. Tag hadn’t questioned it, or mocked it, like Charlotte would have done. She’d just done the one thing that would make Skye happy. That meant more to Freddie than anything—to see Skye happy again after so many months.

  And yet, was she being fair on Skye by letting her get close to Tag?

  “Why do kids always want their crusts taken off?” Tag sounded behind her, shushing her thoughts away. “Magnus was the same when he was Skye’s age. What have they got against crusts anyway?”

  “You tell me,” Freddie said. “But thank you for doing her sandwiches just the way she wanted.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Tag can sit next to me,” Skye called out from the lounge.

  “Okay,” Freddie replied, walking from the kitchen.

  “’Cos she made squares,” came the reply.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  A soft wind was buffeting around the base of the watermill as Tag approached it the next afternoon. It was Monday, and she’d set off from Glenside with her camera and notepad, and a renewed sense of excitement at the thought of a whole afternoon of photography. She slowed her steps and glanced up at the top windows, remembering vividly a time from her past when she’d looked out from those very same panes. Memories danced in front of her eyes as her past came back to meet her.

  Tag retrieved a key from her pocket. She unlocked the heavy door and swung it back. She stepped inside, immediately being plunged into gloom, the only rays of light coming from the doorway and the slits of windows running up each wall. Tag stood, blinking to allow her eyes to adjust to the half-light.

  Finally when she could see better, Tag circled the floor. She gazed up at the walls, to the domed roof. She ran her hands over the rough walls, feeling every bump and groove of the centuries-old stone, savouring the coolness of it. Her mind’s eye set up photo scenes. She occasionally glanced up at the slits in the walls, choosing the right angle for each photo, judging where best to stand where the natural light outside would show the building at its finest.

  Tag strode across to the other side of the mill, her footsteps echoing around her in the cavernous building. She turned back and looked at the old thresher. That would make the perfect picture. Tag pulled her camera from its case and rattled off one, two, then three photos in quick succession. Then another ten of the grist wheels and sack hoist. She moved to her left and fired off another twelve photos. She was pleased; the light was perfect, the low sunshine from outside bouncing off the honey-coloured walls just inside the door. It looked comfortable and warm—just how Tag wanted it to look.

  She walked up the wooden steps to the next floor. Wooden storage boxes lined the walls. Tag’s eyes drifted over the details stamped in dark ink on the sides: Balfour 1901. Property G.H. Grainger Esq. 1912. Tag dipped her head and peered. G.H. Grainger? A great-grandfather? She shrugged and photographed it an
yway, figuring it would look good in her portfolio whether she eventually used it or not. When she’d finished, Tag ran her eyes over the images on her camera screen.

  The light from outside caught her eye and she sauntered across the wooden floorboards to the window. She rested her hands on the sill and stared out, then twisted away and ran up the next three flights, two steps at a time. The view from the very top of the watermill never ceased to amaze her. Four floors up, it yawned out across the fields which were now bathed in sunshine.

  Tag noted the landmarks. There was Blair’s tractor, parked up in a ploughed rut, lurching slightly to the left. Over to the other side was a half-ploughed field, its furrows speckled with the last remains of the snow. There were trailers covered in tarpaulin, and fields with the first hints of green shoots coming up. She could see bare hedgerows shivering against the chill, and tall, naked trees on the horizon. Tag stood, spellbound, as she gazed out around at land as far as she could see. Grainger land. Her land.

  A noise on the ground below her pulled her attention back to the room. A door scraping against its frame, followed by footsteps. Tag hurried to the top step and peered over the rail. Tom? It was his day off, surely? The footsteps crescendoed, hastening up the stairs. Tag lurched further over the rail, her eyes finally meeting Freddie’s, staring up at her from two floors down. Their eyes locked, her surprise and instant desire igniting sparks in Freddie’s gaze. Tag’s pulse quickened. Freddie’s hair was illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, the rays enhancing the natural highlights in her hair. Her eyes, wide and expectant, sparkled. She was beautiful. Tag drew her breath in. So beautiful.

  She gathered herself. “I thought we had burglars there for a second,” she called down at Freddie, her voice even, despite her wildly beating heart.

  Freddie’s hand clasped her chest. “So did I. Bloody hell, Tag. You just scared the life out of me.”

  “I’m taking photos.” Tag lifted her camera from around her neck, by way of explanation. “I told you yesterday.”

  “Did you?” Freddie still gripped her chest.

  Tag nodded, willing Freddie to come to her.

  “You left the door wide open.” Freddie still stared up at her. “I thought someone had broken in.”

  Why was Freddie stalling for time? Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Tag went down to her. “Why are you here? We’re closed today.” She cursed herself. Too harsh. Nerves did that to her.

  “I’m going to clean the cafe through.”

  “You clean on your day off?” Tag looked at her like it was the weirdest thing she’s ever heard. She laughed in a vain attempt to quell her fluttering stomach.

  “Someone has to.”

  Fair point.

  “I’m sorry I scared you,” Tag said sheepishly. “I just thought I’d make the most of the mill being empty.” She sat on one of the wooden steps. “It’s nice in here, isn’t it?” she said. “Peaceful, without the stones making a racket.”

  Freddie rested her arms on the stair rail. “I come in here sometimes before I leave work, just to think and have a chat with Tom.” She looked around her. “There’s something strangely lulling about hearing the river running by just outside, don’t you think? I love the constancy of it all.”

  “Me too,” Tag said. “No matter where you are, what you’re doing, or what you’re thinking, that river will always be running. Always feeding the mill. It’s weird, but comforting at the same time.” Her nerves refused to go. Tag swallowed. Something felt different. A shift in their chemistry, as though they were both gliding together towards…something. But what? She couldn’t decipher it, couldn’t find the answer in the eyes that continued to look back at her.

  “So how are the photos looking?” Freddie asked. If Tag felt nervous, Freddie looked ten times more so.

  “Good. Yeah.” Tag touched her camera. “I’d forgotten just how nice the view is from the top of here. Plenty of things to get inspiration from.”

  “You didn’t come up here the other week when you were talking to Tom?”

  “No, we stayed down on the ground floor,” Tag said. “I haven’t been up this high for at least ten years.” Olivia Leigh had to be ten years ago now, right? “I definitely remember coming up here when I was around sixteen with someone, but nothing after then.” Tag dropped her eyes. She held back a smile at the memory of Olivia Leigh.

  “That’s a very knowing look.” Freddie dipped her head to try and catch Tag’s eye.

  “Maybe.”

  “Let me guess.” Freddie rested her chin on her arm. “You used to bring girls up here? Impress them with your knowledge of wheat?”

  “Something like that.” Tag chuckled. “But not girls, plural. Just the one.”

  “Go on, then,” Freddie said. “Spill.”

  “How’s Skye?” She was changing the subject. Whatever. “Over her tummy bug?”

  “All over it now.” Freddie smiled. “She went to school this morning. Couldn’t wait to tell Bethany Davies about her new soldiers.”

  Tag’s heart swelled.

  “So, spill about your past up here,” Freddie persisted.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Chicken.”

  “It was!” Tag protested. “I can barely remember now.”

  “Fibber.” Freddie watched her squirm. “You’re a chicken and a fibber, Tag Grainger.”

  “She was called Olivia.”

  “Very posh.”

  “She was.” Tag tucked her hair behind her ear. “Her mother was aghast when she found out she was sleeping with the little lesbian from the bakery.”

  Freddie laughed loudly. Her eyes sparkled. “I’ll bet she was.”

  “I didn’t care.” Tag feigned indifference. “Anyway, let’s just say her darling Olivia wasn’t so posh when she was with me.”

  “Really?” Freddie asked slowly.

  “Really.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  The atmosphere intensified. The air grew thick, warm. All Tag could hear was the tidal pulsing of blood in her ears as Freddie nestled her chin on her hands and studied Tag, her eyes never leaving hers.

  “Anyway.” Tag burned inside. “It was all a long time ago now.” She stood and held her hand out to Freddie, her hand steady, despite the tension that had enveloped them. “Come and have a look upstairs. I’ll show you what I’ve been photographing.” She squeezed Freddie’s hand when it found its way into hers, finding instant comfort from the feel of it. “And we can look out of the window and bitch about posh exes and their ghastly mothers.”

  *

  Tag hunched her shoulders tighter against the chill wind that whistled around the top floor of the watermill. She stood to one side of the floor, watching as Freddie moved around the room, her hands waving animatedly as she told Tag of two ideas she’d had.

  “So we give tourists a tour of the watermill and grists,” Freddie said, “they go into the cafe and shop afterwards and spend lots of money. Win-win, as far as I can see.”

  “Okay, but how do we make sure they go into the cafe afterwards as well?” Tag asked. Freddie’s enthusiasm, she thought with a thrill, was compelling. She paced, her face alive and excited, occasionally pulling her hair from her brow, burying her hands in it as she thought hard about a certain idea or philosophy about the cafe that she felt she needed to explain better.

  “We arrange it with the coach company that they arrive around late morning,” Freddie said, “and don’t leave until around two p.m. By the time they’ve had their tour and a look around, taken photos from the top of the watermill, and blah-blah-blah—”

  “They’ll be hungry?”

  “Exactly.” Freddie raised her hands, palms up. “Now, in order to make sure those lovely people on the coach don’t just all turn up with their own sandwiches, we offer the coach company a special deal on a set menu which they charge to the customer as part of the tour.”

  “And if we offered them all a ten-percent discount in the shop too,” Tag said, �
��that’d encourage them to go and buy something before or after they’ve had lunch.”

  “If you think your average coach takes, what, knocking on eighty people?” Freddie calculated. “And each one paying a set price for a two-course lunch…”

  “And we can take at least two coach parties a day in the cafe—”

  “At a push.”

  “If we stagger the Mill tours—”

  “And open the cafe seven days a week instead of its current six—”

  “In addition to the few that’ll still just pop in and out…”

  “You do the maths.” Freddie’s voice was triumphant, her eyes gleaming.

  “You’re a genius.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.” There was that look again. Longer this time.

  Tag felt herself falling. Her head swam with a dizzying cocktail of Freddie’s company, her proximity, her body, her warmth, her enthusiasm. They were all conspiring together to weaken Tag, to break down her defences, and to render her helpless in Freddie’s company.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Closed Freddie out.

  Focus.

  “What else?” Tag asked. She needed to concentrate. The business needed her to listen to what Freddie had to say. “You said you’d had two ideas.”

  “Bread-making courses,” Freddie said simply. “I was reading about a mill on the Welsh border that does them.”

  “People would pay to come make bread?”

  “Works very well at this mill, from what I was reading.”

  “Who’d run it?” Tag frowned. “Can’t see Tom being a great teacher.”

  “I would,” Freddie said. “I’d love to have a go at it.”

  It was perfect. The students would love Freddie; she was patient, charming, funny. “You’d be ideal.” Tag spoke her thoughts. “They’d love you.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” Freddie comically dusted down her front. “I’m perfect.”

  You are. Tag watched her as Freddie laughed.

  “I guess then people would take what they’d baked home with them,” Tag said, still watching Freddie, “along with a small certificate or a gift or something.”