by Kate Hewitt
“Well, what are you talking about then, separating?” Will put his boot down. “I’ve got nowt time to have a pagger, Esther.”
Esther always knew when Will’s emotions were engaged, because he lapsed into the Cumbrian dialect he usually avoided, not wanting to seem parochial. Sheep farming was a gentleman’s business these days; Oxford-educated philosophers were buying up farms in the fells and then writing blasted books about it. Will couldn’t afford to seem like some sort of backwards yokel.
“I don’t want to fight,” Esther said. “I thought I was stating the obvious.”
“It’s not bloody obvious to me. Look, is this about the baby? Because—”
“It’s not about the baby. That was just… a symptom, I suppose.”
Will looked thunderous. “A symptom? Of what?”
“Of us not working anymore,” Esther burst out. Of her not working, as a wife, as a person. “Of not being happy,” she persisted, “either one of us, not really. Come on, Will. Tell me you haven’t been miserable these last few weeks.”
He stared at her, a storm in his eyes, and said nothing. That was answer enough, surely.
“I’ll move back to the vicarage,” Esther said. “It’s the most sensible thing.”
“If you feel you can’t live with me,” Will said, sounding furious, “then I’ll be the one to move—”
“Will, come on.” He had an old-fashioned code of gentlemanly behaviour, but it didn’t make sense now. “You have the farm, and the lambs to see to. I’ll go.”
He stared at her, his jaw bunched and working, his eyes snapping icy blue sparks. “Fine.”
“I’ll leave this morning.”
“Can’t wait to get away, can you?”
Esther flinched but took it as her due. This was her fault. She accepted that. She should have been strong enough to keep muddling on, the same as always. She knew Will was. He would have gone on another forty years, the same day in and day out, without a flicker. She was the one who had suddenly detonated inside, ruining everything.
Will nodded tightly and then yanked on his boot. He paused in the doorway, slightly stooped under the low stone lintel, looking as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure what. And in the end, that had been part of the problem, hadn’t it? They’d never known what to say to one another. It just hadn’t mattered all that much until grief had reared up and sucker-punched them both.
Except you’re not all that grief-stricken, are you?
That was a treacherous little voice she quickly silenced now. It was hard enough dealing with all the other rubbish she had going through her mind. Climbing into her beat-up Land Rover, she gripped the steering wheel and set her jaw, determined to soldier on, and not to think, to wonder, to doubt.
She couldn’t picture her future—living at her parents’ at thirty-five? Really? And besides, her mum and dad were moving out of the vicarage in just four short months. They were moving all the way to China, and that was something Esther tried not to think about, either.
She often acted as if she merely endured her parents’ enthusiastic presence in her life, but the truth was, she couldn’t imagine them not in it, the strong and silent foundation to everything she did and believed.
She couldn’t imagine not being able to stop by the vicarage whenever the feeling took her, to sip tea and eat her mother’s delicious baking while she tried—sometimes harder than others—not to roll her eyes on her mother’s unsubtle poking and prying; the when-are-you-going-to-have-a-baby conversation had been dancing around that table for years.
The sudden sting of tears behind her lids took Esther by surprise. She was so not a crier. She hadn’t cried that morning, when she’d packed her bags in the eerily silent farmhouse, with Toby, Will’s springer spaniel, twelve years old, a puppy when they had been dating, whining at the bottom of the old, narrow stairs he was no longer spry enough to climb, sensing something was wrong.
She hadn’t cried when she’d seen that awful, blank screen at the hospital, felt the silence in a moment when she should have heard the watery whoosh of her baby’s heartbeat. She hadn’t even cried when her brother Jamie had died; she’d been called from her history classroom in Year Ten, taken to the head teacher’s office, everyone looking far too solemn.
In each case, she’d just felt frozen inside, and the truth was, she’d never tested to see how deep or thick that layer of ice was, or whether any emotion lurked underneath. And now she was afraid to find out, afraid to probe those dark depths and discover how deep they went. Afraid she’d drown.
Eyes narrowed against the wintry glare of the sun emerging from behind the clouds, Esther drove over the little stone bridge that crossed St. John’s Beck and out of Thornthwaite.
Chapter Two
Will Langley had always been a man of few words. He’d never minded, but now, when it was too late, he found words bubbling up inside him in a ferment of feeling, surprising and infuriating him because Esther had already left. He’d watched her Land Rover pull out of the farmyard, the hard-packed dirt glittering with frost, and then down the narrow, rutted track that led to the B-road into Thornthwaite, just over a mile away. She’d gone and bloody left him.
He still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t accept it, even though he supposed he had to. And now it was too late to ask her to stop, wait, and then demand what on earth she was going on about, because as far as he was concerned this had come out of nowhere. Hadn’t it?
He worked all day, spending most of it in the lambing shed, with two first-time ewes who were having difficult labours, as well as looking after a weak lamb who hadn’t been able to feed from his mother. He’d docked a dozen lambs born in the last two days, the pockets of his trousers full of the rubber rings used to shorten their tails, his hands tinted a sickly yellow from iodine. The joys of lambing season.
At least the work kept him from thinking about Esther, although the knowledge of her departure, the sight of her looking so weary and resigned as she stood by the sink, was emblazoned onto his brain. Even when he was elbow-deep in an ewe he could still see it, the unfortunate movie screen in the back of his mind, his wife looking as if she couldn’t stand another minute in his house, his life, as if she’d been beaten down by it all, by him. And he hadn’t even realized.
At half past six, he stomped back into the farmhouse, ducking under the lintel as he shucked off his mud- and blood-spattered boots and trousers. The long, narrow kitchen was dark, the only sound the low, comforting rumble of the Aga. Dirty dishes were still piled in the sink, a pile of old post on the table. Toby came up to Will and whined, licking his hand; he hadn’t been fed, and he was normally given his dinner at six, by Esther, after work, while Will was still out in the fields or barns.
It was probably chauvinistic and shallow to miss the creature comforts Esther had provided, but right then, mucky and muscles aching, Will did. He missed the sight of a cosy kitchen, with something simmering on top of the Aga, a hot bath already drawn upstairs in the claw-footed tub that was a century old. He missed Esther’s smile and the brisk way she’d hand him a thick ceramic mug of tea, steeped so strong he could just about stand a spoon in it, before he’d even asked. He missed Esther.
Why on earth had she left? They’d been fine, hadn’t they? He’d thought they’d been fine. Mostly fine, anyway. Not as bad as all that. All right, yes, the last few months had been a bit… difficult. But they’d just lost a baby, and of course that had to affect Esther. It had affected him. Even now his heart clutched as he remembered how the realization had thudded through him. No baby. No more picturing a little boy or girl, a bean of a baby that would fit in the curve of his arm. No more thoughts of a family, how they would finally be one properly, after so many years of waiting and wanting.
He hadn’t talked to Esther about it, though, because they’d never been talkers, and he’d thought she wanted some space. He’d expected them to struggle through to the other side, find their balance again. He hadn’t thought it had been
that bad, but apparently it had. For Esther.
Will reached for the old, dented copper kettle on top of the stove and filled it up at the deep, farmhouse sink as he stared moodily out at the farmyard, now cloaked in a soft, purple twilight. The two ewes had safely delivered their lambs, and no others had shown signs of labour, so he might actually have an evening free for once.
If Esther were here, they’d open a bottle of wine and watch a DVD box set in the sitting room, with a fire in the wood stove crackling away merrily, her feet in his lap. Simple pleasures, but they’d been good enough for him. Although if he was honest, they hadn’t done something like that in a long while.
No, with a free evening, Esther would be at the kitchen table, peering at her laptop as she filled out one of her wretched spreadsheets for work, an endless round of government box ticking, and Will might have tackled the farm’s accounts, something he was forever putting off. Or he would have watched the telly by himself—football, maybe, or a mindless crime show.
They would have spent the entire evening apart, until bedtime, when Will would have checked on the animals and Esther would have taken Toby out and turned off the lights, maybe made up a couple of fleece-covered hot water bottles to take upstairs with them.
Then they would have gone up to the antique, oak bed Will’s great-grandfather had bought his bride as a wedding present, and undressed for bed mostly in silence, although sometimes with the off comment about the farm or Esther’s work; they’d never needed many words between them.
Then they would have climbed into bed and snuggled under the duvet, Esther’s icy toes tucked up against Will’s calves, a hot-water bottle tucked between them like a baby.
The baby. That was what this had to be about, no matter what Esther had said. What else could it be? They’d been happy before then. At least Will had been happy. Now he wondered if he’d ever actually known what Esther thought or felt. He certainly hadn’t seen this coming, not ever, and the complete lack of knowledge, the utter shock he felt, rocked him more than a little.
With a sigh, he patted Toby’s head and went to fill up the dog’s bowl. The fridge was depressingly empty for Will’s own dinner; Esther was the one who did the food shopping, she obviously hadn’t for a few days. He found a heel of hardened cheddar cheese and the end of a loaf, and with a pint of Langdale bitter he called it a meal.
He’d just sat down at the table when headlights flashed across the window from the farmyard, and Toby set to barking as a Land Rover parked in front of the house. Esther. She was back. Daft woman, she regretted leaving him. Of course she did. With a sloppy grin spreading over his face, Will rose from the table, nearly tripping over Toby in his eager haste.
The knock at the door made him pause; wouldn’t Esther just come in—or was she being absurdly formal, for some reason? He opened the door, the smile wiped off his face as he saw Dan Trenton, the local vet and fiancé of Esther’s sister Rachel, standing there. Of course it wasn’t Esther. Will was an idiot.
“Dan.” He nodded his greeting. “What brings you here? All my ewes are fine and hardy.”
Dan smiled. “Good to hear it. Lambing going well?”
“Two tricky births this morning, but it ended all right.” Will stepped aside so Dan could come in; a light, needling rain was falling and the air was frigid. “What’s going on with you?”
“I was over at the Whitford farm and I saw your lights. I thought I’d stop in.”
He knew about Esther, then. Will appraised his future brother-in-law rather grimly, wondering how he’d found out. Had Esther told him? Had she told everyone? Or maybe Rachel had worked it out from Esther and then gone to Dan. Either way Will didn’t like it much. His business was his business… and Esther’s. The last thing he wanted now was to have Dan asking well-meaning questions, or worse, looking at Will with some kind of pity because he couldn’t keep a wife.
“Well, then,” he said, not meaning to be unfriendly, at least not exactly.
Dan smiled easily, as unruffled as always. “I wondered if you felt like a pint at The Bell?”
“The Bell?” The Queen’s Sorrow was the pub for most of Thornthwaite; The Bell was for day labourers and lads on a pub crawl, intent only on getting drunk and maybe having a bust-up if they’d had too much.
“Why not?” Dan shrugged. “The Queen’s Sorrow always seemed a bit posh to me, all that Barbour and Burberry makes my eyes cross.”
Dan was posh, though, even though he’d been born and bred in Thornthwaite. He’d gone off to Cambridge for uni and come back sounding like a gentleman; he wore waxed jackets and Hunter boots and was interviewed by Cumbrian Life. He embodied the gentrified side of farming life that wasn’t real, as far as Will was concerned. Will was a dying breed, a farmer born and raised, not a hobbyist who’d made his fortune in London and bought a farm for laughs with his pocket change.
“I’ve got the lambs,” he said.
Dan raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you’d delivered two ewes this morning?”
“Yes, but…” There was no good reason why he shouldn’t spare an hour or two at The Bell, but Will resisted all the same. He didn’t want Dan, kind as he was, prying into his business. He didn’t want to talk about Esther, not when he didn’t even know what was going on, not really. Not when he felt so bloody raw from it all.
At the same time, he didn’t want to stay in this cold, dark, empty house. It felt as if all the light and life had been sucked from its thick stone walls when Esther had packed up and left. And he’d just opened his last pint of bitter.
“All right then,” Will said with a nod. “Let me wash a bit of the sheep off me, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Excellent. Shall I order us some food as well?” Smiling, Dan spared a bemused glance for the sorry bit of bread and cheese on the table.
“Might as well,” Will answered gruffly.
Fifteen minutes later he’d washed the worst of the mud and blood off him, although he still smelled like sheep—a mixture of wool, dirt, grass, and animal. He’d never get that smell off him, not during lambing season, at least.
He changed into a fresh flannel shirt and jeans, and then climbed in his own Land Rover, as beaten up as Esther’s, and started down the bumpy track towards Thornthwaite.
The Bell looked comforting, its door thrown open, the interior lit up like a Christmas candle. Will parked on the side of steep, narrow Finkle Street, and strolled down towards the pub. He paused in front, his gaze travelling instinctively over the little stone bridge towards the village church with its square, squat Norman tower, and the darkened bulk of the vicarage beyond. He saw a light winking from his father-in-law’s study window, but otherwise the vicarage looked dark and empty.
Was Esther there? What was she thinking? Feeling? Questions he’d never needed to ask before, never thought to ask. He didn’t like asking them now, and he particularly didn’t like not knowing the answers.
“Will.” Dan called to him from a booth in the back as he came into the pub, shouldering his way through a press of slick-haired footballer lads who were making a bit of a ruckus.
“Busy in here for a Wednesday night,” he remarked as he slid into the bench opposite Dan.
“West Lakes Football Club,” Dan explained. “They come here after practice every Wednesday, or so the bartender, Sam, said.”
“Right.” Will picked up his pint of bitter. “Cheers. I’ll get the next round.”
“I probably shouldn’t have more than one,” Dan said regretfully. “Driving and work tomorrow.”
Will nodded, wiping the foam from his upper lip. “Next time, then.”
Dan nodded and they put down their pints, appraising each other. Will decided to break the silence first. “So you know about Esther, then.”
Dan ducked his head. “Sorry, mate.”
“It’s all right.” Will shrugged, acting as if it was all of little consequence, which was as daft as anything he could have done. What mattered more? He had a pain i
n his chest, the way he suspected a heart attack would feel, but he knew it wasn’t. “You heard the crack from Rachel, I suppose?”
Dan nodded. “She saw Esther this afternoon, at the vicarage.”
Will nodded and took another sip from his pint.
“I really am sorry,” Dan said after a moment. “I know things have been tough…”
“Did you?” Will interjected abruptly, his voice harder than he’d meant it to be, that raw wound opening wider. “Because I’m not sure I did.”
Dan looed startled. “I meant with the pregnancy… the miscarriage, you know…”
“Aye, that was hard.” There was a tightening in his chest as he remembered Esther’s toneless description of what had happened. He hadn’t gone to the twelve-week ultrasound; she’d briskly told him he didn’t need to, and with things busy as ever at the farm, he’d taken her at her word, which, now that he thought about it, seemed like a bloody stupid thing to do.
And so, it had meant he’d learned that their baby had never even been by Esther matter-of-factly recounting the events of her appointment as she sat at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. Will remembered the long, brown strips of peel, the pure white of the potato, the incongruity of it all. Death and dinner. He had barely been able to choke out “Oh, Esther” before she’d risen and gone to the Aga.
“Tea will be in half an hour,” she’d said. “Why don’t you have a bath beforehand?”
Will had stared at her, at a loss. Even he wasn’t so clueless when it came to feelings that he realized this wasn’t the right or normal response to a miscarriage. It wasn’t the response he felt inside, but hell if he’d known what to say or do.
“That was hard,” Will told Dan, “but it was two months ago, and Esther hasn’t seemed…” He paused, trying to think how Esther had seemed. As brisk as ever, surely, and maybe a little remote. But not grief-stricken. Not heartbroken. “Truth be told,” he said, “Esther didn’t seem as upset as all that.” He looked down into his beer, feeling disloyal for saying such a thing, even if it was true. “At least on the surface, I mean.” And he didn’t really look much farther than that. He wasn’t sure he knew how, not when what was on the surface had made him happy.