by Kate Hewitt
She walked quickly, her head down and chin tucked low, the way she always walked, Charlie doing his best to keep up with her. She was so intent on striding along that she didn’t realize she’d nearly careened into someone until his hands were on her arms and he was steadying her. Esther came to an abrupt and shocked halt, blinking up at the friendly face of a man she vaguely recognized.
“Whoa, there, you’re in a hurry.” His smile was wide and easy. “Esther, isn’t it?”
“Yes…” Was it someone from church? She couldn’t place him, with his dark hair and dimples, about the same age as she was. She didn’t think they’d gone to school or youth group together, either. “Sorry…”
“Mark,” he smiled. “Mark Taylor. I teach at the primary, with your sister Rachel. I do music lessons.”
“Oh, right…”
“We met at a Christmas party she dragged you to, years ago. I doubt you remember.”
She didn’t, and Mark laughed, unbothered. “Anyway, it seems as if you were going somewhere in a hurry, and I’m late for my Year Fours.”
“Okay.” She stepped aside, watching him go up the steep little lane to the primary school. She had no recollection of meeting him, although she did remember the Christmas party. It had been at The Queen’s Sorrow and she’d gone with Rachel because her sister had recently broken up with a boyfriend—there had been several over the years—and she wanted a plus one. Esther had filled in and Will had stayed at home.
With a sigh, Esther kept walking. Her mind felt as if it were flying in a dozen different directions, wondering what her future could hold. If she took the redundancy package, she could move. Travel. Do anything she wanted. Why did that thought of leaving Thornthwaite make her feel anxious and more ambivalent, more immobilized, than ever?
She walked all the way to the top of Thornthwaite, by the new estate of smart brick houses that the old guard of the village had protested a dozen years ago, which, she supposed, didn’t make them that new anymore, never mind she remembered them being built.
Charlie was starting to look tired, his tongue lolling out, his expression hopeful, and Esther knelt to caress his ears.
“Sorry, old boy, I can see you’re tired. We’ll head back now.”
Back at the vicarage her father was in his study with the door open, the woodstove crackling with a merry blaze. He beckoned her in as soon as Esther had shed her coat and Wellies, Charlie retreating gratefully to his place by the Aga.
“Esther, come in. Sit with me a minute.”
All through her childhood, invitations into her father’s inner sanctum had been relatively rare. Esther could remember going into the study only if she’d been in trouble or in need of a serious talking-to about some area of her life—A levels, university plans, her proposed summer holiday to Corfu when she was nineteen.
It was a testament to her current life situation that she didn’t know which one it was now—was she in trouble? Or did she simply need sorting out?
She stepped into her father’s study slowly, taking in the faded Oriental carpet, the heavy velvet drapes that were now pulled across the high sashed windows, the towering bookshelves of well-thumbed theology books and the two ancient armchairs by the wood stove. She didn’t think the room had changed in thirty years.
“What is it, Dad?”
“Sit down.” Roger beckoned to the armchair opposite him. “Stay awhile.”
“All right.” She perched on the armchair, holding her hands out to the wood stove’s cheery warmth. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d become on her walk.
“Your mother tells me you’re thinking of taking redundancy.” So a talking-to about life decisions it was.
“Thinking of it,” she agreed. “I only got the email this morning.” She brought her hands away from the stove, lacing them together in her lap. She felt as if she were about sixteen. “I suppose you don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Roger smiled in his easy, affable way. “On the contrary, my dear, I think it could be quite a wonderful idea. A useful idea.”
Esther stared at him in surprise. Her father always seemed so easygoing and charming, in a sincere and genuine way that made his parish love him, but there was a method to his seemingly relaxed manner, a strategy to his benevolence. She’d seen it in play countless times before, the slightly steely look he got in his eyes even as he gave an easy smile and asked someone to do something—ring the church bells, deliver the parish newsletter, teach Sunday School. It looked effortless, but it required a great deal of skill, and that skill was being used on her, with love and the best intentions, right now.
“Useful?” she repeated cautiously.
“Yes, useful, as long as you don’t go rushing into something else.” Roger removed his specs to give her a surprisingly frank look.
Esther fought the urge to fidget. “What do you mean, rushing in?” she asked, although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“Since you were a little girl, you’ve always been driven, Esther,” Roger said gently. “Determined to be independent. So determined, in fact, that when you were a toddler learning to walk and you fell down and bloodied both your knees, you pushed me away when I tried to comfort you and kept on walking.”
Esther managed a small smile, although something twisted inside her at the image. “That sounds like me.”
“It does indeed, doesn’t it?” Roger smiled in affection. “But you don’t need to be so driven all the time, do you, my dear? Because I worry that you will drive yourself right into the ground, or perhaps you will drive yourself to a destination you never expected, and when you look up you’ll blink in surprise and sadness to find yourself there.”
Esther drew a quick breath, shocked and humbled by his perception. Yes, she had been driven all through school, signing up for a dozen activities, taking four A levels rather than three, and working as hard as she could, all the time, ploughing through essays, exams, everything, her head down, her stride never wavering.
When she’d started at Natural England, she’d been the same, always moving forward. She hadn’t been ambitious, not in the usual way, but she’d been determined, just as her father said, to get the job done. To keep going, although where she was going, she didn’t think she knew anymore. Maybe she never had. And here she was, just as her father had said, sad and surprised to discover where she’d ended up.
And as for that determination… it had gone along with everything else. All her certainty, all her happiness, all her plans. She felt anchorless and adrift, as if she had nothing, and if she quit her job she wouldn’t even have that. Maybe she was crazy to think of it. She needed more in her life, not less, surely?
“I don’t think you need to worry, Dad,” Esther said. “I can’t see myself rushing in to do anything at the moment.”
“Let me show you something,” Roger said, and rose from his chair. Esther watched in surprise as he left his study. “Come on,” he called, and curious and a bit wary, she followed him to the porch where he was yanking on a pair of mud-splattered Welly boots.
“Where are we going?”
“Out.”
“Yes, but out where?”
“You’ll see.”
So Esther put on the Wellies and waxed jacket she’d just taken off, unsure where her father was going, both physically and emotionally. What on earth did he intend on showing her?
It didn’t take long to find out. Outside the sun had finally stolen the damp from the air, and clusters of crocuses and snowdrops nestled in the jewel-green grass, tilting their tiny heads to the light.
To Esther’s surprise, Roger didn’t turn down the church lane towards the village, but rather opened the garden gate and stepped through.
It had been a while since Esther had been in the garden. As a child she’d played there on sunny days, and the church’s summer fete had had its tea and cake stand there, and of course her wedding reception had been held there.
She swallowed hard as she remembered standing by
the stone wall covered in wisteria, laughing with Will. Feeling happy but, more than that, feeling satisfied. Another box ticked, which was awful, really, wasn’t it? Had she been viewing life as nothing more than a checklist to get through?
Roger strode through the garden, past the old rope swing hanging from the horse chestnut tree, the rope now frayed and rotting, to the wooden door in the middle of the stone wall that led to the Victorian walled garden beyond.
Esther had always liked the walled garden; as a child it had reminded her of the story The Secret Garden, the vestiges of its heyday now lost amidst the vines and nettles. Through the years, her father had on various occasions tried to do something with it, once even buying a pair of pigs to eat all the nettles, but it had been too big a space and the wild had always claimed it back again.
Now Roger lifted the rusty latch, which screeched in protest, and then pushed open the door on even squeakier hinges.
“What are you doing, Dad?” Esther asked, more curious than wary now. “There’s nothing back there.”
“On the contrary. I’m showing you something.”
“The walled garden? I know it already.”
“Yes, I know you do. But I want you to see it with fresh eyes.”
They both stepped into the garden, which had gone completely wild, nettles and brambles and weeds growing rampant, covering everything up to about six feet high. Esther couldn’t even see the frame of the old glasshouse, its panes missing or broken, that was on the far side, or the stone foundations of the Victorian era cold frames.
“Okay.” She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “I’m seeing it with fresh eyes. Not that there is much to see besides a lot of weeds.”
“Exactly.” Roger smiled and nodded in approval, as if she’d given the right answer on a quiz. Esther stared at him, baffled.
“Do you know that Thornthwaite has never had an allotment?”
“Yes, the nearest one is Keswick.” Esther shrugged.
The residents of the village had long been lobbying for an allotment, but despite the green all around them, there had never been a suitable space. She’d got involved years ago, trying to drum up interest, but it had never taken off and then she’d got busy with work.
“What if you started something?”
Esther stared at him in bemused surprise. “Started something? You mean, make an allotment here?” She glanced at the wild garden, which was about half an acre in size. “It’s not big enough, Dad. It could hold maybe two or three plots, max.”
“I know that. I’m not talking about an allotment. But what about a community garden, something a bit smaller and friendlier? People could have their own little patches for veg or fruit, perhaps, and then muck in to take care of the rest. You could even donate some of the produce and fruit to the food bank.” He nodded towards a few twisty trees, their tops emerging from the brambles. “There are apple and pear, plum and fig, and I think they’re all still producing fruit, even if they do need a bit of pruning.”
“You’re talking about me doing this as a job?” Esther said, still incredulous although she could not deny the tiniest flicker of excitement stirring to life inside her, as if someone had prodded the ashes in her soul and found, to her own surprise, a few glowing embers.
“Not a job precisely,” Roger said. “Since I’m not sure there would be any money in it. More of a mission. A reason.”
A reason. Esther looked away, blinking rapidly. She hadn’t had a reason for a long time, if ever. “I could get some money from the council,” she said after a moment. “Maybe. There are grants available for things like this.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
Again with the flicker, a wary excitement stealing through her, scaring her. Esther took a quick, steadying breath. “I’ll think about it,” she said.
Chapter Eight
The next Saturday Esther came downstairs to find her sister Anna sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Esther stopped in the doorway, nonplussed.
“I came in late last night,” Anna explained. “You were already asleep.”
“Mum didn’t say you were coming,” Esther said, although this wasn’t strictly true. Her mother might have said, and Esther might not have noticed. Her head had been so full of thoughts the last few days—of her job and the possible redundancy package, of the garden, and of Will.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him, wondering what he was doing, how he was feeling, which was both irritating and sad. It had only been a couple of weeks, but she felt like she should be moving on at least a little. “Anyway, welcome home. It’s nice to see you.”
“Thanks.” Anna flashed her a quick smile. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
“I suppose Mum told you about me and Will?” Esther marched over to the coffeepot, stepping over Charlie who had long ago learned not to bother moving as people stepped around him.
“Er, yes.” Anna regarded Esther cautiously over the rim of her mug. “Is that okay?”
“I suppose so.” Esther poured herself a coffee and leaned against the counter as she took the first soothing sip. “Everyone’s going to learn sooner or later, aren’t they?”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Fair enough, then.”
Esther regarded her younger sister, aware they hadn’t a particularly deep relationship over the years. She was five years older, and she’d always been looking ahead, just as her father had said, too impatient to cast much of a glance behind, which seemed rather awful now. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “I don’t mean to sound rude.”
Anna gave her the ghost of a smile. “You just sound like your usual self. Maybe a touch pricklier.”
Esther gave a small smile, acknowledging the point. “Should I be offended by that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You seem happier,” Esther said abruptly. Anna had always been the shy, quiet one, content to blend into the background and be forgotten. Anna had starting dating her father’s new curate, Simon, over Christmas, and judging by the frequency of her visits back to Thornthwaite, it looked to be fairly serious.
“I am happy,” Anna said quietly. “And not just happier, because I don’t think I actually was before.”
“Weren’t you?” Esther sat down at the table and cradled her mug between her hands, savouring the warmth. “Why not?”
Anna shrugged. “It’s not very exciting, just to exist.”
“Is that what you were doing?”
“More or less.”
Esther took a sip of coffee. “That sounds rather grim.”
Anna managed a small smile back. “It does, doesn’t it?”
The ensuing silence made Esther wonder. Was she in the same boat as her sister? Had life become about nothing more than existence? That was what it had felt like since that awful ultrasound, and maybe even before that, long before that. Slogging through the days. Not seeing the point to anything, even her marriage, as she kept plodding towards an endpoint that probably didn’t even exist… just as Anna seemed to have been doing.
Why did they all have to be so bloody buttoned-up, with loving parents and a stable home life? Was it simply a part of being British, or were they all still lingering in the shadow of Jamie’s death? Or maybe, Esther acknowledged with a tired sigh, they were just made that way.
“I’m sorry about you and Will, Esther,” Anna said quietly, and she managed a nod.
“Thank you. I’m glad things are going well between you and Simon.” All her sisters seemed to have found happiness and sorted their lives out now, except for her. Anna was with Simon, Rachel was getting married, and Miriam, the baby of the family, was living it up in Australia. Esther sighed, trying not to feel envious of how they’d managed life’s storms and struggles better than she had.
“They are.” Anna’s smile was both shy and proud, and really quite lovely.
Esther felt a pang of compassion; she’d known, in the periphery of
her mind, that Anna had been having a hard time of it over the years, with her shyness and anxiety. Sometimes Esther had been exasperated or impatient with her sister’s difficulties; other times she’d been sympathetic, if from a distance.
“Do you think you’ll move back to Thornthwaite, then?” she asked.
“Well, it’s early days yet,” Anna answered, blushing. “We’ve only been dating for three months.”
“True, but you must think about it. He’ll be living in the vicarage…” Simon would be taking over from her father when her parents moved to China at the end of July. It was something Esther still couldn’t let herself think about too much. Didn’t want to imagine.
“It’s strange.” Anna’s soft gaze swept over the familiar kitchen, taking in all its lovably shabby cosiness, from the old Aga that broke at least once a year, usually at an incredibly inconvenient time like Christmas Eve, to Charlie snoozing in front of it; the mismatched chairs painted bright colours, the jumble of dishes in the pantry, also mismatched. “I can’t imagine Mum and Dad not here.”
“I wish they wouldn’t go.” As soon as she’d blurted the words, Esther wished she hadn’t. She sounded like such a child, a baby. And she felt like one. She hadn’t realized until that moment quite how much she would miss her parents. Quite how much she wanted them in her life, especially now, when everything felt so uncertain. When she felt empty.
“So do I,” Anna answered softly. “But I understand why they are.”
“Do you? China…” Esther shook her head. “It’s so far, and we’re all here, except for Miriam.”
“Dad’s been here a long time. Maybe he needs a change, a challenge.”
“Can you see Mum in China, though?” Esther asked frankly. Her mother was happiest in the vicarage, baking and making cups of tea, welcoming visitors, always busy and smiling. “Because I can’t.” As she said it, she realized how much it was true. She couldn’t see her mother in China at all.
“Mum will be fine,” Anna said firmly, surprising Esther a little with how sure she sounded. “She’s strong.”