Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  I carry on up the hillside, enjoying the superb landscape, every so often stopping to gaze at the majestic views across the valley. I can see my own cottage down in the lower hills, and across to the right I can see Greystones. Tom’s Land Rover is outside. I wonder if he’s seen my text yet. Over to my left I can see smoke rising from a chimney and I know that must be Black Combe. At least they’ve got logs. The whole scene is perfectly still, no one about except me. Despite my resolve to move on and try not to look back and dwell on might-have-beens, at a time like this I can’t help but remember my mum. I should have been with her today, not hiking alone across a moor. Still, it could be worse—at least I’m free, which is a definite improvement on last year. I shake the blues off, square my shoulders and stride onward.

  A flash of yellow down in the valley catches my eye. A small yellow car, hatchback, nondescript. Someone on their way to visit relatives probably. I watch the little car as it passes the end of the lane leading past Smithy’s Forge. It stops, reverses, turns in. Whoever it is is lost, or just wandering around. I watch as the car passes my cottage, and after about twenty yards or so swerves slightly to avoid a suicidal rabbit. It rights itself, and is soon lost from view around a bend in the lane. I shrug and carry on up the hillside.

  Eventually, out of breath but feeling wonderful, I reach the summit, the highest spot on the moor for miles around. In the perfect wintry sunlight I can see the horizon in every direction. I set up my camera on a portable tripod and frame some fantastic panoramics, some of my best so far. Just too bad I’ll not be able to sell them in Haworth. Even so, I mark the exact spot with a small pile of stones to make sure I can find it and set my tripod in exactly the same position again. I want to catch this view through all the seasons, different weathers, different light conditions. The moor in all her glorious moods.

  I work quickly because the dark falls quickly up here at this time of year—it’s already after one o’clock and I’m a good couple of hours from home at least. Even downhill, it’s a long way back. I’m in no hurry, yet, but I know the dangers of being stranded up here after dark. I pack up my gear and start the long trek home.

  Chapter Eleven

  I arrive back at Smithy’s Forge a few minutes after three thirty as the light is just starting to fade. I scrape off my wellies at the doorstep and, in just my thick stockinged feet, let myself in. I dump my rucksack and I’m immediately struck by the chill. Right, time to bite the bullet. I’ll have to go up to Greystones, risk seeing Tom and scrounge some logs. I hunt around for my trainers ready to go out again, and spot Sadie’s turkey dinner, undisturbed in her bowl on the kitchen floor. She must be outside somewhere. It reminds me I’ve nothing in for me to eat apart from a few rashers of bacon and a lump of cheese. Still, there’s always the vending machine, if I’m going up to Greystones anyway. I go to the doorstep to call for Sadie.

  She doesn’t appear straight away. Not like her, she’s usually hungry by this time. Still, she won’t be far away. I go out to get in my car. I really need those logs.

  And that’s when I see it. The small, indistinct shape huddled at the edge of the road about twenty yards away. In the fading light I can’t be sure, but in my heart I know. Not a rabbit. And the yellow car didn’t miss.

  I run toward her. Maybe I’m not too late. Maybe…

  I am, though. I’m much too late. My poor, beloved little cat has been dead for hours, lying here at the side of my lane just yards from home. There’s not a mark on her, but she’s stiff and cold. I drop to my knees, tears streaming already as I realize I am now totally and completely alone. My last link to the past gone. I never appreciated how much this cranky old cat meant to me until I’m sinking my hands into her thick, soft fur. I pick her up, gather her to my chest as though I might yet be able to revive her, rocking as I start to sob uncontrollably. Only a cat, only a cat. But still.

  Eventually I calm down enough to know I need to do something. What? I think for a few moments before it dawns on me. I need to bury her. I need to do another funeral. Here, today. Now. I stand, cradling Sadie in my arms, and carry her carefully and gently back to my cottage. I set her down on the doorstep, sit beside her for a few minutes before I force myself into action again. I go inside to look for something to dig with. I find a small trowel, the best I can do, and go back outside. I just can’t seem to stop crying as I glance around the garden looking for the best spot. There’s no question really, Sadie’s favorite place was under the front wall where she liked to catch the morning sunshine. I pick a spot and kneel, start scraping away at the hard frozen soil. I’m sobbing, it’s completely dark by now, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ll stick at this for as long as it takes. It’s the least I can do, the last thing I can do for Sadie.

  And it’s there, bent sobbing over the frozen earth, that Tom Shore finds me.

  I hear the familiar Land Rover engine, and a few moments later he crouches beside me. He takes the trowel from my hand and I feel his arm around my shoulders. I stiffen instinctively but he just tightens his grip, and I stop resisting. I turn to him and sob into his hard chest, my fingers clutching at the soft fabric of his sports shirt. He holds me, his hands in my hair, loosening the plait.

  “My cat got run over. She’s dead,” I offer by way of useless explanation.

  “I know, sweetheart. I can see. I’m sorry.”

  “I need to bury her. I don’t have a spade…”

  “I do. I’ll do it.” He continues to hold me and I continue to cling. It’s a long time since I clung to anyone. The last time was my mother in the delivery suite at Southmead Hospital when David died. That was worse than this, but not by much. The sense of loss is grievous, crushing. Like a physical wound, deep, tearing. I can’t bear the thought of being alone. Again. How many more times can I pick myself up?

  “Had you had her a long time?” The question is gently asked, murmured into my ear.

  “Yes. No. She was my mother’s cat. We got her when I was seven.”

  “I see. An old lady then.” A pause, more rocking, more stroking, more clinging. “Why was she here with you? Why didn’t you leave her with your mother in—Gloucester, was it?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before whispering, “My mother’s dead. I inherited her cat.”

  I feel him stiffen, wondering, thinking back. “Dead? But I thought… You told me your mother was looking after your baby, in Gloucester.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I wait, feeling his hands loosen as he starts to withdraw.

  His voice is low, firm. “Ashley, you did say that. I asked you where your baby was and you said…”

  A pause, a few moments as he remembers what I said. What I actually said. And I can feel the shift, the moment when the truth dawns. His grip tightens again and he pulls me in, holding me close.

  “Oh shit. Christ, Ashley, I never thought, never realized. Your baby’s dead too. Isn’t it?”

  I nod, and we sit in silence, both kneeling in the dirt in my cold garden, both lost in a turmoil of thoughts, feelings, misunderstanding and half-truths as the facts realign themselves, attitudes adjust. Long moments slip by, but eventually Tom’s the first to move, standing up and lifting me with him. He carries me back inside, carefully stepping over Sadie’s body on the doorstep. He places me gently in a chair, the same chair he tossed me into the first time he visited me here. I huddle, draw, my knees up to my chest—if possible, more miserable now than I was then.

  “We need to talk. But first I’ll get your fire lit.”

  “No logs.” My voice is small, beaten. My lack of logs now seems so trivial.

  “I know. I brought you some. That’s why I’m here.” He stands, goes back outside, returning a few moments later with his arms full of logs. I watch him in silence as he dumps the pile in front of my stove and starts making up the fire. He smiles at me before going back outside, returning with kindling and more logs. A few minutes later the cheery flames are licking inside the stove and the house is starting to warm as the radiato
rs kick in again. Tom stacks the rest of the logs alongside the stove as warmth begins to permeate the room. Eventually he stands, and I wait, expecting him to pull the other chair up close like he did before. He doesn’t do that, though. Instead he leans over me and plucks me up out of my chair. He turns, sits, and pulls me onto his lap.

  I tell myself I should wriggle, try to escape. But instead I settle in, leaning against his chest once more, warming now. Comforted. I feel his hands moving in my hair and realize he’s un-plaiting it. In no time it’s loose around me, his fingers combing through the hip-length dark mass.

  “I love your hair, Ashley,” he murmurs, nuzzling the top of my head with his chin. “Why do you always tie it back?”

  “I don’t know, it seems sort of right. I don’t like to draw attention to it, to me.”

  “Not working, love. I noticed it. Ages ago. Tell me about your baby. What happened to him? Was it a him?”

  I hesitate briefly, wondering if I want to share this. With him. Then, “Yes. David. I called him David. He was beautiful. But he came too early and he was born dead. It was a few weeks after you, after we…”

  “I know. That must have been hard.”

  “It was. It was like a part of me died—and I suppose it did. My mum came, though, she helped. I went to stay with her afterwards, before I had to go back to Bristol with Kenny.”

  “Had to?”

  “He was very…insistent. I didn’t want any more trouble so I did as he wanted. But he was arrested a couple of weeks after that and remanded in custody so I never had to live with him again.”

  “And you went back to stay with your mum?”

  This is it. The moment of truth. Now I lie, or I don’t. But really, I’ve nothing much left to lose. I take a deep breath and answer. With the truth. “No. I couldn’t go home.”

  “Why not? It’s okay, love, you can tell me.” He nuzzles my hair again, stroking my back in calming circles. I realize I’ve stiffened in his arms, subconsciously expecting rejection. Expecting to be judged and found wanting. As usual. He waits, patient while I compose myself.

  I opt to pour it all out at once. “You remember I told you Kenny got arrested for ram raiding? Well, I gave him an alibi for the nights he was on those raids. But the evidence against him was too strong, there was no doubt he was part of the gang, so the police didn’t believe me. They charged me with perverting the course of justice. I deserved it, I suppose, I did lie to them. Anyway, the judge thought so too and decided to make an example of me, he said. He sentenced me to eighteen months in jail, but a year of it was suspended for two years. I was only in prison for four months as it turned out, but I don’t want to go back. That’s why I was so desperate to stop you reporting me to the police. If I attract any attention at all I do go straight back to prison, serve the rest of my sentence. So, I spent last Christmas in Eastwood Park prison in Gloucestershire. I was going to go live with my mum when I got out, but she died a week before my release date. A hit-and-run. She was killed instantly.”

  I stop, wait for his reaction. I don’t have to wait long.

  “Christ, Ashley, I’m sorry. About your mum. That must have been awful. And what a bastard of a judge. He sent you to jail? For that? Bloody hell, didn’t he know you’d recently lost a baby?” He pauses, pulls me in closer. “ So, when did your mum die…?”

  “March. She died in March. This is my first Christmas without her. On my own. And now, without her cat too.”

  His arms are firm, solid, holding me. Showing no inclination to let me go. I’m pathetically grateful—maybe my rotten luck could be changing at last. We sit like that in silence for a long while, watching the flames flickering, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Eventually my stomach growls loudly and he lifts his head.

  “When did you last eat, Ashley?”

  “Not sure, yesterday I think. I’m not hungry.”

  “Like hell you’re not. Wait there, I’ll fix you something.” He stands, places me back in the chair as he goes into my kitchen. He’s not in there long.

  “For fuck’s sake, where’s your food?”

  “I forgot to buy any. I got some cat food…”

  “Even you can’t eat cat food. Right, go get changed. You’re coming with me.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Just go get some decent clothes on, Ashley. Or come as you are.”

  “Where to? Where are we going?”

  “Black Combe. There’s a turkey dinner with all the trimmings up there with my name on it. And I dare say there’ll be one for you too.”

  Nathan Darke’s gonna so love having me round his Christmas dinner table. Not. “Oh no, I don’t think…”

  “Get changed. Or just come as you are. But stop arguing.”

  I stand, stare at him. Has he gone mad? I don’t relish spending the rest of this God-awful day here, alone, but even that’s preferable to the prospect of trying to brazen it out at Black Combe. No way am I going there. Ever.

  I shake my head, determined, my arms crossed tightly in front of my chest, the classic posture of defense. “Nathan Darke won’t let me through the doors. He warned me what he’d do if I ever came near his home or his family. You did too. And even if he does let me in, under sufferance, for your sake, he’ll just treat me like shit, like he always does. He despises me, and I suppose he has good reason to. But even if I do deserve it, I can’t deal with it, I really can’t. And especially not today.” My voice catches as my misery reasserts itself. I’m crying, then sobbing, gulping for air as I manage to force the last few words out. “It’s just too hard, always trying to defend myself and getting nowhere. And I couldn’t bear it if he says those things to me in front of Rosie and Mrs Richardson. Please, Tom, I’ll be fine, just let me stay here. It’s warm now and…”

  Tom steps up close, wiping my tears away with his thumbs. He leans down and kisses my forehead, a chaste, friendly kiss.

  “He will let you in. And he will make you welcome. I promise.”

  “He won’t. I know he won’t.”

  He opens his mouth to insist and I know it’s no good—I’ll have to explain why I’m so certain I can’t go with him to Black Combe.

  “Tom, I have a confession to make. That day a couple of weeks ago, when you and Nathan were talking in your kitchen. You remember I came in, just before I went home?”

  He nods briefly, his head cocked to one side.

  I take a deep breath. “Well, I was listening. Before I came in, I was outside in the hallway and I heard what you were saying. About me. I know he wrecked my chances of selling my work in Haworth, and I know why. I heard him call me a thief, and a hard-faced cow. And that he doesn’t want me near his daughter…”

  Tom shakes his head, his broad grin giving the lie to his grave tone. “Ah, eavesdropping, Ashley? Such a bad habit.”

  “I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help it. I heard my name and…and you shouldn’t have been talking about me. Like that. Discussing me. It was very rude.”

  “True enough, I suppose. Okay, we’re quits. I had a feeling you might have heard something. You seemed—upset—as you were leaving. That wasn’t all you heard, was it?”

  “No,” I whisper. “There was more. You both made some very—personal—remarks about me.”

  “We did, and I’m sorry. Again, I should have been more sensitive. But at least you know what my agenda is as far as you’re concerned. But not today. Today it’s just one friend helping out another. And you do need help just now. Trust me. I’ll handle Nathan. Now, go clean yourself up. Wash your face, put your glad rags on. You’ve gotten half an hour then I’m coming up to get you.” He gives me a gentle shove toward the stairs.

  I start to form a protest but he puts a finger gently across my lips. “Shhh, no more. It will be okay. I promise. Just trust me. Now, go.”

  And I go.

  Chapter Twelve

  We make the short journey up to Black Combe in Tom’s Land Rover in silence, each of us lost in our thoughts. Mi
ne are dominated by the coming ordeal. I do trust Tom, and if he says it’ll be okay I have no doubt that his satanic friend will tolerate my presence, but only for Tom’s sake. I dare say he’ll even manage to rein in the derision and hostility—at least while there are others around—but I know full well how Nathan Darke feels about me. I am not looking forward to this encounter, not one little bit.

  Mrs Richardson’s turkey Christmas dinner, on the other hand, is a completely different matter. I’m starving. Absolutely famished. Can’t remember when I last ate really well. It may even be worth facing Nathan Darke to get my laughing gear round some of Grace Richardson’s home cooking. It’ll be nice to see Rosie again too, I’ve really missed her cheerful chatter on our excursions up on the moors. And that great daft hulk of a mutt of hers, following us around and chasing rabbits.

  Tom pulls up close to the back door at Black Combe. I see the black Porsche parked in the cobbled yard and a huge motorcycle propped alongside it. We get out of the Land Rover and can hear laughter and raised voices as we approach the door. I expect Tom to knock but he doesn’t, he just opens the door and steps inside. Before I realize what he’s doing he’s grabbed my hand and drawn me in behind him, slinging an arm possessively across my shoulders to hold me close.

  The cheerful laughter and sounds of family merriment are silenced abruptly as we step inside. You could hear a pin drop as five pairs of eyes turn to us, the intruders, outlined in the doorway.

  Nathan Darke’s there, sitting casually at the kitchen table. His coal black eyes are fixed on me, his gaze unwavering, assessing. His black hair is loose now, his informal look, and he’s dressed in comfortable faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Rosie’s sitting on his knee, still wearing fleecy pajamas and thick slipper socks even though it’s now late afternoon. She’s grimly holding onto one end of a Christmas cracker, the other end in the grip of a second dark-haired man whom I’ve not met before. He is similar in looks to Nathan Darke, but softer somehow. He’s wearing casual black jeans and a dark gray sweatshirt sporting the World Wildlife Fund logo of a cuddly-looking panda. He smiles openly, and seems genuinely pleased to see us. Both of us.