And then I met Aggie. That made two people who, for very difference reasons, needed help. Have I now, unwittingly, collected a third? Madeleine Brooks isn't my responsibility, but it seems that something won't let me walk away and leave her to learn this lesson the hard way. Maybe life really does reward those who are good, and she's a life-long do-gooder. I'm being dragged in as the solution simply because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, for me, anyway. I doubt if I count for much in the overall scheme of things. A few good deeds don't wipe out a lifetime of self-absorption and then there's warfare…does anyone ever come out of that deserving of praise? You kill, or get killed – that's not heroics, it's basic survival.
So, here I am; caught up in something that scares the hell out of me. I don't want to feel sorry for anyone or get drawn into their problems. But creating a flood is a pretty drastic act of God if you ask me, so I guess hiking through the woods in order to get away from her might not be the answer. Believe me, I've considered it! Annoyingly, if this is where I'm supposed to be right now, then I just have to put up with it and get on with the job. The sooner it's done, the sooner I can walk away with a clear conscience. I can only hope whoever's up there is listening and this time I score a few points. You never know, they just might come in handy one day.
Without warning, my mind is thrown into confusion. A memory, buried deep down inside, begins to re-play inside my head like watching an old, familiar movie. It was the day three of my men died in an ambush, slaughtered like dogs before the rest of the unit could get to them. I saw a red mist, nearly lost it before the training kicked in and I was barking orders again, making sure the bastards didn't get anyone else. It had been a textbook operation; none of my men had put a foot wrong. During debriefing it was plain that the ambush wasn't planned at all. Two of the enemy had deserted, knowing that they would soon be beaten and they were simply running away from the conflict. As they stumbled across our guys they started shooting, fear taking over when all they had to do was lie low. I doubt they even stopped to consider whether they were killing their compatriots or the other side. I was at a low ebb, even for me, and that day I felt helpless and confused. I wanted to cry out to the universe over the senseless waste of three good lives. All were family men; all had children.
By comparison, I don't know why I'm whinging over babysitting Madeleine Brooks. This is the reality that I now have to live with and it's short-term. But she makes me feel helpless and confused in a different way. I guess that's the trigger, the thing I can't move past because it's my Achilles heel. Except that I'm not responsible for the knee-jerk decisions she's making. That includes buying a property she can't handle and the fact that she's a townie who can't comprehend life in an isolated area like the Forest. I was responsible for every action taken by my men, because they did as they were told to the letter. So it makes no sense that I should feel obligated to help out here, unless there's a chance she'll end up selling Ash Cottage to me. I suppose it's the same streak of vulnerability that I saw in my mother and Aggie. They were strong women who suddenly found themselves floundering and alone. It taught me something; something I'd lost touch with in terms of having a normal life – well, normal by most people's standards: people who haven't been to hell and back, or had to face the consequences of squeezing a trigger and ending a life. Survival for some is about how to make sure there is food in the cupboard when they aren't mobile, or who to call when something goes wrong in their home – the things that can become almost impossible to handle because of age or circumstance. When it comes to responsibility, you don't always have the luxury of making a decision about whether or not you want to take it on.
I have to draw the line somewhere, though, and it's not my job to shake some sense into Madeleine Brooks. Or to be the one to tell her that running away from everything she knows isn't any sort of answer to the mess her life is in at the moment.
MADDIE
CHAPTER 25
By early evening the walls are stripped and half of the ceiling tiles are now tied up in a stack of black sacks. I head off to shower, leaving Lewis to carry the bags out to the garage. It has rained on and off all day, but it's a lighter rain and, thankfully, it has warmed up a degree or two.
I had to stop because I'm aching all over. Lewis is like a machine and if I wasn't here I think he'd still be working. The man never seems to tire.
The back of my arms and neck are sore to touch and my knees just can't bend – even one more time. The warmth of the water is soothing and slipping into a clean pair of jogging bottoms and a thick, fluffy white jumper makes me feel almost human again.
Lewis doesn't come straight back in after carrying out the last load of rubbish and I wonder if he's sitting in his van again, grateful for a little peace and quiet. It's clear he prefers to work alone and sometimes his facial expression is enough to inhibit conversation of any sort.
Tonight it's tinned curry reheated on the camping stove and microwaved rice. Lewis returns as I'm just about to plate up the food and the aroma, at least, is mouth-watering. But then, I'm so hungry I could eat anything.
"I'll be two minutes," he says, indicating a rolled-up towel and some clothing tucked beneath his arm. He climbs the stairs two at a time as I turn the heat down low beneath the saucepan and take the knives and forks through to the conservatory. I carry through the small side table from the bedroom and place it in front of the two folding chairs. Then I dig through some boxes to find a couple of candles and I come across the contents of my former drinks cupboard. There are half a dozen assorted bottles, but I doubt Lewis is into aperitifs or dessert wine. There's a bottle of vodka that's barely touched and I figure at least it will warm the parts the fan heaters can't reach.
When he returns he looks relaxed, wearing a grey tracksuit and the conservatory has the distinct smell of his and hers shower gels. I can tell he's feeling uncomfortable, so I pour a finger of vodka into two tumblers and hand one to him.
"I know you said you don't drink much, and I'm not a drinker myself, but I figure we've earned this."
He accepts the glass, raises it in the air and mutters, "Happy birthday, even if it is the big five-o," before downing it in one. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he looks at me, rather blankly.
"I said I wasn't a great drinker, that's not to say I haven't had a few sessions in my time. That hit the spot! Could I trouble you for a top-up?"
"Help yourself while I dish up the curry."
When I carry the plates back through the candles are lit and the smell is distinctly Christmassy; a mixture of mulled wine with a hint of vanilla. Lewis is sitting down, his glass refreshed but he hasn't touched it.
"Thanks, it smells good."
Coming from a guy who is used to living off a camping stove, I suppose that was a compliment. We eat in silence; the candlelight is soft enough to allow a peek into the darkness outside. It's inky black, but the outline of trees and the hillside still draws the eye. It's also something to focus on, making the quiet at least bearable.
I think back to this time last year; all of the family sitting around a table at my favourite restaurant. A pile of presents I didn't really need in front of me, but it was about the love I saw reflected in their faces as they watched me opening them. Except that maybe I hadn't really looked at Jeff's face or connected with his emotions. The boys were laughing and joking around, content to think that I was happy. Jeff was a little more reserved and, with hindsight, maybe it was because he'd become detached. And now I'm wondering whether or not I, too, was truly happy way back then.
"I said – can I take your plate?"
Lewis' hand is extended and he's standing to the side of me.
"Sorry, yes, thanks."
I can hear him flick on the kettle and the chink of mugs. He comes back with two strong coffees.
"You did well today, keeping up."
His voice is gruff, even though his words are surprisingly kind.
"I'm using muscles I don't normally use, s
o I suppose I have to expect a bit of stiffness."
I pick up the tumbler and take a swig of the vodka. It's not a taste I find that palatable and I go in search of something to soften it, returning with a box of orange juice.
"That's better. It certainly does warm from the inside out, though."
Lewis says nothing, but leans forward to add juice to his own glass, then settles back in his chair with his coffee mug.
"Aggie loved the view. She spent hours looking out across the valley."
I'm hesitant to ask any questions, but it's going to be a long evening if I spend the entire time worrying about saying the wrong thing.
"Did you know her well?"
"Not really. I came here about fourteen months ago, by accident really."
"Oh, I assumed maybe your family lived here at some point and had moved away. So you aren't a Forester?"
"No. My mother lived up near the Lake District."
"So how did you find yourself in this part of the world?"
I can see he's annoyed at himself for the slip, giving away a little personal information without thinking and now he feels he can't ignore my questions.
"Pete, an old army friend settled here and he needed a favour. I came to help out and before I knew it the jobs came rolling in. How about you?"
When the shutters come down you can see it in his eyes and he's leaving me in no doubt at all that the questions have to stop.
"I needed to start afresh." Two can play at that game.
"A dangerous thing when you get safely past the mid-life crisis, relax and then have a meltdown."
I immediately take exception to his tone and anger raises its head. He thinks I'm fickle.
"When your husband sleeps with the person you've called your best friend for more years than you care to remember, it's…devastating, actually. Ironically, I wasn't upset about losing Jeff; I was more upset to think that we'd been living a lie. The hardest part was facing the reaction from friends and family. Being the subject of people's pitying glances reduces your self-esteem to zero. By the way, how's the finger?" I rather threw the words at him and he stops short, his coffee cup an inch away from his mouth.
He looks surprised and I'm mortified. I can't believe I just blurted that out. What's wrong with me? I don't have to justify myself to anyone, least of all Lewis Hart. He holds up his finger, which now sports an almost black nail, but it's intact.
"Hiding yourself away here is the answer, is it?" He gives me a dismissive glance, then downs the remainder of his coffee.
I'm speechless at his lack of…I don't know…compassion? I pick up the glass tumbler in front of me and take a large gulp of the vodka and orange.
"I'm not hiding. I just don't want to be constantly reminded of the past. There's no going back and somehow I have to make a new life for myself. I admit that it hasn't been easy so far, but I'll survive." I pull my chair a little closer to one of the fan heaters and a little further away from Lewis. If only the heating was working everything would feel a lot less grim.
"Knee-jerk reaction. I bet a modern little house in Bristol must seem very appealing right now."
I turn to look at him, wondering what's behind the sudden softening in his voice. Oh. I'd forgotten.
"You won't talk me into giving up, you know. It's one miserable Christmas, that's all."
He makes a noise that sounds rather dismissive.
"Did you go through that box of Aggie's? I wondered if you found any documents or letters about the lane at the back."
It's obvious why he's interested and I'm rather disappointed he's not even trying to disguise his motive.
"I haven't had time." It's true, but even if I had learnt anything, I wouldn't tell him on principle.
Lewis leans forward to top up our drinks. Watching him in this setting, candles flickering in the background as he dispenses the drinks, it's easy to overlook the fact that this isn't by choice. I am feeling a little more relaxed, suddenly, but maybe that's the alcohol beginning to take effect. He sits back down, handing me the tumbler and holding out his own.
"I know I'm not the best company. I'm used to spending a lot of time on my own, so I'm sorry if I say the wrong things. I wasn't fishing for information, just fumbling around for conversation."
Why does he do that? Suddenly throw in something that makes him sound almost human. Now I feel guilty.
"I was being offhand and it was unnecessarily rude of me. I realise that while your van is stuck here for the next couple of days, you could easily find a way out on foot through the Forest and back to civilisation. You could be in your own place rather than sleeping here on the floor. I hope this isn't messing up your plans for the holiday."
He settles back in his seat, the expression on his face is hard to read.
"Christmas means nothing to me. Anyway, I'd planned on working through the holidays, if I'm honest." He can't hide the telling grin that begins to creep across his face.
"Oh, yes, of course. Look, I am sorry about what happened. That's why I really appreciate you helping me out. I'm not sure how I'd feel if I had to stay here on my own…"
The moment the words leave my lips I regret them. Lewis Hart isn't going to appreciate being regarded as anyone's crutch. He's probably biting back a strong retort because there's no one to blame but myself for this mess.
"Hey, it's your birthday. So I'm not going to point out that only an insane woman would move into a cold, damp cottage, surrounded by forests and floods, in mid-winter. For a sensible woman, you are full of surprises."
I feel myself beginning to colour-up. The heat rises slowly up from my neck and now my cheeks are probably glowing. Is he paying me a compliment, or is he questioning my sanity? Maybe he has a point there. Why didn't I exchange with a completion date after the holidays? I could be snuggled up in a warm bed in a centrally heated hotel, or in someone's spare room. But the latter would mean endless conversations about Jeff and the affair. While I'm over it, unfortunately our friends, or ex-friends, aren't. I doubt any of them will know whose side to take and I've seen situations like this before. One by one they desert you, simply because the dynamics have changed. They can't accept new partners and it's hard to swap loyalties, or even apportion blame. How dare he judge me when he has no idea what I've been through?
"And for an intelligent man, I can't believe you left anything to chance if you really wanted Ash Cottage so badly."
Damn it! That was mean and bad manners, but I can't bring myself to apologise for stating the obvious.
"My mother had dementia but she wasn't sick. The call was unexpected."
His tone is curt and I cringe, inwardly. For a man with such a tough exterior, there's still a heart beating beneath it. If I say I'm sorry now, he'll brush it off.
"Then maybe it wasn't meant to be for a reason." My words are gentle and I feel sure he'll understand it's a peace offering.
"And what do you suppose that reason was, Madeleine?" His voice is hard, unforgiving and the intonation is mocking.
I've rather backed myself into a corner here and my mind is a total blank. I take a large gulp of vodka and orange and then say exactly what I'm thinking.
"Maybe I needed a dose of reality, to put things into perspective and you needed to…chat to someone."
Did I really just say that?
"What is it with women like you, who feel the constant need to interfere whenever they meet someone they don't understand? I don't want your sympathy, or your help with anything. You're the one who is needy, lady. I'm doing just fine." He stretches out his legs in front of him and crosses them, as if to make a point. I'm the one shivering and worried about being on my own in a stripped-out cottage. He is right, he's at home here and I'm not.
My head is feeling a little fuzzy with tiredness and alcohol, and I feel upset by his words, which were spoken in anger. My brain is telling me in no uncertain terms that he's being totally unfair and, for the first time in my life I find myself wanting to slap someone.
I empty the remainder of my tumbler in one swallow.
"You'll excuse me, but I think it's time I went to bed."
I immediately stand up with such force that it sends the folding chair in one direction, while my body begins to topple over in another. Lewis is on his feet just as fast and catches me before I even know what's happening.
"I think you need to be more careful about what you drink," his words end up being spoken into my neck, as he deposits me into an upright position. His breath is warm and his arms around me are surprisingly gentle for such a powerful man. For one second I close my eyes and savour the moment. What if he wasn't steadying me, but this was a genuine hug and I look up into his eyes to see real desire?
"I'm sorry this deteriorated into…" I can't resist glancing up at his face. What I see looking back at me isn't anger. Before I know what I'm doing my face is moving towards his and our mouths meet somewhere in the middle. It's fierce, as our lips clash with hungry desire that seems to be overtaking us and gathering momentum by the second. His arms tighten around me and I can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest. My head begins to spin and my legs don't seem to be able to support me, as I melt into him. What is the price of a dream come true? Am I capable of doing this?
He pulls his head away, staring at me with a look of total shock written all over his face.
"I don't take advantage of single, lonely women." He groans as he begins to pull away.
"Well, that's a pity then, because I was rather hoping you were the sort of man who follows through once they start something."
Suddenly, I've never felt more clear-headed, or surer about wanting something. As I head off in the direction of the temporary bedroom, I half-turn towards Lewis and give him a look that leaves him in no doubt at all that this isn't one-sided.
A Cottage in the Country Page 15