Life hadn’t always been so quiet, though. When she’d lived in London, she’d enjoyed socialising and had always had a full diary and a small circle of friends she enjoyed being with. Looking out of the castle window into the garden now, she couldn’t help comparing the view in her mind’s eye to the one she’d had in her London flat. The busy street lined with bus stops had been noisy with twenty-four-hour traffic and yet it had never really bothered her. It had just been a part of the city she’d loved.
And she had loved it. In the not-too-distant past. But all that had changed after the incident.
She closed her eyes. How long ago that old life of hers seemed, yet it was only a memory away. Although she didn’t think of it very often, she found herself smiling as she thought about it now – of the evenings spent drinking cocktails with her friends and long lunches with work colleagues in swish restaurants. And her work. How she’d loved her work in the photography studio. Why had she ever let that go?
Orla took a deep, stilling breath as she let the memories of the past fade. She liked her new life, didn’t she? She appreciated the quietness of being alone and the safety that the thick castle walls provided. Sometimes it did get a little too quiet, she had to admit that, but it was safe. Quiet meant safe, she told herself, and there were other ways to reach out to people. She’d slowly learned that over the last few years, dipping into the virtual world via the internet. It felt far more comfortable than the real one, and the people who joined her there lived at a safe distance and wouldn’t be likely to turn up on her doorstep. She might never meet these online friends, or even know their real names or where they lived, but she felt all the happier for that.
Sitting down on the old sofa in the great hall of the castle, Orla picked up her phone, logging on to Galleria. She’d been using the site for two years now and had tens of thousands of followers while following just a couple of hundred accounts herself. One of her favourites was Trees and Dreams. She couldn’t remember how she’d first discovered the account, but she’d been immediately captivated by the beautiful images there, spending many happy hours looking at the world through the eyes of the photographer, taking in the scenes of cool country lanes and the gentle folds of the Kent Weald landscape and the quirky photographs often taken from train windows. There was a softness to the pictures – a delightful delicacy that resonated from the screen and completely enveloped you so that you felt as if you’d entered the picture itself. And it wasn’t just the whimsical subject matter that made one feel like this – the frothing fields of cow parsley, the shimmering leaves of an oak tree – Orla felt that this photographer could take a picture of a barbed wire fence and make it seem beautiful. Actually, come to think of it, there was a photo of barbed wire, with a spider’s web sparkling with dew suspended across it.
As Orla visited the account now, she noticed that there hadn’t been an update from Trees and Dreams for a while and, now that she thought about it, there hadn’t been any messages from her for a while either, which was unusual. Perhaps she’d been away. Orla checked the date on the last photograph. It was over a month ago. In social media terms, that was an eternity. One could easily commit social media suicide if no postings were made within the space of a single week. The world rushed by in a mad fury and, if you didn’t make yourself heard, you could be quickly forgotten. But Orla hadn’t forgotten her online friend for, unlike so many other accounts she followed, she had struck up something of a friendship with the woman behind this one. No names had been exchanged, but she knew a little bit about her, like she was happily married to a builder who specialised in old buildings and that she was forever trying to persuade him to get a dog. Messages of warmth and mutual appreciation had flown between them. From what Orla could make out, Trees and Dreams did something in the city – something she never wanted to talk about but which obviously wasn’t making her happy. But her world outside her work was one full of joy and light. Orla had always encouraged her to pursue that.
Perhaps she should send her a message now, she thought. That wouldn’t be too intrusive, would it? It was one thing to send messages about one’s online account, but quite another to ask too many questions about one’s personal life. So Orla hesitated, then decided it would be best not to.
That was the only downside with virtual friends. One could never be sure what was really going on with them. For one thing, there was the time difference with friends based in other countries and continents. If you messaged them, they might not receive it for hours and, by then, it could be lost in a jumble of other messages. Then there were the vagaries of the internet, with connections often being lost in Lorford. Orla gave up hope of linking up successfully on some days, which often meant she didn’t talk to anyone either in real life or in the virtual one for days at a time. She also found the language of the internet very limiting. She did her best to express herself with a few brief but carefully chosen words, but it wasn’t the same as being in a room with someone, where the tone of your voice or a glint in your eyes could make all the difference to the way you communicated with somebody.
But she didn’t want to be in a room with people. This was her world now.
Orla sighed. Feeling at a loss as to how to reach out to her friend, she switched her phone off. Perhaps she’d check in again later.
Walking across to the window, she saw that a van was pulling up outside her gates. She kept them shut and the delivery men were used to taking any goods to the back door. She never answered the doorbell. Occasionally, a persistent delivery man would ring the bell a few times and hang around as if Orla was going to make an appearance and offer to sign for something, but that was never going to happen. Instead, she watched now as a young man got out of the van and opened the door at the back to retrieve a small box. Orla knew what it was – a very pretty cup and bowl she’d just bought at an online auction. She couldn’t wait to see it and to run her fingers over the little hairline cracks and the sweet chips along the rim which would catch the light when she photographed them.
She watched the man approach the castle. Suddenly, he glanced up at the very window where Orla was standing, causing her to shoot back into the shadows. She closed her eyes, waiting for the moment of panic to subside. She counted slowly, as she’d been told to do in such situations. The fear was only in her own mind. The man was outside. He wasn’t near her and he wasn’t going to come any closer than he already was. She knew that, and yet the fear felt real all the same.
She waited a few moments, her back straight against the cold wall of the castle as she slowly breathed. It was okay. He’d leave the parcel by the back door and then he would go. She’d seen the pattern time and time again. It would be no different now.
Sure enough, a moment later, she dared to look out of the window. The van had gone. She was safe once again.
She walked through the living room and down the stone spiral staircase to the back door. It was a large, ancient wooden one with both a modern lock and iron bolts. The estate agent had seemed embarrassed by it when he’d shown her around, but it was exactly the kind of door Orla needed in her life these days.
Opening it now, she picked up the little box and took it inside, shutting and bolting herself in once again. She then took the box upstairs and placed it on a table in a special place she called the china room where she opened all her new packages. Orla took her time to remove the tape and the layers of tissue paper to reveal the delicate cup and bowl. They were a classic blue and white willow pattern that she adored and she examined them now, her gaze taking in the chips and cracks, a little smile tickling the corners of her mouth.
They were beautiful. Beautifully broken.
Chapter 3
Luke opened his eyes, blinking in the brightness of the May morning and cursing the fact that he hadn’t drawn the curtains the night before. He couldn’t really remember how he’d found his way to bed, but the empty glass on his bedside table and the throbbing behind his temples as soon as he tried to move quickly jogged his
memory. Another evening lost in a wine-induced haze, he thought, pushing himself out of bed and going into the bathroom. He’d lost count of how many of those he’d had since the accident, but it was costing him a small fortune, he knew that much.
What on earth would Helen say, he wondered as he stared at the strange, bearded reflection in the mirror? She’d be appalled at the state he’d let himself get into.
He took a quick shower and then returned to stand in front of the mirror. He really should shave. Dishevelled wasn’t a look he carried well. But the truth was, he really didn’t have the energy. Or the inclination. What was the point? What was the point of anything any more? He just couldn’t see it. Why bother shaving in a world without Helen? Why bother doing anything? Why bother even being? These questions rattled around his brain in an endlessly painful cycle as he did his best to get through the days, counting down the hours until he could find some comfort, some release, in a few glasses of wine in the evening.
It had been during one appalling evening just a month ago when his life had come crashing down around him. The signs had been there, of course, but he hadn’t put them together. First, when he’d got home, he’d been surprised not to see Helen’s car in the driveway. He’d been running later than usual at work, but she was normally home by the time he returned. Maybe she’d stopped off at the shops, he thought. He just remembered his haste to get out of his work clothes and into the shower. He’d been working on a fifteenth-century cottage in a picturesque Kent village, knocking the walls back to their original lath and plaster, and it had been a very dusty job. But, by the time he’d come back downstairs, she still wasn’t home and, when he’d rung her phone, it had gone to voicemail. He hadn’t left a message, sure that she’d be home soon. Only she never did come home that night.
He’d been cooking pasta when the doorbell had rung. Pasta! How on earth could he have been doing something as mundane when his wife . . .
He closed his eyes as he thought of the dreadful sight of the two police officers standing in his doorway. A man and a woman with pale, serious faces.
At first, Luke thought they must be lost, because why else would they be knocking at his door? He didn’t imagine for a moment that their arrival and Helen’s lateness were connected.
He remembered the strange expression on the woman’s face, one that he hadn’t been able to read. She’d been talking about the trains from London – the train that his wife was on. It never made it to its destination. Some kind of signal failure, they thought. Not confirmed. Nothing had been confirmed at that stage except that there were two trains involved. And Helen. Helen was dead. That, at least, had been confirmed.
Helen. Was. Dead.
Luke couldn’t remember what had happened after that. Phone calls. Paperwork. Death made a lot of admin. That was a lesson Luke had quickly learned. Luckily, his business partner, Chippy, had been a stalwart, stepping in and stepping up at work, allowing Luke the time and space he needed.
In fact, he was due round any minute now, Luke remembered, glancing out of the living-room window just as Chippy’s van pulled up.
Luke smiled. He liked Chippy. They’d been working together now for four years and Luke believed he couldn’t find a better colleague.
‘Hey,’ Luke said as he greeted him at the door.
‘All right?’ Chippy asked, removing his steel-capped work boots before coming in.
Luke nodded. That was about as deep as it got between them and Luke was glad of it. He instinctively knew that Chippy was there for him, but he felt relieved that his friend and work colleague didn’t expect anything of him.
‘Cup of tea?’
‘Great.’
Luke did the honours in the kitchen.
‘You cut your hair?’ he asked.
‘Girlfriend told me it was time,’ Chippy said, self-consciously running a hand through the short fair hair that, up until recently, had hit his shoulders.
‘It suits you,’ Luke told him.
Chippy grinned as he took his mug of tea from Luke and they both sat down together in the dining room.
‘I’ve taken some photos,’ Chippy said, reaching for his phone from his pocket and finding them before handing the phone to Luke.
‘You working okay with Mark?’ Luke asked him.
‘Marcus.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s doing okay, but he’s not up to your standard.’
Luke looked through the photos of the sixteenth-century house. ‘Ah, you found that fireplace!’
‘Yes, and it was just as big as you said it would be. We’ve opened it right up.’
‘Looks great.’
‘The owner’s delighted.’
‘Well, it looks like you’re making good progress,’ Luke said, handing the phone back.
Chippy popped it in his pocket and finished his tea before heading towards the door, where he stopped and turned around.
‘You coming back soon?’
Luke was about to reply when Chippy glanced at the mantelpiece and his expression changed. Luke knew what he’d seen: the wedding photo of him and Helen. It was his favourite one, where they were both laughing as confetti floated down around them.
Chippy quickly averted his gaze, his face flushing red, and Luke instantly felt bad that his friend might be feeling uncomfortable. Death had a way of doing that, he’d learned.
‘Yeah,’ Luke said. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
Chippy nodded and gave an awkward smile and Luke watched as he got into his van and left for a day’s work.
Luke sighed as he closed the door. He missed his work, but he couldn’t face it yet. He couldn’t face normality just yet. He walked towards the mantelpiece, picking up the photo and looking into Helen’s laughing face.
‘Why did you go?’ he whispered, feeling, once again, total disbelief that he wasn’t ever going to see that sweet freckled face of hers again.
It had been several weeks since the accident, but it still all felt so raw. May had arrived along with the first swifts, the apple tree had burst into blossom and the woods had turned hazy with bluebells. Luke cursed it all because Helen wasn’t there to see it. He felt bitter with anger. How could something as simple as a signal failure take a life? He wanted to lash out and punish somebody, but there was nobody to blame. At least, nobody they’d actually named. But somebody must have been in control of that damned signal, and their lapse in judgement or concentration or whatever on earth it was had cost eleven people their lives. It was the worst accident that line had seen in decades and there’d been an outpouring of grief not just locally, but nationally too, with people arriving from all over the country to lay flowers at the scene where the two trains had collided.
Luke hadn’t laid flowers. Helen wasn’t there. It was a strange feeling, but he honestly thought that she was somehow still at home. Every now and then, he’d just feel her, and he’d spin around, sure he’d find her standing behind him. It was the craziest thing, and he genuinely thought he was losing his mind. He felt like that a lot since that dreadful night when the police had knocked on his door.
A few of Helen’s things had been recovered from the accident. Her handbag with the faulty zip, which had contained all the usual things a working woman carried with her throughout the day, together with a few unusual ones, like her journal. Luke hadn’t yet had the courage to read it. He knew Helen liked to keep a brief record of all her thoughts and feelings about her day – and he felt it would be intrusive to look at it, although there’d been many an evening when he’d sat holding it in his hands, feeling that it was the last true piece of Helen he had left.
Looking through her handbag had been a cruel agony. There were so many little bits of Helen in there – a wrapped lemon drop; a pencil covered in a marbled paper, an old paperback collection of poems, her favourite cherry-red lipstick, her mobile phone, and a little mirror backed with a William Morris print. But the thing that got to Luke was the keyring in the shape of a Labrador. Helen had a
lways longed for a dog. It was one of those things they’d kept putting off and now it was too late. He had cursed himself a thousand times over that, holding the keyring tightly in his hand as he’d cried, believing that he’d been a bad husband and that he should have listened more to her. Had she been happy – truly happy – with her life? She’d always seemed to be and yet he knew there was more he could have done to make absolutely sure of it.
He was staring at the handbag again now. He hadn’t looked inside it for a while, but something drew him to it now and he opened it up. There were all the familiar bits and pieces that he’d handled so many times, thinking of how these inanimate objects had been with her when she died, and how she’d carried them with her on her last day. He picked up the Labrador keyring again. It was like his own personal torture device and he felt a lump lodge in his throat as his anger arose again. Why hadn’t they got a dog? Why hadn’t he taken more notice of that dream of hers and made it come true?
Because you thought you had more time, a little voice inside himself said – the kinder Luke that he wished he could thump. He didn’t deserve any kindness. He’d been a bad husband who hadn’t given his wife nearly enough of what she deserved.
As he put the keyring back into the bag, he spotted a piece of loose paper folded in half in a section of the bag he hadn’t noticed before. He took it out now and unfolded it, seeing the name Oak Tree Antiques. It was a handwritten receipt for something which Helen had paid thirty pounds for. But what was it? He couldn’t quite make the writing out. A Victorian something.
‘Vase!’ he cried out as the letters made sense at last. A Victorian vase. Luke frowned, looking around the room as if the mystery vase might materialise, but there was no sign of it.
The Beauty of Broken Things Page 2