by Cathy Lake
When Clare reached the yew tree, she peered up at it, in awe of its size, just as she had been as a girl. It was a living giant, had witnessed goodness knows what while it had stood there, its roots plunging deep into the ground and holding it fast. Sometimes, Clare had imagined herself as being like a tree, having roots that held her in place. Even now, when she became anxious or insecure, as had happened more often since Jason had told her that he wanted out of their marriage, she had tried to picture her own roots holding her fast to the earth, keeping her in place and preventing her from drifting away. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn’t. And when it didn’t, having a good cry and letting it all out seemed to work, for a while at least.
Clare pulled her phone from her jacket pocket and located the camera app, then she flipped the camera so she could see her own face. She hated seeing herself up close, all her flaws exposed, from the crows’ feet around her eyes to the stray brow hairs that had escaped her tweezers, to the freckles that had always covered her nose and cheeks, refusing to be covered by foundation or concealer – when she could be bothered to apply them, that was. She met her eyes in the camera and gazed into them. What did others see when they looked at her? To Jason, she had become almost invisible, part of the wallpaper until he’d wanted to redecorate. To Kyle, she was Mum, who washed and ironed his clothes, cooked his meals, phoned him regularly to check if he needed anything and sometimes got on his nerves when she worried too much about him. To Elaine, she was . . . a disappointment? She’d always felt that she was, but they’d never really had the conversation because Clare hadn’t had the courage to broach the subject. What would have been the point when she would have hated to hear the answer?
She sighed and tried to smile for the photo, her gaze shifting from her face to the tree behind her. Its strength and resilience was something she wanted to emulate. Her thoughts snapped back to the celebrity, Cora Quincy, who she’d listened to during her journey to Little Bramble, to what the young woman had said about living life for herself and no one else. Clare didn’t think she could ever be that selfish, that self-concerned, because the roles she had undertaken during her life as daughter, wife and mum were a part of her, but she could, perhaps, dig deep and find herself, find what she wanted from life without having to compromise in how she cared about others. There had to be a way to be herself and be fulfilled without hurting anyone else.
A loud clicking noise alerted her to the fact that she’d taken a photo, or rather, a series of photos. She scanned through them, seeing the flush on her cheeks and the shimmer in her eyes, the tree behind her like some sort of gnarled, ancient guardian. Coming home had been a good idea; it was giving her the opportunity to think, to reflect, to take a step back from all the things that had consumed her for what felt like a lifetime. There were landmarks like the yew tree that had been there since before she so much as existed, that she had seen almost every day growing up. It made her feel more grounded, somehow, less insubstantial, as if she had roots that connected her to this place. Then there were the people like her mum, Jenny, Marcellus David and others, who had known her all her life. That counted for something and made her feel less alone, more a part of something, more real. In just over a week, Clare was already starting to feel more like herself, like the person she’d been before she met and married Jason – and she liked it. She had been a person in her own right before she devoted herself to him, had lived and loved and had hopes and dreams – and she’d given them all up when she’d lost herself in him and their marriage. She didn’t have any regrets because they were things she had chosen to do, but she had a second chance at life now and she wanted to seize it with both hands.
She put her phone back in her pocket and crossed the spongy grass to the church. If the doors were unlocked, she’d take a look inside while she was here. A few minutes out of the cold would be good for her circulation as well, as even with leather gloves on, her fingers were going numb.
Clare turned the heavy iron handle then pushed the door to the church porch open, wincing as the sound echoed through the building. She pulled the door behind her, keen to keep as much warmth in the old building as possible.
The porch was small and shadowy, the stained-glass windows set high in the walls, the dark purples and blues of the glass blocking most of the daylight and giving the porch an underwater hue. A wooden bench took up most of the wall opposite the doors, a long thin embroidered cushion on the seat showing signs of wear and tear, an umbrella stand in the corner holding a solitary black umbrella coated in dust, forgotten or abandoned by its owner. To her left, the doors to the church stood open and dust motes swirled in the entrance to the brighter space, slowly, like glitter in oil.
Clare walked through, holding her breath for a moment as she listened, prepared to ask for permission to sit inside. But there was no one there, so she walked along the aisle, her trainers quiet on the strip of worn brown carpet that ran the length of the church to the altar. The stone walls were thick, keeping out the warmth on hot days and the chills of winter – whatever the season, the church was cool and airless inside. Whenever Clare had attended a sermon, wedding or christening, she’d remembered to bring a cardigan or coat, even on a hot August day.
She stopped two pews from the front and took a seat on a bench. It was hard, the polished wood unforgiving, and she wriggled a bit to try to get more comfortable. A memory enveloped her of sitting here with Jenny when they were around seven or eight, their short legs swinging because their feet didn’t reach the floor, their breath appearing like white clouds in the chilly air. It had been Christmas, a carol concert, and the majority of the village had gathered to sing together. There had always been a Christmas show at the village hall and a carol service at the church, as well as carols around the tree on the green when the lights were turned on.
Jenny had held Clare’s hand tight and they’d exchanged excited glances, aware that Father Christmas would soon visit their homes and hopefully deliver the gifts from the lists they’d written at school. Clare’s mum and dad had sat together on her other side and her dad had winked at her in between carols. Then he’d got up to read a poem he’d written and she had beamed with pride. She’d almost forgotten that her dad loved to write poems. This one had been about Little Bramble at Christmas, about snow and robins and love and laughter, and it had made the congregation laugh, then applaud. He had been a very talented man and Clare had loved him deeply. As had her mum. She recalled glancing sideways at her mum and seeing the gleam in her eyes as she gazed at her husband, seeing the blush steal into her cheeks when he had held her gaze across the church. Her parents had been very much in love and it must have made losing him all the harder for Elaine to bear and, in that moment, Clare’s heart ached, not just for herself and for how much she missed her dad, but also for her mum and for the pain she had endured.
Blinking hard, Clare looked around. Even though it was brighter in here than in the porch, the coloured glass panes depicting scenes from the Bible blocked a lot of the natural light. The air was stale and waxy, permeated with mint, incense and the chocolate-coffee aroma of old paper.
Fastened to each windowsill was a brass candleholder, each one holding a candle that had yet to be lit. Were they kept for special occasions as the vicar tried to make the budget stretch? There was a time when the church would have been the centre of village life but that was long ago, and she knew from things her dad had said that money was tight for the vicar, his budget shrinking each year as his congregation dwindled, as the world changed. And it had been over ten years since her dad had spent time with the vicar, so she suspected that the situation might be even worse now.
She could picture her dad outside the church, chatting to the vicar on sunny Sunday mornings after the service and on those days when he’d been persuaded to read at a wedding or funeral. A tear rolled down Clare’s cheek and she let it go until it slipped off her chin and plopped onto her coat where it sat, a clear crystal orb on the dark material. She too
k off a glove and wiped it away, feeling the wet on her palm, remembering the tears she had cried on the day of her dad’s funeral, the tears she had tried to hold in until she’d felt as if she would burst. Her mum had been an ice maiden that day, cold as marble, and Clare hadn’t seen one tear fall from her eyes. Kyle, just gone ten, had commented on it afterwards in the car on the journey home. Why hadn’t Nanny cried? Wasn’t she sad about Grandad? Jason had reassured their son, told him that Nanny had shed her tears in private and that she wanted to be strong for her family. Elaine did not do emotion in front of others, would prefer to grieve in private, but Clare knew that seeing her mum break down would have been more comforting. Just a tear or two glistening in her mum’s eyes would have made Clare feel better about her own overwhelming emotions, but no, her mum had been strong, and Clare had been . . . weak? A loving daughter? Human?
Human . . . yes. That was it.
And that was why – she could admit it now, in this sanctum of tranquillity, where memories could safely surface and emotions could flow, this quiet place where humanity was exposed in all its glory, where births were celebrated, love was bound and goodbyes were said – she could accept that she had not returned to Little Bramble as often as she could have done because she had been afraid of those emotions overpowering her. This village had still been home, a refuge she believed she could come back to, until her dad died and returning was too painful. The church, the village, the cottage – all were intrinsically tied to her dad and with him gone, they were changed beyond recognition. It had taken the breakdown of her marriage, the loss of another of the three men in her life to bring her back to this place. Clare was changed, but now she recognised that didn’t need to be a bad thing, and this time, perhaps, she could help her mum too. After her dad died, Elaine had been cold, but perhaps that had been her way of holding herself together. Everyone dealt with things differently and, having lost her own husband and needing to be strong for Kyle, Clare now had a better understanding of why her mum had acted in the way that she had.
Suffused with a new sense of calm, she stood up and shuffled out of the pew, then turned and headed back along the aisle to the rear of the church. Next to the open doors stood an iron rack where a few votive candles burned, flickering in their red holders. That meant that others had been here too on this cold October day, possibly praying, possibly seeking a few peaceful moments for reflection. Clare pulled a few coins from her purse and dropped them into the locked box underneath the rack, then picked a candle and lit it from one of the others. As the flame flickered, she smiled.
‘I love you, Dad,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner but I’m here now and I’m ready to make some changes.’
Chapter 9
Sam waited for the kettle to boil. The weekend had passed quietly with him working Saturday at the surgery and spending Sunday walking Scout, reading the latest thriller he’d downloaded to his e-reader, and he had made a roast dinner for him and Alyssa. He liked to cook but as always he’d made far too much food for just the two of them, so they’d have to have cold meat and bubble and squeak a few times in the week, and he’d curry some of the leftover chicken. Alyssa took it for granted that her big brother enjoyed being in the kitchen and although she made a great spaghetti Bolognese and baked a light and delicious lemon drizzle cake, she left most of the culinary jobs to Sam. He didn’t mind; it gave him something to do in the evenings, although he did occasionally think it might be nice to get home from work to find someone else had made dinner. But he guessed that was one of the things about being in a relationship that he had missed out on; there would presumably be more give and take and someone else to take on some of the domestic duties. To make the first cup of tea of the day and to load the dishwasher, to clean out the oven (although this was such an arduous job that he’d probably have done it anyway to save anyone else from having to do it) and someone to just . . . be with and to cuddle.
What?
Cuddle?
When had Sam ever worried about having someone to cuddle? Not that he didn’t like a cuddle, because he did as much as the next warm-blooded human being, but it wasn’t something he thought about. He was forty-six, six foot one, weighed around sixteen stone (he’d worried he was getting a bit overweight but Alyssa always said it was mainly muscle and that he had a rugby player’s build) and he’d never had a serious long-term relationship. He just hadn’t found the time or hadn’t (perhaps) allowed himself to be open to anything serious. Why would he? He had a job that involved long hours and dedication, and he had Alyssa to think of. He had a truck load of guilt that prevented him from even thinking of falling in love . . .
‘Penny for them?’
Sam turned to find Magnus Petterson, their senior veterinary nurse, smiling at him as he rubbed a large hand over his thick blond beard.
‘Ha! Sadly, nothing very interesting, Magnus.’ Sam shook his head.
‘It looked interesting. Anything to do with a woman?’ Sam would never tire of listening to Magnus’s lilting staccato English.
‘Only if that woman is my sister.’ Sam raised his eyebrows.
‘Ahhh . . .’ Magnus nodded as Sam raised a mug to offer him a coffee. ‘The lovely Alyssa is still causing problems for her big brother.’
‘Always.’ Sam gave a low laugh, although it didn’t feel very funny, particularly today, when Alyssa was starting her new job.
‘Isn’t she starting at the tattoo parlour today?’ Magnus asked, as if reading Sam’s thoughts.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that is a good thing, surely? If it will make Alyssa happy.’
‘I know and I want that for her.’ Sam handed Magnus a mug of coffee. ‘It’s just that I’m worried about the fact that she’s . . .’ He paused. He didn’t like discussing Alyssa with anyone, but over the two years that Magnus had worked at the surgery, he’d become a friend and he’d proved to be reliable and discrete. ‘She’s started seeing the owner’s brother.’
‘I see.’ Magnus sipped his coffee. ‘And how old is Alyssa now?’
‘I know, I know, I get your point.’
‘But you’ll always be the overprotective big brother?’
‘It’s a habit I’m trying to break.’
‘Well, come to the pub quiz at The Red on Friday and help me win. It’ll help distract you.’
The Red Squirrel – The Red as it was fondly referred to by locals – was one of the two village pubs, and they held a Friday quiz there every week. Sam had been a few times but wasn’t a regular, blaming being on call and early weekend shifts – like Saturday morning surgery and the pro bono work he did at the local animal sanctuary – for his lack of socialising, but Magnus tried to persuade him to go every week.
‘I’ll think about it.’ Sam raised his mug. ‘Not promising anything, though.’
‘Great!’ Magnus tapped his mug against Sam’s. ‘Oh, and I got through to Elaine Hughes first thing this morning. I saw the note on her file that you’d been trying to ring her and having no luck. She said it had completely slipped her mind and booked to come in later this morning.’
‘Brilliant. It’s been a while since we saw Goliath. I don’t like to pester anyone to come in but the big boy’s getting on a bit and it certainly won’t hurt him to get checked over. Besides which, they’re covered by the monthly plan Elaine pays, so she’s wasting her money if she doesn’t bring him.’
‘Exactly.’ Magnus nodded then drained his coffee and swilled his mug in the sink. ‘Best get on with morning surgery then.’
‘Indeed.’
Sam swilled his own mug and set it on the draining board then followed Magnus through to the consultation room, preparing for another busy Monday, wondering if Elaine would bring the dog or if it would be a certain someone else . . .
Walking into the surgery reception, Clare felt her stomach clench. Her mum had made the appointment for Goliath’s OAP check-up and then asked Clare to take him. Initially, she’d
been happy to do it, but as she’d got ready to go, she’d remembered that the horrid man from the woods was one of the veterinary practice owners. When she’d met Jenny for coffee last week, Horrid Man had walked into the coffee shop and Jenny had told her that his name was Sam Wilson and that he was one of the village vets. He had been with a pretty woman in a wheelchair, who Jenny said was his younger sister. He had tried to speak to Clare, giving her what she thought was a reluctant apology, but she’d been compelled to escape him, finding it all a bit much in the warmth of the café, aware that her heart was beating quickly.
Clare, wanting to be as supportive to her mum as she could, didn’t like to change her mind about going to the vets’. It would have raised questions and how could she explain to her that she’d bumped into the vet in the woods and he’d been mean? She was a grown woman with a grown-up son, so admitting that she’d found the vet intimidating would be extremely embarrassing. Besides which, she didn’t want to worry her mum and add extra pressure to whatever it was that she was going through.
So here Clare was, standing in front of the reception desk and waiting for the receptionist – a woman of around Clare’s age with a shiny red bob and green-rimmed glasses that matched her bright green eyes – to finish her phone conversation. Clare tried not to listen as the receptionist made an appointment for an animal named Donaldo (was it a footballing duck?) before putting the phone down.