Be Careful What You Wish For

by Vivien Brown

  A combination of adrenalin, excitement, and curiosity had taken her over for a while but now she just felt tired. She needed normality. To eat, make a cup of tea, unpack and watch some TV before climbing into Madi’s bed. No, it was her bed now, for the next month anyway.

  Perhaps, for the first time in days, she might manage to sleep well. Nobody knew where she was, not her parents, not her boss, not even Sian, so nobody was going to turn up unexpectedly at the door. She didn’t have to switch on her phone or her laptop, or open her emails, or even step outside, if she chose not to. She had left everything that mattered behind in Norfolk, for a whole month. Her home, her job. And Joe, of course. Oh, how her cheeks burned with embarrassment just thinking about Joe. She would never forget the look on his face the last time she’d seen him. That mixture of stunned shock and unmistakeable pity. That face still came to her in her dreams. Maybe, if she was lucky, she’d left the dreams behind in Norfolk too. One way or another, she’d find that out tonight, but she wasn’t hopeful. Sleeping alone, in an unfamiliar bed, without Flo’s fluffy little body pressed against her and her gentle purring close to her ear, would probably be difficult enough as it was.

  Her memories and her humiliation, of course, had come with her to London, like unwanted extra baggage she had dragged behind her alongside her battered old suitcase, and couldn’t quite manage to let go of. From some things, it seemed, it was never possible to escape.

  Chapter 2

  MADI

  Madalyn Cardew pulled into the side of the road and peered out through the grimy windscreen. If she had realised how muddy the roads around here were going to be she wouldn’t have put her car through the carwash before leaving London. She’d have brought some sturdy boots too, instead of leaving them behind in the flat. Still, there must surely be some decent shops around here where she could buy replacements, she thought, not at all convinced that there were.

  The small white sign, almost hidden among the bushes and bearing the words ‘Shelling. Please drive carefully’ as she entered the village, had reassured her that this was the right place. Her satnav had brought her straight here, without even one wrong turn, even though it was so far off the beaten track, with the hedges scratching at the doors as she’d made her way, gingerly, down that last narrow lane, that being reminded to drive carefully seemed laughable.

  She had expected the village to be small and quiet, and it was. It looked like exactly what she needed, a quiet out-of-the-way bolthole, somewhere she wasn’t known and would not be recognised, yet this place was so Sunday-afternoon sleepy it looked practically comatose. There was not a soul about as she stepped out of the car and locked it, carefully avoiding the muddiest bits of road, and made her way round to the rather ragged pavement outside the tiny stone cottage which she assumed must be Prue Harris’s. She looked up and down the road for a parking meter, but there wasn’t one. No yellow lines either, so she hoped it was all right to park where she had, but there was a little black Mini already occupying the narrow driveway, mud-spattered as all the vehicles around here seemed to be, and she had no option but to leave her car parked outside the gate.

  The gate was low, partially rotten, and creaked on its hinges as she walked through and tried to snap the catch shut behind her, finally managing it on the third attempt. The winding cobbled path led through a small square patch of garden to a pillar-box-red front door, with a tiny net-curtained window in its centre. Terracotta pots containing a few fading daffodils stood, not quite as straight as they might, to each side. Snowdrop Cottage. The name was carved into an oval wooden sign above the knocker. Yes, this was it. Not that there was even a single snowdrop to be seen, but it was March already and, if they had been there at all, then they were probably long gone by now. Madi would be the first to admit that, having no proper garden to call her own, she was far from an expert when it came to flowers. Still, she’d bought a bunch of tulips by way of a welcome, and left them at home in the bedroom. She knew virtually nothing about Prue or her tastes but hoped she would like them.

  Madi felt in her coat pocket. The keys! Of course, she still didn’t have them. ‘Turn left out of the gate,’ Prue’s email had instructed, ‘and take the lane up to the left when you see the church. You’ll find the new vets’ surgery up ahead of you. Just ask for Sian.’

  She retraced her steps down the path and turned left, as instructed, taking in the large stone-built house next door with its frilly net curtains and sturdy oak door, and the smaller, more modern pair of semi-detached houses beyond it. Every building different. As luck would have it, the little church was built at the top of an incline and the lane beside it seemed to have stayed relatively dry, all the rain and hence the mud having run straight down and accumulated in a giant squelchy mess at the bottom. Presumably the church services were over for the day as there was nobody about, but it sounded as if someone was still inside, practising their bell ringing, as a mix of disconnected chimes rang out haphazardly from the tower, not quite making anything resembling a tune. Madi picked her way around the mud, staying close to the hedge at the side, and slowly made her way to the surgery.

  An old dog gazed up at her as she entered, its front paw bandaged, its elderly owner sitting with his knees wide apart, hunched forward and flicking through a magazine with a photo of a tractor on its cover. There were no other animals, or people, waiting, but it was a Sunday, so it was quite surprising to find the place open at all.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’ The girl behind the reception desk looked up from her computer screen, put down the biscuit she had been nibbling and wiped her fingers on the front of her green tabard.

  ‘Yes, I’m looking for Sian.’

  ‘That’s me.’ The girl’s face cracked into a smile. ‘Oh, you must be Prue’s visitor!’

  ‘Yes. Madalyn Cardew.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’d expected you to be …’ The girl didn’t finish her sentence, just looked away for a moment, leaving Madi wondering just what it was about her that was so obviously not as expected. ‘You’ll be after the keys, right? Hang on a minute and I’ll walk down with you, show you around the place. How to work the fire and stuff like that. Prue’s left you a few bits – milk and bread –but you’ll probably be wanting to visit the shop for supplies in the morning, so I can show you where that is too.’

  ‘There’s no need. Honestly.’ Madi tried to be polite but she really didn’t need some stranger accompanying her everywhere. ‘I’ll find my own way around. And I have food. So, if I could just have the keys …’

  ‘Right-o. If you’re sure.’ The girl stood up, went to a back room and came back with a wax jacket, then rummaged about in the depths of its enormous pockets before finding the key ring and brandishing it aloft. ‘Got them! This big long one is for the front door, and the smaller round one for the back. Not sure about the little tiny one. I’m sure you’ll figure that out though if it’s anything important. Just shout if you need anything else, and welcome to Shelling! I think Prue’s left you a note on the table and my number’s on there, along with some others you might need. Oh, and the dustman comes on Tuesdays. Just pop your rubbish in the bin round the side. Recycling goes in a separate green one, but you’ll see that. I can sort you out a newspaper delivery while you’re here, if you’d like. My parents own the shop. Oh, and Mum does hair too, if you’re interested …’

  ‘Thank you. Very kind of you, but no thanks.’ Madi stepped over the dog’s outstretched paws and made a hasty escape back down the lane. All she really wanted was to collect her bags from the boot of the car, get inside the cottage and close the door on the world. No shop. No papers. And definitely not someone to do her hair.

  The cottage felt chilly. She kept her coat on as she wandered from room to room which, as it was only a simple two-up two-down, didn’t take very long. The living-room furniture was old and shabby but looked comfy enough: a cream sofa covered with an oversized throw, one armchair facing a bit-too-large TV, and a coffee table piled with books and maga
zines. A few cat hairs floated up into the air and made her sneeze as she lifted and plumped a big flat cushion and replaced it on a squashy pouffe in front of the fireplace. Flo’s domain, obviously.

  The kitchen, she saw once she’d switched on the light, was of the oak cupboards, range cooker, scrubbed wooden table in the middle kind, with a plain roller blind pulled right down over the back window. There was a small plastic cat flap low down in the door, with the dried marks from muddy paws on the doormat at its base. A separate pantry housed baking essentials, packets and tins on deep shelves, and there was a small fridge and a freezer tucked in, side by side, underneath. Despite its old-fashioned, traditional appearance, Madi was pleased to see a microwave and a washing machine, and an internet hub in the corner of the worktop so she wouldn’t have to rely on a mobile phone signal if she did decide to communicate with the outside world. A bathroom, small but adequate, led off the kitchen, housed in what looked to be a more modern extension. A bowl of blue hyacinths, just coming into bloom, sat on the windowsill above the bath, their heady scent drifting through the kitchen and right out as far as the living room.

  Upstairs there was a tiny single bedroom without a bed, just a desk with a computer, trays of papers, a printer and a small wooden chair. Across the way was a more spacious double, the bed swathed in a thick duvet that felt like duck down, with a crocheted bedspread folded across the foot end, and two big fluffy pillows. She was already tired from the journey, and the bed certainly looked inviting. It was the longest she had been behind the wheel of a car for months and the effects of her treatment were still leaving her feeling constantly washed out and listless. No bath or shower up here though, or even a toilet, so she made a mental note not to drink too much before bedtime if she was to avoid nocturnal trips down the steep stairs every time she needed the loo. Still, the cottage had a certain rustic charm about it. It served her purpose. It would do.

  She gripped the banister tightly as she tottered back downstairs. Perhaps her usual heels were a little out of place here, so it was a good job she’d brought flats. It was not as if anyone of importance was going to see her. She could relax and let her appearance take a back seat for once. She was glad she’d thought to bring trainers, baggy jumpers and blouses and a couple of pairs of jeans, even though she was still annoyed with herself for coming into the depths of the countryside and not thinking to bring boots.

  The note Sian had mentioned was lying on the kitchen table, held down by a smoothly polished pebble. Madi skimmed through the typed list of phone numbers, the instructions for rubbish removal repeating what Sian had already told her, almost word for word, and the details of the wi-fi code. There was a note about the immersion heater and how best to time it for hot water without having to leave it on all day, and a long section detailing how and when to feed the cat – a cat that Madi realised was, so far, noticeably absent. Scribbled at the bottom, as if as an afterthought, was a single sentence in what must be Prue’s handwriting. ‘Sorry, no central heating,’ Madi read. ‘But once the fire is lit, the place soon warms up. Thick walls!’

  Oh, yes, the fire. Sian had offered to come and help her light it. Staring at the fireplace with its rather intimidating black and glass stove and huge wicker basket piled with old newspapers and chopped-up logs, she thought perhaps she should have accepted after all. To a townie like her, working out how to light it was as alien a concept as rubbing two sticks together and hoping to make a flame. Why couldn’t it just have a button to press? Something that said Off and On, with a dial to set the temperature? She felt the cold far more than she’d used to when she was younger, especially in recent months, when she’d lost so much weight. Damned illness. Other than the occasional cold, and that highly inconvenient sore throat that had kept her off stage for three days right in the middle of a touring run of Hamlet in 1988, she’d never had a day’s illness in her life before this, and she didn’t like it one bit. She’d rather be fat, healthy and working than skinny and scared, and stuck here recovering with nothing useful to do, any day of the week.

  She rubbed her hands together and cupped them around her nose and chin, blowing into them to warm them. It was a good job she’d spotted that thick duvet on the bed and a hot water bottle on the table beside it. She might be needing both of those downstairs during the evenings, and her dressing gown to snuggle into, if her fire lighting skills failed her. And as for the range cooker, all she could say was that the microwave would probably be getting a lot more use than it was accustomed to. Hopefully the village pub she had spotted on her drive in might do meals, or there might be some sort of café or coffee shop somewhere, if she could just build up enough enthusiasm to go out and face people. Cooking had never really been her thing.

  It didn’t take long to settle in. Carefully she carried her bags upstairs, one at a time, and squeezed her few clothes into the wardrobe alongside Prue’s, pleased to see that the full-length mirror was attached to the inside of the door and not the outside, so she wouldn’t have to keep seeing herself walk past, or even use it at all if she didn’t want to. She put her sponge bag of basic toiletries aside, and the dreaded box of pills, ready to take downstairs with her, and stowed her empty bags under the bed.

  She took a look out of the bedroom window, catching her first glimpse of the back garden, which was neat and surprisingly green, its rounded lawn dotted with crocuses, deep flowerbeds packed with shrubs, and a pair of matching leafless trees, all encased within a low stone wall. Down at the end stood some kind of outhouse, like a tool shed, but with its windows all blacked out, and next to it a round garden table with a couple of all-weather chairs. There was a washing line too, reminiscent of one her mother used to have, stretching the length of the garden and propped up in the middle with a long wooden pole, a few plastic pegs clipped closely together at the end nearest the house. It had been many years since Madi had pegged anything out to dry, happy enough to let her tumble dryer do the work, but if there wasn’t one here, well, she was prepared to give it a go, assuming the weather picked up. Right now, it was cold. Madi walked round closing all the curtains in an attempt to trap whatever little warmth there was, and to isolate herself from the silent, rapidly darkening evening outside.

  There were lots of photographs hanging on the uneven white walls. More than she had ever seen in one place, barring a gallery. They were in the living room, in both bedrooms, even in the kitchen and on the stairs. Many were what she assumed to be local scenes, showing farmers at work in misty fields, reeds poking their heads out from shimmering water, sunset over a deserted beach, and a group of three, hanging close together, of a small tabby cat with huge green eyes that she assumed must be the elusive Flo.

  Above the fireplace was a large portrait of an old lady, her skin gently wrinkled, her hair tightly permed, her eyes twinkling as if lit from within. Madi liked it. The photo, and the woman herself, had real character, the sort of character that came with being old but still mentally alert and cheekily lively, and that she would have loved to capture onstage, and still might one day, if all went well. As a kindly yet knowing Miss Marple perhaps, with some clever make-up, and layers of padding bundled up inside her dress. She wondered who the woman was. Possibly Prue’s mother or grandmother, but she decided it was none of her business and went in search of something to drink and, if she was to have any hope of getting the fire going, a box of matches.

  There was no sign of any alcohol, not that she should be drinking much anyway while she was taking her medication, but she’d always believed a little of what you fancy did you good. Oh, God, the pills! Even after leaving them right next to her on the bed as she’d unpacked, she’d still managed to leave them upstairs. She’d become so forgetful lately, so easily distracted. Putting things down somewhere and then finding them somewhere else. Losing things altogether. She’d lose her head if it wasn’t screwed on. Bloody cancer had a lot to answer for. But what if it was something else? Thinking back, it might even have started before her cancer was diagnosed.
There had been that night when she had left the tap dripping in the bathroom, with the plug still in the sink. If she hadn’t got up to use the loo and found it just in time, she would have flooded the place, and quite possibly the flat beneath hers as well. It might have been nothing, the sort of thing that happened to anyone when they were tired, but you heard such stories, about people getting forgetful as they got older. Putting the kettle in the fridge or getting on the wrong bus … How on earth would she ever cope with work, having to learn lines again, if that was what was happening to her?

  She shook the thoughts away and looked at her watch. Four thirty. A small sherry or a glass of chilled wine would go down beautifully right now, and sod the pills, but she’d just have to make do with something a little less exciting. She boiled the kettle, standing close to it and breathing in the heat. She found a jar of instant coffee in the pantry and a bottle of locally produced full fat milk in the fridge. She would have preferred her usual skimmed but at least the label told her it had been pasteurised and she hadn’t been confronted with a jug of something still steaming, straight from the cow.

  The coffee warmed her as she slumped down on the sofa with the matches in her hand ready to have a go at the fire. Was it a mistake coming here? Back in London, she had started to feel that the walls of her flat were closing in on her, she had spent so much time cooped up in there lately, but all she was doing now was swapping one lonely existence for another, miles away, and bringing all her fears and her sadness along with her. She missed her old way of life, and her old body. Feeling fit, working, keeping busy. She missed the bustle of the theatre and the excitement it brought into her life. But most of all she missed her son.