The Beginner's Guide to Loneliness

by Laura Bambrey

  I can’t help but quietly fume as I make my way over to the crumbling wooden bus shelter and lower myself down onto a cracked, plastic seat.

  I sigh. This is exactly why I hate being given lifts. You always end up waiting around for hours for people to turn up. Plus, it’s cold and I’m hungry and . . . well, I just feel like whining right now. And I need to pee. Why would anyone leave the comfort of London and come to bloody Wales? It’s cold, it’s raining and people are late.

  I called The Farm as soon as was polite on Friday morning. I’m not too proud to admit that I begged them to be allowed to drive, and when that was refused because they’re ‘trying to do their bit for the environment’, I tried arguing against being picked up from the bus stop, telling the man that I’d be happier getting a cab. This caused so much hilarity that I’d had to give in and agree to the lift. Now I can see why it was quite so funny: the idea of there being a taxi anywhere near here is . . . remote.

  It’s so quiet it’s almost scary. Quiet, but very windy. I may as well have been airlifted into this green, hill-lined valley, because apart from this little shelter, there sure as hell isn’t any other hint of civilization to be seen.

  For what must be the hundredth time already, I glance back down the road, which snakes away between two grey-green hills that are clearly hoping to be mountains when they grow up.

  There’s a small cloud of dust, but nothing much else to see. I huddle down into my collar, trying to escape the chilly wind, and cross my legs tighter. There’s no way I’m going to pee in a hedge, not on my first day living wild, and not on the last day either. I’m just not an al fresco pisser. The day that happens, this little trip has gone too far and I’ll be making a break for freedom.

  Ah, wait a minute, I think, that cloud of dust is getting closer. Could it be?

  As I watch, a beaten-up Land Rover materializes and swings itself gracelessly onto the patch of gravel next to the bus stop.

  ‘Victoria!’ A huge smile followed by an awful lot of white whiskers appears from the driver’s side of the vehicle.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. But it’s Tori.’ I smile tightly at this ill-groomed Father Christmas. I hold out my hand as he steps towards me, my heels causing me to tower over him. He catches my hand in both of his and gives it a rough- skinned squeeze.

  ‘Great shoes!’ He smiles down at my feet as if mesmerized.

  ‘Erm . . . thanks.’

  ‘I’m Ted. This is Frank.’ He pats the side of the Land Rover. ‘Let’s get you back to the ranch,’ he says, grabbing my case.

  When they’d said ‘Land Rover’ on the phone, I’d pictured a lovely shiny Chelsea Chariot, the kind of vehicle that glamorous, platinum-blond mums use to drop their kids off at their very expensive private schools.

  This is not one of those. There are only two words to describe it: rust. Bucket.

  It used to be khaki green, but has been repaired and patched so many times that the surface looks like it has bad acne scarring. There are patches of rusty red paint and blobs of white, presumably covering some botched mending. It looks as though there may be a fair bit of household gloss paint on there too. The canvas back is just as bad and appears to be mainly held together by moss and gaffer tape.

  ‘Your carriage, madam . . .’ To my horror, Ted yanks at the handle, throws open the door at the back of the vehicle and waves me in. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not too far. I’d let you sit up front, but Dennis is in there and he won’t move for man nor beast.’

  ‘It’s fine, no problem.’ I force a smile. He’s got to be kidding?!

  The floor is covered with bits of straw and, well, poo. Dried poo, but still. Waving and nodding at me are four other people. Okay, so three are waving and nodding and the fourth one has his head back and appears to be fast asleep with his mouth open. Either that or he’s dead and no one has noticed the smell yet.

  ‘Everyone, this is Tori. Tori, everyone.’ Ted smiles at me and swings my case up onto the floor.

  ‘Do you need a boost?’ asks Ted.

  ‘Oh, right . . . err . . . no thanks, I’m fine.’ I can’t find any convenient handholds, so I try not to pull a face as I rest them on top of the filthy floor and attempt to get a foot up. But the shoes aren’t helping, slipping and sliding on the rusted metal, the heel threatening to snag at any moment. I’m really starting to struggle when a hand appears in front of me. Without looking up, I grasp it. Just as it gives me a tug, I feel Ted’s palm plant firmly on my behind and he gives me a hefty shove upwards.

  I practically fly into the back of the Land Rover and land straight on top of the owner of the helping hand.

  There’s a grunt from the warm tangle of clothes and skin from underneath me.

  I scramble backwards hastily.

  ‘Hey, watch it!’ comes an angry growl from a skinny teenager I just managed to pin against the canvas side.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I mutter, trying to keep my head down and my sweaty, horrified face to myself. Shit, shit, shit. Not the calm entrance I’d been hoping for.

  ‘Hey. It’s okay. Here, take a pew.’ The pile of clothing I winded moments ago takes shape, shifts a beaten-up rucksack from the seat next to him and dumps it on the floor.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter. ‘And sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  I’m relieved to hear a smile in his voice.

  ‘I’m Bay.’

  ‘Hi . . . I’m sorry about . . . your . . . uh . . .’ I tail off. I am sorry, but I’m not sure which part of his anatomy I should be sorry about.

  ‘It’s fine. Stop apologizing. Frankly, I blame your shoes.’

  ‘So, what—?’ I start, but I’m interrupted by the spluttering of the engine being forced into life. And then the rattling starts. Bone-splintering vibrations run through the decrepit metal skeleton and threaten to dislocate my coccyx.

  ‘Brace yourself!’ shouts Bay, and I wonder what he means.

  ‘For what?’

  I can barely hear him over the engine, but, glancing around at the others, I can see that they’re all stiffening in their seats.

  Catching on just a moment too late, I pitch sideways as Ted guns the vehicle into a dizzying reversed arc.

  ‘Twice in one day?’ Bay yells in my ear, an amused look on his face. I peel myself out of his lap and resolutely try to anchor myself to the hard metal bench.

  ‘Sorry . . . again!’ I yell. My face is so hot it feels like it’s on fire.

  Bay rolls his eyes at me and shrugs good-naturedly. I look away, mortified.

  In a desperate attempt to distract myself from the constant rattling playing tom-toms on my bladder, I look around at the other passengers.

  The guy in the corner still has his head tilted back against the canvas, mouth wide open and fast asleep. The woman next to him looks to be somewhere in her late seventies. Her long silver hair is plaited and coiled all the way around her head. She is wearing an oversized, bright yellow jumper with a massive daisy on the front. Beneath this is a pair of faded, threadbare cord flares. Her hands are busy knitting something in a repulsive bright green, the yarn snaking from her needles and down to a huge ball that lies nestled in a wicker basket at her feet.

  I look cautiously towards the girl I managed to trample and meet a pair of very stroppy brown eyes. I smile at her, but she simply blinks at me and continues to stare, her eyes wandering leisurely down over my fitted blazer and skinny black jeans. She lingers on the offending shoes that caused her the grievous bodily trampling just now.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God! What have I let myself in for? I’m going to get Nat back for talking me into this, if it’s the last thing I do.

  *

  Twenty minutes and six aborted attempts at conversation later, my knuckles have turned from white to blue in a bid to stay put in my pew-of-torture. My bum is completely numb, in beautiful contrast to the base of my spine, which is on fire from the continuous vibrations and multiple bashings, courtesy of every bump and stone on this godforsaken s
tretch of road. I’m considering screaming for mercy, or maybe even making a mad dash for the back door and hotfooting it back to Carmarthen in time to catch the next train back to London, when Bay leans in close.

  ‘ALMOST HOME!’ he yells in my ear. I nod and bite down firmly on my lip, letting out a tiny moan that instantly gets lost under the hammering of the engine.

  Ted swings sharply to the right, hits the brakes and abruptly kills the engine. Two seconds later his face appears at the back of the cab.

  ‘Okay, campers. I need two willing volunteers to walk the rest of the way. Frank can’t take this amount of weight on his suspension going down the track.’ He grins as if this is the best news he has given all day. Bay immediately jumps down.

  ‘Of course, when I say volunteers, I mean you, Tori. It’s all in the handbook.’ He glances at my feet, looking a bit concerned.

  ‘Come on,’ Bay says, holding out his hand to me.

  ‘Handbook? Wait! What?’

  ‘New arrivals walk the driveway. It’s important that they enter the aura of the place in peace, so that their spirit fully integrates with the new surroundings,’ Ted recites by rote. At least he has the decency to look a little bit sheepish.

  ‘But . . .’ I look down at the muddy puddles surrounding my perch. Two seconds ago I would have given anything to get out of the Land Rover. Now, I’m not so sure.

  ‘Have you not read your handbook?’ Bay asks me, a definite twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Of course I have . . . most of it, anyway,’ I say. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to spend less time arguing about clothes with Sue and more time reading all the material The Farm sent through to me after I spoke to them on Friday. I mean, I did scan through it on the way here, but I’m guessing I missed a few key points.

  Ted’s smile slips. ‘Oh dear. Well, you have to walk on your first time. It’s really important.’

  ‘Come on,’ Bay says impatiently.

  I will be fine. My shoes, on the other hand, are about to die a horrible, muddy death and my Converse are buried right at the bottom of my bag.

  ‘Here, borrow my boots.’

  A pair of grim wellies land in my lap. Dead-guy is awake and in his socks. The boots reek and are covered in . . . crap. That’s the only word for it.

  ‘Um, thanks. I don’t think these will fit you though,’ I waggle one of my heels for him to see.

  The guy peers curiously at me, obviously trying to figure out where I’ve come from and whether I’m sane. He seems to come to a conclusion fast enough as he starts to howl with laughter, his head thrown back.

  An eerie sound echoes his howl from somewhere in the front of the Land Rover.

  ‘Dennis!!!’ bellow five people as one. The howling stops.

  ‘Great. You have boots. Job done.’ Ted beams and hurries back to the driver’s seat. As he coaxes the engine back to life, my spine instantly sets up a protest. Slip-sliding to my feet, boots in one hand and handbag in the other, I shuffle across to the doorway, but before I can even begin to negotiate my way down, Bay reaches up and jumps me down like a five-year-old.

  Chapter 3

  A is for Approachable

  ‘One of the biggest challenges in escaping isolation is breaking free of habits. What started out as useful defence mechanisms are now patterns that play a large part in keeping the world out – and may be preventing you from forming new bonds and friendships.’

  ©TheBeginnersGuideToLoneliness.com

  *

  ‘Come on then, princess, let’s be having you.’ Bay grins as he sets me down. ‘Do you need a hand?’ He holds his arm out, ready to steady me so that I can slip the wellingtons on more easily.

  ‘Thanks, princess, but I’ll be fine on my own!’ I snap. Why does my inner bitch always show up when I meet new people? I really wanted to start out on a better note. Too late now.

  ‘Fine. Holler if you need me. I’ll go on ahead.’ Bay shoots me a tight smile that really doesn’t reach his eyes. Oops. He turns his back and trudges off, following the trail of blue smoke from the Land Rover.

  For a second, I just stand and stare at his departing back. Half of me wants to call after him, to apologize, to introduce myself properly and let him get to know the real me rather than this prissy little madam that seems to have body-snatched me. The other half of me, however, the one that is that prissy little madam, is still desperate to show him that she’s fine without his stupid help. This part of me wins, like it always does when I’m feeling nervous and out of my depth. It’s my version of body armour.

  I dump the disgusting wellington boots down into the mud in front of me and wobble as I prize one of my hot, over-travelled feet out of a heel and plunge it into the loaned boot. I manage to gather a decent toe-scoop of mud while I’m at it. Great. Just bloody great. Go it alone and get covered in mud. Typical.

  Thrusting on the other boot unceremoniously, I cuddle my heels to me and follow Bay. I really don’t want to get lost on top of everything else. Slipping and sliding in the mud, I keep my eyes firmly on the ground to stop myself from going arse-over-tit. I’m so intent on what I’m doing that I suddenly slam with full force into something solid.

  ‘Do I have “hurt me” stamped on my forehead or something?’ asks Bay as he catches hold of my arm, stopping me from face-planting as I lose my balance.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ I wheeze, winded from the impact. I glare at him, unsure whether to let rip with anger or give in to giggles, as both seem to be bubbling. A pair of moss-green eyes are twinkling at me from under his mop of dark, wavy hair. I quickly decide anger is the safest route. ‘I wasn’t expecting there to be a human pillar in my path, doing absolutely nothing.’

  ‘See, that’s the problem with you city girls. Your eyes are always down, watching your feet or your phone.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I snap. Like he knows anything about me. Git.

  ‘It means that you run headlong into a lot of trouble without seeing it coming. And, worse than that, it means you miss the view.’

  I scowl at him and then look around. The lane is flanked on one side by a steep wall of slate and mud, with the occasional tree just about managing to cling to it. But Bay is looking in the opposite direction, to where the ground just seems to disappear. What looks like a cliff edge is actually the side of a steep valley. I find myself looking out over a rooftop of trees that must be growing on the lower edges of the slope. Piles of steely clouds march off into the distance, creating a blanket under which nestles a patchwork of fields. A narrow, leaden ribbon of river snakes its way across the valley floor. I shiver and rub my arms. As if in response, a ray of sunshine pierces the clouds just for a second, turning a bend in the river to silver and illuminating everything around it.

  ‘You see, I wasn’t “doing nothing”. I was looking. It’s a perfectly wonderful thing to be doing. Until you’re walked into by an angry Londoner.’

  I choose to ignore the dig. I can’t believe I almost missed this.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words come out of my mouth, but, trust me, they are completely unintentional. I quickly make up for them: ‘Do you mind if we get on with it though?’ That’s more like it.

  Bay rolls his eyes at me. ‘Sure. Come on. It’s not far.’ He continues his trudge and I slide along behind him, desperately trying to keep one eye on where I place my feet while I continue to sneak peeks at the view.

  *

  Pretty soon, the lane begins to descend steeply, carving its way through an avenue of giant trees. I catch up to Bay’s side.

  ‘So, is this your first time here too?’ I ask, trying to start again.

  He laughs. ‘Nah, I’ve been coming here for years, at least once every six months. It’s the perfect way to reset myself.’

  ‘So you walked because . . . ?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want Frank to fall apart on the lane,’ he smiles back at me.

  ‘So the others have been before too?’

  ‘Moth has – she was
the one knitting. And Russ, the guy who lent you the boots, he’s one of the instructors.’

  I nod and swallow nervously. Surely I’m not going to be the only one new to this?

  ‘So . . . ah . . . where are all the others?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve been arriving since yesterday morning. I think they’re only waiting for one more newbie now that you’re here, and then everyone’s present and correct.’

  As we come to the edge of the woodland and reach the valley floor, we pass through a huge, five-barred gate.

  ‘To keep the inmates in?’ I ask with raised eyebrows.

  Bay grins at me. ‘To keep the world out, more like.’ He swings the gate back into place and secures it with a loop of plaited, orange twine.

  ‘So this is it? We’re here?’ There’s a note of desperation in my voice. My bladder is now officially at breaking point. I need to empty it in the next two minutes to avoid sustaining a horrific injury.

  ‘Almost. This path runs straight up to the main house. You carry on. I need to head off this way to sort a few things out,’ he points to a field to our left.

  ‘Oh. Okay. Thanks for your help.’ He’s leaving me alone now? Seriously?

  ‘Sure thing. See you later!’ And with that, Bay strides off, following the line of the trees.

  I watch him go and shift my weight from foot to foot. It would be great to take a look around while I’ve got a moment to myself (who knows whether I’m going to get any peace over the next three weeks?), but the call of my bladder has now gone from an annoying mutter to a constant scream. I let out a defeated sigh and head off up the pathway in search of the house.

  It’s not long before I spot it. It’s absolutely massive and looks a bit like it’s grown straight up out of the ground. Built from heavy grey stone, it’s two storeys high with a navy front door that stands open underneath a slate- roofed porch. This is flanked by stone pillars, and at either side of the porch are large mullioned windows. The top floor boasts three more windows in a straight line. As deep as it is wide, this is a proper, old-fashioned farmhouse like something straight out of a kids’ book, an impression that’s only strengthened by the fact that the place is surrounded by brown and white chickens, all scratching around on the front lawn.