The Codes of Love

by Hannah Persaud

  Everything is protracted and he takes each day as it comes, not allowing himself to be hopeful. Time apart. The dreaded words of doom. He tells himself he’s better off without her. Sometimes he believes it, but then he imagines life without the promise of snow-laced mountain winters and wind-brushed lazy summers, without palette-defying turquoise lakes. The cottage visits him in a state of decay when he’s sleeping. Buildings flex around empty spaces. He dreads what he will find there. He considers where he and Emily can go from these once familiar walls that now divide them. It’s impossible to imagine how they could bridge the gap between them.

  Ada calls when the trees have started shedding their leaves.

  ‘Hey, stranger.’

  ‘Hey, you.’ He had forgotten what her voice sounds like. He’s so shocked he forgets to ask questions.

  ‘Fancy a road trip?’ And even though he’s told himself it’s over and even though he knows that it won’t work, he’s already packing when she ends the call.

  The nine gates are interminable and in a state of disrepair, rusting and many of them held shut with loops of rope where the metal catches have broken. The road is potholed and littered with sheep that have jumped the crumbling walls of the fields. The summer has been unkind to the order of things. It’s dusk as he turns the corner of the road to where the roof of the cottage is exposed and he’s forgotten how quiet it is here. He’s been wondering if she would be late again, whether she would keep him waiting, but her car is there, parked neatly to the side. He thinks again how little he knows her, always failing to predict. He relaxes. From the outside the cottage has survived their absence. The new roof is intact and the path to the door is clear and weed-free. A thin trail of smoke comes from the chimney and as he opens the door the sound of Einaudi reaches him. As he steps inside, a wave of emotion catches him off guard.

  His mouth waters at the smell of food. Signs of Ada are lying around: a cardigan on the back of a chair, her shoes beside the door.

  ‘Ada?’ He peers his head round the kitchen door and sees the casserole bubbling, the bottle of wine opened and ready. ‘Ada?’ He considers briefly that the date is wrong and she is not expecting him. He dismisses the possibility that she is with someone else. To cheat on your lover would be quite something.

  It’s hard to get lost here. She must be upstairs. He takes the stairs two at a time and she is there, strewn upon the bed, sleeping. It is not the warmly charged welcome that he had hoped for. They have only two days together and time slips quickly here.

  ‘Ada?’ He bends and sweeps a lock of her hair behind her ear and she murmurs to imaginary companions. Downstairs the casserole bubbles. Does she want to cause a fire? It’s careless to leave things cooking and to fall asleep, the fire burning in the grate and the front door unlocked. He wonders if she treats all her belongings with such disregard. What kind of welcome is this for him, who has driven through the falling dark to be here, each gate drawing him closer to his cottage that he yearns for, and all after she asked him for some space? He could have chosen not to come at all. Should have, perhaps. He walks back downstairs, his feet louder than they need to be against the floor. In the kitchen he turns the stove down low and pours himself a glass of warm white wine. He puts more logs on the fire and then, zipping up his jacket, he walks up through the field behind the cottage to the ridge, where his anger pales against the vista of Barmouth and beyond it the sea. The lights of the coastline pepper the grey evening with shots of gold and the sea reflects them back, sparkling.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep,’ she says behind him. She is translucent in the light, hair glowing and tousled down her back. She pulls her cardigan up around her neck and huddles against him. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  ‘How was your journey?’ he asks, kissing her forehead. He’d forgotten what she smells like.

  ‘Fine. Long.’ She sighs. ‘Dinner’s ready when you are.’ Walking back to the cottage from the ridge, he scans the black-and-white patchwork horizon, the squares of forest pitted against the paler rectangles where the trees have recently been slayed. The cottage is already in darkness in the crook of the valley. The first place to lose light in the evening and the last to be touched by it in the morning.

  He watches Ada while she moves from cupboard to counter, counter to drawer. There’s something different, but he can’t place it.

  ‘Did you change your hair?’ he asks. She shakes her head and her laugh is velvet deep. She serves casserole onto plates and places them on the table. ‘Are you not hungry?’ he says, noticing her small portion and the way she picks at it with her fork, sliding off tiny morsels piece by piece.

  ‘Overtired,’ she replies, clinking her glass against his. ‘Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.’

  ‘How’ve you been?’ he asks her. ‘Good summer?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she says, her smile not stretching to her eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘Same,’ he says.

  She leans towards him to remove his empty plate and he notices the etchings of time upon her face, the tiny lines around her eyes. Her skin seems thinner. She balances the plates precariously, waitress-style, upon her arm and her hands tremble as she moves towards the kitchen. He insists that she sit while he washes up.

  Beside the fire she lifts her feet onto his knees and sinks back against the cushion, putting her book down on the side table.

  ‘Gwenallt,’ Ryan says, reading the cover. ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘In the attic where I found the photos,’ she says. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Before bed they shower separately. The water drains slowly and pools around his feet, threatening to spill over the lip of the basin.

  ‘We should fix those pipes,’ he says as they pass in the doorway. ‘I brought new ones.’

  ‘Leave it for another time,’ she says, ‘there’s no rush.’ He watches Ada’s back as she disappears into the bathroom. Ada who never delays.

  Listening to the hum of the shower, he heats the kettle for the hot water bottles.

  ‘We’re old before our time,’ she comments on her way upstairs. In the bedroom she climbs under the covers fully clothed and he hesitates, unsure. She turns away from him and he notices the softness of her rendered sharp.

  In the morning she sleeps late and he brings her tea and an OS map. Sitting up in bed, it’s like old times, just them and the mountain. After breakfast he wanders round the front of the cottage, facing the trees that sculpt the mountainside. He listens to the sounds of the wind coming in across Cadair Idris, which dwindle to a whisper as they creep across the clearing in front of the cottage. Morning frost spreads across the bonnet of his car like stale breath. He hears the sighs of the valley and the creaking protest of the trees as they adjust to the mist lifting. Banking around the side of the cottage and looking up towards the ridge he sees the back of Ada in outline, facing the estuary below. As he draws closer, he sees that she is staring at her hands. She doesn’t see him coming and when he slips his icy hands up beneath her windbreaker she gasps.

  ‘I didn’t see you – you scared me.’ He notices the edge of her phone, which she has thrust hastily into her pocket. Earlier he convinced himself that he was being paranoid, that it was just tiredness after all. But seeing her in the white light of morning, he is not so sure.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s fine.’ she replies. He quells his reservations.

  ‘Shall I get on with the pipes?’ he asks her after he’s finished unloading them from his car.

  ‘I was hoping that we could go for a walk while it’s not raining,’ she says. He looks at the sky and frowns – in the distance grey clouds hang like puffed curtains over the tops of the hills.

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ she says, pulling on her walking boots. ‘Winter will be here soon. Come on.’

  They’ve summited Cadair Idris many times since their first disastrous trip, but this is the latest in season that they have walked. Already in th
e distance they can see the mist swirling along the top of the summit.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ he asks Ada as they park the car in Minffordd car park. ‘We’ll be racing against daylight.’

  ‘Don’t worry so much,’ she replies. ‘We’ll be fine, we know the paths.’ The mist has started descending and the summit can no longer be seen.

  ‘Come on,’ she calls restlessly as he leans against the car and pulls his walking boots on. As they start to walk, the paths are steep and the mist has made them slippery. Usually the slopes are covered with plants, but now the ground is bare and exposed. The landscape is punctuated unevenly with moraines and cwms. The walk feels longer, the stiles higher. He cups his hands into fists to warm his fingertips. She walks a few steps ahead, stopping now and then to inspect the ferns that cloak the trees. After two hours of walking his legs start to cramp. They’re near the top now and he struggles to catch his breath, while Ada walks precariously close to the edge above him.

  ‘Look,’ she says suddenly, holding out her arms. ‘It’s like flying.’ She has grown wings, her coat billowing out behind her. The clouds are heavy and lint-stained and he feels them pressing down, smothering. Below them a sea of mist carpets the view. Their voices are muffled. The final ascent is treacherous, and the damp ground icy. He’s bitterly regretting his inability to say no. He catches up with her near the top and though her smile is jubilant, she looks exhausted. They haven’t seen a single person the whole way up.

  At the summit he sits on a rock and pulls out a sandwich. The bread is soggy and the cheese rubbery. He passes one to her and they share coffee from the flask. They’re 2,930 feet up, but they may as well be two feet off the ground for all the views that they have. Standing abruptly, she peers into the swirling mist. He glances at his watchless wrist and readjusts his hood, pulling his zip to his neck.

  ‘We should get going or we’ll be descending in darkness.’

  ‘Look,’ she calls, and she is so close to the edge that he cannot make out where the ground ends and the space begins. She is pointing and leaning out and one simple gust of wind could end it all. He follows her finger and, on cue, sunshine forces its way between the clouds, splintering light above them. Moisture mingles in the air and a rainbow is born, spreading widely above them. Ada’s in silhouette now, beneath the ribboned colours, as if she’s commanding the mountain. Head back and motionless, palms upwards. He is suddenly afraid of what is to come.

  ‘Ada.’ He approaches carefully, his hand out before him. She turns and her face is torn with grief. She’s inches from the edge. He’s never liked heights and as he looks down towards the lake at the bottom, his stomach lurches.

  ‘They say that Llyn Cau has no bottom and that a monster lurks beneath,’ she says, pointing to the lake below. ‘It feels like it’s waiting.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me about it later once we’re home,’ he cajoles, as if speaking to a child. He’s had it with her volatility and proclamations of second sense. His fingertips brush hers. ‘We should go,’ he adds, ‘the weather’s turning.’ As he speaks, the clouds close up over the sun and the rainbow vanishes. Slow drops of rain land heavily against his skin. They could be at the cottage in front of the fire, or tucked safely inside their car. They could be sharing a pint down by the estuary or making love in the crog loft. The only reason they’re here is because of Ada’s impulsiveness and now disaster trips in his chest. He steps forward and grabs her hand hard. He’s not letting go. Locking his fingers through hers, he pulls her away from the edge and she falls towards him, plunging them both to the ground.

  ‘You nearly broke my hand – what were you thinking?’ she says. He has landed face down on the ground and he turns, pushing her back roughly.

  ‘What was I thinking? What was I thinking?’ he shouts into her face, and his spittle flecks her forehead. She lies back on the ground with an expression he has not seen before.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, easing the pressure on her shoulder. ‘You scared me.’

  ‘You’re crying,’ she says, and he realises that he is.

  ‘I don’t want to leave,’ she says, putting her frozen fingers against his face. He sees the indentations of his fingers on the back of her hand and imagines that he is capable of being his father. The lines between passion and pain are so fine he can barely distinguish between them. He leans forward, cupping her face in his hands. He kisses her eyelids.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘It’ll be okay.’ He wants to believe it.

  Halfway down he loses sight of her again.

  ‘Maybe we should spend the night here.’ Her voice emerges through the fog that lies across their path. Ten minutes ago visibility was three metres but now it’s one. He peers through it and makes her out ahead of him, standing inside a shelter. ‘It’s a shepherd’s hut,’ she explains. Inside it is small and snug with the remnants of a fire and a bale of hay against the far side. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ she says, pulling him inside. He steps back outside.

  ‘They say that anyone who spends the night on Cadair Idris will awaken as a poet or a madman,’ she says, laughing. He ignores the hysteria lacing her voice. ‘Which do you think we would be?’

  ‘I’m not sure that spending the night is necessary,’ he replies. ‘Come on Ada, seriously, I’m getting cold.’

  ‘Can’t we stay for a little longer?’ He sees dark shadows beneath her eyes, her sallow skin. The sooner he can get her back to warmth the better.

  ‘Another time,’ he says, taking her hand and leading her back to the path. They descend in the diminishing light in silence. His relief when he sees the car is palpable. Inside he turns the heater up and the windows fog, and when their silence becomes too much to bear he asks her.

  ‘So what is it, what’s wrong?’ he asks, but she shakes her head.

  Bathed and beside the fire, they eat leftover casserole and drink a Sancerre that he’s saved for the occasion. They read their books quietly. There’s no music tonight, no cushioning for missing words, and when they have gone to bed and are curled up like mice beneath the sheets, he asks again, ‘What is it?’ and the thing that she will not speak of cements itself between them and will not budge.

  In the morning she is up before him and he thinks that she has gone for a run, but when he goes downstairs he finds her sitting at the table, poised, elbows upon the table. Without saying a word he pulls out a chair and sits opposite her. So here is her reason, why she needed space, why she made him wait so long.

  ‘Ada, listen …’ he says. Perhaps if he keeps talking it’ll be okay. She puts a finger to her lips to quieten him.

  ‘There’s no simple way to say this …’ She takes a deep breath and he wants to exhale and blow away the unsaid. He wishes that they were back in the shepherd’s hut. This time he would stay there, curling himself around her to keep her warm. They’d watch the sun rise above Llyn Cau and see all the rainbows that the sky could make. They’d wither and grow old. He wouldn’t complain. He’d give up everything. He already has. It was madness to think that he could ever keep her.

  ‘I can’t do this any more,’ she says. He feels himself crushing inwards, slowly.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ he says. ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s over,’ she says.

  ‘We’ve only just started,’ he says.

  ‘It’s not working, I’m sorry,’ she says. He opens his mouth to reply but nothing comes. He wishes that she would stop talking.

  ‘You owe me an explanation,’ he says, ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ve met someone,’ she says. He pushes back his chair and it scrapes against the floor. He walks carefully, as if his legs don’t belong to him. Facing the wall and curling his hand into a fist, he plunges it into the wall, again and again until the pain obliterates everything else and fragments of his skin and blood smear the stones. His knuckles may be broken but the pain doesn’t come close.

  ‘What is wrong with you?’ he says. ‘I don’t believe you. It
must be something else. What is it? Tell me, we can fix it.’ She shakes her head.

  ‘I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I’m sorry. I wish I could have felt like it for you.’

  ‘You’re a fucking psycho,’ he says. His anger rises in his throat. ‘All the shit that I put up with from you. The risks I took, everything I lost. For what?’

  ‘You’re scaring me,’ Ada says, but he can’t believe that anything would ever scare Ada.

  ‘I’ve given up everything,’ he says. ‘Why did you bother coming here this weekend, what was the point?’

  ‘I had to say goodbye,’ she says, looking out of the window at the forest, and he knows now that it was not him she came to say goodbye to. ‘I didn’t intend to hurt you,’ she says.

  ‘What the fuck did you think would happen, Ada? I’m a middle-aged cliché. Jesus fucking Christ.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, that fixes it all. I’ll just run home and apologise to my wife for betraying her. If she’s as understanding as you expect me to be, then it’ll be no problem.’

  Ada doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. The pause stretches.

  ‘Don’t underestimate Emily,’ she says at last.

  ‘I thought you were going to tell me that you were sick,’ he says, ‘then maybe it wouldn’t hurt. But this?’ He puts his face in his hands.

  ‘We’re all dying,’ she replies. ‘But there’s no date.’

  ‘Who is the bastard?’ he says.

  ‘Does it matter?’ she replies.

  He walks to the ridge, where the wind rips his hair away from his flesh, pummelling his skin back from his bones in fleshy pockets. He contemplates hurling himself from the top, towards the water. He looks back at the cottage that could be a postcard, a note from the edge.