And Then She Ran

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Not if they’ve set up camp.’

  He shook his head. ‘Unlikely. They’d need to be experienced and to know this area well. I doubt these youths have the capacity.’ He met Morag’s steely stare with a cheerful smile. ‘Rest assured this will go on the record,’ he said, turning his attention to me. ‘I’m sorry this has happened to you, Grace. It’s not the impression of our beautiful country we want to leave visitors with.’ He flicked Morag a look. ‘Make sure you get that phone working.’

  ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘Maybe you should get some Wi-Fi up here while you’re at it.’

  ‘No coverage,’ Morag said coolly. I wondered whether it was true, or if she was still resisting connections to the outside world.

  Ewan nodded. ‘I’ll send some community support officers up tomorrow to take a good look around.’ He eyeballed Skip who’d rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out. ‘He’s not much of a guard dog from what I’ve heard.’

  I exchanged a look with Morag. Seeing her mouth twitch, I had an answering urge to laugh but knew if I did, it wouldn’t be long before I was crying again.

  *

  Friday passed without incident. Apart from the ache in my arm and cotton-wool feeling in my temple I was oddly calm, as if a storm inside me had blown itself out. I’d even managed a decent night’s sleep, waking only once to feed Lily in a daze.

  Morag didn’t refer to what had happened, just suggested keeping the door bolted when she went outside after breakfast.

  I was desperate for some fresh air, but made do with taking a stroll around the garden with Lily tucked against me, scanning the area where Skip had been in case I spotted something the officer had missed, but even the tiny animal bones had gone.

  I scrutinised the trees around the cottage and the flattened ground at the side, but saw no tell-tale glint of wire cutters lying in the grass below the damaged phone wire. The weather, which had started out sunny, reverted to wind and rain and confining myself to the cottage wasn’t hard. There was no sign of the phone engineer, but a pair of community officers turned up as promised – looking young enough to still be at college – and made a valiant effort to chat to Morag in the garden before disappearing into the woods, returning dishevelled and red-faced an hour later, one of them limping; nothing to report but a twisted ankle.

  ‘They’re coming back in shifts to keep an eye on things,’ Morag said dryly when they’d gone. ‘Nice kids, but I wouldn’t put much faith in them catching a cold, never mind a criminal.’

  While she carried on with her usual routine, disappearing after lunch to do deliveries – perhaps needing to be away from me – I decided to cook. I baked two loaves and an apple cake and made a vegetable lasagne for dinner, forcing myself to stay in the present by singing to Lily, happy on her activity mat, and throwing a pair of balled-up socks for Skip while the loaves baked.

  After we’d eaten dinner, Morag challenged me to a game of Monopoly while the wind howled outside, pushing at the window, and the fire leapt in the grate. It felt cosy, reminiscent of winter days when I was a child, but with the addition of the dog I’d always longed for. Morag wore red plaid pyjamas under her dressing gown, and I was wrapped in the throw from the bed upstairs, which smelt comfortingly of washing powder – the same brand my grandmother had used. Neither of us spoke much, as if by mutual agreement, sticking to safe topics – the rules of the game, the weather, Lily – not wanting to disturb the fragile sense of peace.

  ‘Are you going to help out at the pub tomorrow night?’ Morag said when she’d won the game. I kept yawning and forgetting the rules. ‘It’ll do you good to get out.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Morag nodded, as if asking was a formality and she’d known all along I was keen to get back in a professional kitchen, to grab the opportunity I’d been given – a step towards building a normal life.

  Chapter 23

  The kitchen at the Carpenter’s Arms was small but streamlined; updated a year ago, Morag had told me, to capture the tourist market and cater for locals who wanted an evening out that didn’t involve nursing a pint in the snug. ‘Not everyone likes seeing the old boys playing dominoes, darts and card games,’ she said, as if she couldn’t understand why.

  Annie showed me around, pausing to stir a bubbling stockpot on top of a stainless-steel range. ‘It’s probably a lot smaller than you’re used to.’ I wondered what Morag had said to her. My aunt hadn’t asked for details of my job. Maybe she’d made assumptions because I worked in New York, or had simply told people her niece was a high-flying chef.

  ‘It is, but everything’s newer,’ I said. A familiar buzz of adrenaline kicked in as I admired the shiny equipment and gleaming surfaces, breathing in the cooking smells, enjoying the hum of activity that took me back to Julio’s. I’d known the minute I set foot in his kitchen it was where I wanted to be. I missed it, I realised – even the punishing hours. I accepted I would probably never own my own restaurant now, with my name above the door, but I couldn’t imagine doing a different job.

  ‘It’s a small menu, very straightforward, nothing fancy.’ Annie was unapologetic, clearly proud of her domain, where a woman who looked like a smaller version of her, with the same wild curly hair fastened up in a bun, was chopping onions with great concentration, pausing to wipe her eyes on the back of her hand. ‘My sister Bethan is standing in for the chef who buggered off to Cardiff, but she’d like to get her Saturday nights back and, like I said, I wouldn’t mind the occasional break myself.’ Bethan surveyed me with bloodshot eyes and nodded a friendly greeting. ‘And this is my cousin’s boy, Lewis. He does the clearing up, loads the dishwasher, and Daisy over there waits on tables with her brother Niall. He’ll be in later. Bryn’s in charge of the bar, so you probably won’t see much of him.’

  ‘Lucky her,’ Bethan said, her tone teasing. They seemed close-knit, just how Ifan had described the people in Fenbrith. If they were curious about me, it wasn’t obvious, beyond Annie enquiring what sort of food I was used to cooking.

  ‘Anything really.’ I thought of the eclectic menu at Julio’s. ‘I introduced some British recipes where I worked, but mostly Spanish, some Italian. I cooked for myself too, loved trying different things. I was always experimenting.’

  You take after your mother, Dad had said when I took over making Sunday lunch aged thirteen, pleased with my puffed-up Yorkshire puddings and how easily the roast beef had sliced. If anything, you’re a better cook. I’d taken it as a great compliment, not seeing the hurt my mother had masked with a smile for what it was.

  ‘We do Bolognese and chilli.’ Annie refastened her apron, blue eyes settling on my face. ‘Our customers love it.’

  ‘Mostly one-pot stuff.’ Bethan pointed the knife she was holding to the range, where a delicious smell of rosemary and onions was rising from the pan. ‘Easy, cheap and tasty.’

  ‘You make us sound like a truck stop.’ Annie shook her head as she stirred the bubbling concoction again. ‘We only use the best ingredients, Grace. We’ve loads of five-star reviews on TripAdvisor.’

  ‘I can believe it.’ I knew how important reviews were, especially to a new venture relying on word of mouth to succeed. ‘It all looks great.’

  ‘So, where’s that baby of yours?’

  ‘My aunt’s watching her in the bar.’ I’d rather have kept Lily with me, where I could see her, but it was too dangerous; spills and breakages, hotspots and chemicals, all hazards in a working kitchen. I wasn’t sure how to get through the evening without her and had resisted coming until Morag practically pushed me out of the door.

  ‘Lots of mothers go back to work, and all you’re doing is having a look round the kitchen this evening. I’m perfectly capable of minding the baby while you do that.’

  ‘But she’ll need feeding and changing and …’ She’s barely been out of my sight since she was born, and I’m not convinced someone won’t swoop in and take her if I look away. ‘It’s too soon. Maybe if Annie still
needs help in a few months’ time.’

  ‘You’re planning to stay in Fenbrith, then?’

  With Morag’s words, the thought of putting down roots, however flimsy, had taken hold once more. Going out, exploring the possibility of working at the pub, making friends – Declan’s face flashed into my mind – would make it harder to leave, to run away. I couldn’t stay at Morag’s indefinitely, but I needed a place to call home, somewhere Lily could grow and flourish, where we could be a family. Going to Mum’s wasn’t an option and I couldn’t think of anywhere else I wanted to be, even with the possibility that someone was watching us; had hurt me. At least in Fenbrith, living with Morag, around people who were aware I existed, there was a modicum of safety. Better than being adrift, moving from place to place with someone on our trail, ready to strike without warning.

  ‘Fine, I’ll go,’ I said. ‘But you have to promise you won’t take your eyes off Lily and you’ll come and get me the minute she cries.’

  ‘Can’t you milk yourself so I can feed her? Not right now, but in future?’ Morag’s unexpected question had prompted a burst of laughter.

  ‘I’m not a cow.’ My smile faded when I remembered Patrick’s comment as he caught me breastfeeding Lily. At least pump and freeze if you won’t use a bottle. ‘But I suppose I could. I brought the equipment.’ I’d pushed it in the bottom of Lily’s changing bag, just in case.

  ‘I know. I saw it that first morning when I made the baby a bottle.’

  ‘If you’re going to keep watch you have to call her Lily instead of baby.’

  A look had rippled across Morag’s face then, something close to distress. It passed like a door being slammed. She looked away, making a performance of ordering Skip to lie down as he hovered at our heels before saying, ‘OK. It’s a deal.’

  In the end, Skip had followed us out and into the back of the van and was now curled underneath the table at Ifan’s feet.

  ‘And your daughter?’ I said to Annie, trying to remember the little girl’s name.

  Her face broke into a smile. ‘Gwynn’s upstairs with my mum,’ she said. ‘My mother’s looking forward to having the occasional Saturday night off too.’

  With the family seemingly desperate for a break, I heard myself saying, ‘So, it would just be the odd Saturday night you’d like some help?’

  ‘To begin with, but more hours if you’d like them.’ Her expression was coaxing. ‘I know it’s not easy right now with you being a new mum, but your aunt’s dying to make up for lost time and help you out.’

  ‘It’s more that I don’t want to leave my baby with anyone.’ Even my aunt, who was apparently dying to help. It was true that Morag seemed keen to interact with Lily, but the thought of leaving her, even for a few hours, was hard to bear. ‘We’ve gone through a lot to get here,’ I said, regretting my curtness. Annie was just being friendly.

  ‘I get it.’ She seemed unfazed. ‘At that age, you could just sit and look at your baby for hours. I couldn’t bear to put Gwynn down for the first six months, but running this place …’ She cast her eyes around. ‘I didn’t have much choice, but I love to work and our parents have been brilliant.’

  ‘I could start next week and see how it goes.’ If nothing goes wrong before then.

  Annie’s smile bounced back. ‘Great,’ she said brightly. ‘Why don’t you give Bethan a hand now, take a look at the menus, get a feel for the kitchen while your daughter’s safe with her auntie?’

  Daughter. I had a daughter. Sometimes the scale of it still took my breath away. Of all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you. The line rushed back from a card Mum gave me on my fifteenth birthday, six months before Dad died. She’d never been sentimental, scoffing at mawkish verses, preferring to give funny cards with quirky illustrations and cover the inside with kisses but that year, when I read it in silence, she said, ‘It’s true, Grace. Remember that.’ I hadn’t thought about it for years.

  ‘I’ll just check Lily’s OK.’ I walked back through the hubbub of the bar before Annie could respond. Lily was in her car seat on the table between Morag and Ifan, legs frog-kicking as she babbled for the onlookers who’d gathered to admire her. Morag looked animated, cheeks flushed, hands moving expansively as she talked. It was like glimpsing a different person – someone younger, more vibrant. She’d changed into a dusky pink sweater that flattered her colouring, and a pair of dark jeans. I imagined her long ago, a camera slung around her neck, holding court in some smoky bar in Islamabad.

  Perhaps it was Ifan’s presence, or Lily’s, or maybe both, but it felt wrong to gate-crash the little group and risk Morag’s guarded expression returning. I’d left my bag with her, a couple of spare nappies. Confident that she was fine without me for now, I returned to the kitchen with a stronger sense of purpose, time peeling back to when nothing had worried me apart from a hollandaise sauce curdling, or too much salt in the pesto.

  After washing my hands and putting on the apron Annie handed over with a grin, I set to work, helping Bethan chop the pile of vegetables she was working her way through.

  ‘Great bread, by the way,’ Annie said. Morag had insisted on dropping off one of the loaves I’d baked the day before. ‘If there are any more where that came from, I’ll place an order,’ she added, opening a sack of rice. ‘Making bread’s too long-winded for me.’

  ‘Great.’ Pleasure glowed in the pit of my stomach, melting the ball of tension that had taken up permanent residence since I was shoved. I couldn’t bring myself to think the word ‘attacked’ or ‘assaulted’ anymore. It made what had happened more sinister – too real. Thankfully, nothing had occurred since. The phone line had been restored, the engineer coming and going without fanfare – don’t know what happened there, but should be right as rain now – and the community officers, Alison and Owen, had been over again as promised, patrolling the area with great solemnity, Alison making light of her sprained ankle. I longed to sink into a sense of security, even if it was false – to believe that what had happened was nothing more than bad luck, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘Do you know Declan Walsh?’ I said, my heap of diced vegetables almost embarrassingly neat beside Bethan’s roughly chopped pile.

  ‘Can’t say I do.’ She looked at Annie who now had a stack of plates in her arms. ‘Ring a bell?’

  Annie shook her head, distracted. ‘Lewis, can you put these somewhere, please?’

  ‘He was in here the other lunchtime, waiting for his friend,’ I persisted.

  ‘What’s his friend’s name?’ Bethan took a bite from a stick of celery and wrinkled her nose. ‘God, I hate this stuff.’

  ‘Hugh.’ I tried to remember whether Declan had told me his surname. ‘He runs one of those outdoorsy adventure places in Caernarfon.’

  ‘Oh, Hugh Williams.’ Annie nodded. ‘Nice guy. He and his wife have been over here for dinner. I don’t think I’ve met his friend, though.’ She widened her eyes at me. ‘He was the good-looking one, chatting you up, wasn’t he?’

  My cheeks burned. ‘He was just passing the time.’ I wondered what they’d say if they knew he’d invited me out for the day tomorrow. ‘I don’t suppose you see many strangers in Fenbrith at this time of year.’

  ‘A lot more from Easter onwards.’ Annie passed the plates to Lewis. ‘You’d be surprised how busy it gets in our little neck of the woods.’

  ‘Proximity to Snowdon and the lake,’ added Bethan. ‘Having grown up here, I prefer it in winter, but we wouldn’t have an income without the holidaymakers, so it’s a bit of a love-hate relationship.’ Her eyes grew big as she watched me chop parsley with muscle-memory precision. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Her admiring look was gratifying. ‘You’re like one of those chefs off the telly.’

  ‘I was taught by a professional.’ I was enjoying a rare chance to show off, more relaxed on familiar territory. ‘I can dice an onion in thirty seconds.’ I demonstrated and was treated to a round of applause. ‘If you like, I
can show you how to make grilled cheese. It might go down well at lunchtimes.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we call a cheese toastie?’ It was Bryn, poking his balding head round the door, eyebrows raised. ‘We already do those.’

  ‘A grilled cheese sandwich is buttered on the outside and cooked in a pan,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Ooh, I like the sound of that.’ Annie lifted her chin in her husband’s direction. ‘What is it, Brynny-boy?’ She exaggerated her Welsh accent. ‘Speak up, man, or forever hold your peace.’

  The noise level in the bar had risen, laughter drifting through. I cocked an ear, attuned to Lily’s hunger cry. She hadn’t been fed for a while and my breasts felt full and heavy beneath my thin blue fleece – another Walmart special.

  ‘Firstly,’ said Bryn, ‘I need Daisy.’ He beckoned to where the young girl was standing by the dishwasher, smoothing the ends of her poker-straight black hair. ‘Someone’s waiting to order.’ As she scuttled over, Annie said, ‘And secondly?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said firstly, so what’s the second thing?’ She hurried back to the range and switched it on, rolling her eyes. ‘Good God, man, spit it out.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Bryn looked at me. ‘Your aunt said to tell you that your phone keeps ringing.’

  Chapter 24

  I pushed through the heaving bar to the table where Morag and Ifan were chatting to an older couple. Lily had nodded off again, her head tipped to one side, a rosy flush on her cheeks. So much for my worrying the pub wasn’t a suitable environment.

  ‘You said my phone was ringing.’

  Morag looked up, pleasure flashing over her face at the sight of me. ‘I heard this weird noise, like a bird had got trapped.’ She reached for my bag, tucked by her side. ‘I realised it must be your phone but it stopped, then started again.’ She gave me a meaningful look. ‘Someone has your number.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, heart thumping hard. ‘She’s the friend I mentioned the other day, the one I was going to call.’