by Will North
“I hope you like China black tea,” she announced as she bustled around the room, “because that’s what I’ve made. I can’t stand that herbal stuff. This is a fifty-fifty blend of Kemun and Yunnan, with just a touch of Earl Grey, which I think is a nice addition in the evening. I take my tea seriously, mind you; only use loose leaf, not tea bags. You’d think that in a country that seems to run on tea, people would be choosy about what they put in the pot, but they’re not. These days, most people just throw in a couple of bags of whatever the Tesco’s or Safeway has on special offer and call it tea, but I think that’s disgraceful. Not to mention that the tea in those bags looks and tastes like floor sweepings.”
Fiona knew she was babbling. She desperately wanted to stop, but she didn’t know quite how to go about doing it. Words tumbled from her mouth; they always did when she was flustered. While she chattered on another voice, an internal one, was scolding her: You are a grown woman! You are a married woman! This is ludicrous!
It was Alec who brought her back to earth.
“Fiona, why don’t you sit down and join me.”
And so she did. With relief.
He’d been marveling at her antic activity. Here was a woman who positively radiated competence. But he also sensed a deep well of something volatile within her—it was passion, he realized, but it was held in check, banked like coals in a fire grate overnight.
And she was beautiful, too, though in an unstudied way. Her features were delicate, but more athletic than fragile. There was none of the plumpness he’d seen in most British women her age. Her nose was strong and her cheekbones well defined. He noticed that one of her gray-green eyes had a tiny wedge of brown in it and he found this imperfection intriguing. Her lips were not full, but the upper lip was slightly feline, curving down gracefully, then up toward the corners. It was a mouth that broke into a smile easily, and when it did the corners of her eyes crinkled. She had a habit of tilting her head to one side when she was considering something and he found this quirk charming.
He watched her as she poured the tea. Her hands were slender but strong, with prominent veins. Her fingernails were clipped short and unpainted. They were hands that worked hard. He had the queer sensation of wanting to cup them in his own.
For the first time in the year since Gwynne’s death, Alec Hudson felt himself uncurling. It was as if he’d been holding his breath a very long time and was, at last, breathing again.
She asked him what he did and seemed intrigued when he told her he was a writer. She asked if she would know his work and he said, “No, I don’t think so,” but nothing more.
They were quiet for a moment, and then she said, “That’s some backpack you’re lugging; have you come far?”
Farther than you can imagine, Alec thought to himself. But he said instead, “Just from outside Machynlleth today; I camped on the moors to the east of the town last night.”
“No, I meant where did you start?”
“London. Heathrow Airport, that is.”
“Heathrow!” Fiona’s eyebrows shot up. “You walked all the way from there? Good Lord, you must be daft! How far are you going?”
“Just to here. This is where I was going.”
“What, here? This valley?”
“Yes. I need to climb Cadair Idris; I promised someone I would.”
Fiona waited for him to say more but he was looking away, lost in thought. She didn’t press.
Alec was suddenly very tired. Maybe it was the hot bath. Maybe the days and weeks of walking had finally caught up with him. Maybe it was the warmth of the kitchen. Or of the woman across the table.
He turned to Fiona and found her smiling. There was a softness in her gaze that felt like a balm.
“I’m sorry, Fiona, but I’m bushed. Time to hit the tent. I really appreciate the bath and the tea.”
“My pleasure ... but wait, you haven’t eaten anything! I have some of David’s supper left over, a nice vegetarian stew. I could warm it up in no time.”
“Thanks, but I have something in my pack if I get hungry.”
Fiona smiled. “Well, I suspected you were a red meat man; I’m not much for vegetarian, either.”
“No, that’s not it, really. I’m just done in.”
Fiona stood up. “Right, off you go.”
Alec began carrying the tea things to the sink but she shooed him away. “Go on, then; that’s what you pay me for.”
When they got to the front door he turned and extended his hand. She took it and he placed his other hand on top of hers, holding it for a moment.
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome.”
He opened the door and they were hit by a gust of cold wind and spitting rain.
“Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit damp tonight. Will you be all right?”
He was already across the forecourt.
“Tent’s waterproof; sleeping bag’s warm,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. ’Night, Fiona.”
“Breakfast between seven and nine!”
Alec climbed into the tent, stripped, and slipped into his down sleeping bag. He didn’t eat anything. He didn’t hear the Bryce-Wetheralls when they arrived, or the other guests returning from town. He was asleep in an instant.
Fiona Edwards sat awhile in the ladder-back wooden chair in her entry hall. She could still feel the warmth of Alec’s hands around hers. It was simply a gesture of thanks, an expression of gratitude, but it felt sweetly intimate. She couldn’t decide whether it felt good or unsettling. Or both.
April 11, 1999
four
IT WAS THE SOUND OF CAR DOORS SLAMMING and engines starting that awakened Alec the next morning. Even then, he struggled to become conscious; he felt as if he was swimming to the surface of the ocean after a very deep dive.
It had been a rough night. The wind had continued rising and he was awakened at what he guessed was a little after midnight by the gunshot crack of the rain fly snapping in the wind. He’d crawled out into the darkness to check the tent pegs, getting wet in the process, but found them secure. Back in his down bag he’d had trouble getting to sleep again. Whenever he closed his eyes his mind ran a loop of disjointed images—places he’d walked through in the previous weeks, Gwynne lively and joking in the hospital, Gwynne’s inert body after her spirit had departed, the looming cliffs of Cadair Idris, Fiona Edwards. Sleep finally came again, but it was often disturbed.
Now the wind had dropped. He unzipped the tent flap and saw a shredded sky, bits of torn cloud racing beneath an arc of deep blue. From the sun’s position, he guessed it might easily be after nine. He sat up and pulled out the last of his clean clothing from the pack: a charcoal-colored lightweight pair of hiking trousers with zip-off legs and his other expedition shirt, this one olive. He put on his boots, thankful they were dry, and crawled out of the tent.
The front door was unlocked and he entered, leaving his boots in the hall. The breakfast room had already been cleared and he could hear Fiona moving around in the kitchen. On the sideboard, Alec noticed a photograph in a polished silver frame and stopped to examine it. A short, stocky, middle-aged man with closely cropped, slightly receding salt-and-pepper hair stood beside a red Volkswagen Golf. His arm was extended and he was handing what looked like the car keys to a beaming and darkly beautiful young woman with Fiona’s slight frame. David, he guessed, and a daughter. He put the photograph back and entered the kitchen. Fiona was wearing an ankle-length floral skirt and a cream-colored hand-knit cardigan in a cable pattern. She looked up as he came through the door.
“Well, good afternoon, Mr. Hudson; nice of you to favor us with your presence!”
“Afternoon?”
She laughed. “No, I’m teasing. It’s just gone ten.”
“Sorry about missing breakfast.”
“Nonsense! I’ve kept some warm for you in the cooker. Sit yourself down here at the kitchen table; I’m not about to go setting a place for you in the breakfa
st room again. There’s a Spanish frittata with mushrooms, tomato, and oregano; local sausages from Lewis the butcher in town—very famous for them, he is; fresh fruit, yogurt, scones, jam, and so forth. Coffee?”
“Just tea, please.”
“I thought you Americans had to have your coffee in the morning!”
“Not me.”
She set a heavy earthenware teapot on the table and then took his breakfast from the oven.
“This is very kind of you. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Jack; if you hadn’t shown up, he’d have got it.”
“You have a son?”
She tilted her head to one side.
“Jack’s our sheepdog who doesn’t like herding sheep. David thinks he’s useless and lazy, naturally, but I like his company. Funny thing is, he’s brilliant with the sheep when he’s working with Owen.”
“Owen.”
“Owen’s our hired man. Local, he is. Fresh out of agricultural college and wants his own farm, though I can’t imagine why. It’s hard work and pays practically nothing. He helps David in the meantime. We’re lucky to have him.”
There was a creak in the direction of the back door and Alec turned to see a long-haired black-and-white dog shamble in.
“It’s no good, Jackie, you slept in too long, I’m afraid,” Fiona chided.
“Not at all,” Alec said. “Come over here, Jack.”
The dog looked at him for a moment, sniffed the air, and sat beside him. Alec held out a piece of sausage and the dog took it gently from his fingers. Fiona was surprised. She didn’t think it was just the sausage; it usually took a while for Jack to accept someone new. She thought about Sooty’s response the night before. Although Alec seemed almost withdrawn, there was a gentleness about this man that both animals had understood instinctively and that she was only now beginning to comprehend.
“Is that your daughter in the photo in the breakfast room?”
“It is. That’s Meaghan, and my husband. She’d just got her learner’s permit to drive. Very chuffed about it, she was. She’s at university now, up in Leeds, studying graphic design.”
“Lovely young woman.”
“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” Fiona sighed, staring off into the distance. “A mixed blessing.”
“Meaning?”
“Boys. She attracts them like flowers attract bees.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Except for the dark hair, she looks just like you.”
Fiona laughed. “Would that be in the manner of a compliment?”
Alec looked at her.
“Yes. It would.”
She cocked her head to one side again and smiled.
“The latest one’s called Gerald, a city boy. She says he’s more sophisticated than the others. I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing a mother wants to hear.”
“Gotta watch out for those city boys.”
“That’s what I mean. Where did you grow up?”
“New York City.”
Fiona burst into laughter. Alec grinned.
“Will you go up the mountain today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Yes.”
“Did you climb it when you were here last?”
“I did.”
“What month was it?”
“June, I think. Or July.”
“I just need to tell you that at this time of year the weather on top of Cadair is often much worse than it is down here. It’s because it’s right on the Irish Sea. The weather can turn nasty in no time.”
Alec looked out the window. “I’m not exactly a novice.”
“On this mountain, everyone’s a novice—including the Mountain Rescue. One of their own died up there just last year. Cadair’s unpredictable, and a bit mean-spirited ...”
Alec smiled. “I appreciate the warning. Tell me: is there still a bus that goes around to the other side of the mountain, toward Tal y Llyn?”
“There is, yes, a little local bus, why?”
“I’d like to start there. Then I could just come back down on this side.”
“That bus runs about every two hours or so from Dolgellau. It goes on to Machynlleth. I could drop you off in town; I have to go in anyway.” She checked a schedule tacked to the wall by the back door.
“There’s one in a little over an hour. In the meantime, why don’t you bring in your things. Your room is the one to the right at the top of the stairs. You can hang your tent in the boot room behind the kitchen to dry; it’s warm there. Oh, and I’ll bet you have clothes that need washing; just leave them there, too.”
“I usually just wash them in the bathroom.”
“Don’t be silly; I have to do the sheets anyway. It’s no trouble.”
“Um ... okay. Thanks.”
He seemed nonplussed and it dawned on her that he wasn’t used to anyone doing anything for him, that he was the kind of fellow who took care of others. But who took care of him?
“Shall I pack you a lunch?”
“I have some cheese and bread in my pack. I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll bet that’s fresh,” she said, laughing. “All right, have it your way. Meanwhile, I’ll go make up the bedrooms while you sort your things.”
And then she was gone.
Jack had flopped down at his feet, and he reached down and idly scratched the dog’s head, to appreciative dog noises. Outside, the only sound was the distant bleating of sheep.
He took his dishes to the deep porcelain sink and decided to wash them, along with the baking dish and frying pans Fiona had used to make breakfast.
When he crossed the kitchen to go out to his tent, Jack looked up as if considering whether to accompany him. Apparently he thought better of it and dropped his head back to the floor with a sigh.
When he’d finished stowing his wet gear and laundry in the back room, Alec climbed the stairs to his room and found Fiona had already made it up. He was a little stunned by how luxurious it was. The carpet was thick and felt good beneath his stocking feet. There was a semicircular wooden framework attached to the ceiling above the headboard of the double bed from which drapes that matched the duvet cover fell to the floor, pooling on the carpet. They were pulled back toward the wall with thick, braided satin roping. French doors opened to a little balcony with a view south toward Cadair Idris. Two easy chairs flanked the doors. But the high point of the room was the wall opposite the bed: it was made entirely of dark, richly carved oak, and very old. He thought it might be an original part of the old house, but when he saw the angels carved into the wood he decided it had to be a rood screen salvaged from some long-abandoned chapel. Etched glass panels were set into the wall, and a low door that filled the central part of the screen opened into a narrow but beautifully appointed bathroom. There was a long, deep tub with elaborate brass fixtures and a handheld shower attachment, a pedestal sink, also with brass fittings, and both a toilet and a bidet. The thick Egyptian cotton towels matched the creamy porcelain.
Gwynne would have loved it.
He unfastened the top of his pack, which had hidden straps and doubled as a day pack, and set it on the bed. He put on a white sleeveless synthetic T-shirt that matched his black one and shoved the olive expedition shirt into the bottom of the day pack, along with his first aid kit and a plastic bottle that he’d filled with water at the sink. Then he reached into the big pack and withdrew the sealed, gray plastic box that held Gwynne’s ashes and set it between the bottle and the kit.
“Soon, Gwynne,” he said quietly to the box.
When she finished the last room, Fiona gathered the dirty linens and returned to the kitchen to start the washing. Along the way, she noticed Alec in the guests’ sitting room, writing in a small bound notebook. When she started the wash, Jack bestirred himself, padded over to the back door, and slipped out through a flap.
It was then that she noticed Alec had washed the dishes. She put them away and walked into the sitting room. He looked up.
“I see you are a
man of many talents,” she said, “including washing up. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a guest treat me so well!”
“Would that be in the manner of a compliment?” Alec said, echoing her own words earlier.
“Yes. It would.” Fiona said, gently mimicking his earlier answer to the same question.
Alec smiled.
“I’ll just bring the car around from the barn,” she said. “Meet you at the back door.”
Alec laced up his boots and stepped out the door just as Fiona drove up. It was the same red car that was in the photograph in the dining room.
“Should I lock the door?”
She laughed. “No, city boy, we don’t do that here.”
He climbed in and set the day pack gently between his feet.
She gunned the engine, shot out through the farm gate, and sped down the twisting lane toward the main road. Alec was impressed; she drove like a pro.
They rode for a while in silence, passing a reed-edged lake, an isolated pub, and several other hill farms, the road sometimes squeezing down to a single lane and then widening again. The road engineers seemed to have favored old trees and stone outcroppings over a wide, straight strip of macadam. Alec liked that.
As she turned into the square in Dolgellau, Fiona cried, “Quick! That’s your bus!” She spun the steering wheel to the left and pulled the car in front of the parked bus to keep it from leaving.
“Nicely done,” he said as he jumped out. “I figure two and a half hours up the mountain and one down. See you this afternoon. Three or four o’clock is my guess.”
“Be careful!” she called after him as she pulled out of the way. He gave her a wave and climbed onto the bus.
***
“YOU’LL BE WANTING Minffordd, I reckon,” said the driver, a wiry fellow in his sixties at least.
“You reckon right,” Alec said, surprised.
“It’s the boots.” The driver grinned as he slipped the bus into gear and pulled out of the square. “I get a lot of walkers going there. Rock climbers, too. But not this early in the year, usually.”
