The Long Walk Home

by Will North

  Fiona looked at him towering over her and laughed. “Easy! I’ll just look up!” And then she was off.

  Alec crossed the square and ducked into the grocer’s, marveling at the selection. When he’d first come to England, back in the sixties, he’d been surprised at how limited the vegetable and fruit choices had been. It was as if the British still lived in a state of wartime privation. But the Common Market, now the European Union, had changed all that. Alec took a clear plastic bag from a dispenser, picked out a firm head of garlic and a bunch of fresh spinach, then asked the elderly woman in the green apron if she had any lemons.

  “Aren’t you a lucky fellow,” she said. “I’ve just had in a fresh shipment in from Spain. Lovely fat lemons. How many would you like?”

  “Just one, thanks,” he answered, fishing coins from his pocket.

  When he reached the car, he saw Fiona coming out of a bookstore in the arcade. She reached the car, smiled, and unlocked the doors, and they were off again.

  A couple of twists and turns and they were back on the Cadair Road, speeding west toward the farm.

  “Whatever are you planning on making?”

  “Top secret; but I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

  “Meat two nights in one week!” she said as she turned into the farm lane and they began to climb the hill. “I make these vegetarian things for David—fresh greens, beans, root vegetables, all organic and most of it from the vegetable garden at the back. It’s all he seems to be able to tolerate, you see, and that’s pretty much what I eat as well, especially now Meaghan’s gone off to school. This is such a treat it’s beginning to seem like my birthday, not yours!”

  “The treat’s all mine, Fi,” Alec replied. “So when’s your birthday?”

  “Not till December. The eighteenth.”

  “Ah, now it all makes sense.”

  “What does?”

  “Sagittarius. You know: troublesome, argumentative ...”

  Fiona shot out her left fist and punched him playfully in the shoulder. “And how about you, Mr. Aries the ram: stubborn, impulsive, headstrong? Refusing to take no for an answer, pitching a tent in my garden ... shall I go on?”

  Alec laughed. “Okay, okay; I plead guilty.”

  She parked the car in the barn and they dashed across the farmyard through the rain. Jack greeted them at the back door with manic barking and tail waving.

  “Oh shush, you silly dog. All you want is food and it’s too early,” Fiona scolded. She glanced at the kitchen clock. “No, it’s not after all; goodness, we’ve used up the entire afternoon! Mr. Hudson, you’re turning me into a lady of leisure!”

  Alec ignored her and began unpacking their parcels. A few moments later he heard a car pull into the forecourt.

  “Rambler alert,” he called out, but Fiona was already on her way to the front door. A few moments later, he could hear snatches of conversation—“... awful weather ... long drive ... lovely house ... tea?”—and then footsteps as Fiona led her guests upstairs to their room. A few minutes later she was back.

  “And how are the Llewellyns?” Alec asked.

  “Classics of the type, though a bit older than I’d expected. You’ll love them.”

  Alec suspected she was being arch.

  “They’re worn out from the drive and are going to rest awhile before going into town for dinner,” she said, turning on the electric kettle. “I’m going to take them up a pot of tea and some goodies. Message on the answering machine from the Birmingham people; they’ve canceled because of the weather.”

  She’d just put together a selection of tea cakes and poured the boiling water into the pot when there was a knock at the back door.

  Fiona went out through the boot room and he heard her say, “Hello, Owen, how are things?”

  “May I have a word, Mrs. Edwards?”

  “Certainly, come in!”

  “Too muddy for that, ma’am.”

  “Right, just a tick.”

  She stuck her head into the kitchen and said, “Alec, would you mind terribly taking that tray up to the Llewellyns?”

  “Not at all,” he answered, but she had already stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

  When he returned, she was slicing vegetables. “I need to get a bit of supper together for David. He had to leave the lambing fields midafternoon and apparently he’s in a black mood. Shouted at Owen.”

  “It must be hard for David, this busy time of year.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is, but there’s no reason to take it out on poor Owen; he’s a good man.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  She smiled. “No, it’s fine. Take it easy for a bit; I’m afraid this will slow down your preparations some.”

  “No problem,” Alec replied. “I think I’ll go upstairs, clean up, then come down and get to work on supper. See you later.”

  He turned to leave.

  “Alec?”

  “Yes?”

  “I had a lovely time this afternoon. Thank you.”

  Alec grinned, nodded, and left.

  Fiona pulled down a pan from the rack above the cooker. She dropped butter into the pan and added sliced carrots and onions. In a separate pan she steamed kale and baby beet greens from the garden, then added them to the sauté pan. Finally, she stirred in a small tin of cannellini beans and a bit of tomato sauce.

  Letting the mixture simmer, she walked over to the sink, leaned on the edge, and stared out the window to the darkening valley below. She heard Alec moving around in his room above the dining room.

  Twenty-two years, she thought to herself. How did that happen? Meaghan had been a sort of measuring stick for her; she traced the history of her family by her daughter’s growth, by the pencil marks that crept higher on the doorjamb between the kitchen and the boot room where they recorded her height at each birthday. They were like tree rings marking the passing years. Now Meaghan was grown and gone. Fiona had looked forward to this time, the time when she and David could be just the two of them again. It had been a foolish dream from the start; David had never possessed a romantic soul. Now, with the illness, the dream had gone from foolish to impossible. She’d become resigned to the life they had now. “For better or for worse ... in sickness and in health,” she had pledged, “so help me God.” But she hadn’t anticipated “worse.” She hadn’t expected “sickness.” Now here they both were.

  She brought David breakfast and a bag lunch early each morning, before she started cooking for her guests. They’d talk then, mostly about the farm work, or the news from Meaghan. She cleaned for him at midday most days, while he was out in the fields. She brought him supper. They no longer spent the evening together; David was tired by then, and often moody. Now, when she took him supper, she put her hand on the latch of the door to the old hay barn, took a deep breath, and entered with a cheery “Evening, David; look what I’ve brought.” Sometimes he’d rise to meet her. Lately, he just sat in his chair with his back to her, staring at the telly. Often the volume wasn’t even on. “David,” she’d ask, “are you all right?” “What do you think, woman?” he’d bark, not even turning to address her. She’d stand there silently for a moment or two, then set down the supper, slip quietly out the door, and drive slowly back down the rough track to the farmhouse.

  It wasn’t his fault, of course. He hadn’t brought this on himself. He’d done what a good farmer was supposed to do, what the government required him to do. But some good farmers got sick. Some even died. She didn’t want that to happen to David, but she wished desperately that his bitterness and anger would die. At least, she thought, she ought to be able to nurse him, but he wouldn’t even let her do that. It was as if he thought his fury could burn through the illness and make him well. But it wasn’t; it was making him sicker, at least emotionally. It was making him crazy.

  She spooned David’s supper into a casserole dish. In the beginning, she took it to him on a covered plate, sometimes with a vase of flowers from the g
arden. Nowadays, he sometimes didn’t touch what she’d made until late at night. She’d bought him a little microwave oven so he could warm up his supper, and she delivered the meal in a casserole dish that was microwave-safe. But she suspected he ate it cold anyway.

  Now she put the lid on the dish, took her coat off the hook in the boot room, walked through the rain to the barn, and drove the car up the track toward the mountain and the hay barn.

  “What do you want?!” David growled from his chair when she entered.

  “What do you mean, luv? I’ve brought your supper,” she said.

  “Take it away; I don’t want it.”

  “Don’t be silly, David; you need to eat.”

  “What do I need to eat for?!” he roared, struggling to his feet. He came toward her and staggered, grasping the back of his chair for stability. She could smell the whisky. “I’ve got ewes out there lambing this very minute and I’m not there for them. How do you think that makes me feel, woman?! Bloody useless, that’s how! And no son to carry on for me!”

  That stung, and she knew he knew it. “You have Owen, David.”

  “Bloody Owen! What in hell does he know, with all his book learning?!”

  “That’s enough! Owen Lewis is a good man and he’s working hard for us. He respects you. He looks up to you. He’s as good as a son to you.”

  David reached her and stood very close. “He’s not a son, damn you!” David bellowed, spittle spraying from his mouth. Fiona wanted to step back but she felt glued to the spot. As if from outside herself she watched as her husband drew his right arm backward over his left shoulder and then swung it swiftly forward again, smacking the right side of her face, hard, with the back of his hand.

  She’d braced for it unconsciously, but still the blow knocked Fiona one step to her left. Even so, she was too stunned to move. David had been angry, even threatening before, but never had he struck her. Never. Finally, after what seemed forever but was probably only a few seconds, she began to back away from him toward the door.

  “I’m not finished with you, woman!” he spat, advancing upon her. But his foot caught the leg of one of the chairs at his little dining table, and he stumbled and fell.

  Fiona reached the door but suddenly her shock turned to strength. She straightened her back and stepped up to the place where he’d landed on his hands and knees.

  “If you ever do that to me again, David Edwards,” she said in a perfectly calm voice that belied her fear, “it’s over and you can fend for yourself.”

  Then she turned and walked out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

  “Fiona!” she heard him cry through the heavy door as she turned on the ignition. She ignored him. They could talk about it tomorrow. Maybe. She turned the car around and raced down the track toward home. Her face felt aflame.

  It wasn’t until she parked the car in the barn and turned off the lights that the tears came. They were tears of shock, not pain. She was crying, she realized, because she no longer recognized her own husband, because she felt helpless, because she didn’t know what to do next. He did not seem to be getting better with time, and his emotional condition was deteriorating. He refused go to the doctor anymore, and the truth was there wasn’t much the doctor could do. And what could she do? What should she do? He was growing more unpredictable and more violent as time passed.

  She sat in the car, collecting herself, then walked across the farmyard toward the house. The rain was easing a bit. She looked up at the sky. The deep darkness of the countryside at night was a great comfort to her. The incomprehensible millions of the stars did not make her feel alone in the universe; they made her feel a part of it. But there would be no stars tonight.

  When she walked through the boot room and into the kitchen she found Alec already there. He was slicing the pork tenderloin lengthwise, butterflying it. He turned toward her.

  “Hello, you ... ,” he began. Then he saw the red welt on her cheek. And the red-rimmed eyes.

  “Jesus, Fi! What happened?”

  “It’s fine Alec, really. It’s nothing. Sometimes David ... sometimes he ... it’s just so hard for him ... he just ... he was drinking ... he’s just overwhelmed and angry ... he’s ...”

  Alec wiped his hands and walked across the kitchen, stopping just in front of her. He held Fiona’s shoulders but remained a step away. That was all it took. She fell into his chest, sobbing. He put his arms around her. He stood there a bit stiffly, wanting to be a comfort but trying not to be more. After a few moments, he felt her take a deep breath, put her hands on his chest, and push away. She managed a wan smile.

  “I’m sorry, Alec, so sorry you had to see this.”

  “Fiona,” he said, leading her to one of the kitchen chairs, “I have no business interfering in your life. But here we are, in your kitchen, right now. What can I do to help?”

  She looked at this man, feeling his kindness, sensing his affection, knowing it was genuine. For a moment she thought she would begin crying again, but instead she smiled. “A glass of that wine might be nice.”

  He hesitated for a moment. Then he whirled into action, pulling a Swiss army knife out of his pocket, flipping out its corkscrew attachment, snatching one of the wine bottles from the refrigerator, slicing off the foil cover, and neatly pulling the cork. He looked around the kitchen.

  “Glasses, glasses ...”

  Fiona laughed at last.

  “To the right of the sink. No, wait. Let’s use the good ones.” She disappeared into the dining room and returned with two delicate long-stemmed wineglasses with gold rims.

  “They were Mother’s; I never use them. Perhaps it’s time I did.”

  He gestured for her to sit again, tossed a kitchen towel over his forearm, in the manner of a sommelier in a fine restaurant, poured a taste into her glass, stood back at attention, and awaited the verdict.

  She sipped the wine. “Umm, this is lovely. When’s dinner?”

  He filled her glass. “It’ll take forty-five minutes or so, maybe an hour.”

  She looked at the hand holding her glass and realized it was still shaking. “I think I’ll go upstairs, have a bath, and try to make myself presentable for your birthday dinner. An hour?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She smiled. If you only knew.

  “See you then.”

  Alec stood for a moment wondering what had happened across the farm in that hay barn. He was thinking about how she felt in his arms. He was thinking about the strength she had and how it contrasted with the delicacy of her body. He was thinking about how beautiful she was—or could be if she had someone who cared.

  He went to the boot room, shrugged on his rain jacket, took a bulky flashlight off a hook by the door, and went out to the vegetable garden behind the barn, glad to discover there were gravel paths between the wet beds. He found the wintered-over leeks. There was an old spading fork leaning up against the side of the barn and he plunged it into the earth. Despite the day’s downpour, the soil was loose, rich, and easy to work. He forked up two thick leeks, returned the spade to the wall, and found a rain barrel under a downspout where he rinsed off the dirt clinging to the roots. Along the garden’s border he found herbs. He pinched off the stems of some new parsley and snapped off a woody branch of rosemary. As he walked back toward the house he heard a car start and move away; the Llewellyns on their way to Dolgellau for supper, he guessed.

  Back in the kitchen, Alec chopped the parsley together with a clove of garlic and some mint that grew in a pot by the window and spread the mixture across the butterflied pork loin, adding salt, pepper, and olive oil. Then he rolled the pork and tied it together. Next, he julienned the white parts of the leeks and softened them in a buttered pan over low heat. He put another sauté pan on the hottest hob and swirled olive oil into it. When the oil began to smoke he added the rolled tenderloin, quickly browning the sides. After a few minutes, he put the meat pan into one of the Aga’s ovens to roast.

 
.***

  FIONA STOOD IN her bathroom, leaning on the pedestal sink and staring at her reflection in the mirror. The bath had helped; the welt on her face had stopped stinging. Her eyes were no longer red.

  In retrospect, she didn’t feel anger about what David had done. What she felt was pity. What had happened to him—what was still happening—must be terrifying. The only life he’d ever known was in jeopardy. The farm was how he defined himself; its success was how he measured his worth. She knew his fury had nothing to do with her not bearing him a son, though perhaps lambing season brought the issue back to the surface for him. And she knew he was fond of Owen, as Owen was of him. He was simply afraid. Afraid of losing the farm; afraid of losing himself.

  But now she was afraid, too.

  She walked into the bedroom. It was Alec’s birthday. He was cooking for her. She would dress up a bit and push the fear aside. She pulled a box that held some of Meaghan’s castoffs from the back of her closet and picked through them. Eventually, she found a narrow, ankle-length, black gabardine skirt. In the mirror, it made her look taller. She chose a simple white broadcloth blouse and, instead of tucking it in, cinched it with a belt. She had a Victorian black velvet choker with a cameo that had been her mother’s and she put it on, the knot at the nape of her neck hidden by her hair.

  She went back into the bathroom. In the mirror she knew immediately the velvet choker was wrong. You look like a present waiting to be unwrapped, she said to herself. And you’re not. She untied the choker and set it aside. “Better,” she said aloud. Though she almost never used makeup, she smoothed on foundation to hide the fading red welt on her cheek. She added just a touch of lipstick. She reached for the Rain, then hesitated, picking up the unopened bottle of Amarige instead. She broke the seal and sniffed: dark spices, woodiness, a touch of vanilla. Exotic. She decided she liked her daughter’s taste in fragrances. She sprayed a tiny bit of the perfume behind her ears. Finally, she slipped her feet into a pair of shoes with a tiny heel—“kitten heels” Meaghan had called them when they bought them together—and left her rooms.