The Runaway Year

by Shani Struthers

  “Oh, don’t be so pedantic. You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Layla conceded. “But there’s not a lot for me here either, is there?”

  “Of course there is. You were born here; you belong here. And what about your friends?”

  “My ex-work colleagues, you mean?” Layla shook her head derisively. “They’re not friends, not really. They’re people I haven’t got anything in common with unless we’ve chucked at least three, preferably four, glasses of wine down our throats beforehand. I won’t miss any of them.”

  “What about your family, then?”

  “Penny…” Layla was getting exasperated now. “I’m an only child, remember? Mum’s in Milan with Giorgio and shows no sign of ever coming home. As for my aunt, I hardly know her. She and Mum never got on.”

  “You still ought to stay, though,” replied Penny. “Have your say with Alex.”

  “Alex?” Layla couldn’t help shouting. “Do you realize he hasn’t even texted me since he got back on Tuesday? He doesn’t give a damn. He’s made that crystal clear. No,” she continued, shaking her head determinedly, “there’s nothing more to say to Alex. Nothing at all.”

  “All right, then,” Penny replied, her voice small this time. “What about me? How can you leave me?”

  “Oh, Penny,” said Layla, softening. “I’m not that far away. You’ll come down and see me. I’ll be back after a year. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me.” Penny threw her arms in the air. “It feels like my whole world is falling apart!”

  No stranger herself to that feeling, Layla attempted to give her a hug but was rudely brushed aside. Clearly Penny was not done.

  “Richard and I are on the brink of divorce, and now my best friend is deserting me, leaving me alone to face life and all its battles.”

  Surprised at how dramatic she was being, Layla tried again to console her.

  “I’m not deserting you. We can talk every day on the phone, text like it’s going out of fashion. I’m here for you whatever happens.”

  “But you won’t be here though, not physically here. It’s not the same; nothing’s the same anymore.”

  She was right about that at least; nothing was the same anymore, for either of them. Seeing her friend in such distress was upsetting, though. Was it a stupid idea to leave Brighton? Should she stay and confront Alex? The temp agency had said they would probably have work for her over the next week or so. All she had to do was ring them again, and she could be earning in no time. Then a voice surged up inside her, the same one she’d heard whilst on the phone to Hannah. A voice that had worried her at first, making her wonder if she had schizophrenic tendencies. A voice that said, Go. Leave here. Have an adventure. It’ll do you good.

  All she’d ever known was office life. All she’d ever known was Brighton. If she stayed, it would be the same old same old with a constant fear of bumping into Alex and Sarah-Jane mixed in for good measure. The idea of an adventure appealed to her. And she loved Trecastle, she really did. It was a magical place. The place she had met her other best friend; the place in which she had felt close to an otherwise absent mother; the place where she had found temporary relief from the grief of losing her father, as if somehow it were possible to have a holiday from heartache. She had been seventeen the last time she’d been there. She was dying to see it again, to see for herself if what Hannah had said was true: that time had hardly touched it at all.

  No, as much as she was going to miss Penny, her staunchest ally since they’d met at City College over a decade ago, she was not going to stay in Brighton. Not with that voice nagging away inside her twenty-four seven.

  Grabbing onto Penny’s shoulders, her steely grip ensuring she wouldn’t be brushed off this time, she said, “Listen to me, I am not abandoning you. And I’m not running away either, not really. I’m not sure if I can explain it, but what I’m doing feels right. When Hannah said to come down, it was as though I could see a way forward again, whereas before, all I could see was a brick wall I’d be constantly banging my head against. I’m going to miss you, you know I will. But I have to go.” Then, as an unexpected wave of emotion rose from deep within and threatened to engulf her, she heard herself beg, “Please, Penny, please, you’ve got to let me go.”

  Penny looked shocked, really shocked.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Go. Go and get over this shit with Alex. Go and come back stronger.”

  “Thanks,” whispered Layla, relief replacing despair now she’d finally obtained her best friend’s blessing.

  Quickly the shoulder clutch developed into a bear hug, both girls holding onto one another as though their very lives depended on it.

  Penny was the first to break away, a slight tremor in her voice as she said, “Anyway, I’ll be down soon, to see what sort of a shack you’re living in.”

  “I can’t wait to see myself,” Layla replied, smiling through her tears.

  Soon after, they gathered up all that Layla had left in the world—two big black bags stuffed with clothes and toiletries, a duvet and pillow, a clutch of books she’d recently bought (none of them remotely romantic for once) a bag of CDs, and her beloved laptop—and they headed outside to load the Mazda. As Layla pulled away from the curb, the sight of Penny waving, a sad, solitary figure standing alone and lonely, nearly set her crying again. She would miss Penny. And she would miss Brighton, the city she had grown up in. But she carried on regardless, leaving the crowded streets further and further behind until all that lay ahead was the open road.

  The weather was not conducive to a long road journey. The heavens soon opened, and the farther west she drove, the harder it rained. Past Arundel, past Chichester, Portsmouth, and Southampton, she finally stopped in historic Dorchester for a bite to eat in a quaint café. Her phone buzzed on the table.

  The cottage is unlocked. Go straight in when you arrive

  and make yourself at home. Hannah xxx

  What a difference! thought Layla. You could never leave your door unlocked in Brighton. If you did, you’d come back and find everything gone—fixtures, fittings, and the family cat. What a trusting lot they were down there. It was nice, comforting.

  Quickly, Layla called Hannah.

  “I’ve got to work at the pub tonight,” Hannah told her, “so drop off your bags and come down for a drink as soon as you can.” She sounded excited, and it was catching.

  Layla looked at her watch. It was a few minutes past noon. She should be in Trecastle around three p.m. That would give her plenty of time to check out her new home, unpack, and spruce herself up a bit—perfect. Hannah promised they’d spend the next day together too, revisiting old haunts. As she thought fondly of Trecastle’s impressive beach, the ruined castle, and the hustle and bustle of the high street, Layla could hardly wait to see them again.

  After chomping away on her smoked salmon, cream cheese, and cucumber baguette, she drained the last dregs of Coke before heading back to her car, which she’d parked down a quiet side road. It was a short walk, but it still left her cold and wet. Her hair, normally smooth and shiny, was starting to frizz at an alarming rate. She turned the car’s heater to full blast, grimacing at the slightly burned smell that came from the grill as she did so, and chose a CD. Adele had accompanied her on most of the first leg of the journey, Layla practically screaming herself hoarse to the lyrics of “Set Fire to the Rain.” Although it had been quite cathartic, she had wanted something more low-key next and had turned to Lana Del Rey. But all that talk of kissing the object of your desire hard in the pouring rain, of being in love forever, had begun to grate after a while, and she’d turned the music off. She’d had enough heartfelt outpourings concerning boyfriends, errant or otherwise; now she wanted something comforting and instrumental, no lyrics at all. DJ Shadow it was, then, as she departed Dorchester and made her way to Exeter via Honiton.

  By the time she reached Exeter, the rain had become fierce, forcing her to go slow. She would be at the
cottage in more like two hours at this rate. But that was okay; she was enjoying the journey, just taking it easy. This was a stretch of road she’d always loved, sitting beside her mother as she drove them down in their old Peugeot, anticipating seeing Hannah again. She adored the scenery too, even in this weather, and how it changed from the soft, rolling hills of Devon to the more barren, rock-strewn Cornish landscape.

  Turning left at Kennards House, she swapped the main road for the narrow country lanes of North Cornwall. A few miles before Trecastle, she started passing familiar landmarks. There, on the right, was the slate mine, a living monument to a bygone age. The famous Trecastle Piskie House was also still standing, but instead of the lively tourist attraction it had once been, it looked strangely desolate. An odd assortment of gnomes, piskies, and elfin-like statues stood guard, but they had clearly seen better days and the little house itself had fallen into serious disrepair.

  I hope that’s not indicative of Trecastle itself, she thought with a worried frown. But no, it couldn’t be. Hannah was always going on about what a great place it was to live in. Certainly the pub she worked in, the oh-so-imaginatively named Trecastle Inn, attracted a lively crowd.

  As she drew nearer to her destination, she caught a flash of silver on the horizon, and once again excitement gripped her. The sea she remembered well. It was different from the often murky waters of the Sussex coast, much bluer in color (when the sun shone), practically azure, and much wilder.

  It was nearly four p.m. when she pulled into the village. The rain hadn’t quite given up yet, and the wind was starting to thrash the already cowering trees around her. Her TomTom had guided her nicely for the main part of her journey but was faltering at the last hurdle. Hannah had told her exactly how to reach the cottage, however, and Layla had written the instructions down word-for-word, but still she missed the turn-off to her lane an impressive four times.

  Finding herself on the way to the village center again, she pulled over, intending to negotiate a three-point turn. The cottage was slightly out of the village, so she needed to get back onto the opposite side of the road and go back up the hill. Glancing over Hannah’s instructions again, she swung the car to the right—straight into the path of a motorcyclist.

  The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion. The rider tried to stop but couldn’t do so in time, although he did manage to avoid hitting her car. As he turned his handlebars hard to the right, his tires lost grip on the wet road and he flew off, sliding some way before coming to a halt.

  Layla sat motionless in her car, paralyzed temporarily by the shock. At last she managed to galvanize herself into action and fumbled for the door handle, her shaking hands making it hard to get a grip. When the door finally opened, another dilemma hit: What if she couldn’t stand? Her legs felt like jelly; surely they wouldn’t support her. Forcing herself upward, she was relieved to discover they held firm. Once she was sure they would continue to do so, she bolted over to where the biker lay, placed one hand on his soaked leather-clad shoulder, and said, “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not bloody okay!” he replied, a pair of bright blue eyes meeting hers as he lifted his visor. “I’m a bit bruised and battered as it goes.”

  Despite his belligerent words, relief flooded through her: he wasn’t dead!

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” she said, letting out a huge sigh.

  “Glad?” he said, sitting up now and brushing the mud and leaves off his left arm. “Charming.”

  “Oh, no, no,” she stuttered, realizing what she’d just said. “I’m not glad that I knocked you over. I’m glad you’re alive.”

  “Only just, I think,” he replied, needing a helping hand to stand up.

  “Can I give you a lift somewhere, take you to the nearest hospital?”

  “The nearest hospital? That would be in Bodmin, I think, about fifteen miles from here. I don’t fancy driving fifteen miles with you behind the wheel.”

  Feeling a little indignant now, Layla replied, “I’m actually a very good driver, thank you. You’re the first accident I’ve ever had.”

  “Lucky me,” he replied sarcastically. “Look, I’m fine. Nothing appears to be broken. Just help me get my bike up, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Both of them hurried over to the bike, lying abandoned on the road.

  As they bent down to lift it, Layla said, “It doesn’t look too damaged, does it?”

  “It doesn’t matter if it is,” he replied, wincing at the effort it took to pick it up. “I’m not precious about it. It’s just an old trail bike I muck around on. To be honest, the more battered it looks, the better.”

  Again she noticed him wincing with pain as he remounted the bike.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “Really, don’t worry. Are you all right?”

  Layla was surprised that he could feel concern for her after what she had done. “Yeah, yeah, I think so. Thanks for asking and sorry. Really, I am so sorry.”

  “There’s no need to be. I’m okay,” he said, and she could tell he was smiling, despite the fact his helmet covered almost all of his face.

  She smiled back at him, but hesitantly so.

  As he drove away, she got back into her car and leaned against the steering wheel, waiting for the shakes to subside.

  Right, best get on, she thought before putting the car back into first gear and turning with exaggerated care up the hill, toward her new home.

  There was the elusive turn-off—a tiny little lane just off the main road into the village, with quaint cottages on either side. On the right, in all its humble glory, stood Lenny Dryden’s cottage.

  The memory of the accident parceled up and put aside for now, she parked her car, stepped once more into the rain, and stood and stared at the cottage. Hannah had said it was lovely, and she was right. Painted white, its stucco walls were clean and bright with tiny window frames picked out in a fading shade of sage green. The door was sage green too and the roof traditional slate. Drawing nearer to it, she saw it had a name—The Outlook—etched in large letters on the glass panel above the door.

  How charming, she thought, moving closer.

  Opening the front door, she stepped into a tiny hallway, which in turn led through to the living room, a cluttered but cozy den with traditional oak beams and a cast iron wood burner in the fireplace. Bookshelves lined one wall, and walking over to them, she noted that some were by Lenny Dryden himself, books on plants and related matters. There were watercolors of flowers on the walls too, of Red Valerian, Tree Mallow, and Curled Dock, all painted by the owner. Hannah hadn’t told her he was an artist, let alone a published writer. She was impressed.

  At the back of the cottage was the kitchen, fairly largish with walls painted the color of buttermilk, flagstones on the floor, a black Rayburn oven, and an old-fashioned butler’s sink. A sturdy old oak table dominated the room, and on it were the house keys, a big bunch of flowers, and a box of chocolates as well as a handwritten letter from Mr. Dryden, no doubt explaining all the cottage’s ins and outs. Touched at his thoughtfulness, she stopped to sniff the lilies before making her way to the rear of the kitchen and another door, which she presumed led into the garden.

  Layla opened the door, peered into the descending gloom, and noticed a long and narrow stretch of lawn lay before her. Lifting her eyes to gaze farther, she could make out the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. Squinting more, she gasped in surprise.

  “Gull Rock,” she cried out. “It’s Gull Rock. I can see Gull Rock from my kitchen.”

  So that was her outlook, and what an outlook it was. She loved Gull Rock, remembered it well from childhood. How she and Angelica had stood on the shore before it and fantasized about making it their own, just the two of them, living there forevermore on their secret island. It had always remained tantalizingly out of reach, though. So near and yet so far.

  A pang of longing for Angelica shot through her suddenly, so she parceled tha
t up too and placed it in another box. Now was not the time for indulging in memories, good, bad, or indifferent. Now was the time to see what other delights the cottage held for her.

  Venturing upstairs, she poked her head around the bathroom door. It was small but sufficient with a decent-looking shower and pretty blue and white tiles on the wall. The first bedroom she came to was sparsely furnished. There was a double bed in it, though, and a chest of drawers with a mirror hanging above it. More of Lenny’s paintings graced the magnolia walls.

  Saving the best for last—at least, she hoped so—she entered the main bedroom, just above the kitchen. She was not disappointed. It was pale blue in color with fresh white skirting, a picture rail (also in white) wooden floorboards, and a black cast-iron fireplace. There was an antique-looking walnut wardrobe with a full-length mirror on the door and, the pièce de résistance, another vase of fresh flowers, sitting atop a beautiful old chest of drawers. Clearly Lenny intended for her to sleep in this room, and she wasn’t going to argue. She could see Gull Rock from here too and imagined lazy summer mornings in bed, propped up with pillows, as she admired its majestic beauty.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and smiled. This was perfect, dust and all, a veritable haven in which to enjoy some much needed time away from the rat race and the rats who inhabited it.

  Going back downstairs, she found the kettle, filled it with water, and switched it on, gasping for a cup of tea. Luckily, she had thought to bring a few provisions with her and went to retrieve them from the hallway. Whilst munching her way through a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, her phone rang again.

  “Where are you?” Hannah asked eagerly. “Have you arrived yet?”

  “I have. I’m here and it’s great. I love it.”

  “I knew you would!” cried Hannah. “So are you coming down? Help me pull a pint or two?”

  “Yeah, sure. Give me half an hour or so, and I’ll be there.”

  “Brilliant. See you soon.”

  “Bye,” Layla replied and hung up.