From a Distance

by Raffaella Barker

  ‘Mmm,’ agreed Luisa. Luckily, he seemed to have completely forgotten that she was the one who should have dealt with the sheep emergency call. Tom picked up his keys and his cap. ‘Come on, Grayson, time you pulled your weight a bit with some sheep herding. See you later, Tod.’ He blew her a kiss.

  ‘Tom?’

  He opened the door again and leaned in, ‘Ye-es?’

  She shot him a devastating smile. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Nothing, it can wait,’ she said.

  Chapter 3

  The lane in front and behind Kit’s car was a tunnel of shifting green as he hurtled east. The hedgerows on either side of him tumbled with wild honeysuckle, couch grass in a knot, cow parsley nodding. Plant life rattled against the door panels, stones swooshed luxuriously beneath the wide tyres. Kit narrowed his eyes and lowered the sun visor. He’d begun travelling before dawn, and was almost there. Rolling his shoulders, he yawned. He ached, his eyes were tight with the strain of watching the road and he couldn’t think about his legs or his back, they screamed, muscles impatient to get out, to move. He would be glad to stop. The car had been going like a dream, but eight hours was a big ask for a thirty-year-old engine. Come to think of it, it was a big ask for the driver too. And he was on the final leg now, the home straight.

  Kit found himself immersed in nature, not something he usually took much notice of. The scent of wild honeysuckle blew in through the window, enveloping him, catching in his throat, insisitent and beguiling as a lover. He snorted. He hadn’t considered so much as the possibility of a lover in a while. There had been no room, no time. Grief consumes all, Kit had discovered. It might have been different, he supposed, if he had siblings with whom to share the loss.

  He braked abruptly as an unmarked junction appeared ahead of him. Leaning over the steering wheel to see if any traffic was approaching, a flash of yellow in the hedge caught his eye. A sprig of gorse had been dropped into the woven bowl of a bird’s nest, and it trembled there as the occupant darted away. The bright cadmium jumped at Kit. Gorse. It felt like a sign. He had never thought himself superstitious, but after his mother died he’d begun to notice things. An old yellow mini van, identical to the one she’d driven him to school in, appeared at the garage where he had his car serviced. Radio 3 ran a series on Thomas Tallis, and for three weeks Kit listened to his mother’s favourite music and wished he’d made the effort when she was alive. It was absurd, he knew, but he fancied it was her communicating with him again. Gorse was another connection. It was eighteen months after her death that Kit launched the first new fabric in the Felicity Delaware Archive collection, and the yellow gorse flower was the motif he’d picked from his mother’s numerous notebooks. The design was selling well. Indeed, an email he’d scanned quickly when he’d stopped for petrol was full of it.

  ‘ “Gorse” is on track for a record first month,’ wrote Matthew, head of sales at Lighthouse Fabric. ‘Have asked for a few more archive yellows to scan through. Any favourites?’

  A thrush darted past the car and dipped herself into the nest, jabbing her beak at the gorse petals. Kit held his breath and fumbled in the glove box for his binoculars. He’d never been this near to a bird. She eyeballed him. Or maybe she didn’t, but through the lens, her eyes shone like jet. She opened her beak and a torrent of sound poured out, ceasing as if a plug had been pulled when, without warning, she flew off again. Kit peered at the nest. At the bottom of the mud-lined cup, two bright blue eggs lay like sugar lumps. ‘An heir and a spare,’ thought Kit, irrelevantly. The gorse sprig had vanished.

  Kit drove on, hoping he was still heading in the right direction. Signposts were not part of the Norfolk experience. Norfolk was confusing enough to Kit without getting lost. For his mother to have owned property here and never told him had been impossible to deal with while Kit came to terms with being alone in the world. Never mind that he was a grown man, and had been for decades, grief took its own time. A lighthouse in Norfolk, tenanted and taken care of by a lawyer in a small East Anglian town was best ignored. The thought of investigating it had overwhelmed Kit. Until now. Now he was coming to take possession of this lighthouse. Perhaps it wasn’t that odd anyway, his mother always loved seaside icons. Why shouldn’t she have bought one? There was probably a very reasonable explanation. Perhaps he could integrate its image into the Felicity Delaware Collection. Jesus Christ, what was that?

  Something large had plummeted off the grassy slope above him in the direction of the windscreen. Kit ducked instinctively, slamming his foot on the brake so tyres and brake cables screeched in unhappy alliance. The car cavorted to one side of the road, burying its front bumper into the bank with a judder that caused a map, the binoculars and Kit’s phone to slither off the front seat. Kit was rammed uncomfortably against the steering wheel as the car attempted to lurch once more and stalled. The ensuing calm was a balmy relief. No one around. Thank God. He wouldn’t have wanted to be seen making such a hash of an emergency stop. Alf, his godson, who had only been learning to drive for a month, could have done better. Kit opened the door cautiously. He didn’t think he was hurt, but his body was crunched and weary, and moving was an effort. Stretching, he grinned to himself. The first time in his whole life he’d seen the point of wearing a seatbelt.

  Well, you live and learn, he thought. He leaned on the car, snatching a breath. A few rain drops fell half-heartedly. Whatever it was had disappeared. He rubbed his eyes. Could he have imagined it? All he’d seen was a blur of rushing legs, a black shape hurtling towards him. Fuzzy, and moving fast. A wig? An optical illusion? No. Unless his ears were misleading him, it was nothing so interesting. His car bumper was embedded in the bank for the sake of a bloody sheep. And here came its friends. Bleating assailed him as a woolly ewe appeared out of the scrub on top of the bank, and stood for a moment, chewing, her yellow eyes darting everywhere like a hooligan intent on trouble. That sheep will not be alone, Kit thought wryly. Sure enough, the gap in the hedge broadened to allow through a gang of about ten of them, some black, some white, if anyone could call the greasy grey of their fleece white, but all sharing the devilish gaze and loud complaints of the first.

  ‘You’ve got no bloody road sense,’ said Kit, infuriated as one thumped past him, standing on his foot. He stretched out his hand, resting his palm on the springy wool. Wait a minute, what was he doing? Stroking the sheep like Little Bloody Bo Peep. He snatched his hand back, the sheep carried on grazing.

  ‘You’ve no idea what a pain in the arse this is,’ he said. ‘I’ve got things to do, places to be. I’m meant to be somewhere this afternoon, you know.’

  More bleating ewes descended from the field above him. One nudged his legs as she headed for a succulent plant behind him. Her teeth bit through the dandelion stalk cleanly. He wondered, if he fell over if they would eat him. Shades of The Birds. Hadn’t there been story a few years ago about a woman whose husband fed her to his pigs? He remembered it because the report had said, ‘It is little known that, to a pig, every part of a human being is edible’, and his mother, to whom he had been reading the newspaper as was his habit when he visited her, had smiled and said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s only fair: we can eat all of them, too.’

  The sheep in Norfolk were over-confident. They might easily forget the vegetarian habits of a lifetime. Another trotted up and sprang onto the boot of the car.

  ‘Oi!’ yelled Kit, banging his hand on the roof. ‘Get off there!’

  Offended, the sheep jumped down again.

  Apart from their unrelenting racket, the rural silence was intense. How far exactly was he from civilisation? And how would he move his car?

  A Land Rover burst out of the bend ahead and rattled to a halt, the trailer attached to it squealing and squeaking from every hinge and joint. A head poked out the window.

  ‘Having trouble?’

  ‘Not too bad. But I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere without a bit of a push,’ said Kit wryly.

  The driver got ou
t and ambled over. His sleeves were rolled up, and he wore a cap at an angle on his sandy hair. ‘No, looks like you hit the bank pretty hard. What happened?’

  Kit sized him up. They were the same sort of height, though he reckoned this guy was probably a good ten years younger than he was. A push would do the trick. His hand was extended in greeting as he approached Kit, but the friendly smile vanished abruptly when he looked past the car.

  ‘Those bloody sheep!’ he roared, ‘I’ve had enough of them.’

  Kit was in cordial agreement, ‘Well, I don’t know whose they are, I’m not from around here, but they’re a real menace. Shouldn’t someone put them in a field?’

  ‘Too bloody right,’ the newcomer glowered. ‘They should be in my field. I’ve been chasing them around all over the countryside since lunchtime. Did you hit one?’

  Horrified, Kit shook his head. ‘No, God, no! It jumped out in front of me, and I floored the brakes and got stuck. It could be that one I think?’ he gestured towards a black ewe ambling up the road from behind the Land Rover. ‘Are they yours?’

  ‘This is a beauty of a car I must say, you had her long?’ The stranger had lost interest in the sheep and was walking around the Mercedes, eyeing it appreciatively. He ran his hand along the blue paintwork, and leaned in to inspect the dashboard. ‘She’s covered some miles hasn’t she?’ His thumb and forefinger met around the thin steering wheel.

  Kit was amused, a car buff was the last person he had though he’d run into, and a friendly, farmer car buff at that.

  He always found it a bit embarrassing to use the feminine pronoun for cars, but other men often seemed to like it, so what the hell. ‘Feels like a few too many years when we break down, but she’s an old friend.’

  The farmer nodded. ‘I was more of a motorbike man myself, packed it in for the family, you know how it is. Tell you what, though, I’d trade a hundred of these idiotic sheep to spend a few days in the Pyrenees on an old Triumph Bonneville.’ He kicked the stones in front of him, his hands deep in his pockets, and squinted down the lane.

  Kit laughed. ‘It always looks like a dream, doesn’t it? We conveniently forget the breakdowns and punctures, don’t we? I drove the Merc back through the Pyrenees. Bought her in Turin, an act of insanity, it was the first free money I’d ever had.’

  The farmer pushed his cap back on his head, ‘Free money? Sounds good, we could do with a bit of that around these parts.’

  Kit smiled. ‘In a sense. It was years ago. I’d say thirty years ago now, I won a prize and saw this car advertised in the Sunday Times. I didn’t know I was looking and suddenly I was handing over the most money I’ve ever spent on anything to an Italian Mercedes dealer on the outskirts of Turin. The car was only a year old, and she drove home like she was walking on water.’ Both men stood the way men do, hands shoved in pockets, chins down, looking at the car.

  ‘Nice prize,’ said the stranger.

  A phone rang in the depths of the Land Rover, the farmer leaned in to reach it. Through the door Kit could see a chaos of books sliding out of a worn canvas bag. One fell onto the road. Kit picked it up, it was a catalogue for an exhibition in St Ives.

  ‘St Ives? You been down there?’

  ‘Christ, where is it?’ The farmer was still scrabbling under the seat for his phone. ‘Ah, bingo!’ He grabbed something, it turned out to be a small radio, not the phone, which had stopped ringing. He waved the radio at Kit, with a grin. ‘Got one of these? Great for the cricket. I reckon I’m probably needed somewhere, so I’d better get going. Oh, did that fall out? Yes, we went with the kids a few months ago. Filthy weather every moment, but St Ives was a delight. That Hepworth museum even got the teenagers going.’

  Kit hadn’t ever thought that it mattered to him what other people thought of Cornwall, but he couldn’t deny he was enjoying his new friend’s enthusiasm. It was surprising too. Were there many Norfolk farmers who went all the way to Cornwall and once there, looked at the art? The guy was talking about his daughter now, and his eyes were soft and smiling.

  ‘It worked out to be a good trip for Mae, she’s my youngest, and she got right into reading thanks to Daphne du Maurier. She’s come on in her English course work like a rocket since then. Look, even this catalogue is covered in notes. God knows how she reads them.’ He opened a page at random, waving it in front of Kit. Inside loopy, fat handwriting in different coloured pens vied with the text. ‘Better make sure she gets this tonight, it’s stuffed with her revision notes. She’ll freak out if she realises it’s missing.’

  His kindness, Kit thought, was almost palpable. He felt a small bubble of well-being rise though him. Norfolk, which could have come in anywhere on his spectrum, from downright alien to neutral to positive, was looking friendly. He wondered if he would know about the Kings Sloley Lighthouse.

  The farmer threw the book back into the car. ‘D’you know St Ives then?’

  ‘I come from down there,’ said Kit.

  The farmer whistled. ‘Blimey. You’re a helluva way from home.’

  ‘Yup, but then everywhere’s far from Cornwall.’

  They both laughed. ‘Same applies here, it’s what makes it special though.’ The farmer narrowed his gaze, looked around him, sighed. ‘Better get going,’ he said, ‘Shall we shift this car of yours then?’ Walking round to the front, he set his shoulder against the bonnet. ‘Is the brake off?’

  Kit leaned in to check, then pushed with all his might against the driver’s door-frame. Nothing happened.

  ‘Okay. Christ, it’s not shifting. You’ll have to come and push here as well.’ The farmer stood up again, waiting for Kit to come round to the front. ‘Right, this should do it. Both of us I mean. One, two, three.’ A grunt and the car swung back a few precious inches. Kit and the stranger heaved again, gaining a little more ground. They paused. One of the sheep manoeuvred herself in between them and stood, staring at Kit. He resisted an urge to make a stupid face at her.

  Kit’s new friend grabbed the sheep. ‘Right, you can go in the back of the Land Rover,’ he said, and posted her into his vehicle, adding, ‘Get back in, Grayson,’ as a lurcher the colour of smoke leapt out, stretching benignly before wagging his tail and approaching Kit. Kit wiped his hands on his jeans and reached out to stroke the dog. The afternoon was balmy, leaves whispered above them and clouds puffed lightly across the sky like small skiffs on a pond. A bubble of birdsong dissolved in chirps in the hedge above the cars.

  ‘How far is it to Blythe?’ He was suddenly overwhelmed by the seeming endlessness of his journey. He longed to lie down for half an hour or so. He’d booked a bed and breakfast, it would be nice to get there. Have a cup of tea. A piece of cake would be nice too. A meeting with a lawyer was not something to arrive at in a state of exhaustion.

  The farmer had opened the trailer and, without incident, persuaded the rest of the sheep up the ramp and shut them in. Gentle bleats indicated that they accepted this state of affairs. Kit was impressed. ‘I’ve never seen anyone sheep wrangle with such success. Looks like you’ve hypnotised them.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Got an appointment, how far is—?’

  ‘Blythe? Oh it’s about ten minutes from here.’ The farmer leaned up against the Mercedes, gesturing down the lane ahead. ‘Turn right at the top, then first left and then it’s signposted. D’you want to start up the engine and make sure these bloody sheep haven’t caused you any damage? I’ll have to take them back with me, the fencing isn’t holding. That goddamn Jason picked his moment all right,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the sea. ‘Gone to bloody Portugal, hasn’t he? He’s got a timeshare there. And he isn’t answering his phone.’

  Kit turned the key and the engine burst into life, its roar silky and familiar, like the crackle of logs on a fire. ‘Jason? Who’s he? Aren’t they your sheep?’

  The farmer, or not as it now turned out, banged his palm on the roof of the car. ‘No they are not! I’m a history teacher at the school in Blythe. But the sheep live on my lan
d, so I’m pretty sure I’m legally responsible for them if their owner’s not around. I’m going to take it up with Jason as soon as he’s back I can tell you.’

  Kit grinned, taking off the hand brake. ‘Looks like you’ve got them eating out of your hand, mate. You could take them on tour and get people to pay to watch you load them it’s so fast.’

  His new friend waved a hand. ‘Think I’ll stick with the day job for the time being. Don’t forget: right at the top, then left and you’ll pick up the signposts. I’ll get out of your way.’

  Manoeuvring the car out and on down the road, Kit saw the trailer bump off in a dust cloud. He smiled to himself. If that guy was the sort of person he was going to meet in Norfolk, he was looking forward to his time here. He realised, with a rush of disappointment, that he hadn’t asked his rescuer his name. All he knew was that he was a teacher. Would their paths cross again?

  Rolling his shoulders as the familiar actions created by so many hours at the wheel sank through his muscles, Kit blinked. He was driving through a village now. A duck pond, an ice-cream van, a queue of children and mothers, one with a pram, another carrying a toddler in her arms. Reeds climbed out of the pond like a line of Red Indians, golden, their feathered tops flickering in the afternoon light. Round another bend and Kit, as used to the majesty of Cornwall as he was, gasped. The sea leapt from nowhere, and above it a vast skyline, electric blue and startling as a kingfisher. His coast-to-coast journey was over. Taking a deep breath, he tasted the sea, and was aware of a shift taking place. Something opened within him, connecting with this moment, as he experienced a primordial sense of his place in the bigger picture. He was part of the scheme of things. But what was the scheme?