by Jodi Taylor
Oddly, there was no church. I turned slowly and looked all around, but no spire or tower peeked out from behind leafless trees. No church. No War Memorial either, which was also odd. I’d never met a village without a War Memorial.
The pub was thatched. Most buildings in Greyston were, and even those that were tiled had attractively uneven roofs, weathered over the years with moss and lichen. The pub’s tiny windows twinkled in the sunshine and a number of wooden tables and chairs were set outside for those who wanted to risk pneumonia for the sake of a cigarette.
Everything in this village was neat and in apple-pie order. It was like the backdrop for an Agatha Christie story set between the wars. Or more recently, one of those midsomer villages where half the population is dead by the end of the second advert break and everyone watching makes a mental note to avoid the southern counties like the plague.
I looked around. There was no denying it was beautiful. In summer, with the gardens full of bright colours and all the horse chestnut trees in leaf, it would be outstanding. I would bet good money they played cricket on the green on Sunday afternoons. It was rural England as it should be but very often isn’t. There wasn’t even the traditional housing estate of locally unaffordable five-bedroomed, two-bathroomed executive houses to mar the beauty of Greyston. By the looks of things, nothing new had been built here for a good while now.
I stood, hands thrust into my pockets, watching my breath frost in front of me. There was something here that both attracted and repelled me at the same time. There was no litter anywhere. Not a broken window or a peeling front door or a neglected garden. Everything was just perfect. It was the Stepford Village. A nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to live here.
Mindful that I’d missed breakfast, I slipped into the village shop, intending to buy a snack or two to take back to my room.
Another slender woman, about my own age and with long, dark hair that curled to her shoulders, emerged from a door behind the counter. She stared silently for just a moment longer than was comfortable. I was conscious of being appraised.
‘Welcome.’
The word was more welcoming than her tone of voice. I was a little taken aback, but said, ‘Thank you.’
Her silence was slightly unnerving. For some reason she seemed to expect more from me. I remembered I was British, saying, ‘Better weather than yesterday.’
She said shortly, ‘It’s always fine for the New Year.’
I wondered if they had some kind of open-air New Year’s Eve party planned. I said politely, ‘That’s good.’
The conversation languished and an awkward silence fell.
‘My name is Alice Chervil,’ she said, as if the name should mean something to me.
I smiled. ‘How do you do, Mrs Chervil,’ and hoped she wouldn’t notice I hadn’t introduced myself.
‘That’s Miss,’ she said, shortly, and once again I had the impression I’d said or done the wrong thing. Her colour was more inclined towards turquoise, but here again was the familiar mixture of blue, turquoise and purple, very similar to Becky’s, even down to the streak of rebellious orange. Here was another one who wasn’t happy about something.
‘You’re at the Travellers’,’ she said, again making it a statement, not a question.
I nodded. ‘I am.’
‘I hope they’re making you comfortable,’ she said stiffly, while her colour told me she doubted it. ‘Let me say that if there’s anything you need – anything at all – you can just ask me and I’ll arrange everything.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, slightly mystified as to why she would say such a thing. Did she perhaps have a spare room and was poaching business from the Travellers’ Rest? Despite their slight resemblance, I could imagine Alice Chervil and Veronica Harlow having no love for each other. But was it more than professional rivalry?
Whatever lay between them was not my business however, so I changed the subject. ‘I’m afraid I was more tired than I thought and missed breakfast this morning.’
She thawed slightly, as if this somehow demonstrated declining standards at the Travellers’ Rest. ‘Well, I can certainly sell you a bar of chocolate or some crisps, but I’m sure you’d prefer something a little more satisfying. Why not pop next door to the Sisters. My niece works behind the bar and I can assure you they do very nice lunches in there.’
I was surprised. ‘Are they open?’
Now she looked surprised. ‘They will be in a minute. It’s nearly noon.’
‘Oh dear. That’s embarrassing.’
‘Yes. I can’t understand why they wouldn’t have woken you.’
I felt an absurd desire to defend the Travellers’ Rest.
‘Well, I’ve travelled a long way and I expect they thought it best to let me sleep in.’
She leaned over the counter. ‘How far?’
I was slightly taken aback again. ‘Um … I’m not sure,’ and repeated my silly story about missing the train.
‘Well, never mind, you’re here now,’ as if I’d crossed oceans and continents to get here, but her tone was grudging. She disliked me, but there was more to it than that. There was resentment – just like Becky – and, for some reason, jealousy too. I wondered again about business rivalry. This was a very out of the way spot to run two guest houses, and customers must be scarce at this time of year. I suppressed a mad picture of Veronica and Alice waiting at the bus stop every day, trying to entice potential guests into their respective establishments.
Her colour was boiling towards me. There was something a little more than normal village curiosity here. I felt a reluctance to let it touch me, taking a casual step backwards to survey the display of chocolate and saying politely, ‘Your village is very beautiful.’
She smiled coldly and once again her colour surged around her in a way I couldn’t understand. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
I don’t know what made me say it. ‘You must all work very hard to keep everything looking so lovely.’
Her smile faded. I had the strongest impression she was about to say, ‘Why, what have you heard?’ when a door behind the counter opened and another woman appeared, an almost complete replica of Alice Chervil but smaller and stouter. I didn’t need the by now familiar combination of blues and turquoises to tell me this was probably her sister. A close relative, certainly.
Without even looking at me, she said, ‘Is this her, Alice?’
Mrs Chervil’s colour snapped defensively around her. ‘I don’t know what you mean. This is just an ordinary visitor.’
‘Oh.’ She stared at me in disappointment and I felt strangely … I don’t know … unnerved. Just as I had at the stones. ‘I thought this was her.’
‘Go back inside, Ruthie,’ said her sister, sternly. ‘We’ll have lunch in a minute.’
‘Yes,’ I said, glad of the excuse to leave. ‘I must be going too.’
‘They’re not open quite yet,’ she said. ‘Why not wait here a while. In the warm,’ and once again her colour bubbled towards me.
I felt a sudden need for some fresh air. ‘Actually, I’ll take a bar of chocolate,’ I pulled one off the shelf at random and handed her the money, ‘and have a stroll around the green until the pub opens. Why are the stones roped off?’
‘One of them’s cracked,’ said Ruth, and I didn’t much care for the way she said it. ‘Cracked’ was a word I thought could very well apply to Ruth as well.
‘Not safe,’ said her sister. ‘Don’t get too close.’
‘Can it be repaired?’
‘Oh yes., and they have been over the years. Many times. They’re very old you know. They were here long before the first people built the village. They’ve had all sorts of repairs over the years. After the New Year they’ll be as right as rain, you’ll see.’
Their combined colours were filling the room.
‘I probably won’t be here that long,’ I said, determined not to be here that long.
Miss Chervil just smiled. ‘Enjoy your walk.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, edging out of the door. Anything to get out of here.
Once outside, I walked as fast as I could to the other end of the green.
And I threw the chocolate in the litter bin.
I shouldn’t have gone into the pub. I needed to hoard my money. I needed to make plans for the future. I should have bought a snack and eaten it in my room and caught the afternoon bus out. The one I came in on.
Half of me wanted to do that. I should have done that, but the momentum that had propelled me halfway across the country was slowing. I was bone tired. I just wanted to stay in one place for a while and gather my thoughts and where better than this quiet village? Never mind that its beauty alternately attracted and for some reason, repelled me, I had to rest, at least for another day.
I looked around me. I’d start with a good lunch at the pub, then a brisk walk around the other end of the village, and then I’d make my way back to the guest house. I’d sort through my clothing and then read a book in one of those comfortable armchairs in front of the fire. Suddenly, that sounded like an excellent plan. But first, lunch.
Chapter Three
Once, I would have been nervous about going into a pub on my own. My mum wouldn’t have liked it. She would occasionally accompany my dad to his working man’s club, where she’d sit, primly upright, with a port and lemon in front of her, while my dad threw darts at the other end of the room, but you could see she hadn’t liked it.
I, however, had seen some harrowing stuff over the last twelve months and walking into a pub alone wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to me. I stepped into the porch and pushed open the door.
The traditional English village theme was continued inside the pub. A huge box of umbrellas and wellingtons stood in the hall, just inside the door. There were two log fires crackling away and the usual hunting prints and horse brasses hung on the walls.
A board behind the bar announced that today’s specials were battered fish and chips or beef hot pot. I smiled at the barmaid – Mrs – sorry, Miss Chervil’s niece, presumably – who smiled back at me a little uncertainly. Her colour was a grey blue, shot through with purple and only a very little turquoise flitting around the very edges, but the resemblance was there. I wondered if nearly everyone in this village was related in some way. It was possible, I suppose, the village was very remote. On the other hand, it was well maintained – there was obviously money here … there must be some outside influences … I gave it up. None of it was anything to do with me. I ordered an orange juice and the hot pot, taking my drink to a table near the fire.
There weren’t very many people around. Two elderly ladies sat at a table in the window, sherry glasses half empty, watching the world go past, and as I watched, another woman came in with some sort of delivery and left it on the bar, calling a cheerful greeting to those in the window. All their colours flowed and blended together. This was obviously a tightly-knit community.
‘You’re at the Travellers’ then?’ said the barmaid, bringing me my cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin and a tray of condiments.
I agreed that I was, wondering why she was so nervous of me. Her colour streamed away from me almost in fear. More out of a desire to make conversation than a request for information, I asked if she was busy at this time of year.
She nodded. ‘New Year’s Eve coming up, of course. There’s always a … big do then and we do the catering.’
I noticed the two elderly ladies had stopped talking. I could practically hear their ears flapping.
‘And you have your own guest here,’ I said, not even concentrating on what I was saying. It was just conversation. ‘Just for the New Year.’
Her response was startling. Her face just … shut down. Her colour whirled away from me as if I was unclean and then curled itself in close, wrapping protectively around her. I wondered what I’d said.
‘The girl who came in on the bus?’ I said, trying to put things right.
Relief flooded through her colour. ‘Oh. Joanna. Yes, of course. She’s gone off to see her family. They don’t have the room to put her up so she stays here. It’s a big family. And their cottage is very small. She just sleeps here at night.’
She was gabbling. She was scared. I looked around. The two old ladies immediately stopped looking at me and stared out of the window. I didn’t care, but it did make up my mind for me. This place was weird even by my standards. I was still too tired to go now, but I could stay tonight and then leave on tomorrow’s bus. It probably wasn’t a good move – I had nowhere to go and it would be New Year’s Eve, the streets would be lively and there wouldn’t be a room available anywhere, but I was experiencing a very strong urge to leave this place. As soon as possible.
‘Yes,’ I said, casually. ‘Well, I shall be off in the morning. I’m only here by accident. Missed my train.’
‘Oh, but you can’t go,’ she said involuntarily.
I stiffened. ‘Why not?’
She gabbled. Red flashes of anxiety coursed through her colour. I began to feel alarmed.
‘I mean, you’ve only just arrived. Miss Harlow said …’
‘No,’ I said, interrupting her, my mind suddenly made up. I would leave this very afternoon. Some instinct warned me not to mention that. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. Will my hot pot be very long?’
‘I’ll just check.’ She almost ran behind the bar. I heard a door bang.
The two old ladies were watching me again.
The hot pot arrived, served by the girl from the kitchen, with a warning that it was very hot. I nodded and stared at the steaming dish, still bubbling in places, feeling grateful because it gave me an excellent reason for sitting and doing nothing while I pulled myself together and thought about what to do.
There was no point in panicking and just dashing off into the blue. I should at least finish my lunch before returning to the guest house, packing and quietly leaving on the afternoon bus. Quite a large part of me rebelled at the thought of more travelling, but there was no other alternative to going back on the road again.
Actually, yes, there was. The thought came from nowhere. Home. I could go home. Home to my little house in Rushford. I hated what was happening to me. I’m not adventurous or brave. I’ve always had a settled home life – as a child and as a wife – and now I found I very badly wanted to go home. I wanted my tiny house at the top of the hill with its lovely wooden floors and its hugely inconvenient staircase. I wanted to look out of the window and see the castle opposite. And the moat. And the swans. I wanted to wave to Colonel and Mrs Barton next door as they sat in their window watching the world go by. I wanted to go home.
I was swept with a sudden wave of homesickness, but if I returned home then Sorensen would be waiting for me, a man I should avoid at all costs.
No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t being honest with myself. I stared blindly at my still bubbling hot pot and finally admitted it – it wasn’t Sorensen I was running from. It was Michael Jones. The man who had betrayed me. Yes, he’d admitted it. And yes, he’d given me the opportunity to get away, but the pain was still there. I’d liked him. I’d trusted him. And he’d betrayed me to Sorensen.
Only to get his job back, argued the other half of me. He had no choice.
There’s always a choice, was the response. He’s made his and now you must make yours.
I had a moment of clarity. Nothing had changed. Yes, Sorensen still wanted me, but he always had. There was nothing new there. It was Jones I was running from and the feelings I was beginning to have for him. There was attraction; I only had to close my eyes to see him smiling down at me. And there was fear. Fear of betrayal and cruelty. Because sometimes when I closed my eyes I saw him cold-faced and blank-eyed as he attacked me. It wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t mine, either. I just didn’t know what to do and that was what I was really running from. If I could deal with the feelings then I’d dealt with the problem.
I had another moment of clarity. It wasn’t
Jones I had to deal with – it was myself. Deal with myself and I could go home.
I picked up my knife and fork and calmly ate my very delicious hot pot and drank a cup of coffee afterwards. I had only to pack, settle up and catch the bus. I could be home by tomorrow night. The day after at the very latest. I could sleep in my own bed. Yes, my home might be full of government surveillance equipment but I could deal with that. I’d ring Jones and order him to remove it. Or, if he refused, call in a surveillance expert. I’d no idea where I’d get one of those from, but Yelp or Google would help there. I’d get him to do a sweep – or whatever it was called – and have it all removed. I had no idea how, but I’d think of something. There was always something that could be done and that was what I should be doing – not fleeing around the countryside like a hysterical girl just because a man had let me down. If every woman did that then the country’s transportation system would have collapsed years ago. I felt so much better with this new decision. Deep down I knew it was the right thing to do.
I left the pub. The time was still only half past one. The bus arrived at four o’clock so I had until then to get myself organised.
There was a rack of tourist leaflets in the porch. I paused, buttoning my coat against the cold and pulled a few out. Here was a list of local attractions and a brief history of the village. There was another from the Woodland Trust, detailing the work it had done in the area. There was a list of walks and things to look out for. On the back was a map.
I turned it over and stared in horror. I’d travelled day and night. I’d leaped from bus to train and back again. I’d set off at random, with no plan and certainly no intended destination. And now, according to this map – and I’m sure the Woodland Trust had no reason to lie – I was less than twenty miles from Rushford.
All that time and effort and I was less than twenty miles from where I’d started.
