The Summer of Second Chances
Page 4
I made up the bed, stripped off my clothes and got in. It was freezing. Where were my pyjamas? In the boot of the car? Oh no, I remembered they were in the roof box. That was one of my bad decisions. I got back out, put my socks, knickers and a T-shirt on and tried to think about being warm.
I suddenly remembered with pinpoint clarity lying on a beach in Greece three summers ago, my hot skin almost at one with the hot sand under my towel. We had decided on a last-minute week away. Ian had been sitting in the shade at a table under a vine-laden pergola. Tapping furiously at his laptop, muttering about work and cursing the economy. Perhaps he had been doing it even then, feeding our money into the ether in a never-ending stream.
I opened my eyes and the memory faded. I was just aware how absolute the silence was; how dense the darkness. Ian would have hated it.
‘Can you see me?’ I shouted up into the dark ceiling. ‘You wouldn’t have liked this, would you? The dark and the cold and the bloody quiet, what do you think, Ian? Is it funny? Does this serve me right for refusing four times to marry you? Would it have made any difference if I’d said yes, Ian? Well I suppose I wouldn’t be homeless, would I? By the way, your poor mother is devastated. Didn’t think about her either, did you?’
The irony of my situation took a few seconds to sink into my tired brain.
‘You stupid bloody bastard.’
I wasn’t sure if I meant Ian or myself.
The following morning, contrary to the popular saying, things didn’t look better they just looked grimier. The winter sun shone feebly through the filthy windows, highlighting the dirt. I constructed a hideous sandwich with some of the 25p loaf and the cheese slices and made a mug of tea. I opened the kitchen door and peered outside, hoping my new neighbour was not around to torment me. There was no sign of him.
Outside, the day was brightening up. A bright sapphire sky over a soft folding landscape of hills and hedges. The only sounds were birdsong and the breeze rattling through the bare branches of a silver birch tree at the end of the garden. I stood in the doorway and sipped my tea wondering why Ian and I had never thought to move to the countryside. It was so peaceful, so beautiful. But then Ian had been determinedly town bred and I was a sheep, following him and his plans without thought.
I ate my sandwich, marvelling for a moment at its complete lack of flavour or texture. It was quite a relief to finish it, but I treated it much as an astronaut might approach a freeze-dried meal, as a way of consuming calories to sustain me through the morning. And then I went down the garden and had a cigarette, wondering whether I should give them up now that I needed to be a lot more careful with money.
I rolled up my sleeves, scrubbed the scum off the draining board and ran a sinkful of hot water laced with a generous slosh of disinfectant. I then spent an industrious hour emptying and washing the kitchen cupboards before organising my equipment and crockery into them. There didn’t seem to be much room. The trouble was I was used to a vast space in which to cook, with a six-burner stove, a double oven and a large American fridge-freezer. Here there was a fairly straightforward collection of units and appliances around a small table and four chairs. This would also serve as my dining room. I was going to be seriously short of space and there was still Greg’s van full of my other stuff to fit in at some point.
I thought back with tears prickling my eyes to the huge extending oak table and ten leather chairs that had filled the dining room at home and then reminded myself that wasn’t my home any longer and it never had been. I had given the table to the women’s refuge; they needed it and I certainly didn’t. I was being pretty pathetic. This would do just as well if it were clean. I carried on scrubbing. To my surprise I discovered it’s hard to feel sorry for yourself when you are concentrating on unidentifiable grime. There was a strange pleasure to be had from finding what colour the worktops really were.
After a while the kitchen began to look a great deal better and I rewarded myself with a cup of instant coffee.
I had scrubbed the four kitchen chairs and put them outside the back door to dry so I took my coffee upstairs while I had a good look around. Jess had said it needed cleaning and it certainly did, but it needed more than that. It needed some TLC. And also, courtesy of someone’s careless cigarette habit and chewing gum disposal, new carpets. The bedroom I regarded as mine for the time being was potentially lovely with a whitewashed ceiling, old roof beams diving down into the floor in a way that suggested the cottage was far older than I had originally thought. There were painted built-in cupboards and two leaded windows that framed a fabulous view down the valley. I opened the window, making several woodlice homeless in the process. In the distance I could see the river sparkling in the sunshine, and the wind was cold but somehow exciting, as though it was bringing me a fresh start and new energy. Under the trees snowdrops were beginning their optimistic journey, bringing hope for the spring and the first potential of another new year.
Completely unexpectedly I began to cry. Why was I here? Why had Ian rushed off that night? I was frightened without him, that was the truth. I was used to him being there, used to his energy, his drive, the sheer noise of him. His crazy enthusiasm, his irritated muttering about customers as he worked his way through his correspondence.
When he was at home he usually had some paperwork to check or emails to read at his end of the kitchen table. Sometimes he would read me snippets from women who couldn’t decide what they wanted.
Should I have worktops made of black granite or white Corian? Shaker-style doors or high gloss? Cream or Faded Cashmere?
Tell me what you think, Mr Lovell? Which do you think would suit me best?
‘It’s your money,’ he would shout at the screen, exasperated, ‘it’s your fucking kitchen, it’s not that difficult, just make your bloody mind up!’
And then he would look up and catch my eye and grin.
I wiped away my tears and sipped my coffee. The other bedroom was wallpapered in a leafy William Morris print and looked out over the lane. The vandalised wardrobe was probably Victorian mahogany and too large for the room, but, inside, it was fitted out with named compartments, each with a little engraved brass plate. Gloves, socks, ties, collars, braces. Just gorgeous. The wood was glossy and patinated with age. Why would someone stick pictures all over it with lumps of Blu-Tack? Who knew.
In the bathroom I had cleared away the worst of the debris, sprayed limescale cleaner over the scummy shower screen and the toilet and left it to work. The floor was dirty and covered in dried mud but the little leaded window opened onto the garden and there was the promise of a rose that had climbed around it, ready to blossom later in the year.
I went back down the claustrophobic stairwell, my feet careful on the narrow treads. Ian would have hated this more than anything. He couldn’t bear enclosed spaces, low ceilings, dark rooms.
I wondered if I had the energy to finish emptying my car. I was hungry again and I knew there was a box of food in there somewhere, it was just a pity I hadn’t thought to put it somewhere accessible.
Sod it! I suddenly remembered a box of fish fingers going in, which would undoubtedly have defrosted by now. I pulled off my rubber gloves and found the car keys.
Outside it was warmer than it had been for days. The sun was brilliant, the sky cloudless. Of course that meant that the inside of the car was getting warm too. I pulled a couple of bags and boxes out from the back seat of the car and dumped them on the drive, hoping to find the box of provisions. I didn’t realise until that moment how disorganised I could be. It also struck me for the first time that a box of spoiled food was a complete waste of money.
‘Need a hand?’ said a familiar voice.
I turned to see Bryn, standing in his front garden. I think he might have been weeding. Possibly he was planting something or he could have been putting down rat poison. I think he was wearing a pair of ripped and filthy jeans but I know for a fact he didn’t have a shirt on. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I babbled something unintelligible and Bryn walked towards me, stepping carefully over his newly planted borders. I’d heard about six-packs but I’d never been that close to one in my life. He pulled on a black T-shirt that he had draped over the front gate. I felt a pang of disappointment but realised it was probably just as well. He was wearing serious-looking CAT boots, something I have always had a weakness for, so that didn’t help. They were quite large too, which made me think of various rather rude comments.
‘I said, do you need a hand?’ he said.
‘Um,’ I turned away and looked in the car, ‘yes please, if you don’t mind. There’s a lot of heavy stuff here.’
I grabbed the first thing I saw; a small overnight bag that a six-year-old child could have safely wheeled to the door and he took it and stood waiting for me to find him something else.
I kept my gaze steadfastly fixed in the boot. Don’t look at him. Keep calm. Don’t look at him.
I spotted the cardboard box that I had filled with food from the freezer and then forgotten about.
‘I could take that in, if you like?’ Bryn said, his voice unnervingly close behind me.
The embarrassment of having to admit my ineptitude was too much.
‘No, no, that’s OK. I’ll manage,’ I said, wishing he would go away.
I tugged at a few over-stuffed black bin liners and managed to spill a pair of my (joke Christmas present from Karen) days-of-the-week knickers onto the driveway. The pair with Magic Monday stared up at us. And of course it was actually Monday.
‘I hope you haven’t got Thursday on,’ Bryn said, straight-faced, ‘that would never do.’
I gave a weak laugh and stuffed them into my pocket, then reapplied myself to the cardboard box of frozen food. As I dragged it from the car the bottom, soggy with thawed ice, dropped out and my stash of fish fingers and potato waffles (secret vice for when Ian was away) scattered all over the ground.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ he said.
‘Oh God,’ I groaned.
To his credit Bryn didn’t laugh, he reached across and lifted out a plastic crate of tinned food instead and took that into the house. I followed with some carrier bags filled with my last crop of vegetables from my garden.
‘Wow, it looks incredible in here,’ Bryn said as he put the crate down on the table. ‘You’ve done a great job. You’ll have the place ship-shape in no time. Very nice.’
‘Gorgeous,’ I said, looking at the muscles in his arms. ‘I mean, this cottage could be gorgeous. Actually it’s been rather enjoyable. Cleaning the kitchen. I didn’t think I’d ever say that but – well, I’m rather pleased with it so far.’
‘You’re working wonders,’ he said and I felt a disproportionate sense of pride. I had worked wonders, and I’d done it on my own too, at no cost.
I felt a bit silly and fluttery and quite lightheaded, but that might have been because I hadn’t really eaten anything since the grim breakfast sandwich.
He turned round and I quickly began to put things away.
‘Thanks,’ I said, lining up the tins of tomatoes with some precision so I didn’t just stand and gawp at him.
‘Any time.’
‘I would offer you a cold beer or something but…’
‘But you don’t want to? It’s fine,’ he grinned.
‘No, it’s not that at all, I haven’t got any,’ I said, flustered.
‘I have, if you fancy a quick one?’ he said.
I could almost hear the brain cells responsible for double entendres jiggling about like a crèche of unruly toddlers.
‘I’ve got an awful lot to do,’ I said.
‘Maybe later?’
I began to line up herbs and spice jars and made a lot of umm noises. Then I unpacked various different sorts of oils. Olive, vegetable, sesame, walnut…there were quite a few. Plus five different types of vinegar. What did I need that lot for? Did I think I was going to be on Masterchef?
‘Keen cook, are you?’ Bryn said, picking up the champagne vinegar and reading the label.
I took it from him and put it into the cupboard. ‘Oh, you know…’
‘You could have me for dinner one day.’
The brain cell toddlers jostled about a bit more.
‘I mean, you could invite me over.’
Ah. ‘Perhaps when I’m settled.’
‘I love fish fingers,’ he said. He had a wicked grin and very white teeth against his tan.
I opened the fridge door and put a few things inside. The freezer was empty apart from some novelty ice cubes. I hesitated, my head on one side trying to make out exactly what they were. When I realised they were ice boobs I shut the freezer door very quickly, I didn’t want him to see them and think they were anything to do with me.
Quick think of something else. Something dull.
Mobile phone contracts. Changing electricity suppliers. Mulching.
‘You can’t refreeze fish fingers,’ Bryn said, ‘you’ll be ill.’
I turned round. ‘I wasn’t going to.’ My tone was that of a stroppy fifteen year old.
Bryn went out and brought in a couple more boxes that he dumped under the table. From memory they were filled with casserole dishes and some Waterford crystal wine glasses. From the tinkling sound as Bryn put the box down there was now one fewer.
‘That doesn’t sound too good,’ he said, ‘sorry about that.’
He opened the top of the box and delved about for a second. Suddenly he snatched his hand out with a gasp and stood hanging on to his arm as blood seeped out between his fingers.
‘Sod it, that was a bit of a mistake,’ he yelped.
He sat down rather heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and closed his eyes. I watched fascinated as the colour drained from his face.
‘Not very good with blood,’ he said after a moment, ‘especially my own.’
I galloped up the stairs to find the first aid kit that I had, mercifully, unpacked earlier in the day and put into the bathroom cabinet.
When I got back he was bent over, head almost touching his knees, still clutching his arm and obviously feeling a bit wobbly.
‘So stupid,’ he said, ‘sorry.’
I hesitated for a moment, looking at the curls that nestled into the nape of his neck and fighting the overwhelming impulse to wind them around my fingers. To cover up my hesitation I went into brisk and efficient mode and dabbed at him with wet kitchen roll and antiseptic wipes. Once I got rid of the gore we both realised it was just a long scratch from a piece of broken glass, easily solved with a large plaster. Gradually the colour returned to his face and he gave an embarrassed grin.
‘Sorry about that. You must think I’m a right idiot.’
‘No, not at all, I’m sorry you hurt yourself. It was my fault, not packing things properly.’
He pressed the plaster down hard onto his arm and looked up at me.
‘Like I said, I’ve got some beer in the fridge next door and some cold roast beef. Do you fancy a roll?’ he said.
Why did everything seem to be laced with innuendo this morning? It was like living in a Carry On film.
‘No, thank you. Now if you are feeling better I must get on,’ I said, trying to sound brisk and busy. I found the cloth and re-wiped the draining board. Then, as he was still looking at the contents of my cupboards, I began polishing the kettle. Something I am not known for.
He must have realised that I wanted him to go.
‘Well if you change your mind, you know where I am. I’ll go this way, if that’s OK?’
Bryn went out of the kitchen door and loped across the garden in his CAT boots. I ran the cold tap and splashed some water on my face. What the hell was the matter with me? I had no business feeling like this. I was behaving like a s
illy teenager. Just because a man was good-looking and had muscles and an amazing smile and lived next door. Of course it meant nothing. Well it should.
CHAPTER 4
Rhododendron – deceit, danger
Over the next few weeks I scoured Holly Cottage from top to bottom. There wasn’t an inch of grubby paintwork that I didn’t clean, not a single scuffmark that I didn’t try to remove. The bathroom in particular took several cans of elbow grease. It looked as though one of the previous tenants had enjoyed more than a few adventures with unusual hair-dye shades. Behind the roll top bath were splashes of blue, green and magenta. Impossible to remove but if I was going to redecorate I needed to make some sort of effort. And it kept me busy, that was the most important thing.
I didn’t want to think too hard or too deeply about anything. I didn’t want to compare my new home with my old one. I didn’t want to think about what I was used to and what I now had. Above all, I didn’t want to think about the future.
One morning I realised it was nearly three weeks since I had seen Bryn. I wondered where he had gone. Even when I went out into the garden and made a half-hearted attempt at cutting the grass he didn’t appear. The mower I found in the shed wasn’t up to the task any more than I was. I found that very disappointing, as our gardener had been a wizened old man who produced sleek lines in the turf with apparently no effort at all. I’m no expert in these matters but I think the blades on the mower were bent or something. Perhaps it was the wrong sort of grass? At its best the machine spat clumps of moss over my feet and occasionally lumps of earth. I found an old strimmer in the garage and fiddled about with it, trying to untangle the ‘tangle-free’ line feed. It wasn’t much use at strimming but it was great for flicking gravel painfully against my ankles, so I gave up. Looking at my progress I could safely assume the ground staff at Wimbledon weren’t going to come calling any time soon. But somehow the beauty of the countryside was getting a hold on me. I had been feeling I was never going to get myself back on an even keel but the garden kept sending out buds and shoots of greenery like a powdering of hope over the bare branches.