The Shadow Year

by Hannah Richell

  Her hands are wrinkled and her skin is turning raspberry-pink when she finally drags herself from the lake and joins the others where they sprawl on the tartan picnic rug drinking warm beer in the shade of the trees. Kat lies back against the earth, her head resting on the cushion of Carla’s thigh, and watches as patches of sky shift and dance through the latticed branches overhead. Beads of water drip from her hair onto her sunburnt shoulders. All around them is the low, soporific hum of insects.

  ‘So who does it belong to, Mac?’ Simon asks, gazing up at the blackened windows of the old stone cottage. ‘It seems crazy that this place is just sitting here empty – abandoned.’

  Mac shrugs. ‘I guess it might have been an old shepherd’s cottage,’ he says, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  ‘It looks as though it’s been completely forgotten,’ says Ben, exhaling a plume of smoke high above his head.

  ‘Does it have a name?’ asks Carla.

  Mac shrugs again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We should name it,’ says Kat. ‘Claim it. Make it ours. We could come back here on this very day, every year from now.’ She looks hopefully at Simon but he is gazing off towards the cottage.

  ‘I’m going to take a closer look,’ he says. ‘Who’s coming?’

  Carla waves them away with a lazy flick of her hand and Mac declines too, content to sit with his arms wrapped round his knees gazing out across the water; so it is Kat and Ben who accompany Simon along the water’s edge towards the ramshackle cottage.

  From a distance the old place looked solid and sturdy, but as they move closer Kat can see how neglect has taken its toll. The gritstone walls are spotted with lichen and the roof appears to be missing several tiles. Closer still and she can see guttering hanging off at an alarming angle and birds’ nests and cobwebs lodged under the eaves. In front of both ground floor windows, nestled amidst the dandelions and nettles are wild bursts of lime green seed heads, round and flat and translucent like paper. A woody vine climbs across one side of the house and beside the front door an old stone pot, cracked and empty, stands as a silent reminder of its past inhabitants. As they move closer still they see that the windows are black with grime and even though they press their faces up against the glass it is impossible to make out anything inside the gloomy interior. Kat hesitates but Simon is already at the front door, knocking loudly. ‘Just in case,’ he says, turning to them with a smile, but they all hold their breath anyway, listening to the dull echo as it resonates throughout the house. Satisfied, he reaches out and tries the tarnished door handle. It twists a quarter circle and sticks. ‘Locked.’

  ‘Well that’s that,’ says Kat with barely concealed relief.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Simon and he drags the cracked plant pot to one side.

  ‘Yeah right,’ laughs Ben, ‘as if someone’s just going to leave a front door key for us to find.’

  Simon scuffs at the earth with his foot and there, nestled amidst the mud and the scuttling woodlice, is a hint of tarnished silver. He turns to them with one raised eyebrow, then bends and digs it out of the earth with his fingers. He wipes the key on his shirt then holds it up to them with a devilish grin. Kat tries to look pleased but she can’t shake her trepidation. It feels wrong somehow – like they’re trespassing.

  The key turns easily in the lock and the door creaks open. The three of them stand there for a moment, framed within the dark rectangle of the doorway. ‘Do you think we should?’ Kat asks, but Simon is already across the threshold.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, turning to fix her with his gaze, ‘don’t be chicken. The place is ours.’

  The temperature inside the building is much cooler than outside; the thick stone walls and echoing rooms, closed up for so long, seem impervious to the heat of the day and all around them the air is stale and heavy with a musty, damp smell. Sunlight filters through the grime-streaked windows, catching dust particles that shift and swirl, disturbed by their arrival. The room they enter runs the full width of the cottage and is virtually empty but for a long, low fireplace, a sagging brown velvet couch slumped beneath a window, an armchair and a steep staircase rising into the upper level of the cottage. Curtains hang from wooden poles, but they are old and faded, little more than tatty grey rags. Kat sees cobwebs slung between beams and and the droppings of an unknown animal scattered like pebbles across the dusty timber floorboards. She is careful to stay close to Simon as they move on through a low doorway into the second room at the rear of the cottage.

  It comprises what must have once been the kitchen. There is another fireplace and an old-fashioned range, a wooden table and two long benches. On the chimney breast, hanging on hooks nailed into the stone, are the remnants of cooking utensils. Kat sees a black-bottomed skillet, a large copper pot and a colander stained brown with rust. Over on the other side of the room Simon twists a tap and releases a gush of water into the stone basin set beneath a window. ‘There’s running water.’

  Kat nods and opens the door to a tall cupboard, shrieking as a small grey mouse scurries for cover. ‘Christ,’ laughs Simon, ‘you made me jump.’

  ‘Bit spooky, isn’t it?’ says Ben. He flicks an ancient-looking light switch on the wall. ‘Electricity’s off.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘Come on,’ says Simon, ‘let’s look upstairs.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll find a body.’

  ‘Don’t,’ shudders Kat.

  They head back into the front room and take the creaking staircase leading up to the first floor, almost at the top when Simon puts his foot clean through one of the wooden steps. ‘Watch it,’ he warns, ‘this one’s rotten.’ Kat and Ben descend into giggles as he struggles to pull his foot free from the hole. ‘A little help would be nice,’ he suggests and finally they manage to twist his foot out of the broken step and continue up the stairs.

  As with downstairs, there isn’t much to look at, just a tiny landing separating two basic bedrooms. Kat wanders into one and sees a mattress on the floor, grey with dust. There is a cracked mirror hanging above an old timber washstand, a large ceramic bowl and jug still standing on its surface. On the floor next to it is a china bedpan. Simon kicks it with his foot. ‘I don’t think much of the bathroom.’

  In the second bedroom there is another old mattress, in only slightly better condition than the first. Beneath the window, lies the desiccated carcass of a dead bird, its scraggy bones gleaming white in the light slanting through the glass. Kat imagines the bird flying down the chimney and getting trapped inside the house; she thinks of it fluttering and bashing against the windows, imprisoned inside the cottage, then shivers at the thought and moves closer to Simon. He is fiddling with a window latch. He thumps violently on the frame until it springs open, bringing a welcome rush of warm air and light flooding into the small space. In the distance the lake glints seductively, no longer blue glass but darker now, like a sapphire gleaming in the late afternoon sun. Kat can just make out Carla lying in the shade of the trees and Mac seated beside her, his head turned towards the cottage. She lifts her hand in a wave but he doesn’t seem to see her.

  She moves across to the rear window and peers through the streaked glass at the overgrown garden below. She rubs at the dirt with her fingers and sees a small wooden shed. ‘Let’s check it out,’ suggests Simon, following her gaze, so they make their way gingerly down the staircase, careful to avoid the freshly made hole near the top, and head outside to the back of the house.

  It’s not so much a garden, more a sprawling mass of vegetation and trees set into the lee of the hills, but there is evidence of the past occupants everywhere they look; a rusting old wheelbarrow, cracked earthenware pots, overgrown flower beds and fruit trees. The flat green seed heads she noticed growing at the front of the cottage are here too, growing in large clumps and mingling with fronds of fading purple flowers. ‘Look at these, Ben,’ she says, pointing to the translucent discs. ‘This stuff is growing everywhere.’

  ‘I know what it is,
’ he says, fingering one of the green discs. ‘My mum has dried flower arrangements of it at home, but it’s not green, it’s white, like tracing paper. She calls it “honesty”. Looks like it’s reseeding itself all over the place.’

  Kat studies the plant. ‘Honesty, what a strange name.’ Kat is no gardener, but looking about even she can see the shadows of a former vegetable plot; wilting bean canes and huge fronds of woody rhubarb sprouting from the ground like something from a Jurassic jungle, and higher still the first apples of the season forming on the fruit trees nestled into the shelter of the hill. ‘Looks like someone once cared enough about this place to try to tame it,’ she murmurs, but neither of the boys hears her. Ben is drifting further up the hillside, towards the apple trees, while Simon is wrenching at the door to the ramshackle wooden shed.

  ‘It’s a pit toilet. And there’s an old tin bath propped behind.’ He grins. ‘Very rustic.’

  ‘Who cares about a rusty old bath? Look what I’ve found,’ cries Ben. They turn and see him bending to inspect a leafy green plant at his feet. ‘Strawberries.’ He pulls a scarlet berry from its stalk and crams it into his mouth. ‘Delicious.’

  Kat and Simon join him by the plants. She pulls a plump strawberry from its stalk and lifts it to her lips. He is right. They are delicious, warm and sweet and the three of them pick as many as they can, stuffing them into their mouths before returning to the others, carrying the rest cradled carefully within the folds of their shirts.

  ‘I tell you what,’ says Ben, his head resting in Carla’s lap as she feeds him the last of the berries, ‘if I died right now, I’d die happy.’

  Kat stares out over the lake and sees that the sun is beginning to disappear below the surrounding hills; it hangs like a ball of fire in the sky, turning one lonely cloud a dazzling gold. Far away the sound of a pheasant echoes out across the lake.

  ‘This is all right, isn’t it?’ agrees Carla, stroking the side of Ben’s stubbled chin.

  ‘I can’t get over the fact that there’s no one else here. What a waste.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d need much else in life if I had this view to wake to every morning,’ agrees Simon.

  ‘We should head back soon,’ says Mac, scuffing the grass with the toe of his trainer.

  ‘How about you just leave me here,’ jokes Ben. ‘Reckon I’d prefer to rough it here than go back with you lot. I can live without that job at my father’s engineering firm.’

  ‘At least you’ve got a job to go to,’ says Carla.

  ‘We’ll be OK,’ says Kat, plucking at the daisies dotted on the grass around her. ‘I know the papers are full of doom and gloom but we’re graduates.’ She thinks of the endless application forms she’s filled in, the numerous polite but firm rejections she’s received back and swallows down her doubt. ‘We’ve got valuable skills.’

  Simon stifles a laugh. ‘Valuable skills? You think? Unemployment’s on the rise, taxes are going up, interest rates are increasing. This Thatcher woman’s playing hardball. They’re saying we’ll be in recession soon . . . and then we’ll all be screwed.’

  ‘Wow, that’s depressing.’ Carla looks worried.

  Simon shrugs. ‘Only if you plan on becoming another cog in the machine.’

  Kat studies Simon carefully. She can see the gleam in his eyes, the one that tells her he is warming to his subject.

  ‘So tell us, oh wise one,’ asks Ben from where he lies stretched out across the grass, ‘what’s the answer?’

  Simon thinks for a moment. ‘It’s about getting back to basics . . . forgetting about the system and thinking about what you’d really like to do with your life, if money were no object. I don’t mean engineering,’ he says looking at Ben, ‘or journalism,’ and he turns to Kat. ‘I mean that thing you most enjoy doing. The thing you always dreamed of doing when you were a little kid. Because I know as sure as hell that I didn’t grow up wanting to be a lawyer.’

  Kat pulls another daisy from the grass and pinches its stem between her fingernails. ‘I like writing,’ she says and then colours when she realises she’s said it out loud. ‘I mean, I always wanted to be a writer. That’s what I wanted to be when I was a little girl.’

  She’s expecting laughter but Simon just nods. ‘Exactly. Writing. You don’t need money or a degree or a fancy house or car to write. Just a pen and a piece of paper. And you, Ben?’

  ‘I like smoking weed,’ he says, making them all laugh. ‘And my guitar. I’d be happy if I could just hang out and smoke and make up daft tunes all day.’

  ‘So no change then?’ asks Kat.

  Simon ignores her jibe. ‘See, you both love doing things that don’t require anything other than time and space. And yet that’s the very thing you’ll lose when you enter the workforce. Let’s face it, all the past three years at university have really done is steer us towards joining a society based on commerce and greed, like lambs to the slaughter. I’ll join a legal firm.’ He nods at Ben. ‘You’ll get a job at your dad’s engineering company, and you’ll start on the bottom rung at a newspaper or magazine,’ he says, turning to Kat. ‘Mac here will get a little hippy job working with the environment and Carla here might pop out a few mini-Bens . . .’

  ‘Hey,’ exclaims Carla, ‘I was planning on being a social worker first.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ smiles Simon holding up his hands, ‘I’m just teasing . . . but a little further down the track we’ll probably all sign ourselves up for mortgages and car loans and kids and then before you know it we’ll have lost sight of the things that are most important to us, the dreams and ambitions we feel most strongly about. We’ll be trapped in jobs we don’t want to pay for lives we never really desired in the first place.’

  ‘That’s quite a speech.’ Kat studies Simon carefully. She’s seen him like this before, when he really begins to warm to an argument. She understands what he’s saying; she can see the fundamental truth behind his words, but then it’s easy to wax lyrical when you come from a position of money and privilege. They aren’t all so fortunate.

  ‘You’re forgetting one crucial point: we all need money . . . an income,’ says Carla quietly, mirroring Kat’s own thoughts. ‘We’re all skint as it is.’

  ‘Only because of the way the system works. It’s a trap: live to work. Is that what you want?’

  ‘So what would you have us do?’ Kat asks. ‘Live off the dole? Stay at university for the rest of our lives?’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not as if I want to leave next week . . .’

  ‘It’s simple. We just have to find a way to live our lives without relinquishing our freedom and our ideals for a few lousy pound notes. It’s about making choices and taking control.’

  ‘I think that’s called Communism,’ says Ben, letting out another quiet belch. ‘Didn’t work out so well for Stalin.’

  Carla thinks for a moment. ‘I do understand what you’re saying but how do you take a stand when the rest of the world is the system? We don’t all have filthy rich parents,’ she adds pointedly, throwing Ben and Simon a reproachful glance.

  Simon doesn’t seem to notice her dig, or if he does he ignores it. Instead, he looks out over the lake, his eyes catching the sun and flashing amber. ‘What if the answer is staring us in the face?’ He turns and leans in towards them, lowering his voice. ‘Look around you. This place is falling into ruin but someone could really make something of it. We could make something of it.’

  Ben laughs. ‘Sure, let’s just move up here, drop out, stuff the future.’

  ‘But that’s my point,’ says Simon, ‘this could be the future. This could be our future.’

  ‘You mean we’d be squatters? Here?’ asks Carla, the slightest hint of distaste in her voice.

  ‘Ignore him,’ says Kat, stretching out on the grass. ‘It’s the sunshine and the beer . . . they’ve gone to his head.’

  ‘But why not?’ continues Simon, unruffled. ‘It’s obvious no one else is using this place. Whoever owns this land, if indeed anybody d
oes, is probably long dead. Why should these strawberries go uneaten or the lake untouched on a summer’s day? Why should this cottage be left to fall into ruin? Why shouldn’t we enjoy it . . . make something of the place?’

  ‘I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, Simon, but what about money? What would we live on?’ asks Ben. ‘We’ll need more than a few strawberries to see us through even a week up here.’

  ‘You’re not looking properly,’ says Simon. ‘Everything we need is right here: shelter, fresh water, produce from the land. There are fish in the lake, pheasants in the woods, enough firewood to keep us warm for the rest of our days. We could resurrect the vegetable patch behind the cottage and I bet there are ducks . . . and deer. We could live like kings. We could be self-sufficient, reliant on nobody but ourselves, free to choose our own pursuits.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Ben with jokey admiration, ‘I never took you for the clogs and corduroy type, Simon.’

  ‘I’m not talking about clogs and corduroy. I’m talking about control. I’m talking about escaping the treadmill and establishing our own rules. This isn’t free-love-hippy-shit. This is the eighties – a whole new decade. We can submit to the system, or we can choose to live life our way – on our own terms. Think about it: up here Kat could write. Ben could make music, hell, he could smoke himself into a coma if he likes.’

  Ben raises his beer bottle at the group. ‘Cheers to that.’

  Kat rolls over and props herself up on one elbow. She watches as Simon runs his hands through his hair. Soft shadows and sunlight dance across his face. There is the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw and a smattering of boyish freckles emerging on the bridge of his nose. The sight of him fills her heart with that familiar, bittersweet ache.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ he says, ‘maybe the most radical thing we can do right now is to remove ourselves from a society that demands we sacrifice our desires for a salary. Here we can rely purely on what we can grow, make or forage. We could focus on the things we truly enjoy – the things that really matter. We could make a difference.’