A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

  Maybe he should go cold turkey and see if he could live without a bike – simply for his own peace of mind. Until his anger had subsided, there was no point in deciding anything. He’d manage for a couple of days getting about on foot or in taxis, then decide.

  ‘Look at the time!’ Liberty pushed her chair back. ‘I’d better take Charlie out for his walk. Why don’t you come with us? It might make you feel better.’

  ‘Colder, you mean.’

  ‘Happier,’ she corrected.

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s dark and the temperature’s close to zero.’

  ‘So? Walking in the woods is uplifting. There’s scientific research to prove it. The plants give off chemicals that alter our biochemistry. They do!’ she insisted, when he lifted an eyebrow. ‘Obviously it’s better in daylight when there’s sunshine and birdsong, but still.’

  He got up. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. You go. I’ll clear up here.’

  Tuesday, 9 December

  ‘Alex.’ Guy greeted him warmly as he emerged from the back room. He leaned on the desk and asked, ‘How did you get on with taking Lib out on the bike?’

  It had been a few days ago but it felt like an age. ‘I think she enjoyed it.’

  ‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books. Normally she hates anything fast or dangerous.’

  ‘We didn’t go fast,’ Alex said drily. ‘And there won’t be a repeat because my bike’s been stolen.’

  ‘I heard about that. Bad luck, mate.’

  He’d heard? It seemed that in Willowbrook news spread faster than the speed of light. But he hadn’t come to talk about his bike.

  ‘How did you get here?’ Guy asked.

  ‘On foot.’ It hadn’t taken as long as he’d expected.

  Guy grinned and nodded at the forecourt. ‘You should ask Jake if you can borrow his quadbike. I’ve just serviced it for him.’

  Alex smiled politely and placed a cardboard box on the counter. ‘I brought you this. Three other parts are on their way, and I’m still trying to track down the headlight.’

  Guy’s brows shot up with surprise – then delight. ‘Holy moly, that’s fantastic! Thanks.’ A low whistling noise started up in the back room. It grew louder and more urgent. ‘That’s the kettle,’ he explained. ‘I was making a coffee. You want one?’

  Alex hesitated.

  ‘Go on,’ said Guy. ‘Dad’s in the back. It’ll make his day to meet you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alex conceded. Why not? He had nothing better to do. And he fancied taking another look at the Triumph. It was a treasure of a bike.

  He followed Guy and shook hands with Bob, who had the same cheeky grin and twinkling blue eyes as his son.

  ‘Good to meet you, lad. I remember your father coming to visit.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘He came to watch the Grand Prix at Silverstone. Guest of honour. They made a real fuss. He stayed in town at the Grand Hotel.’

  Alex’s hopes lifted. ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘Sorry, son. Guy told me you’re looking for a woman he got cosy with, but I don’t recall anything that would be of use.’

  Guy had opened the box. ‘Look what Alex brought, Dad. An oil pump for the Triumph.’

  Bob winked at Alex. ‘I suppose you’ll be asking me to fit it next, won’t you?’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to earn your keep somehow.’

  ‘Guy’s rushed off his feet with all his regular customers,’ Bob explained, and got up to pat the Triumph. ‘Doesn’t leave him much time to work on this old girl.’

  ‘She’s a beauty,’ Alex said admiringly.

  Bob plucked a set of overalls from a hook on the back of the door. ‘Come on,’ he said to Alex. ‘Help me wheel her out into the workshop and you can pass me my tools. Once I kneel down, I’m there for the afternoon. My knees aren’t what they used to be.’

  Alex did as instructed, and while he helped, they chatted about how bikes had developed since his father’s days. And when Bob’s arthritic fingers meant he couldn’t tighten a bolt, Alex gave him a hand.

  As Alex left, Guy thanked him. ‘Any time you want to come down and have a coffee or a tinker, feel free, mate.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Alex said politely. He didn’t mention that he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be around.

  Chapter Eleven

  Wednesday, 10 December

  When Alex woke, the first thing he noticed was the silence. He listened for the rattle of leaves in the wind or the chirp of birds, but heard nothing. Even the cottage’s old timbers weren’t creaking.

  He got up, padded heavily to the window, opened the curtains – and stilled.

  Snow covered everything. The dazzling brightness glistened as if diamond confetti had been sprinkled from the sky. Every branch, every twig was coated with a thick white quilt; even the sky was white. Only the woodland floor still harboured patches of copper and bronze where the dead leaves and bare earth had been sheltered by the canopy, although a layer of icy frost made them gleam, like pearls.

  A blur of movement drew his gaze down to the garden where Liberty was crouching, phone in hand. She’d draped a brightly coloured quilt over the branch of a tree, and was photographing it from different angles. Curious.

  His gaze was drawn up again as birds flitted in the trees, dislodging small showers of snow that fluttered to the ground silently. It was mesmerising. Magical. The cottage had been transported to a new enchanted place.

  But the magic wore off when, ten minutes later over breakfast, Liberty explained what this meant.

  He paused in buttering his toast. ‘What do you mean, all the roads are closed?’

  She finished folding the quilt and repeated patiently, ‘The roads are completely blocked. No one’s going anywhere.’

  ‘Even the main road?’ It was the only way in or out of this place, for goodness’ sake.

  She nodded and passed him the marmalade. When he reached for a teaspoon she handed him a tablespoon instead and winked. ‘I know how much you like it.’

  He smiled, but it faded quickly. ‘I don’t understand. Don’t you get snow here normally?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Last year it snowed for most of December.’

  ‘Then why are the roads closed? Won’t they send snow ploughs out to clear them?’

  ‘They will, but the forecast is pretty bad for the next couple of days. This is the downside of living in the country, I’m afraid. We tend to get cut off. But don’t worry, I have lots of food and wood. You won’t be hungry or cold.’

  ‘So I’m stuck here.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Hurt flickered through her eyes and he felt bad.

  But the feeling of being trapped was intense. Without his bike too. Not that it would have been any use in these conditions. He sighed.

  She eyed him warily. ‘Were you planning to leave?’

  ‘I hadn’t decided,’ he said truthfully. But now the decision had been made for him and this cottage was his prison.

  She got up to wash her plate and cup. ‘Well, Evie rang to say the Button Hole is staying closed, so I’m looking forward to an extra day of sewing,’ she said, with relish.

  He finished his breakfast alone, then filled a few minutes by drying and tidying away all the dishes. Upstairs in his room, he tinkered around online, but the few replies he’d had to his enquiries were all negative. Sighing, he snapped shut his laptop and went down again. Liberty was busy at her sewing machine, and he noticed she hummed to herself as she worked. She looked peaceful and calm.

  Unlike him. He was a ball of pent-up energy, restless, aimless. In the lounge he did sit-ups, press-ups and all the exercises it was possible to do in a confined space, while the dog watched him curiously. Still restless, he switched on the television for a while, much to Charlie’s delight, and the dog curled up at his feet. But after twenty minutes he switched it off. The dog opened one eye and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Daytime television is too depressing,’ Alex told him. ‘I’m not that desperate.
’

  He did feel he might go crazy if he didn’t find something to do, though.

  The dog picked up a squeaky toy and carried it over to him. ‘Thanks.’ Alex grimaced, as the saliva-coated ball was dropped in his lap. ‘This is your cure for claustrophobia?’

  He rolled it away and Charlie excitedly chased after it. Tail wagging, he brought it back. Alex smiled and rolled it again; Charlie fetched. They kept up this game for ten minutes, then Alex heard Liberty’s footsteps in the hall. He found her in the kitchen.

  ‘I can’t understand it,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been stuck in the house all morning and I haven’t sneezed once.’

  ‘Oh, that’s because I hoovered this morning,’ said Liberty. ‘I gave the place a good dust, too, washed all the quilts and put clean ones out. There shouldn’t be any dog hair left anywhere. I thought if we were going to be snowed in for a few days, it might help you with your allergies.’

  He blinked. ‘Wow. Thanks. If I’d known that was all it would take, I would have done it myself.’ It would have given him something to do. He was going out of his mind, stuck inside this tiny cottage with nothing to keep him occupied.

  He watched as she went into the hall and wound her scarf around her neck. Instantly, the dog appeared, bright-eyed and excited.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Alex asked.

  ‘For a walk. Clever boy, Charlie!’ She beamed as the dog presented its lead to her. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t you already take him out this morning?’

  ‘Yes. But he loves his walks, and since I’m home I thought we’d do an extra one.’ The dog wagged his tail and panted, eager to go.

  Alex rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m going to go mad stuck here with nothing to do. It’s so quiet, so dull, so …’ Her smile faded and he realised too late how that sounded.

  ‘Yeah, well,’ she said, straightening up, ‘I didn’t ask to be snowed in with you either. Perhaps you should borrow some boots and visit Luc.’ Her chin lifted and she reached for her hat.

  He’d thought of that already but Luc was away with work. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. It’s just this place is not what I’m …’

  They finished in unison: ‘… used to.’

  Liberty smiled. ‘I know. You like cities, living the high life and fast bikes. Well, I’m sorry, but you’ve chanced upon the quietest cottage in the whole village. Even Old Dorothy’s is noisier because she has the telly on full volume so she can hear it.’ She grabbed her boots and stuffed her feet into them. Her movements were quick and angry.

  He silently cursed himself. ‘Liberty, I’m saying all the wrong things …’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ She yanked her coat off the hook, and went to leave.

  But he planted himself between her and the door. Face to face, she couldn’t ignore him. Startled, she stared at him with those big brown eyes. Heat rippled through him. He ignored it. His mind was playing tricks. He was going stir crazy. ‘Can I come with you?’ he asked. ‘Please?’

  ‘I told you, I’m going for a walk in the woods. It won’t be exciting and there won’t be any fast bikes or adrenalin rushes or beautiful women. Just me. I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.’

  He laughed. ‘You are a beautiful woman, but I understand and I’d still like to come. In fact, I’d love to come,’ he corrected himself, ‘if you’ll let me. I’m going crazy stuck inside.’

  She didn’t answer immediately but met his gaze with a level stare. ‘Fine,’ she said eventually, and pointed to a pair of green wellies. ‘Those boots there should fit you.’

  They set off along the path in silence, and the quiet sounds of the woods welcomed them. The snow wasn’t as deep beneath the bare branches of the tree canopy, but it was still a few centimetres thick and their boots crunched and squeaked, leaving prints in the pristine whiteness. The cold air sliced at him, and Alex pushed his hands deep into his pockets, wishing he had gloves and a scarf too. Liberty seemed oblivious to the icy temperature and her hair was a brilliant sunset against the white backdrop.

  ‘Do you really think my life is about beautiful women in every city?’ he asked, breaking the silence between them.

  Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘It’s the picture you’ve painted.’ Was it? Or was it how she’d interpreted his words? ‘And it’s what you see on the internet. Flash bikes with scantily dressed women draped over them.’

  ‘It is not like that.’

  ‘No?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in mannequins, only women who go to race. The others are there for photo opportunities. It’s demeaning. I avoid all that.’

  ‘Really?’ She seemed to be seeing him with fresh eyes, and he wondered how he’d managed to give her such a false impression of his life.

  ‘Really. I’m single and I like it that way.’ He slanted her a crooked smile.

  A bird took flight overhead with an urgent trill and the quick beating of wings.

  ‘You don’t get lonely?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’ He breathed in the fresh air and his head began to clear, the tension dispersing like the small clouds his breath left in the air.

  He and Liberty trudged on, following Charlie, who was way ahead now.

  After a long pause, Liberty asked cautiously, ‘Did you have a bad experience?’

  He thought of Solange. ‘You could say that.’

  He could feel her watching him expectantly, but kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. A gust of wind shook flakes of snow from the branches of a tree and they fluttered to the ground. He realised he didn’t often pause to look around him. He didn’t spend much time in nature, either. The only reason he monitored the weather was to know how it would affect the tarmac and his tyres: would it be hot, wet, humid? The bite of loss sank its teeth into him again.

  ‘You seem unhappy, Alex,’ Liberty said quietly.

  He looked up, caught off guard by this observation, and its accuracy. He didn’t know how to answer.

  She went on, ‘Ever since you arrived you’ve looked … sad. Can I make a suggestion?’

  ‘Is it going to involve a film and a hot-water bottle?’ He tried to make light of it. ‘Or seeing a doctor? Because if it is, Luc already said it. He told me I’m a grumpy bastard. Not those exact words, but it’s what he was thinking.’

  She laughed. ‘No. None of those.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Perhaps you should get back to your jetsetting life and search for your sister another time.’ The only sound was their feet as they walked in step with each other. ‘Or pay someone to find her for you.’

  Alex frowned. Pay someone to do something so personal? He was appalled at the thought of a private investigator turning up on the doorstep of the poor woman who’d written those letters. It would be a heartless thing to do. Almost as heartless as when his father had ignored the letters thirty years ago.

  ‘I can’t go back,’ he said, his jaw tight.

  Charlie scurried towards them, panting.

  ‘Because you’re injured? It won’t be long before you’re feeling better, I’m sure,’ she said, and bent to scratch her dog behind the ears. Charlie bounded ahead again.

  Alex wished he could share the animal’s energy and enthusiasm. Instead, every muscle in him was tense. ‘I can’t go back because my career is over.’

  ‘Over?’ Liberty stopped and stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  Reluctantly, he stopped too. The forest hushed and the trees seemed to lean in to listen as if they were as surprised as he was that he’d just confided his huge secret to someone he’d only met ten days ago. ‘It’s over. Finished. Terminé.’

  ‘Your racing career?’

  ‘Yes.’ He lifted his wrist to the light and absently traced his fingers over the neat red scar line. The skin felt raised and smooth beneath his fingers. ‘The doctors can’t do any more to help me. They can’t repair the damage. I’ll never race again.’

  She looked at his wrist and her fine br
ows pulled together. ‘I thought it was your shoulder that caused you pain.’

  ‘I damaged that too. But it’s my wrist that means I can’t race any more. It’s too weak. It will never be strong enough.’ The doctors had been telling him so for months, but it was only now as he spoke the words that he finally accepted it. Curiously, he had the sensation that something which had been tightly bound was suddenly released.

  ‘Wow, that’s tough for you,’ she said. ‘What will you do?’

  He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I have no idea. Racing was my life, what I lived for. Without it I don’t know who I am.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Liberty heard the tremor in his voice, saw the fear in his eyes, and suddenly it all made sense: his brooding black moods, and the edge of angry tension. She’d believed he hated the solitude and stillness of country life, hated her cottage – but now she saw that he’d been wrestling with the news that the career he loved was over.

  Her heart went out to him and she cast about desperately for something consoling to say. ‘You’ll always have the trophies, the titles. You’re still the man who won, who was the best. No one can take that away.’

  He set off again, his pace energetic, as if he wanted to leave it all behind him, but she had no trouble keeping up. ‘They took away my career. They dropped me. The titles are in the past now. Where do I go from here? Racing was my passion, my reason for getting up each morning.’

  She heard the vicious bite of his words, the rage, the feeling of injustice. Passion was exactly how she felt about her sewing and when she imagined being told she could never sew again her chest tightened. She remembered when her mum had become ill and could no longer hold a needle. She sympathised with the emptiness he must be facing. She understood his terror.

  ‘Do you have a back-up plan?’

  ‘No,’ he said sheepishly. ‘My father rode until he was well into his forties, and even after retiring he still did it for pleasure. I thought if I crashed it would be all or nothing, and I didn’t want to think about a back-up plan because I always knew nothing else could fill that place in my life.’