Grace had to look twice at the hunched, growly man who had walked into the bedroom – recognition took a fraction longer than was comfortable for them both. It’s okay, it’s Tom. Don’t be scared, it’s just Tom, the new Tom, different… Her interior monologue quieted her nerves. And with this, it came to her. Of course! That was it! That was the thing! She had forgotten to tell Tom that she was going away.
Without enough time to think of any preamble or soften her words, she made her statement. ‘I’m going away. I need to go away. I’m going to Wales.’ It sounded more matter-of-fact than she’d intended.
‘You’re going to Wales?’ His tone held the accusatory note that she could now identify as the forerunner of an argument. She felt her spirit flag at the prospect.
‘Yes. To a studio, actually.’
‘“A studio, actually.”‘ His imitation of her tone both irritated and upset her. ‘How lovely for you, Grace, a holiday in Wales. Your timing really is impeccable.’
She hung her head and tried to summon the strength for the exchange, wishing he would just go away. ‘I’m not going on holiday, Tom. I just need to get some thinking time, some space. I’m going mad here.’
He snorted in derision. ‘That’s perfect. You think you’re the only one? We are falling apart. The world has turned to rat shit and you are going to drink wine and stroll the hills? Fucking marvellous!’
‘I told you, it’s not like that. I need to keep sane, Tom. I need to go somewhere that I can think because I’m sinking and I’m scared.’
He shook his head. ‘Listen to yourself, Grace. “I… I… I…” Here’s a newsflash for you: we have both lost her, we, us.’ He pounded his fist against his chest. ‘This thing happened to both of us and now I’m losing you. Have you any idea how shit my life is? How low I am?’
She reluctantly looked into his sunken eyes and knew that he spoke the truth. It saddened her to hear his next words.
‘There used to be a time when we would have sunk together. I am so, so lonely, you have no idea.’ He couldn’t stop the tears.
She hated to admit that to see him like that angered and repulsed her. She didn’t have the capacity to help him, he was right. She was way too busy looking after herself. Grace knew it was a pivotal moment, as he stood some two feet away with his head hung forward, begging her to hold him, imploring her to join him in a circle of grief. But she had turned away from the sight of his distress and continued to pack.
The memory of that conversation came to her now as, instructed by the satnav, which had finally located her, she turned the car onto a narrow, bumpy track signposted ‘Gael Ffydd Cottage’. The five-bar gate was wedged open and she continued slowly along the potholed, pebble-strewn driveway, which had been built along a ridge that dropped away by a foot on each side. Eventually she pulled up on a tarmac apron, next to a battered, square caravan whose windows were missing, and an equally sorry-looking Land Rover, the open flatbed of which was partly covered in rather moth-eaten faded green canvas.
To the right of the apron was the side of a house – a cottage, to be more precise – made of pale, rough, irregular stone, which seemed to have a greenish tinge, beautiful against the lush setting. One solitary window sat below the apex of the roof, and smoke curled from a single chimneypot above that. Grace inhaled the scent that reminded her of childhood, of bonfire nights and sitting in front of her grandma’s real fire with her parents on either side, while Alice danced in the firelight. She had felt happy and safe. Safe – unlike Chloe. Grace shook her head, not wanting to succumb to tears, not here, not now.
To her left was an open-fronted workshop in which she could see a workbench scattered with various tools and a pile of logs neatly stacked in one corner. The sagging, rust-coloured pantile roof was tightly bound with ivy.
Turning her head, she listened. There was nothing bar the babble of water in the valley, the crow of birds overhead and the far-off bleat of sheep in the distance. It was just as the advert had said: quiet.
‘Hello.’
She hadn’t heard the man or his fat blonde Labrador approach. She jumped a little.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ He raised his palm as if to show he came in peace. ‘I tried making a noise, but you were miles away.’ He clicked his fingers and patted his thigh. The dog sidled up to him and stood by his leg. ‘Good boy, Monty.’ He splayed his flattened palm in front of the dog.
Grace turned to face the middle-aged man, noting his bushy, wild beard, curly dark hair and muddy Rigger boots. His thick red plaid shirt was unbuttoned over a once-white T-shirt and his oil-covered jeans were tucked into his boots.
‘I was just, looking… the view… it’s incredible.’ She blushed, hating having been caught unawares, wondering if she’d been talking to herself, as she often did.
He nodded. ‘You found us okay then?’
Grace suspected visitors were scarce as he’d correctly surmised that she was his guest. ‘Yes. The satnav went on strike a couple of times, but I’ve arrived, so…’ She let this trail, in no mood for making small talk with this stranger.
‘Let me grab your bag for you.’ Without waiting for a response, he took a step closer. Grace realised he wasn’t as old as she had first assumed; his clear, hazel eyes were those of someone closer to her own age.
‘Oh!’ She was more than capable of carrying her own bag but didn’t want to offend with a rebuttal.
She opened the boot and watched as he grabbed her suitcase. Then she gathered up her pashmina and rucksack from the back seat and followed him down a rather precarious path that wound around the back of the workshop.
A few steps across a muddy field sat a single-storey rectangular building, made from the same green-tinged stone as the main cottage. Grace gulped, wondering where on earth she was heading, alone in the middle of nowhere with the bearded man. She looked back towards the track and realised she was miles from the road. You can always jump in the car and disappear if you don’t like it. Just make your excuses and leave, say you’re going to fetch milk or whatever and just go.
‘I’m Huw by the way.’ He turned towards her and offered this a little gruffly, as if remembering that such information might be useful. ‘And this, as you might have gathered, is Monty.’ He patted the dog’s head, his tone flat and formal.
‘I’m Grace.’ She nodded, her response indicating that, like him, she was not interested in making friends – of the human or dog kind. She had to admit, it was rather nice to be in the company of someone who didn’t talk to her as though she were going deaf or was wounded, someone who didn’t know to ask quietly how she was doing, someone who didn’t define her by her grief or her daughter. The frisson she felt at this realisation was instantly replaced by a spike of guilt that lanced her gut. Happy? Relieved? How dare you.
Huw placed the case on the small flagstone terrace at the front of the property and paused at the bottom of the three steps that led up to the green front door.
Grace was busy taking in the details of her home for the next few weeks. ‘I can’t believe how quiet it is here. It’s another world.’
‘That’s the idea.’ He turned towards her, smiling briefly and seeming to appraise his guest’s face for the first time.
She did likewise. He looked kind behind his rather bluff exterior.
She noticed the brightly coloured pottery that was inlaid in the concrete tread of the steps, a kind of haphazard mosaic that made a stunning pattern. ‘I like the steps.’
His response was slow and considered. ‘I made them.’
‘How?’ Her interest was genuine.
‘I take pots and jugs, cups, any old bits and pieces that belonged to my mother-in-law and my aunts, and I smash them—’
‘You smash them?’ she interrupted, trying to imagine taking her mum’s or gran’s china and deliberately breaking it. Her heart constricted at the thought of the pretty cups and saucers that she had inherited from her great-gran, which she’d thought she would pass on
to Chloe. Pointless now… all pointless. That was how her mind worked: every topic, every thought, no matter how disconnected from the discussion in hand, led her back to Chloe, and every time her thoughts turned to Chloe, she pictured her little girl, lying on the hall floor in her nightdress as Tom shrieked and howled, and each time this happened her heart split and slowed a little bit more. She longed for the day it would simply stop.
‘Yes, I smash them up and then pick out pieces at random as I work, so it’s authentic and not too ordered.’
Grace studied the shards of floral china, the squares of green glaze and the dazzling blue willow-pattern fragments that turned the ugly concrete steps into things of beauty, works of art.
‘They look lovely,’ she said as Huw climbed to the front door.
‘I see no point in hiding them inside a closet, gathering dust. This way, I get to look at them every day and my guests get to enjoy them too.’
‘What does your mother-in-law think?’ She pictured Olive’s face on being told this was how her beloved china had ended up, smashed for the sole purpose of putting it into a step.
‘She knows I’m a little crazy. Trust me, it’s not the maddest thing I’ve done.’ He flashed her a smile; his teeth were white and even. His thick hair was curly and almost black and he had to run his hand through it every so often to remove it from his eyes. His skin had the natural dark tan of someone that worked outside in all weathers.
Huw lifted the latch of the door that Grace noticed had neither lock nor keyhole. He pushed the door open and stepped away, gesturing for her to enter. She trod past him and found herself inside The Old Sheep Shed.
Huw leant in and placed her bag inside the front door. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Feed Bertha when she’s hungry. She’s like a child: if you keep her fuelled and give her a bit of attention, she’ll cause you no trouble.’ He pointed at the log burner.
His words took Grace to a fraught autumn morning and Chloe jumping up and down on the spot. ‘I want my breakfast! I want my breakfast! I want…’ she had chanted over and over as Grace searched high and low for her car keys, in danger of missing her train. She couldn’t be late, not that day. Their German clients were in town and she couldn’t afford to muck up the day or the pitch that she’d been working on for the last month. She knew Jason was desperate to intervene.
Her tone had been sharp, impatient. ‘For God’s sake, Chloe, I know! Daddy will be down in two seconds and he’ll get you your breakfast,’ she’d snapped.
Chloe’s bottom lip had trembled. ‘But I… I… want Mummy to get it,’ she’d stuttered through her tears.
‘Well, Chlo, Mummy would love to be able to stand here and cook you scrambled eggs and watch a bit of Mr Tumble, but some of us have to go out into the big wide world and earn the cash to buy the bloody breakfast!’ She spoke as she tore around the kitchen, peering under newspapers, delving into the fruit bowl and raking through Lego. ‘Where the hell are my keys?’ she shouted.
Tom trotted down the stairs, scooped Chloe up onto his arm and kissed away her tears. ‘Hey! Come on, Chlo! No tears, we’ve got Shanta’s birthday party today, you can’t cry on a party day!’
His ability to calmly soothe had made Grace’s jaw tighten. ‘Have you seen my car keys?’ she barked, hands on hips, hearing the tick of every second that passed on the kitchen clock.
‘On the windowsill in the cloakroom.’ He smiled.
Yes, of course! She had rushed in the night before, desperate for the loo…
Grace tried to remember what had happened next; had she said goodbye to Chloe? Had she kissed her? Did I say ‘bye, Chloe? Did I hug you, make sure you were okay? Were you happy when I left? Did you have a nice party? I can’t remember! I remember the meeting and the pitch; they were pleased. That made me happy, but I can’t remember leaving you that morning. I’m sorry, Chlo. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I wish I’d stayed and made you breakfast, I really do, but I didn’t know. I thought I had all the time in the world to make it up to you…
‘You okay?’ Huw asked, a little awkward in the company of her fixed stare and agitated fingers.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She wasn’t okay, but it was nothing that he or anyone else could fix.
‘If you need anything, I’m around.’ With that, Huw closed the door and disappeared.
Grace looked around at the stone walls, which had been painted brilliant white, making the long, low room bright and clean. There were no windows, but at the far end, wide French doors with red gingham curtains pulled back on either side framed the most incredible view. It was a clear, uninterrupted panorama of the valley, with a large mountain behind and the river in the centre, like a moving work of art and one she knew she wouldn’t tire of staring at. Beyond the doors, Grace could make out a deck on stilts, with two wooden steamer chairs positioned at angles to make the most of the view.
On the right side of The Old Sheep Shed was the lounge area. A low, soft, linen-coloured sofa stood in front of the window with a coir rug alongside. A multitude of cushions in reds and creams, some with ornate appliqué and others in checks, littered the back of the sofa. The kitchen area was to the left of that. One small grey French dresser sat against the wall, holding a collection of grey and white fluted plates, cups and bowls; table linen was folded neatly on its top, along with a tray that held four fat wine glasses. To the left of this and forming an L-shape was a length of scrubbed wooden work surface, where there was a sink, a small drainer with a fridge underneath, and a hob and microwave. Two bar stools sat on the other side.
At the far left end of the room, pushed up against the wall, was a very grand, if slightly dented and rusted, black wrought-iron bed. Here too a plethora of red and cream cushions in various shapes jostled for position on top of the heavy white lace counterpane. In the corner was an opaque glass shower cubicle behind a screen, and a loo. The only mirror was behind the washbasin next to the loo, a vast, ornate, gold mirror that would have looked more at home in a fancy hallway than in this small bathroom space inside The Old Sheep Shed.
Opposite the door and in the middle of the wall stood the centrepiece, a round, white, log burner with intricate scrollwork on its heavy iron door and a flue pipe that exited via a neat hole in the ceiling. Next to the fire sat a tall wicker basket full of logs and hooked over the side of the basket was a pair of black wrought-iron tongs.
Grace sank down onto the bed, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. As her breathing slowed and her blinks grew longer, her gaze fell on the tin, Shaker-style side tables with cutaway star designs on the top, and their simple candle lamps with red gingham shades. The place was perfect. The Old Sheep Shed was pretty, quiet and everything she’d hoped it would be. She let her head fall heavily into the bolster pillow and fell into a deep, deep, restful sleep.
She woke suddenly; a noise had disturbed her, which on reflection could have been a dog barking. Sitting bolt upright on the bed with her heart racing, she realised she was in her clothes and in the dark; day seemed to have slipped into night and she had no idea where she was. She swallowed as she placed her arms behind her on the creaking bed, remembering that she had travelled to Wales. Reaching over, she flicked on the lamp and let her pulse settle as her eyes roved over her new surroundings, now softly lit by the creamy glow from the lamp. It was cold and she was more than moderately hungry. A quick poke around the fridge and cupboard revealed milk, bread, butter, jam, coffee and a bottle of red wine. That was kind of the man. Huw – that was it. Huw.
Grace decided against food, finding the idea of wine far more appealing. She pulled the cork and removed the duvet from the bed. Making her way out of the French doors, she settled herself on one of the steamer chairs on the deck and tucked the duvet around her legs. As she swigged from the neck of the bottle, she stared into the darkness and wished she had a packet of cigarettes; she hadn’t smoked since college, but that didn’t stop the craving that came over her suddenly.
Gazing at the landscape, she t
ried to focus but could only see the black outline of trees and mountains against the inky-blue night sky. Animal noises, hoots and rustles drifted up from the valley below. She had no idea of the time. Her phone was still on the front seat of the car; she would fetch it later. She should probably drop Tom a text to say that she’d arrived safely, not that he was speaking to her, but that didn’t really matter, not in the grand scheme of things.
The stars seemed closer there, as she lay back on the recliner. ‘Where are you, Chloe? Where did you go?’ She spoke aloud as her tears came. The ferocity of her sobs took her by surprise and she howled, gulping for air and releasing the pent-up anguish that had swirled inside her for too long. Chloe died! Those words, all these weeks later, still felt like a lie. It couldn’t be true. But it was and Grace knew that it would always feel that way. She would never, ever get used to it.
‘Hello?’ A voice cut through the darkness.
She looked to the right of the deck and could see a beam of light making its way across the field. She didn’t answer but tried to stem her tears as she trembled inside the duvet, a little confused and unsettled.
‘Grace?’ It was the man from the cottage.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed, as if it might be someone else sitting on the deck in the middle of nowhere.
Monty lumbered up to the deck and barked at the figure huddled in the darkness.
‘‘S’all right, Mont. Good boy.’ Huw calmed his companion. ‘Can I come up?’
Grace noted his outline, the curly hair and bushy beard. She nodded; it made little difference to her.
‘Grace?’ He clearly hadn’t seen her nodding.
‘Sure,’ she managed, sniffing her distress down her throat.
Huw climbed the three wide stairs of the deck and sat on the end of the empty steamer chair opposite. It was a moment before he spoke. She wondered what he wanted but had to admit, having someone else sit with her in the darkness was quite comforting.
‘I heard you from the cottage, you sounded upset, so I thought I’d come and see if you were okay.’
Three-And-A-Half Heartbeats Page 12
