by Alex Brown
‘I’m not sure – you know how family history gets lost in the mists of time – but I’d like to see if I can find out before it’s too late. My aunt is getting on now and once she’s gone that’ll be it, I suppose, for my family, my flesh and blood. It’ll just be me left.’
‘Then you must go right away, before, as you say … it’s too late.’
‘Yes, I should do that. And I am concerned about Aunt Edie.’ A short silence followed, leaving April deep in thought.
‘And it can’t be easy for her on her own at that age. Has she got a husband? Any children? I can’t remember … ,’ Nancy asked.
‘No. She never married,’ April replied, then pondered, casting her mind back. ‘She used to joke that there was a shortage of men around after the war, and the only eligible ones in the village were either daft, or already spoken for … And that she much preferred the company of horses in any case.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Indeed. She always had a good circle of friends though, but I guess most of them have probably died by now.’ April shook her head.
‘I guess so. Ninety is a ripe old age. And definitely more reason why you should go and see her.’
‘But are you sure?’ April checked, but now that all the practicalities following Gray’s death had been completed, she was actually starting to feel a tiny bit brighter each morning. Gone was the dreadful split-second gear change on waking, that glorious moment before the synapses of her brain kicked in and it was as if Gray was still alive and still well, only for the grief to come hurtling back all over again when her memory was restored. Yes, April was definitely on the way to feeling a little bit more like her old self, less wobbly, and it would certainly keep her busy for a couple of days. All this sitting around doing nothing very much really wouldn’t do. And hadn’t Gray said on his card for her to seize the day?
So, April made a decision. Nancy was right: she could do with a break, time to gather her thoughts, dust herself down and figure out what next. And it was a pleasant, pretty drive through the countryside to get there, which would give her plenty of time to do just that. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning April would go to Tindledale and visit her great aunt Edith in Orchard Cottage.
April’s blue Beetle bounced around the corner of the pot-holed country lane, the top of her head very nearly making contact with the little lever that opened the sunroof. She slammed her right foot on the brake, just in time! Gripping the steering wheel, April held her breath as a resplendent gingery-brown feathered hen dawdled across in front of the car followed by a row of fluffy yellow chicks.
‘Awww, so sweet,’ April said to herself, before picking up the concertinaed paper map nestled next to Gray’s trug of roses on the passenger seat beside her. Nancy had said it would be a shame for April not to bring the flowers with her, as she was on nights for the rest of the week so would most likely forget to water them and they’d end up dying from dehydration. So April had loaded them into the car along with a lovely bunch of late blooming pastel-pink peonies picked earlier this morning from the back garden, and a tin containing a magnificent cherry madeira cake, with the perfect crack running across the top, for Great Aunt Edie. April had remembered that madeira cake was Edie’s favourite so had baked one last night especially, using a recipe from The Great British Bake Off book that Nancy had kindly surprised her with for her birthday. And everyone loved peonies.
April unfolded the map, thankful to the man in the petrol station situated just outside Market Briar, the nearest big town. After asking where she was heading, he had reminded her that most of the country lanes in and around Tindledale were simply single-track ‘unnamed’ roads so April really needed to ‘do herself a favour and take a good old-fashioned map’. And he had been right. April had done this journey more than once with Gray, but it all looked so different now. Although Great Aunt Edie’s postcode was on the sat nav, it covered such a vast rural area that April had reached her destination point supposedly fifteen minutes ago so was now reliant on reading the map to make her way down to the valley and right through the middle of fields, or so it seemed. At one point, after taking a wrong turn, the Beetle had to go along little more than a dirt track with enormous black-and-white-splodged cows on either side chewing and staring at April, before arriving at a tiny derelict church in the middle of nowhere, which was a bit eerie if she was honest. April had then had to do at least a ten-point turn, being careful not to topple the crumbling gravestones, before making her way back along the dirt track and on to what constituted a proper road around these parts.
Once the last of the chicks had safely made it to the other side of the lane, April tentatively continued on her way, turning another corner, but still not entirely sure that she was going in the right direction as there weren’t any signposts to guide her. A few metres later and she was facing a five-bar gate with an empty field behind it. Although on second glance, April saw a very large black bull eyeing her from under a tree in the far corner. Wasting no time, and remembering as a child the very close encounter she and a friend had experienced when a similarly intimidating bull had charged at them whilst they were picking blackberries on the other side of Tindledale, April quickly and quietly reversed back on to the lane. She had seen first hand how a raging bull could trample a wooden gate, given enough ground to gather enough speed. Even now, the sight of a blackberry brought back that moment when she had hurled her Tupperware box into a bush and legged it over a stile to safety – a well-placed farmer had then grabbed her and her friend and hurled them up on to his hay tractor before dealing with the bull.
After finding a layby, April pulled over, switched off the engine and sat for a while to weigh up her options, wondering if she should head back to the main road and start again in her quest to find Orchard Cottage. It all looked so different somehow, or perhaps it was because she hadn’t really paid attention on any of the previous trips over the years, when her parents had brought her here in the school summer holidays, or Edie had arranged for a taxi to pick her up from the station located down the bottom of the hill, or Gray had driven and she would have been busy chatting and laughing along with him.
Ahh, April spotted a van in the distance. She’d flag it down and ask for directions. Stepping out of the car, she waved an arm and the green van slowed down until it was stationary in front of her. The diesel engine was still chugging away as the window was rolled down. April glanced at the side and saw ‘Only Shoes and Horses. Matt Carter & Daughter – Farrier’ written in white signage. Nice touch mentioning his daughter. And then she saw the man. With curls the colour of treacle, prominent cheekbones, full lips and the greenest eyes that April had ever seen. Wearing a chocolate-brown leather waistcoat over a checked shirt, he had the look of a Romany gypsy about him, or as if he had just stepped out of a Catherine Cookson saga – all windswept and mysterious, moody, brooding angst. And he was definitely ‘hot for an older guy’ as Nancy would say, while most likely elbowing April in the ribs and nodding her head slowly with a cheeky smile set firmly in place like she used to when they went out shopping together, in the carefree, fun days, before Gray got ill. And on second thoughts, was there something vaguely familiar about this man? April wasn’t sure. Had she seen him somewhere before? Hmmm. Maybe in the village on a previous visit. That’ll be it! He is very striking so it’s entirely possible that our paths have crossed and his face and those green eyes have just stuck in my mind. And he’s not that old, but then Nancy is only twenty-two – anyone over thirty-five is practically ancient as far as she is concerned.
‘Um, hello …’ April ventured a few seconds later, after Matt (she assumed) still hadn’t spoken, having busied himself with pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing part of a sleeve tattoo, before taking an enormous swig of water from a plastic bottle which, now empty, he had thrown into the footwell of the passenger seat beside him. ‘Er, sorry to bother you … but, er …’ April was feeling self-conscious; his eyes really were quite mesmerising and they w
ere fixed on her. She hesitated and then managed a somewhat meagre, ‘I’m lost!’
Still silence.
Then Matt gave April an up-and-down glance as if mulling over whether to help her or not, although it was difficult to tell for sure what exactly he was thinking as his face hadn’t moved at all except to drink the water. He stared intently, making April feel a little hot as she wondered what was going on. Why wasn’t he saying anything? It was as if he was in some sort of trance. And then, as if someone had found the cord in the back of his body and given it a good yank, Matt started talking.
‘Where you heading?’
‘Oh, um thanks. I’m trying to find Orchard Cottage, it’s—’
‘I know it. Get in your car and follow me. I’m going past the top of the lane.’ And before April could get another word in, if only to say thank you, Matt wound up the window and drove off, but then waited in front of the Beetle while April raced over to it, leapt in and started the engine up as fast as she could. Ten minutes later, Matt stuck his right arm out of the van window and pointed to a gap in the hedgerow before disappearing around a bend further on. April assumed this meant she should turn right … so she did.
*
Matt watched her go. Glancing again in his wing mirror as the blue Beetle disappeared out of sight, he gripped the steering wheel a little tighter before pulling into a layby and switching off the engine. He couldn’t believe it. Of course, he had recognised her right away. But she had no idea who he was. And why would she? He looked very different now. Unrecognisable, it seemed. April Lovell. Even her name was lovely. And she really had been so lovely back then. When he had first spotted her, cycling along the stream down near the Blackwood Farm Estate, it had been the school holidays and he had been fishing on the other side of the water with Jack, his brother, who had teased him for gawping at the girl down from London. Everyone in the village knew who she was; she came every year in the school holidays to stay with her aunt.
Matt must have been about twelve – bottle-top glasses and crooked teeth – and with typical pre-pubescent boy hormones racing through him, but still, he had never seen a girl like her. A vision she was. With her long curly brown hair flaring out behind her as she sped along, her white cotton skirt puffing up in the breeze, allowing him a glimpse of her suntanned thighs. And to cap it all, she had turned her freckled face and actually grinned at him as she had gone by. He thought he had died and gone to heaven. And he had never forgotten that moment.
It had been a few summers later when he had seen her again, part of the group that met on the village green every morning with their bikes, bags of sweets and clingfilmed sandwiches and instructions to be home by sunset for their tea. More confident by now, thanks to the braces straightening his teeth and the new, decent glasses, he hadn’t wanted to miss his chance a second time around and had plucked up the courage to talk to her. He had made her laugh and in turn she had made him feel on top of the world. They had spent the whole week of her holiday together that summer. Cycling, fishing, swimming in the stream, they had even made a den in the woods together. And that was where it had happened. April Lovell was the first girl Matt kissed. Properly kissed. Pulling her into him, pressing his body against hers in the buttercup field. Soft and curvy, he had been nervous of crushing her. Later, they had lain on the grass in the sunshine together. Him with his arms wrapped around her, his fingers entwined in her hair as she rested her head on his chest and twirled a buttercup underneath his chin, making jokes about liking butter or something. He couldn’t remember the words for sure, but he’d never forgotten the scent of her, like a bunch of lovely fresh flowers it was.
Matt pushed a hand through his hair, shocked at the effect the sudden memory of that intense summer was having on him all these years later. Even though he had never seen her again until today in the lane. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin and glanced in the rear-view mirror, knowing he needed to pull himself together. And fast. Everything was different now. He was a dad with responsibilities for starters, so there was no point mooning over the past like some lovestruck teenager. He switched the engine back on and carried on driving.
*
Orchard Cottage was at the end of a private, single-track lane, April remembered that much, and last time she’d been here the lane was pristine with beautifully manicured herbaceous borders running the length on either side. But now, there was just a mass of higgledy-piggledy brambles and nettles, some so long they were practically meeting in the middle like an arch covering the lane and tapping the top of the Beetle as April nudged gently on. And she didn’t dare risk going over five miles an hour for fear of driving into one of the gigantic craters (and that really wasn’t an exaggeration) littering the tarmac. Or worse still, the hen and her chicks that were dandering along, weaving in and out of the undergrowth and bringing a whole new meaning to the term ‘free-range’. From what April could see, these chickens had the run of the whole place, and there were at least six hens now – she’d lost count of the number of chicks – all pecking away and squabbling with one another.
April came to the end of the lane. Ahh, this looked more like it. With rolling green fields all around her, there was a patch of dandelion-covered tarmac that she reckoned constituted a turning point. And what was that? A tiny opening in between two giant bun-shaped blue hydrangea bushes.
April got out of the car and looked around, drawing in the sweet honeysuckle mingled with wood-smoke scent that filled the air, feeling baffled that Aunt Edie’s cottage looked so overgrown. It hadn’t been like this at all the last time she had visited. April walked over to the opening and saw a narrow, winding footpath to the left leading up to the cottage’s front door that was barely visible now, given the glorious red, yellow, pink and green rainbow assortment of geraniums tumbling down from two hanging baskets, almost touching the red tiles surrounding the porch.
After retrieving her handbag, the cake tin and the bunch of peonies – figuring she could pop back to the car for the rest of her stuff in a bit – April made her way along the footpath, flanked either side by tons of tall buttery-yellow hollyhocks, and up to the front door. Placing the bunch of peonies and the cake tin on the tiles, she found the rope attached to the brass bell hanging from the wall and gave it a good jangle. Nothing happened. April waited for what felt like a respectable length of time before giving it another good jangle, a little louder and longer this time. Perhaps Great Aunt Edie was having a nap. April checked her watch. It was nearly two o’clock and she knew that her great aunt liked a little lie-down in the afternoon after her lunch, which was always at one p.m. sharpish; but then she was in her nineties so it only seemed right for her to be taking it easy at her time of life.
April took a step back and looked up at the two upstairs windows nestling in the eaves of the thatched roof, with their black paint surround and criss-cross ironwork, and saw that the curtains were still closed. She opened the white picket fence side gate and stepped tentatively through the thigh-high grass – trying not to imagine what the soft, sluggy-like feeling was that had just squelched along the side of her right Birkenstock sandal – and across to the sitting room window.
Taking in the flowery wallpaper, the mahogany sideboard with dusty bottles of alcohol on a silver tray for guests – Cinzano, Vermouth, Campari and of course the creamy yellow Advocaat – ahh, April smiled, fondly remembering the potent snowballs with a glacé cherry on a cocktail stick that her great aunt used to mix into a big highball glass tumbler for her as a young teenager, telling her in a naughty whisper-voice not to tell her mum. On the other side of the room was a Dralon settee with white lace covers protecting the arms. There was a rosewood display cabinet in the alcove next to the log burner, crammed with various keepsakes gathered over the years – lots of black and white framed photos, a sprig of lavender wrapped in silver foil, a lucky rabbit’s foot, a collection of china thimbles and postcards sent from her soldier brothers during the Second World War – April remembered being allowed to l
ook at these when she was a child. And, still there, was the picture of the woman in the uniform. Winnie perhaps.
But where was Great Aunt Edie?
Wading through the grass, across the footpath and around to the back of the cottage, April wondered what was going on. When she had phoned her aunt to thank her for the birthday card and to ask if she could visit, Edie had sounded delighted.
‘Oh yes, dear! I had been wondering when you would come back. It’ll be very lovely to see you. And I’ll bake your favourite cinnamon apple crumble and custard for your tea. I’ll use the Carnation evaporated milk, just the way you like it,’ she had said – getting a little confused after mistaking her for Winnie again, April had assumed, as she couldn’t stomach evaporated milk. But once she had gently informed Edie that it was April, her brother Robert’s granddaughter, who would be visiting today … well, April was surprised that her father’s aunt wasn’t in. It was very unlike her, Edie was always quite fastidious when it came to receiving guests. April remembered one time as a child, she had been staying for the weekend while her parents went to a wedding, and the Tindledale village vicar had been due to pop by, just to collect some jars for the church fete (Great Aunt Edie was famous for her homemade apple sauce, using sweet Braeburns from the orchards) – Edie had spent the morning dusting the cottage and had changed into her best dress at least an hour before the vicar arrived. So how come she wasn’t at home now?
Admittedly, it was a little later than April had predicted arriving, damn sat nav, but Aunt Edie wouldn’t have just gone out, surely? And where would she go in any case? The last time she had visited, April had got the impression her aunt never went very far at all; being a home bird, she preferred pottering around her country cottage.
April made her way around to the back of the cottage where the grass was just as tall – and what was that? As she ventured nearer to the back door, she felt her Birkenstocks sinking into something slippery and wet. A bog of some kind, or a blocked drain overflowing, perhaps. April went to lift her bare foot, to no avail. It was sinking into the foul-smelling puddle that seemed to be seeping from a mildew-covered mound, the septic tank. Oh God. With her hand over her face, April shook her head when a shot of guilt darted right through her. Clearly her aunt was struggling, had let things go and if April had visited more often then she would have known about this before now! The once tidy lawn was now almost a meadow, left to nature and full of wild flowers, which she was sure would be eyed with envy in some of the trendier London suburbs, but knowing her great aunt, April was certain the rustic charm was not intentional.
