The Safest Place

by Suzanne Bugler

  Earlier in the day it had been quite warm for the time of year but as the evening settled the temperature was dropping rapidly. I’d put a cardigan on over my dress but my skin still puckered up with goosebumps in the chill air. There were a couple of cars waiting with their engines running by the station exit, and literally only one other person on the platform. I stood just inside the gate, with my suitcase down beside me. David would see me as soon as he got off the train. He couldn’t possibly miss me.

  And yet he almost did. He almost walked straight past me.

  It was as if he simply didn’t notice me there, positioned as I was outside of my usual domain. He got off that train along with just a couple of other passengers and walked towards the platform gate, carrying his overnight bag in one hand and his laptop in the other, and looking right at me at the same time as he looked straight through me. His eyes simply didn’t register. Not for one, two, three . . . a good ten seconds at least. And then when he did see me it wasn’t pleasure that spread across his face so much as a look of shock.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

  I smiled, but my face was tight from the chill of the air and from the tension of waiting. ‘I thought I’d come and meet you.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right.’ Then, ‘But I’ve got my car. I was going to quickly get changed.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ I said. He was about to start walking on to the car park, but I stayed where I was, and so he stopped and looked at me again.

  ‘You’ve changed your hair,’ he said after a moment.

  And I said, ‘Do you like it?’, one hand automatically reaching up to touch it, to feel, even after all this time, the absence of its length.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s very nice.’ We both stood there, looking at each other, me with that suitcase still unnoticed down by my side, and how awkward it suddenly felt, how unlike I’d hoped it would be.

  ‘Well aren’t you going to kiss me hello?’ I said, and I tipped up my face to him. Thus prompted, he kissed me on the cheek. He smelled of the train and of the heat of travelling; the fumes of the city clinging to his suit, and on his skin the faint remains of that morning’s cologne.

  ‘We better get going,’ he said, and then, at last, he saw the suitcase. Strangely, he glanced around the platform, as if expecting it to belong to someone else.

  ‘We’re going away for the weekend,’ I said.

  He laughed; a confused, doubtful laugh.

  ‘What? Now?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, now.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To The Lamb,’ I said. ‘Just us. For two whole nights.’

  I watched my words sink in.

  ‘The Lamb?’ he repeated. ‘We’re staying there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But – how come?’

  ‘Because I booked it,’ I said. ‘As a surprise.’

  He looked around the platform again, bewildered, so hesitant to believe me. ‘But what about the children?’ he said, as if expecting them to pop up suddenly from wherever they might be hiding.

  ‘They are staying at Melanie’s.’

  ‘At Melanie’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they OK with that?’

  ‘Of course they are.’

  He handed me his laptop to carry, and picked up the suitcase. And we started walking towards the car park.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I’m just . . . shocked. Surprised, I mean. Two nights at The Lamb. Wow.’ And then he said, ‘Do you think we can afford that?’

  I stopped short, my feet grating on the gravel. ‘David,’ I said, ‘we haven’t done anything nice together for ages. I want it to be special, different, a treat for us. We have to afford it.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK.’

  I’d parked my car almost next to his. There was plenty of space; the car park was never very full, least of all at this time on a Friday night.

  ‘We’ll have to take both cars,’ he said, putting the suitcase and his overnight bag in the boot of his.

  ‘We can leave mine here,’ I said, ‘and pick it up Sunday.’

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Of course it is. It’ll be fine.’

  He looked around, not convinced.

  ‘You leave yours here in the week, David. What’s the difference?’

  ‘I suppose we could drop one off at home, first,’ he said.

  And I said, ‘We can’t. It’ll take too long.’

  In such detail I remember all of this. Small, random things such as the raspberry-streaked yellow of the light starting to dip behind the trees; and the white, dimpled skin of my knees as I got in the car beside David and my dress hiked itself up, tight across my thighs. The knuckles of his hand clenched on the gear stick, and the faint line of red biro spread like the trail of an aeroplane across the cuff of his shirt. The shuffling of his body in the seat next to me as he twisted to get comfortable; the creak and catch of his seat belt as he pulled it too hard. And my awareness of his tiredness, and of our conversation, so struggling, so wrong.

  TWELVE

  It was nearly nine when we eventually pulled up into the tiny car park at the back of The Lamb Hotel, a whole hour later than I had wanted it to be. I cannot tell you how much I had dreamed about staying there again. Since moving here, we had had lunch a couple of times in the bar, and on each occasion I had looked about me so longingly and taken in every little change; the rearrangement of pots above the fireplace, the new wallpaper in the ladies’ loo, the addition of a blackboard marked up with the daily specials propped up against the bar. And I had noted all the familiar things too, the comfy, slightly worn old furniture probably in need of a little re-upholstery; the enormous settle by the fire that David and I had sat together on countless times over the years; the ancient, uneven dark red tiles of the floor. Noted them and loved them. This small old hotel had played such a part in our lives. All those times we had stayed here, David and I; all those dreams that we had shared.

  I’d booked us the Barn Room, overlooking the courtyard at the back. It was our favourite; a large misshapen room with the roof on one side slanting right down to the floor, and a huge bathroom down a short flight of steps. The receptionist took us up there, and left us, and then we both just stood there in the middle of the room, looking around. Both of us, seemingly, overwhelmed. To me it was almost too much; I wanted to just look and look, to take in every single detail, to remind myself of what I knew and loved. The first time we had stayed here, David and I, in this very room, we hadn’t even had children. We’d only known each other a couple of years. How young we were, how full of hope. And how we had clung together on that vast bed. To be there again, both in that room, and in that lost place in our lives, meant everything to me.

  Did David feel the same? I thought so at the time.

  He moved first, walking to the wardrobe and hanging his jacket inside it. He went into the bathroom to wash his hands, then came out again, opened one of the bottles of water on the tray on the dressing table, poured himself a glass and drank it down. And he spoke first too, while I was still motionless, still swamped with the memory of other times. He went to the window and looked out, and said, ‘I wonder if you could see our house from here if there were no trees or buildings in the way. And no hills. You probably could if the land was flatter.’

  He wanted to phone the children before we went down to dinner, to say hello, and then he needed to shower and change. I sat on the bed, waiting for him, wishing he would hurry up. I’d hoped we’d have time for a drink before dinner, perhaps a walk around the garden, but the evening was disappearing too fast. By the time we got downstairs and went straight into the restaurant the waitress was laying up tables for breakfast.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, taken off guard. ‘I thought we were finished,’ and she scurried off to the kitchen to warn the chef. We could hear their raised voices beyond the screen
door, and the banging of pans.

  We sat at an unmade-up table away from the kitchen, and soon the waitress reappeared with cutlery and glasses, which she hastily deposited in front of us along with a menu.

  ‘I’m afraid the lamb’s all gone,’ she said apologetically, ‘and the fish is plaice now instead of bream.’ Quickly, she took our orders, and disappeared again to the kitchen.

  ‘We’re somewhat late,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not even ten,’ David said. ‘It’s hardly late.’

  ‘Late for dinner,’ I said. ‘Late for here.’

  ‘I got back as soon as I could,’ he said defensively. ‘But I had a presentation this afternoon, I told you.’

  ‘Yes I know,’ I said, hurt by his tone. ‘I just meant we’re lucky they’re still serving, that’s all.’

  The waitress came with our wine then, and poured. Then she brought out our starters, and stood beside the screen door to the kitchen, waiting while we ate. We were the only people in the restaurant; no doubt she could hear every word that we said.

  ‘How was your presentation?’ I asked, making an effort to show interest.

  ‘Oh you know,’ he said vaguely. ‘We put such a lot of work into the preparation; sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not. You can never tell at the time.’ He took a long sip of his wine. ‘I felt really bad having to rush off.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No.’

  We put our forks down and the waitress cleared our plates. Within seconds she’d brought out our mains and was back in position like a sentry by the kitchen door.

  ‘How has your week been?’ David said.

  And now it was my turn to say, ‘Oh you know.’ I could not believe we were speaking like this, so politely, so remotely. Where was the intimacy? Where was the romance I had so very much wanted to recreate? ‘I put my name down to help at Ella’s school fete. They’re having it on the green this year instead of in the playground, so it’ll be a sort of village thing too. Oh, and I’ve found someone local to fix the bathroom radiator.’

  He raised his eyebrows slightly, and nodded in acknowledgement, but I could tell he was only half listening. The stress of his day was still plain upon his face; his eyes were shadowed and guarded. I talked on, about this little thing and that, for the benefit of the waitress as much as him. I barely tasted my food. The sound of my own voice grated in my head, too forced, too bright.

  When we used to stay there, we’d go back into the lounge after dinner, and snuggle up on one of the sofas by the fire. And someone would bring us a tray of coffee, and a dish of little hand-made sweets, and we’d sit there wallowing in the pleasure of it all. But not that night. David was too tired. And I was too disappointed by then, too sorely aware of the difference between how I’d wanted the evening to be, and how it actually was.

  We went straight from dinner to our room, and to bed. I curled up beside him in that vast bed, but we did not make love. Yet nor did we go straight to sleep.

  I lay awake long after we’d turned the light out, and I could sense that David was still awake, too, beside me. I could tell by the shallow sigh of his breathing. I could almost hear him thinking. Eventually he reached his hand across towards me underneath the duvet, and took hold of mine. ‘This is all quite strange, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Staying here again.’

  THIRTEEN

  The next day dawned bright and clear, daylight breaking through the gap in the curtains, waking me early. I had not slept well, and my head was heavy from last night’s wine. Beside me David slept on; I listened to the rhythm of his breathing, so familiar, so seemingly at peace. I could picture in my head every single time that we had stayed here over the years, all those fragile memories, stacked up, layer upon layer, like pages in a book. I could see myself so young, before children, drawing back the curtains, throwing myself down on the bed to lie next to David. ‘What will we be like in ten, twenty years’ time?’ I could hear myself saying, so sure, so immune to the future. ‘What will we be like when we’re old? We’ll still come here, won’t we? We’ll be like ghosts, haunting the place.’

  I wondered if we would ever stay here again. I hoped we would, but how time moves, and how things change. Lying there beside David, I realized how much we had both changed. Back then, I never thought we would really be living here one day. We’d swapped those brief weekends for permanence. Would I do it again? Would I have done it at all if I could have seen so far ahead?

  That day we went on our favourite old walk, the one that started from a tiny village five or so miles away, down narrow, one-track lanes signposted to nowhere; it took us an age just to find the village again. We hadn’t been on this walk since we’d moved here. If asked why, we would probably have said that there hadn’t been time, that we simply hadn’t got round to it but meant to soon . . . some poor, poor excuse. How quickly things slide if you let them.

  But here we were again, at last, and how beautiful it still was; the stream rippling over pebbles under willow trees, the gentle rise of the hills and everything so green and verdant. Early summer has always been my favourite time of year here, when the whole world bursts into life, lush and full. With every breath my head was filled with the heady scent of the blossom on the trees and the cow parsley in the hedgerows, combined with the sharpness of dew-soaked grass, so fresh, so clean, so new. I never noticed anything like that in London. In London, at the first glimmer of a warm day, the overriding smell would be of the trapped fumes of the traffic; and, where we lived, barbecues. Oh my God the barbecues. That is what I think of when I think of the London suburbs in summer: the combined acrid stink of burnt fat, paraffin and traffic fumes. I didn’t miss it. I didn’t miss it at all.

  The morning started quite cold but quickly the sun burnt through, slanting into our eyes, beating down on us, bright and strong. I should have brought a hat. There was no breeze; the air was still as can be, thick with so much pollen and so many spores. We walked slowly, especially up that hill. The exertion made my fingers swell up like sausages, and sweat prickled under my hair. I could feel my boots rubbing blisters on my heels; an irritation at first, becoming steadily more painful with every step. I wished I’d brought some plasters, or worn thicker socks. The discomfort consumed me. And I’d wanted to enjoy this so much; I’d wanted it to be so perfect.

  In the past, when we walked here, we would talk so freely, about everything; about our lives, our hopes and dreams. The memory of those other times swirled about my head, snippets of long-ago conversations echoing clearly in my mind. Above all, how young we seemed, that David, that Jane. How at ease with each other, and how free.

  Now, we talked about the children.

  ‘What will they do at Melanie’s?’ David asked me.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘The usual stuff. Go to the rec probably.’

  ‘Where will they all sleep?’

  ‘Ella will be in with Abbie and Sam will be in with Max. They’ve got sleeping bags. They’ll be fine.’ All these questions annoyed me. I felt as if he doubted my arrangements. ‘They’ve slept at Melanie’s before, David.’

  ‘Not for two nights, though. And not both of them at the same time. It’s a lot for her to take on.’

  ‘They’re good kids,’ I said.

  ‘Of course they are. I do know that. You don’t need to tell me.’

  We walked on in silence. Where were our dreams, now; where were those innermost thoughts that we used to share, so close, so in tune with each other? The strangest thing, the most disturbing thing was that I felt unable to talk with David as I used to. The words were in my head but there they stayed, unspoken. I wanted to talk, but I sensed a wall, silencing me.

  It was a long walk, without our dreams to carry us along. My feet were killing me. I tried to ignore the pain. I breathed slowly, trying to absorb it. We still had a good couple of miles to go. I’d got the hotel to make us a picnic and we stopped at the top of the
hill to eat it, sitting down in the long, damp grass. I took off my boots, though I knew that putting them on again would be agony. The skin on my heels was rubbed pink and raw.

  ‘Haven’t you got any plasters with you?’ David said, as if he thought that maybe I had but for some bizarre reason had opted not to put them on.

  I didn’t reply. Everything was annoying me: my sore feet, David, just the fact of being annoyed was irritating me further. I’d hoped so much; too much. We sat there looking back down the hill at the village nestling below, and all I could think of was the last time we had been here; the last time and all those precious times before. We hadn’t struggled for things to talk about then. We hadn’t sat side by side like this, so close in proximity but as distant as strangers. What had happened to us to make so great a change? I’d wanted this walk – this whole weekend – to be just like it used to be. Yet I could feel the division between us as solidly as if it were a physical barrier.

  Down below, in the distance, two boys were playing in a field at the edge of the village. We could see them in miniature, running around, so free in all that space. We watched them, and I thought of Sam, and I know that David did too. They represented all that we had wanted, space for our children, the room to move and grow.

  Beside me, David sighed. ‘I wonder what Sam and Ella are doing now,’ he said.

  I said nothing.

  ‘I miss them in the week,’ he said. ‘When I’m in London, you all seem so very far away.’

  He sounded so sad, so wistful. My eyes were brimming up with tears and I pinched my hands hard together so as not to let them out. I sat with my knees drawn up and rested my chin on them; I watched those boys playing and felt my heart would break. I knew that David would much rather have been with his children than sitting there on that hillside with me.