Most of the contents of the cottage have long ago been boxed up, and according to Scarlett, were sold off or donated to charity last spring. But some things remain, like the furniture, drawers filled with kitchen utensils and crockery, some linen, and most of the appliances. After spending some time exploring the two-bedroom cottage, taking in my new surroundings, dusting surfaces and nudging windows open to allow some fresh air inside, I venture outside to explore. There’s a large wooden barn with a gable rooftop and sliding door located around a hundred metres away from the cottage itself. A silver Volkswagen is parked in front of it, a car I didn’t notice on my arrival. I approach with caution and call out before poking my head inside.
‘Hello?’
‘I was wondering when you might turn up. Want to give me a hand?’ says a male voice.
I raise a hand to my chest as my breath catches. I flip around to face him.
Is that the guy from the roadside stand? What was his name? Flynn?
‘What?’ I say, glaring at him.
He points to the car. ‘Brought you some firewood. Figured you might need it.’ He grabs two logs from the boot of the car and stacks them in a pile.
‘Never mind you’re trespassing.’
‘Don’t go too far out of your way to show your appreciation.’ He wipes his brow and continues piling up the wood.
I cross my arms. ‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Do you know how to build a fire?’ he asks, tilting his head to the side.
He smiles at me and now I’m staring incredulously at him. ‘You’ve got a nerve.’
‘Just trying to help. Can’t have my neighbour freeze overnight.’
Neighbours? This guy?
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘Well, give me a hand and then I’ll be out of your way.’
‘I have heating.’
‘Not unless you light a fire you don’t,’ he says, stacking another several logs on top of each other.
I cross my arms. ‘How would you know that I don’t have heating?’ I say, challenging him.
‘Because I checked your meter box, and your outside lights aren’t working.’ I clench my jaw. It’s Saturday, which means that if he’s right, the electricity and gas company won’t be able to connect the services until at least Monday.
He takes off his coat, tosses it into the boot and rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. ‘You going to just stand there watching?’
‘I’m not—’
‘You are.’
‘No, I’m …’ I stop myself from finishing my sentence, because I can see my reaction is amusing him and this is exactly what he’s looking for.
He hands me a couple of logs, which I take hold of and pile up on the stack. The weather here is much cooler than Melbourne’s, and deep down I know that if I don’t want to freeze tonight I’ll need to get the fire going. And like it or not, Flynn’s saved me a trip into town for firewood.
‘We make a great team,’ he says, laughing.
‘You don’t even know my name,’ I reply, reaching for more wood.
He raises his eyebrows and waits for me to tell him. I try to resist rolling my eyes. ‘Gracie,’ I mumble, extending a hand. ‘Gracie Ashcroft.’
He shakes my hand and turns away to reach for the last two logs. ‘Bring some in, we’ll get the fire going, then I’ll leave you be.’
I stand there, hand on hip, contemplating whether I should let him into my house. He is, after all, a stranger. Then again, practically everyone in my life is a stranger.
His voice softens. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Really. It’s going to be a cold night. I don’t expect a dinner invitation or anything.’
I shake my head in defeat and extend my arms for him to hand me the logs. By now it’s started pelting down. A roll of thunder hurtles through the sky. We stand there, under the doorframe of the barn, the wind whipping against us, water pooling at our feet as we contemplate what to do. The rain shows no sign of relenting.
‘Should we make a run for it?’ Flynn calls out.
‘I think so,’ I yell over the rain.
We race to the house, feet stomping through puddles, arriving at the front door soaking wet. We enter and I plonk the wood down beside the fireplace, clothes dripping. I rub my hands together and peel off my jumper. Flynn wipes the moisture off his face, kneels down and gets to work, emptying a box of fire starters he brought with him. He glances up at me. ‘You’re soaking wet and it’s freezing in here. You should go get changed.’
‘I’m not cold,’ I reply, trying to keep my teeth from chattering. Flynn rolls his eyes.
I head towards my bedroom, and call out, ‘How long have you been living next door?’
‘A little while,’ he replies.
When I emerge from my bedroom, my body enveloped by a couple of extra layers than usual, Flynn’s waiting for me by the front door. ‘I left some wood in a bucket for you to top up later,’ he says.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Um … how much do I owe you?’
He questions me with his eyes.
‘For the firewood.’
‘You don’t owe me anything,’ he says, adjusting his scarf. He puffs some air into his hands before rubbing them together. ‘Think of it as a peace offering for the chestnut debacle. Now that we’re friends, feel free to invite me over for a drink sometime.’ He opens the door and steps outside. ‘Once you’ve got electricity, that is.’
‘Who says we’re …’ I stop myself, because as I stand there in silence, the outside air sweeping through the front door making me shudder with cold, I think to myself that unbeknown to Flynn, aside from Scarlett, he’s the only friend I have.
EIGHT
Ever since I arrived in Summerhill, Scarlett’s been calling every morning at the same time, and I’m fairly sure it’s because she knows I’d happily sleep past brunch, otherwise. Aside from venturing into town to stock the fridge and pantry with essentials—like milk, bread and butter—I’ve spent most of my time here mulling around doing nothing, but Scarlett doesn’t know this of course. Dragging myself out of bed and into the kitchen, I snatch up the phone before it rings out.
‘Morning, stranger,’ says Scarlett.
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ I ask, in spite of myself. I drop two slices of bread in the toaster and switch on the kettle.
Scarlett groans. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Just called to check on you before I leave for work.’ She says this every morning. ‘Have you heard from Blake? I mean, has he written to you? Because he told me he was going to.’
‘Yes and no,’ I reply, picking up the letter that arrived yesterday afternoon. I tap it against the kitchen table and sigh a little louder than I’d intended.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that I don’t know if I should open his letter.’
‘Why the heck wouldn’t you, Gracie?!’
I close my eyes in a futile attempt to drown out Scarlett’s rambling—all the usual things about how I’m eventually going to need to meet him, and that it wouldn’t be fair to not even read his letters.
‘It’s just … hard. I’m trying to settle in and I don’t want to be more confused than I already am.’
‘He moved out,’ she says, after a pause.
‘That’s good,’ I say, pouring myself an orange juice. ‘He needs to … move on.’ There’s another long pause. I cringe, knowing my words haven’t quite come out the way I meant them to. My juice spills over the edge of the glass.
‘I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you mean by that,’ Scarlett says quietly. ‘Or that you don’t mean what I think you mean.’
Even I’m taken aback by what I’ve just said. Is that the way I really feel about things? Is this over before I even give it the opportunity to have a chance? Do I want it to be over? And, if it is over, if the accident swept my life away along with the man that was at the forefront of it, will the future hold something equally as wonderful as what I’m told we had?
‘I think you’re in denial,’ she says.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I scoff. ‘I’m trying to figure things out.’
‘Uh, yeah, by avoiding the problem completely.’
‘That’s not what I’m doing. I just want to do this my way.’
‘By pretending he doesn’t even exist?!’
‘I can’t help that he doesn’t feel real to me.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have … I don’t really know how to let you make the mistake I think you’re making.’
‘You’re just trying to be a good friend,’ I say, letting out a sigh. ‘I wish I was a better one.’
‘You are. You always have been. Your stubborn streak seems to have gotten a little worse since the accident, though …’ Her voice trails off. ‘Oh my God, look at the time. I need to get to work. Speak to you tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Promise me you’ll open the letter?’
‘I promise,’ I say, before saying goodbye.
I manage to burn two pieces of toast before I finally bring myself to tear open Blake’s letter.
Dear Gracie,
When Scarlett told me you were leaving, the first thing I did was go home to try to stop you from going. But I could tell you were gone before I found your note. There weren’t any fresh flowers in the apartment.
Life without you in it the way I want you to be in it is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with. All I want to do is look into your eyes and frame your beautiful face with my hands and feel the brush of your lips against mine. I want to hold you and tell you that everything was okay, and is okay, and will be okay, even if you can’t remember who we were and what we had.
I remember the moment I fell in love with you like it was yesterday. You were sitting under a tree and you were humming to your favourite song. You were sitting on a bed of wildflowers, surrounded by bluebells, with a bottle of pink lemonade held upright between your knees. You were threading a daisy chain, with your tongue poking out of the corner of your mouth. We always argued about that, actually—you’re convinced they were dandelions.
Anyway, I picked a bunch of them and handed them to you one by one. When you were done, you put the chain on your head and you took the leftover flowers and you shaped them into a heart on the grass. You looked up at me and smiled, and that’s when I knew—that was the exact moment you fell right back in love with me, too. We were sixteen years old.
Here are some things you should know:
The yellow toothbrush is mine.
You sleep with your socks on.
You set your alarm for 5.45 am every morning and then you go for a run.
You and I were the closest thing to perfect I ever knew in my life.
I understand you don’t want me to come to Summerhill. I wish you didn’t feel this way, but as hard as it is, I understand why you do. I know you’d fall in love with me again if you had the chance. Somehow, I’m going to find a way to show you that.
Love,
Blake
I chose the wrong toothbrush.
Suddenly, the world goes quiet. Without giving it any thought, I pick up the phone and dial Blake’s number, before hanging up.
Realisation hits me—I just remembered his number.
I pick up the phone and dial it again. He answers.
‘Hello, hello?’
I want to speak, but nothing comes out.
‘Gracie? Is that you?’
My breath catches in my chest. I hang up.
The toaster pops with my replacement bread.
A burnt odour fills the kitchen.
I reach for the tissue box, wipe my eyes clean, and butter the toast anyway.
There are no fresh flowers in the cottage.
I fold Blake’s note, stuff the last piece of burnt toast in my mouth, and force myself to change out of my pyjamas. I’m plumping the pillows on my bed when a thought, a knowing, a sense of having been here, done this before, overcomes me.
You should never leave the house with a sink full of dirty dishes or an unmade bed.
Hovering in my mind is a memory of my mother. I’m tugging on the corner of the sheets, helping her smooth them out. Sunlight streams through the window as we pull and fold perfect hospital corners. She declares our work done and I follow her into the kitchen, where she rinses the breakfast dishes, places them on the rack and winks at me.
‘Come on, poppet. It’s the first day of spring, and we’ve got work to do. The sweet peas are waiting for you.’ She tickles my nose with her finger and kisses my forehead. She smells of honey and vanilla. Taking my hand in hers, we exit the kitchen. At the front door, she takes an apron and throws it over her head before crouching down. My hands rest on one of her shoulders as she holds a gumboot in place and guides one of my feet into it and then the other.
She smiles at me. Green eyes, like mine, the same shape, only bigger. She’s so pretty. Long hair falls around her shoulders. Light brown, with a hint of blonde—natural highlights from the sun. Her arm wraps around my waist and squeezes gently as she brings my body closer to hers, resting her head against my shoulder. I close my eyes and inhale her scent. Everything feels so safe and perfect.
The moment I open my eyes she’s gone, like a moving cloud in the sky, there one minute, evaporated the next— just like my memory.
I slip on my coat, slide my feet into a pair of leather boots and wrap a scarf around my neck. Outside, I venture down the slope towards the main road. My feet crunch the empty chestnut shells past the stall, where the vendor introduces himself as Charlie. He pours a bag of chestnuts onto a roasting pan perforated with holes, and then takes a knife and begins cutting slits in them. ‘I see you’ve moved into the cottage up there.’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s been vacant for a while. Have you got everything sorted?’
‘I’m getting there.’ I smile.
‘Well, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me. Wednesday to Saturday, for the next few weeks at least.’
‘And then?’
‘And then, I’ll have to find something else to do. We never quite know what the future will hold, do we?’
‘I guess not.’ I shrug.
‘Locals that have been living around these parts longer than me tell me it was a flower farm once, you know,’ he says, motioning to Summerhill. ‘Shame really, because it was apparently the biggest and best farm for miles around. Everyone loves locally grown and sustainable flowers. It’s a movement. A bit like the craze for organic stuff right now.’
I nod. ‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Chestnuts?’ he says, handing me a paper cone.
I raise a hand. ‘No thanks. I’m actually allergic.’ I gasp and take a step back, stunned at how something I didn’t know before seems so clear now.
Charlie’s eyes widen.
‘Just mildly,’ I add. ‘I swell up to enormous proportions.’
‘Ooh,’ he says, pulling them away. ‘But I thought the other day you—’ He raises his eyebrows.
‘I only just found out,’ I say, trying to act less surprised than he is.
‘Well, at least you know now.’
‘Yes, I do. And I suppose that’s a good thing.’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘I better go. Looks like it might rain later,’ I say, looking up at the sky.
‘Or the sun might come out. You can never really tell.’ At the top of the main street, the roads are cordoned off from traffic to make way for the local market. Here I’m greeted by vendors who are still setting up their stalls, stretching open pop-up marquees, and opening A-frame boards showcasing perfectly formed rainbow chalk letters. A woman shoves ice-cream sticks into pots of handmade cream
s, while another puts a handful of them into a container beside a tub of raw honey.
‘Morning!’ says a man as he opens an umbrella. He blows a puff of air into his cupped hands and then rubs them together. The aroma of fresh coffee brings my attention to his stand.
‘Is it too early?’ I ask him.
‘Never too early for coffee,’ he replies.
While I wait, a woman with a wooden flower cart ambles past me, pushing her array of pastel-coloured flowers. The cart squeaks under the weight of the galvanised steel buckets of blooms. The vendor hands me a steaming hot paper cup and I hurriedly follow the creaking and groaning until the woman stops, positioning her cart under a large oak tree on the opposite street corner.
Apricot-coloured flowers positioned at the back of her cart catch my eye. Their names don’t come to me straightaway, but I stand there, conjuring up an image of myself sitting on a wooden kitchen table, my bare legs, scored with scratches, crossed. With fingers caked in dirt, I lift a bulb from a container and wedge it into a glass vase beside its companions. My little hands reach for a jug of water, carefully pouring just the right amount of liquid into the vase in order to force the bulbs to bloom. And then, as the scent of the waxy florets drifts past me, I’m reacquainted with their name and exactly how I used to trick these flowers into thinking it was winter, compelling them to flower early. Instead of a chemistry set, my mother set me loose with hyacinth bulbs, a vase and a jug of water. Six weeks later, I’d run out to the porch, declaring my experiment a success.
I stand there, desperately willing the memory of my mother’s reaction to drift into my consciousness, but even as the deep, intoxicating floral scent wraps around me, there isn’t anything else there: no sound of her voice as she sings her praise and delight, no words to hold onto, no facial expression to comfort me.
My thoughts are interrupted by the flower seller’s voice. ‘What will it be today?’ Her appearance throws me for a second as I take in her peculiar choice of fashion. She’s dressed in black leather boots with scuffed toes, a pair of leggings, and is wearing an apron, green like an olive, over the top of a loud patchwork dress, embellished with embroidered motifs. On her head, she’s wearing a cable-knit beanie pulled over her ears with a large pom-pom dangling from it. Captivated by her eccentricity, I take a few seconds to study her, before turning my attention away from her. I don’t want her to notice me staring.
The Memories That Make Us Page 7
