by Freya North
‘I'm going to see my mum,’ she told the lady. ‘I haven't seen her since Christmas, it's a surprise visit.’
Gloria Luckmore didn't much like surprises. She liked arrangements and she liked them well in advance. She liked to be able to balance the kitchen calendar with her pocket diary and she did not like having to cross things out. Gloria did not like mess. She would always pencil something in, in the first instance, then carefully rub it out and rewrite it in black ink once it had been confirmed. She considered impromptu to be the bane of modern living. She deemed the concept of popping in or just dropping by to be insulting – something a person decided to do at the last moment because they had nothing better to do. Despite her stringent parameters for socializing, Gloria Luckmore's calendar and pocket diary were actually extensively crocheted in black ink. However, she never organized anything for six p.m. She had a permanent arrangement with herself for that slot – the meticulous ritual of a gin and tonic sipped listening to the Radio 4 news whilst looking out of the sitting-room French doors to the garden. Thus, she felt sheer indignation that her doorbell should compete with the Greenwich Mean Time pips. Defiant, she sipped her drink and listened hard to the headlines, blocking out another round of ringing. What Gloria loved about Radio 4 was the dignified pace of announcement which bestowed equal dramatic impact to each news headline. Nothing could possibly be so important as to interrupt it. Whoever wanted her at her front door would jolly well have to wait. She sipped and listened and ignored the rapping of her letter-box.
‘Mum?’
The voice drifted through the hallway and suddenly filled the living room, interrupting the radio voices and rendering Gloria's G & T temporarily undrinkable.
‘Thea?’
Gloria went to her front door, slightly alarmed. She didn't need to consult her calendar or her diary. She knew her timetable by heart and a visit by Thea hadn't even been suggested, let alone arranged. Why was her daughter outside at six p.m. without warning, request or invitation?
‘Hullo, Mum.’
With two large holdalls.
‘I was going to ring but –’
And significant weight loss.
‘I need somewhere –’
And a dullness to her eyes, dark shadows surrounding them, alluding to much crying and little sleep.
‘I broke up with Saul.’
‘Come in.’
‘My flat was sold today.’
‘Come on in.’
‘I've been given time off work.’
‘In, darling, in.’
It wasn't as if Thea had nowhere to go – Alice and Mark had been looking forward to laying their home and their friendship at her disposal for the couple of weeks before the rented flat was available. It wasn't as if Thea had bolted back to her childhood home to snuggle down in her old bedroom, to be surrounded by furling posters of David Bowie left in situ over the years, shelves brimming with the friendly familiar faces of dusty soft toys, dressing-table drawers revealing a treasure trove of forgotten trinkets, boxes under the bed containing teenage diaries and years of letters. Thea had never actually lived in this house – her mother had moved here from London once Thea had left home for university. So it wasn't the reassurance of nostalgia that Thea craved. It wasn't even as if Gloria was her enduring confidante – as fond of each other as mother and daughter were, they were actually pretty self-sufficient and private. However, as Thea unpacked in the small spare room, she felt pleased to be there. It was nice to look at the old framed photographs – when she still had a pony-tail, her brother long before he grew his terrible beard. This wasn't running away, this wasn't hiding in the past, this was instigating some space from London, putting necessary distance in time and miles between what was and what soon would be. This was a prudent thing to do. However long she decided to stay, Wiltshire would provide a sensible hiatus. A breather between the chapters of her life.
‘Now darling, my day is chock-a-block,’ Gloria said apologetically the next morning over a breakfast of triangles of toast queuing politely in a toast-rack and leaf tea brewed correctly in a china teapot. With a twitch of the lip and a light hum, Gloria consulted her pocket diary as if to see whether she could possibly slot her daughter in somewhere between her ladies' guild meeting at quarter to eleven, lunch with Sandra Langley at twelve o'clock and her voluntary work at the Leonard Cheshire home from two till four.
‘I'm fine, Mum,’ Thea assured her, ‘I just need a bit of a rest. I'm fine pottering around by myself.’
‘Go for a nice walk,’ Gloria suggested. ‘I'll be back at four fifteen. I'm playing cards this evening but I don't need to leave until quarter to seven.’
‘I'll go for a nice walk,’ Thea confirmed, really quite relieved that time would be her own, that she need answer to no one but herself, that it wasn't her mother's style to ask questions in the first place anyway. Gloria's concern was registered as an anxious glance at her daughter. They smiled at each other quickly and then Gloria was on her way.
The village of Wootton Bourne, positioned on the Wiltshire– Avon border, resembled a ribcage: the remaining buildings of the original three-hundred-year-old hamlet forming a spine, the newer buildings branching off in a hug of ribs to either side. The village green, bisected by the main street, was the lungs, the duck pond the heart, the war memorial the sternum, the bourne a small stream like an artery or vein (depending on which direction of approach) running along one side then under the road and out of, or into, the village. The lifeblood flowed from the inhabitants' love of their village and keen sense of duty to its appearance. The communal verges were now, in June, on the cusp of their floral magnificence. There was no village pub, no shop at Wootton Bourne. There was one post-box with a daily collection – a bright red rectangle flush against Mr Kington's wall. Wootton St Mark, the sister village only a stroll away but over the bypass and consequently rarely walked to, had a picturesque church, a pub and a small shop.
Other than residents, no one really needed or much wanted to travel through Wootton Bourne. It had no brown leisure signs heralding it, and maps showed no pub, no shop, no pottery, nothing. Thus, with scant traffic, there was no need for pavement or even footpath. The tarmac simply petered out into the lovingly maintained verges and the villagers were pretty much left alone. The precious pace of life they attained was deeply valued and painstakingly protected and Wootton Bourne had the air of a private manor.
Whatever their age or style, all the buildings were constructed from Bath stone: the detached eighteenth-and nineteenth-century cottages, the one small run of terraced housing sitting impishly like Victorian children on a grassy bank, the Georgian farmhouse, the Edwardian school house, the sixties squat boxes, the modernist barn conversion. Initially, Thea had been disappointed that, in a county of postcard perfect cottages and in a village of classic and varied vernacular architecture, Gloria had bought herself a modern house, set along a lower rib of the village. Actually, though, it suited her needs perfectly and the mellow tones and subtle hues of the masonry gave a tangible softness and pleasing warmth to an otherwise plain design. The rectangular garden was flanked on three sides by easily maintainable borders, on the fourth by a square of patio accessed from the sitting-room French windows. Gloria could tinker with her perennials and ever-greens without stressing her back and it didn't take much effort to manage a pleasing display perfect for gazing at while having one's G & T at six each evening.
Everyone knew everyone in Wootton Bourne but no one had the slightest desire to know anyone else's business. There wasn't a village busybody, there was no grapevine, no gossip-mongering, no rival cliques. If there was a local cad or village trollop or resident bankrupt or community bisexual, it was of no interest. This wasn't village life as most city dwellers imagined it according to the standards misleadingly set by The Archers or Heartbeat or Balamory or Midsomer Murders, this was village life precisely as the inhabitants of Wootton Bourne wanted it. It was refreshingly, fundamentally, dull. It was the environmen
t Thea needed and, as she meandered around the lanes until peckish for lunch, she congratulated herself on her sensible decision to stay awhile.
After Thea's initial doorstep revelations, nothing more had been said on the subjects and Gloria wasn't quite sure how to go about counselling her daughter who was so guarded. Gloria's schedule, the routes of Thea's daily walk, what to eat morning, noon and evening and the occasional shopping list was ample discussion.
‘I've been wondering, darling – where's your car?’
‘Back in Crouch End.’
‘Is it running all right? Why did you decide not to drive?’
‘It's fine. I didn't drive because I didn't know I was going to come here until I was sitting in a cab outside Alice's. And I hadn't taken my car there because it's Residents' Parking or two-hour limits in Pay and Display.’
‘Fancy having to pay for the privilege of parking outside your own house.’
‘Ridiculous, isn't it, 20p for five minutes.’
‘Good God. Well, you can drive my little Micra if you like.’
‘Thanks, Mum. Would you like me to pop into Chippenham to pick up a few things for supper?’
‘Yes, darling, why don't you do that.’
It was only speaking to Alice a couple of days into her stay that Thea realized just what a tonic a dose of this particular village was just then. Alice of course wanted to know how Thea was, what she'd been thinking about, whether she'd heard from Saul, how long she thought she'd stay, if she was feeling low or feeling any panic or anger or regret.
‘We're running an article in Lush, you see,’ Alice said, ‘called “Five Minutes to the No Entry Sign”. It makes a lot of sense – when you're suffering a trauma, as you are, you should allow yourself five minutes twice a day to thoroughly immerse yourself in all manner of related angst but then you have to envisage a No Entry sign over the subject at all times in between.’
The surprising thing was that during her first few days, Thea had hardly touched upon thoughts of Saul. She'd been too preoccupied walking down this lane and over that field, appreciating that hedgerow or this brook, to navel gaze at her past or flinch from her future. She hadn't tripped at all. But she didn't want to workshop the fact with Alice, who would no doubt worry she was in denial and have another article to quote on the matter. So Thea murmured appreciatively but non-committally and reminded Alice it was her mother's phone and she ought to keep it short.
‘But are you OK, Thea?’ Alice pressed. ‘Because I could always come and see you this weekend.’
‘I'm fine, Alice,’ Thea said. ‘Well, just phone if you stumble, or text if you have a signal,’ Alice implored her. ‘Say hi to your ma.’
‘Will do – she sends her regards. Love to Mark.’
‘Bye, sweetie – I'll call again soon.’
‘Thanks Alice, thanks.’
It wasn't that the novelty started to wear off, it was that as Wootton Bourne became more and more familiar, there were fewer new details to note and absorb which meant thoughts in abeyance now had the space to resurface. ‘Look! Kestrel!’ she would hear Saul announce at the split-second she spied the bird. And then she'd go off on a tangent wondering if there were any parakeets in Wiltshire because Saul had told her there were ten thousand in Richmond Park and a fair few on Hampstead Heath. And suddenly she'd profoundly mourn the fact that they'd never seen them on Hampstead Heath and they'd never made a trip to Richmond. And now they never would. And if she positioned her hand in a certain way whilst walking, she could conjure the feel of Saul's hand holding hers. And if she tucked the single duvet against her back, she could convince herself of Saul's presence as she drifted off to sleep. But such imagining had a precise and limited time constraint. The loneliness at admitting that actually you were walking all by yourself, or waking alone in a single bed, was extreme. Thea became frustrated that she should suddenly be craving so intensely the presence of the person she thought she never wanted to see again. It was bizarre to not know where he was or what he was doing at that precise moment but to know for a fact that they were living in tandem. Parallel lives for Saul and Thea? No happy ever after? That can't be right. No entwining? No two equals one? No. Two distinct bodies, two separate souls, two unconnected lives to be getting on with.
I miss you, Saul, Thea could admit out loud in the discreet privacy of a solitary beech clump, weeping into the shoulders of the trees. She knew it wasn't so much cathartic as dangerously isolating to choose to cry where no one could hear. She tried to think of Alice's No Entry signs as she walked vigorously along the Ridgeway by herself. It was comforting to be striding along this ancient right of way, negotiating its chalky furrows kidding herself with excessive interest in the country's ancient history. If she kept walking and watching and observing and humming she couldn't dwell on the fact that she and Saul had never walked the Ridgeway together. Yet she found herself positioning the fingers of her right hand in such a way as to clearly imagine Saul's fingers interwoven with hers. His voice so vivid. His presence so tangible. He's here. Next to me. Look, Saul – kestrel!
I'm alone.
I'm on my own.
I'm in the middle of nowhere.
I don't know where I'm going.
Oh Saul, oh Saul. What happened to us?
Gloria was concerned to see that, despite her daughter's hearty tramping of the surrounding countryside, Thea's complexion was palling visibly. Gloria could tell that it wasn't blisters or aching limbs which caused Thea to walk so slowly towards the house after four hours on the Ridgeway, it was the weight of angst that her daughter was shouldering. It pained her to realize that Thea was trying to conceal her torment; it shamed her to admit that by acting jolly and keeping conversation light herself meant she could veer away from saying but darling tell me what happened with Saul that you should look so fragile and have nowhere to live for a fortnight. The amiable chitter-chatter of fortnightly phone calls and thrice-yearly visits was the blueprint for their relationship and Gloria didn't want to jeopardize that. Even if she did probe, her daughter most probably wouldn't confide anyway.
‘Are you all right, Thea? You look a little peaky.’
‘It's probably just a cold or something.’
‘Sit yourself down and I'll bring you a nice cup of tea. We've been invited to the Craig-Stewarts' tonight. Drinks and nibbles. I've said yes. Won't that be nice?’
‘Lovely.’ Thea continued to feel it her duty to keep her grief and confusion concealed until she had the house to herself and she could slump to the floor in her mother's spare room, hurl her forehead against her knees and cry her heart out.
The Craig-Stewarts' drinks and nibbles evenings were eagerly attended by their wide social circle. Nibbles was an under-statement. Nibbles was a risibly modest term for the lavish finger buffet laid on. Their lovely manor house was on the periphery of the idyllic National Trust village of Lacock. The level of chatter in beautifully rounded vowels complemented perfectly the stately yet comfortable furnishings. The Craig-Stewarts themselves were gracious, effortless hosts bestowing genuine interest and generous cheer on all their guests. It wasn't that they wanted to put on an impressive spread, they simply wanted their house to be populated with their friends, and the sumptuous food and flowing drinks were far more a symbol of their gratitude than a mark of their prosperity.
Thea fixed a smile to her face and tried to make it seem that her non-existent appetite was being sated by a single filo tartlet. Every time Mrs Craig-Stewart wafted past, Thea would busily nibble and sip and grin. She wished she hadn't come. These lovely, kind, happy souls. She was the youngest there by at least twenty years. When I grow up, I want to be Mrs Craig-Stewart. To be surrounded by such gaiety, such exemplary domesticity, the furnishings of such a happy and long marriage, were discordant to someone with a heart as lacerated as Thea's. She tried not to be spoken to, taking great interest instead in the affable assembly of benevolent ancestors whose portraits lined the walls, and the framed photos of flatcoat retrievers
, springer spaniels and good horses convening on the occasional tables, mantelpieces and window sills.
‘She was a poppet, was our Maisie, an absolute poppet,’ Mrs Craig-Stewart was saying, suddenly at Thea's side and gazing tearily at a photo of a dog. ‘Now Chip here, he was a thug! Huge character but what a yob! Do you like dogs? And horses? Let me show you something, let me show you the photograph of Max and Poppy.’ Politely, Thea allowed herself to be led by the elbow to another table of photographs, preparing herself to coo at a photo of two labs or thoroughbreds. Instead, she was shown the wedding photograph of Poppy Craig-Stewart. Last summer. Three years younger than Thea. Gazing adoringly at her brand new dashing husband. What a gorgeous dress. What a beautiful couple. What a wonderful day. What a perfect match. She wished she was Poppy Craig-Stewart. Though Thea genuinely wanted to congratulate Mrs Craig-Stewart and tell her how stunning her daughter looked, how handsome her son-in-law, she found herself gripping hold of her hostess and hollering out uncontrolled sobs.
‘What am I going to do what am I going to do what am I going to do?’ Thea wept. Momentarily, Mrs Craig-Stewart didn't know what she was going to do either.
‘I'm going to find your mother, that's what I'm going to do,’ she assured Thea soothingly, relaying the strategy to her husband by a subtly coded raised eyebrow.
‘Thea, gracious,’ said Gloria, just as alarmed by the spectacle as by her daughter's distress, ‘goodness. Thea. Oh, dear me.’
‘What am I going to do, Mum?’ Thea hyperventilated.
‘I'm going to take you home,’ Gloria said decisively, glancing apologetically at the kind concern of her social set.
The fifteen-minute car journey allowed Thea's weeping to abate but left her so exhausted that she just about made it upstairs to bed unaided. When Gloria came in with a cup of hot chocolate, she found her daughter fast asleep. She drank the hot chocolate herself, feeling a touch guilty that she should be relieved not to have to counsel her daughter just then.
