by Liz Byrski
Alice, who Ruby is aware has been watching them both closely while appearing to be interested solely in her pasta, jumps at the sound of her name. ‘Oh, well it’s not for me to say, really, I’m just an employee …’
‘But you have an opinion?’ Ruby says.
‘Yes, of course, I think you’re right. There’s plenty of space. I can get a room ready for him and we can keep an eye on him here. It would be horrible for him to be taken off somewhere else.’
Ruby thinks that they have cleared the first hurdle, established some trust. For a while they talk more generally about the chaos in the office, about the closed café, about how to proceed.
‘And the other bombshell that lobbed into my lap this afternoon is Fleur,’ Declan says. ‘She’s given notice. She’ll stay until we can find someone else but she doesn’t want to hang about for long. She’s going to do a stocktake of the products and have a look at the sales figures so we know where we are, but the first thing we have to do is find someone else to take over. Someone new – or maybe one of us – has to get in there and learn how to do it.’ He looks pointedly at Alice, who, Ruby notices, deliberately looks away. There is an awkward silence around the table.
‘I think what we should do,’ Ruby says, ‘is start by sorting out what needs to be done in order of priority. We could also make a list of the various things we each think we’re good at and what we’re willing to have a go at, then we could sort out who does what, and what other staff or maybe subcontractors we need.’
Declan does his energetic nodding again, and Ruby thinks it could prove to be a really annoying habit.
‘Good plan,’ he says. ‘Shall we say first thing tomorrow morning, over breakfast maybe, we convene for the first Benson’s Reach strategic planning meeting around the kitchen table? The good thing is that we don’t have many bookings and it’s nearly the end of summer. We can plan to keep the place ticking over during the winter months while we reorganise for next summer.’
Alice clears her throat. ‘There is something else,’ she says. ‘I’m not sure if either of you know about this but I discovered it this morning while I was in the office.’ She pauses, looking between the two of them. ‘There’s a file, I knocked it off the windowsill and had to collect up the papers. It’s about the music festival.’
‘Huh!’ Declan laughs. ‘Well that’s the last thing we need, a music festival. I think we’ll give that one a miss, don’t you, Ruby?’
Ruby nods. Her festival days are long gone, although not forgotten: the Isle of Wight and Glastonbury had been part of her new life when she quit Australia and returned to England. But they have more than they can cope with here without getting involved in a music festival.
‘The thing is,’ Alice says, ‘that if I’ve understood it correctly, you don’t have a choice. The festival’s in May, and there’s a contract …’
Declan’s head shoots up. ‘What sort of contract?’
‘Catherine has rented out the five hectares of land on the east boundary,’ she says, ‘and all the cottages are booked out for that long weekend, and some for a few days either side. There are arrangements for security, a first aid post, coffee carts, subcontractor electricians and so on. It looks as though Mrs Benson had been working on it for some time, months really, and then she just stopped …’
‘Phew – well thank goodness for that,’ Declan says, leaning back in his chair. ‘I guess she must have given up on it when she realised she was getting sick.’
Ruby nods. ‘Yes, she’d have had to cancel,’ she says. ‘She’d have known for some time that she couldn’t take on something like a festival.’
‘She didn’t,’ Alice says. ‘There’s no indication in there that she cancelled or even tried to and she was still sending emails about it until the week before she went to hospital. You need to read the contract but as far as I can see you’re stuck with it. The South West Jazz and Blues Festival is the last weekend in May, and it’s here – at Benson’s Reach.’
esley knows exactly what she’s doing but she just can’t stop herself. She’s been here for a couple of weeks but somehow on her previous sorties into town she missed this boutique. Perhaps it was the rack of reduced items outside that had made her dismiss it as trashy. Whatever it was, passing it today the yellow linen skirt in the window had caught her eye and when she went inside she found a whole range of her favourite labels, and some really unusual locally made silver jewellery. So here she is, squashed into a fitting room with the yellow skirt, and half a dozen or more other things to try on. There’s no need for her to hurry – she is, as she keeps reminding herself, on holiday, her time is her own – but she just can’t seem to slow down. Ripping off her own clothes she drops them to the floor and drags the skirt up over her hips without stopping to undo the buttons, consequently pulling one off in the process. It bounces on the floor and rolls out under the fitting room door into the shop, but still she doesn’t stop.
She’s been like this ever since she got here anxious, restless, combing the shops for things she doesn’t need, filling carrier bags with purchases about which she is really only half hearted, and then filled with despair when she tips them onto the bed back at the cottage. She’s usually careful with money, both Sandi and Simon have accused her of being a tightwad, although Karen, who is more like Lesley herself, thinks she’s just cautious. But now it’s as though some spending virus has invaded her bloodstream. And it’s not just the spending, it’s the restlessness. She wakes several times a night, picks up books by her favourite authors and puts them down again, finding she’s gone through half a dozen pages but has no idea what she’s read. She can’t even lose herself in the television or any of the movies she’s borrowed from the supply in the office at Benson’s Reach, and she’s already drunk her way through much of the wine she’d bought on her visits to the local wineries.
Displacement activity – pointless, destructive, sickening in all sorts of ways – is what she would have told anyone else, but somehow she can’t stop, because from the moment she arrived here she has known that she is here for a purpose. There is a lot more at stake than just how she feels about being a confident, independent woman at ease outside her comfort zone. Whether she has propelled herself into a crisis by coming here or she’s here because she was already in crisis is immaterial. The walls of her life are crumbling around her and if she slows down, if she stops shopping and drinking and looking for new places to go, then all that’s left is herself, alone in a cottage with no one to talk to. The only person who always seems ready for a chat is the cleaner, Pauline … no, Paula, she must remember to get that right. Three times the woman has corrected her.
It had started on that first day when Alice left Lesley alone in the cottage. As she watched from her balcony there seemed to be a lot of coming and going. An older woman turned up from somewhere, a younger one was going back and forth between the office and the place where Mrs Benson used to make the lavender products. An ambulance came and went and then, late in the afternoon, it all went quiet – too quiet, and she paced back and forth with nothing to do and nothing to distract her. She would go out, she thought, be brave, have a meal somewhere, a nice café, her first attempt to eat out alone in the evening. She didn’t know why it seemed such a hurdle, she frequently had lunch in cafés alone, but dinner … anyway, it was early in the evening so if she went straight away she’d probably feel less weird about it.
On the main street she read the menu outside the local branch of a smart Perth restaurant where she and Gordon had been a few times with friends, but the white linen and low lights seemed a bit too formal to manage alone, and she opted for a smaller, more casual place where she could see a couple of families with children sitting close to the window. Walking in was the hardest part but strangely no one, apart from a very young waiter who gave her a menu and directed her to a corner table, even seemed to notice her. As well as the two big families there was a couple in the far corner, holding hands across the table, oblivio
us to anyone else. Two elderly couples sitting together were just about to start on their food and to Lesley’s relief there were two single women. The older one looked up briefly from her book as Lesley walked past; the other, toying with half a glass of white wine, was keeping an eye on the entrance, and glancing frequently at her watch, waiting, Lesley thought, for a date to arrive. Coming in early was a good choice; this wasn’t anything like as hard as she’d imagined. She ordered King George whiting with steamed vegetables, and a half-carafe of wine, and sat back feeling quite relaxed as the restaurant started to get busy.
It was eight-thirty when she left and by then the place was humming. Tomorrow, she thought, I’ll go a little later, see how it feels. Out in the street, walking back to her car, she felt pleased with herself, as though she had overcome some hurdle. Her more independent friends would probably think it a pathetic effort but it was a big thing for her and she had driven back to Benson’s Reach in better spirits. But once back in her cottage her mood faltered under the weight of the silence, a silence more sinister than the tense standoff silence at home with Gordon roaming around, waiting and wanting. This was the silence of her aloneness in a place where people came with their families, friends or lovers to be together. She opened a bottle of wine, kicked off her shoes and drank two glasses rather quickly as she paced back and forth across the lounge, flicking the remote control to find something on television to keep her company. When nothing caught her attention she poured a third glass and wandered out onto the balcony taking the bottle with her. It was dark by then and where the land dropped away from the front of the cottages she could see the terrace at the back of the main house where Declan, the new owner, was sitting with Alice, and the other woman – the older one with the bun who had arrived earlier.
She could catch only the occasional murmur of their voices but it was clear that they were deep in conversation, leaning forward, helping themselves to food. They were a little clan down there, plotting something, intent on what they were doing, oblivious to anyone else. They must know each other well, she thought, old friends perhaps, family even. Sitting alone in the dark Lesley felt the anxiety rising in her gut. The horrifying significance of the way she had left and the impact of her parting words to Gordon gripped her in a panic and a series of possible outcomes raced through her mind in stark jerky images, as though someone had pressed the fast forward button in her brain. Focusing her attention on the candlelit table, she had watched as Alice cleared the plates and returned with a coffee plunger and cups. Lesley wanted to be down there with them, be part of that conversation, share the coffee and the candlelight, feel the warm lavender-scented air on her skin, anything to take her mind away from what she had done and what might happen next. The longer she watched the more alone she felt, and with another glass of wine she became convinced that they were deliberately excluding her, talking about her behind her back, laughing about her. You’re getting paranoid, she warned herself.
But she hated this sense of being shut out – she was, after all, so accustomed to being in her own world – and eventually she convinced herself that it would be fine to walk down there and join them. Getting up she went inside and fetched another bottle of wine from the fridge and was crossing back to the balcony when she saw that they were on their feet now, clearing the table, snuffing out the candles. It felt personal, as though they had sensed her plan and deliberately moved on to avoid her. She flopped down onto the end of the bed, enveloped again by anxiety. Maybe she should just ring Gordon, apologise for what she’d said, but then he might think that everything was okay, and even through the fug of wine Lesley knew that it wasn’t okay. She had meant what she said but it had come out as something horrible. She put the wine bottle down on the floor and lay back on the bed, drawing her legs up, pulling a pillow down and clutching it to her chest. She began to cry, softly at first, then more intensely until, eventually, she fell exhausted into a deep and drunken sleep.
The following morning she’d woken with a fearsome headache and parched mouth, and her eyes felt as though they had been sandpapered. It was ridiculous, she told herself, a really irresponsible way to behave; she would have a shower, make some coffee, get her head together and start again. But as she emerged from the bedroom, showered, dressed and ready for her coffee, the anxiety grabbed her again, sucking her into its depths and sending her out time and again in search of something, anything, to stop her thinking about the one thing she should be thinking about – the reason she is here now, and what she is going to do next.
Now as she makes her way back down the slope of the main street to the car park with a carrier bag of clothes she doesn’t need and may not even like, she sees him, Declan Benson, sitting alone at a table on the crowded terrace of the pub on the corner, looking as though he might need a distraction just as much as she does, and she crosses the street and hurries up the steps to the terrace.
‘It is you,’ she says, dropping her bag onto one of the spare seats at Declan’s table. ‘I thought so, I thought I’d come in here for some lunch but there aren’t any tables, and then I saw you. You don’t mind if I join you, do you?’
He looks up startled, as though he’s been lost in some world of his own, and moves to get to his feet.
‘Oh please don’t get up,’ Lesley says. ‘It’s a bit unfair descending on you like this but there’s just nowhere else to sit, and you do look as though you might need a bit of company.’
‘Well,’ he says, shrugging, ‘I was just …’
‘Let me get you a drink,’ she says, indicating his empty glass. ‘Wine? We could share a bottle with lunch.’
He holds up a hand, palm outward. ‘No, no thanks. Just tonic water with ice and lemon, thanks.’
‘And a little gin or vodka with it?’
He shakes his head. ‘Just the tonic, thanks.’
Lesley goes to the bar and returns to the table with their drinks and two menus.
‘I take it you are here for lunch,’ she says, handing Declan one of them.
‘Well, it was more just a bit of an escape, really,’ he says, ‘although I suppose I could eat something.’
And so they order lunch and sit facing each other across the table out there on the noisy terrace, and it’s clear to Lesley that she’s going to have to do all the work.
‘It must be a very challenging time,’ she says, ‘your aunt dying so suddenly, having to pick up the reins and take charge, but it’s such a lovely spot. Do you have plans for the place?’
Declan is silent for a moment, looking out across the street and beyond, before he turns back to her. ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘I didn’t come soon enough when Catherine was sick. So I’m feeling very guilty and haven’t a clue what I’m doing, or how to get through the next few months.’ He pauses, and then, in a great fountain of words, he tells her about his aunt, her death, the legacy of Benson’s Reach, his co-beneficiary, the need to get the place running again and the threat of a music festival in May. He tells her that they have made decisions, sorted and actioned the urgent paperwork, written an emergency plan and allocated tasks to each other, and chipped what seems to be a small hole into the mountain of tasks that have to be done. The words pour out so fast that she can barely keep pace with him. And just as she thinks he’s finished he starts again.
‘We don’t know each other, really. Ruby and I are complete strangers. She seems very nice, but I’m cautious. She may want to take over, or she may just want different outcomes from me. And anyway, I don’t know what I want. That’s my problem, really, I never know what I want until someone else tries to impose something on me. I suppose it’s lack of imagination on my part.’ He looks down at the plate of whitebait and fries that the waiter has just placed in front of him. ‘I’m a hopeless case, really, not at all the sort of person who should be left with something like this.’
It’s quite reassuring, Lesley thinks, to hear about the mess of someone else’s life when your own life is a complete shambles. And there’s a
lso something essentially charming about Declan Benson – his apparent naivety is disarming. He seems like someone you could trust. Lesley leans forward, reaches out to rest her hand briefly on his arm.
‘It’s an awful lot to cope with,’ she says, ‘especially when you’re grieving for your aunt. We always feel guilty when someone dies, thinking about all the things we should have done while they were alive and now it’s too late. I think you just need to be a little kinder to yourself, forgive yourself for what you think is your negligence, then you’ll be free to get on with what needs to be done. That’s what she’d want, after all, that you get the place running again. If you’re right and she put her heart and soul into Benson’s Reach, then what she’s done is to leave you her life’s work, her most treasured possession. She’d want you to enjoy it, to make the most of it, rather than dwelling on guilt and what you think is a failure.’
He’s embarrassed now, she can see that. Lesley is not used to men like Declan. She is used to the men who work with Gordon: confident, self-assured, accustomed to success. Not that Gordon is like that but he seems to be surrounded by others who are. Declan – awkward, self-deprecating, vulnerable – is a different breed and his presence is rather comforting.
‘I’m sorry,’ Declan says now, taking his cutlery from the folds of his paper napkin. ‘I just dumped all that on you. I’ve no right to bore you with all this stuff.’
‘Don’t apologise,’ Lesley says, looking up at him. ‘To tell you the truth I’m in a bit of a mess myself at the moment, that’s why I’m here, so in an odd sort of way it’s reassuring to talk to someone else who is flailing around in the dark. The trouble is it’s harder for me to put it all into words, but another one of these might help,’ and she picks up her glass and sculls the remains of her wine.
‘I’ll get you a refill,’ he says.
‘And you’ll join me won’t you?’
But he shakes his head and when he returns from the bar with her wine and another tonic water, it’s clear he’s also been to the men’s room and splashed his face with cold water. He has washed away some of his vulnerability and looks stronger, more ready for the world. ‘Thanks for listening,’ he says, picking up two tiny whitebait and popping them into his mouth. ‘Just letting it all out to someone else does help. So it’s your turn now.’
