by Emma Davies
There are only half a dozen or so people in the room, the central space in a huge converted barn, one wall bare brick and the rest whitewashed, allowing light from the huge arched window to flood the area. A mezzanine level sits to the rear, while to the left and right are smaller workrooms. We were handed a booklet of information by a member of staff at the door but this is no museum space; it’s an actual working environment and there are people here going about their business as if the handful of visitors are mere ghosts from the past.
I give Sam a tentative look, but he smiles, waving a hand in the direction of the carpet. ‘Go,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll just… mooch.’
But he won’t because Sam always had a deep and genuine interest in the people and things around him, and I don’t suppose that’s changed over the years. Still, I’m pleased he isn’t expecting me to stay glued to his side. I make for the central table before turning slightly to watch as he makes his way to one of the smaller rooms. When we entered I’d caught the slight surprise on the face of the person who greeted us, the sight of Sam’s scars unexpected. She recovered herself well, but it was still there, and I can’t help but wonder if Sam even notices now, or whether he’s so used to this reaction from people that he’s long since stopped seeing it. Not for the first time I think about what kind of life he must have had.
I’ve come to rest beside a young woman and perhaps she can sense my longing, or maybe it’s just concern that my fingers might stray onto the wool beside her, but she looks up as I hover. Her face is welcoming.
‘You can touch them if you’d like,’ she says, indicating the skeins of coloured wool.
‘They’re such beautiful colours,’ I reply. ‘So delicate.’
She nods. ‘They’re dyed specifically for the project,’ she says. ‘Even down to colour matching areas where the original has faded.’ She points to the part she’s working on. ‘See…’ She lifts a hank of wool. ‘This shade is lighter so that it matches where the wear and tear has lifted the colour. If all the wool we used for our repairs was the same as the original colour, it would look out of place, rather than a sympathetic restoration which is what we’re aiming for.’
I nod. ‘Even down to the wefts, that’s incredible.’ My hair has fallen over my face and I tuck it back behind my ears to get a better look, laying a finger gently on an area of the carpet immediately to the woman’s right. ‘It really doesn’t look like it’s been repaired at all and yet when you compare it to an area that hasn’t been touched yet, it’s obvious.’ I sigh with pleasure.
The woman looks up, surprised. ‘I’m impressed. Most people would think that patch still needed attending to.’
‘Would they?’ I smile nervously. ‘Perhaps it’s just my age. I’m old enough to know how a carpet like this should look.’
She laughs, but she’s studying me more closely. ‘Have you ever thought about becoming a conservator?’ she jokes.
The breath catches in my throat. ‘Oh, I wish…’ I break off, eyeing the carpet again, tracing the intricacies of the pattern. ‘Once upon a time maybe, but not now, I think I might be a bit past it…’
‘Nonsense…’ She looks up at me, a smile of encouragement on her face. ‘You should go and talk to Becky if you’re interested. Seriously, she looks after our volunteers and we need all the help we can get.’ She indicates the enormous area of carpet still in front of her. ‘There are all kinds of things you could get involved with. Not all of it as skilled as this.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It sounds lovely, but I haven’t worked with anything in years. I’d be terrified I’d get it wrong.’
‘So you have some experience?’
‘A little, and I do mean a little, but it was from ages ago, when I was at uni. A work-placement thing.’
‘In restoration?’ She puts down the thread she’s holding. ‘What did you study?’
‘Textiles,’ I reply, a little sheepishly. ‘Followed by an MPhil in textile conservation.’
She lets out a long slow whistle. ‘Then I should definitely go and talk to Becky.’ She points to the mezzanine level. ‘She’s hiding up there, but tell her I sent you. My name’s Lucy.’
‘Then thank you, Lucy, I will.’ I move my finger to touch one of the skeins of wool, as a warm glow begins to blossom somewhere deep inside. ‘You’ve been really helpful. And this is beautiful, just stunning.’
I’m amazed how much time has passed by the time I find myself back in the main room again. I haven’t seen Sam on my way round so I guess I’ve probably just missed him, but it isn’t until I’m standing looking around me that I realise he’s not here at all. I’m about to double back to check the smaller rooms again when I spot the member of staff from reception heading towards me.
‘Are you looking for the man you came in with?’ she asks. ‘Only he gave me a message to say there’s no rush at all, but he’ll be waiting in the tea room next door, whenever you’re ready.’
I check my watch again. ‘Oh God, when was this?’
She waggles her head from side to side. ‘Hmm. About an hour ago… but he did say to tell you not to worry about the time.’
I thank her and head for the door. I really had no idea I’d be this long, and Sam must be bored out of his tree. Despite my rush, however, and the spots of rain that are falling, I can’t help but stop when I get outside to take one final look at the building behind me. My visit here has been quite an eye-opener.
I find Sam nursing a pot of tea, his head deep in a book.
‘Listen to this,’ he says, before I can even apologise for my lateness. He begins to read. ‘“We all want quiet. We all want beauty… We all need space. Unless we have it, we cannot reach that sense of quiet in which whispers of better things come to us gently.” How incredible is that? It was written by the co-founder of the National Trust, Octavia Hill…’ He consults the book again. ‘Back in 1883.’
There’s a second cup on the table and he begins to fill it with tea. ‘Don’t worry, it’s a fresh pot, it will still be hot.’ Once it’s full he pushes the cup towards me. ‘I’m always stunned when I come across someone who thinks the same things I do, even now. It reminds me I’m not the only one.’
I falter, teaspoon clinking against the cup as I stir in the milk. It’s what he used to say to me because I did think the same things he did. ‘Well, that just goes to show that some things never change. Do you still read poetry?’
‘Of course,’ he says grinning. ‘I’m still breathing, aren’t I? Have you found any gems lately?’
I carefully lay the spoon in the saucer as I answer. ‘I don’t really read poetry any more. In fact, I don’t really read…’
Sam looks as if I’ve just personally insulted him. ‘What? Why the hell not? No, I don’t believe it. Alys, the one I always joked was born with a book in her hand.’ He’s regarding me intently.
‘What?’ I ask, irritated.
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’
But I know what he was going to say. You straighten your hair, you don’t read poetry, you gave up following the career of your dreams. Where is the Alys I once knew?
I drink my tea and the silence stretches out.
‘Okay,’ he says gently when neither of us can bear it any longer. ‘I’m not making any judgement here, Alys, I’m actually interested to know why you didn’t pursue the things I always thought you wanted. It’s obvious how interested you still are, I only had to look at your face in the studio to see that. So what happened to the dreams you once had?’
I want to say, you did, but I don’t. ‘I guess my life just got in the way. It’s pretty much as simple as that.’
And I can’t say any more. How can I when I don’t even know how it happened myself? Sam looks disappointed but he nods, knowing I’m not going to elucidate.
‘But what about you?’ I ask. ‘You obviously got your wish to be a top-class chef, but I can’t believe I didn’t know you were behind The Green Room.’ He
’s silent for a moment, eyes still on mine as he acknowledges my challenge. ‘But then, why would I?’ I add. ‘Why did you change your name, Sam?’
For a minute I think he’s not going to answer, but then I realise he’s just trying to find a way to put it into words.
‘I had my reasons,’ he begins. ‘But basically, I didn’t much like the person I was before. Or the life I had. I thought that if I became someone else, it would help.’
‘And did it?’
He smiles, wistful and brief. ‘In part.’
I’ve thought about how it must have been for Sam so many times. His life transformed by an accident – a young man with his whole life ahead of him, newly married, and in love – all gone in the blink of an eye. And there were times when I thought I wanted nothing more than to erase my memory. How lovely it would be to simply live my life without thoughts of my past hunting me down, sometimes when I least expected it. But then I realised that it would mean a life lived without the joyous, wondrous spark that was you, and I couldn’t bear it. That I might never have known what it felt like to be with you. And so I settled for the pain, however much it hurt, because the alternative was unthinkable. Why should Sam be any different?
I nod, knowing it’s as much about what I don’t say as what I do. And that sometimes there’s just altogether too much water passed under the bridge. I check my watch.
‘It’s getting late,’ I say. ‘Maybe we should think about getting back.’
‘At least finish your tea,’ replies Sam. ‘There’s no rush, is there?’
The drive home seems to take no time at all and we both know that a threshold has been crossed. The conversation seems lighter somehow, even though there’s a poignant undercurrent that isn’t sadness, but something close to it. Recognition perhaps – that we’ve both reached the place we were aiming for, even if we didn’t really want to be there at all.
‘I’m glad we did this,’ I say, as Sam pulls back into the car park. It seems an age since I was last here. ‘It’s been lovely and the conservation studio was an inspired choice, so thank you.’
He dips his head in acknowledgement. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would come, but I’m glad you did. It’s helped, I think…’ He looks tired, I realise, his face a little drawn.
‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’ I pause, feeling the need to say more, but not sure what. ‘I hope the visit wasn’t too much, all that hanging around. I had no idea I’d taken so long.’
‘A small price to pay. And I hope, good timing, if it’s given you a little food for thought.’
I nod. ‘Maybe… Anyway, thanks again, Sam.’ I push open the car door and am halfway out before his voice comes again.
‘Alys?’
I turn back.
‘I did a terrible thing… and I’ve held onto my guilt for a very long time, so I want to thank you too. Perhaps now we can both stop torturing ourselves.’
I smile and nod, seeing the relief in his eyes. And then I walk away without looking back. I did a terrible thing too, Sam. If only you knew.
11
I sit for an inordinately long time the next morning staring at my laptop. First there is the email that’s taken me nearly an hour to compose, all of half a dozen lines, and secondly there’s the job advertisement that Sam sent to me, the request for more information link glowing like a neon sign. And lastly, of course, I can’t stop thinking about yesterday. And Sam.
The email is to Becky Wilson, the lady I met at the studio, the one who gave me her card and told me I should definitely get in touch if I ever wanted to do any volunteering. And I still don’t know whether to send it, just as I don’t know whether to request an application pack for the textile conservator job. It wouldn’t hurt, I know, but let’s be honest here, I don’t stand a hope of getting it. I don’t have any experience, so all it will be is simply finding out a little more about it. And getting my hopes up unnecessarily, there is that.
The doorbell interrupts my thoughts and I get up to answer it, suddenly realising that I haven’t even washed up the breakfast things yet. I smile in relief when I see who it is.
‘Tash!’ I welcome her in with a hug.
She wrinkles her nose. ‘I might be a bit sweaty, sorry. I’ve just come from a new client around the corner and now I’ve got an hour-and-a-half wait until my next one.’
‘So, you thought you’d come and bum a coffee?’
She grins in reply. ‘Is that okay? There didn’t seem much point in going home.’
‘Of course it’s okay. Excuse the mess though, I’ve had a bit of a slow morning.’
I realise belatedly that Tash is still staring at me. ‘Is that natural?’ she asks, holding up a hand to catch a tendril of my hair.
Her question confuses me for a moment until I realise that my hair has long since dried from coming out of the shower and I’ve been so lost in contemplation that I haven’t yet put on any make-up or bothered to pull my hair straight from its wild corkscrews.
‘Oh my God…’ she says slowly, eyes raking my head. ‘How did I not know you have curly hair?’
‘You must have…’
She’s shaking her head. ‘No, I really didn’t… It looks incredible.’
I frown, tucking it back behind my ears. ‘Now you know where Esme gets her waves from. Although hers are obviously far more restrained than mine.’
Tash peers at me. ‘And freckles too…’ She stands back. ‘You look about ten years younger.’
I walk ahead of her into the kitchen, laughing. ‘You’re obviously badly dehydrated,’ I say. ‘Come and sit down and I’ll get that coffee on.’
‘It’s true,’ she protests, audibly tutting. ‘And I am not dehydrated. Why don’t you believe me?’
I busy myself with the kettle. ‘How are you anyway?’ I ask. ‘Recovered?’ I haven’t seen her since Scarlett’s party when she was undeniably worse for wear. She pulls a face.
‘Oh, I’m all right now,’ she replies. ‘At the beginning of the week, not so good.’ She sits down pulling a face. ‘You always say you’ll never do it again, don’t you? Drink, I mean. And then…’ She sighs. ‘I’m getting too old for this partying lark and Rupert’s friends are far too good at consuming large quantities of alcohol… Have you got any biscuits?’
I place the tin on the table, smiling at Tash’s ability to eat whatever she likes.
‘They seemed a nice crowd though,’ I say.
Tash nods vigorously through a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie crumbs. ‘I’m just so happy for Scarlett,’ she says. ‘You know how controlling Angela can be. But, after years of trying to stand up for herself, I think Scarlett might just have found her happy ever after.’
I finish making the coffee and hand her a cup. ‘I hope so. I don’t think Angela’s ever forgiven Scarlett for changing her name. Now she’ll be utterly furious that she’ll no longer be able to dictate to her.’
‘Well there you could well be right. Charlotte to Scarlett must grate on Angela’s nerves every time she hears it.’ Tash giggles as I take a seat beside her. ‘I shouldn’t say it, but that makes me rather happy. Oh dear, Angela is having a hard time of it, isn’t she? First she has Ed standing up for me and taking her to task over her behaviour and now Scarlett is finding her feet too.’ Tash swigs a mouthful of coffee. ‘Makes you wonder when it’s going to be your turn to surprise us, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any danger of that. Hugh and I have always toed the line…’ I break off, biting my lip. It would be good to talk to Tash, but the trouble is I know what she’d say and I’m not sure I want to be convinced.
‘Now, there’s a face,’ she says, cutting into my thoughts. ‘Why do I get the feeling that the worm is about to turn?’ She studies me for a moment. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
I sigh. ‘Let’s just say that the worm is thinking about it,’ I reply. ‘Not that it’s anything serious, there’s just something I’m mulling over, that’s all.’
Ta
sh looks at her watch. ‘Oooh, that sounds exciting. Go on… I’ve got a little while yet.’
I angle the laptop towards her, still showing the page for the job advertisement. ‘Not really exciting. Just that I’ve been thinking about what to do with my time. Contrary to what Hugh believes, I can’t spend my days stuck inside the house and I’ve come across a couple of things that have always interested me but… well, I’m worried they’re a bit desperate.’
‘Desperate?’ She peers at the screen. ‘Textile conservation…’ She looks back at me. ‘Er, how is that desperate? It’s hardly risqué. I thought you were going to say you wanted to become a lap dancer or something.’
‘Tash…’
‘What?’ She grins. ‘I’ve always said that underneath all the square clothes you wear is a body desperately trying to get out. But seriously though, conservation is not something I would have necessarily pegged you for being interested in. I get the textiles bit, I mean what with the dressmaking and everything.’
‘Yes, you see, that’s just it. I left uni with a degree in textiles and then did a further qualification in materials conservation, that’s all I wanted to do. Except that… well, you know the rest. Hugh, Esme, Harringtons, blah, blah, blah. And a part of me would love to pick it back up again, but I’m worried I’m just kidding myself. Kidding myself that it isn’t just a desperate attempt by a middle-aged woman to reclaim some of her youth. Jeez… midlife crisis or what?’
Tash doesn’t say a word, simply stares at me for so long I begin to feel very uncomfortable. Her brow furrows. ‘How did I not know any of this about you?’
‘I don’t know… it just never really seemed… important. It’s so long ago now, and I haven’t really thought about it in years and—’
‘You should do it,’ says Tash, firmly. ‘Definitely, absolutely, without a doubt, do it. What have you got to lose?’
I shrug. ‘The last remaining shred of self-confidence I have?’
‘But it could also give you a very much needed boost.’ She pouts at me. ‘Don’t put yourself down, Alys, you’re as bad as some of my clients. And if you carry on, I shall be forced to send you on a cross-country run, or worse…’ She pulls my laptop towards her, running her eyes over the information as she finishes her coffee. ‘Have you even sent for the details yet?’
