Grace backed out of the room and left him to wrestle with what was left of Chloe, all that represented her, her little dresses and toys, so many inanimate objects that for him had taken on extra meaning.
She held on to the bannister and listened from the landing as Tom worked like a whirling dervish. It was as if every second was of the essence: the quicker he could get things back into place, the sooner he could restore… what? Chloe? Order? He could restore neither of those things, never Chloe and not even order, not in the present circumstances. Grace felt a wave of pity for her husband as he grappled for control over Chloe’s things, simply because he could, when everything else around him was in chaos. She looked down at the carpet and saw Chloe’s little feet falling inwards as they poked from beneath her nightdress.
Grace made her way to their bedroom and sat on the end of the bed, her shoulders slumped in utter weariness. She stared at her face in the distant mirror, barely recognising the person that glanced back, who seemed lost and ill at ease, like a visitor in that environment, not at all relaxed. She looked around the room, at the carefully placed faux-Victorian fauna prints, the bespoke handmade Roman blinds that hung artfully at the windows, the much-deliberated-over duvet cover and the vintage bedside tables with their boudoir-chic lamps, and she felt nothing. When she’d put the room together, with its myriad accessories, it had all felt so important. She’d spent hours poring over fabric swatches, canvassing the opinions of friends, rejecting shades on a mere whim and reworking ideas and combinations until she’d been certain that it was just about as perfect as it could be. Getting each detail right had been what mattered. She remembered coming home and entering the room with something akin to pride, standing at the grand entrance each night before bed and surveying her perfect kingdom. No corner or ensemble would have been out of place in a glossy magazine; she had achieved the tasteful and the enviable. It gave her great satisfaction.
Now, however, there was no temptation to turn a candle so that it faced the ‘right’ way, or to plump a cushion, or to make the dishevelled bed, or even to wash the greasy bed linen. The whole place looked neglected and unloved. The photos were covered in a layer of grey dust, random piles of laundry, both dirty and clean, littered the floor, and the blinds were pulled unevenly, a fact that would have driven her to distraction in her previous life, the life before, when she had the energy to be concerned with the smallest detail. She could no longer imagine the luxury of existing without the pain in her chest and behind her eyes, without the huge rocks of grief that weighed down her stomach and made her breathing laboured. Couldn’t imagine living without having to consciously remember how to walk and how to talk. She couldn’t imagine living in a world where the perfect decor of her bedroom mattered at all.
Grace felt as though she wanted to go home. She wanted to twist her key in the lock, shut the door behind her and feel safe, but therein lay the problem: she
was
home and yet it didn’t feel like home any more. She wanted to get away, far away, and she wanted to go as quickly as possible. She felt as if she might literally suffocate on the atmosphere within the house; she wanted to be somewhere that Chloe had never been. Jason had been right; she needed to go somewhere where she could think, where she could grieve.
Flipping open her laptop, she searched for ‘places to get away’. That seemed to be synonymous with romance, she realised, as she trawled through the numerous advertisements for remote hotels with swim-up bars, the promise of ‘new experiences’ at couples-only resorts and, God forbid, ‘fun!’ Grace wanted none of these; she wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet where she could hide from the world. She dug deeper, until something caught her eye. She stumbled across the ad by accident – it was a small, insignificant placement as a link to a bigger site offering outdoor pursuits and she’d nearly missed it.
The wording was simple and drew her in:
Compact, private, no-frills, self-contained studio. The Old Sheep Shed at Gael Ffydd Cottage offers peace and quiet in the beautiful Welsh countryside…
It sounded perfect, intimate, a place where she could choose not to participate, could hide away, somewhere to spend time alone and think. Even making the decision gave her a flash of mental clarity, as if confirming that she was doing the right thing. She clicked open the link and read some more.
In the UK, sepsis kills more people than breast and bowel cancer combined
Grace flicked the indicator and turned right onto yet another winding country road, driving at a snail’s pace. She hoped that the satnav would soon catch up, watching as it struggled to find a signal.
She was grateful for her sturdy 4x4 and its elevated driving position. With each turn, the hedgerows grew thicker, the lanes narrower and the view more breathtaking. She found herself climbing slowly up one side of a steep valley. The fields rolled down to her left in a glorious verdant patchwork until they met the wide twist of a river, where full and ancient trees stooped and flourished at the water’s edge. In a mirror image, on the other side of the river, fields edged with hedgerows sloped upwards to the top of the ridge, and beyond, the crests of dark, imposing mountains framed the picture. The big sky was blue and despite the chill of the April day, the sun sat high, glinting off the water that foamed where it hit boulders or clusters of twigs gathered against the bank.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered.
It was all she’d needed to read in the description: ‘peace and quiet’. Grace didn’t doubt it would be quiet, but peace? That was another thing entirely. She had booked it there and then, for a month.
Dusting off her suitcase from under the bed, she’d thrown some clothes into it, along with one of Chloe’s nighties, which lived under her pillow; she always slept with her hand on the fabric, keeping a small part of her daughter close. The next day, as she’d zipped up her travel bag, she’d realised there was something she’d forgotten to do, but couldn’t for the life of her remember what. Her memory was still very sketchy. Evidence of this lay in the half-drunk cups of tea that littered the surfaces in the house. Daily, she would put one down, forget where, and plod to the kitchen on autopilot to make another.
‘Money, car keys, toothbrush, pyjamas, pills. Money, car keys, toothbrush, pyjamas, pills.’ She slowly ran through the list of essentials, touching her hand to each thing, trying to spot what might be missing, like the party game she’d played as a child, where objects were removed from a tray.
‘What are you doing?’ His deep, croaky voice startled her from the bedroom door.
Grace had to look twice at the hunched, growly man who had walked into the bedroom – recognition took a fraction longer than was comfortable for them both.
It’s okay, it’s Tom. Don’t be scared, it’s just Tom, the new Tom, different…
Her interior monologue quieted her nerves. And with this, it came to her. Of course! That was it! That was the thing! She had forgotten to tell Tom that she was going away.
Without enough time to think of any preamble or soften her words, she made her statement. ‘I’m going away. I need to go away. I’m going to Wales.’ It sounded more matter-of-fact than she’d intended.
‘You’re going to Wales?’ His tone held the accusatory note that she could now identify as the forerunner of an argument. She felt her spirit flag at the prospect.
‘Yes. To a studio, actually.’
‘“A studio, actually.”‘ His imitation of her tone both irritated and upset her. ‘How lovely for you, Grace, a holiday in Wales. Your timing really is impeccable.’
She hung her head and tried to summon the strength for the exchange, wishing he would just go away. ‘I’m not going on holiday, Tom. I just need to get some thinking time, some space. I’m going mad here.’
He snorted in derision. ‘That’s perfect. You think you’re the only one? We are falling apart. The world has turned to rat shit and you are going to drink wine and stroll the hills? Fucking marvellous!’
‘I told you, it’s not like that. I need to keep sane, Tom. I need to go somewhere that I can think because I’m sinking and I’m scared.’
He shook his head. ‘Listen to yourself, Grace. “I… I… I…” Here’s a newsflash for you: we have both lost her,
we
, us.’ He pounded his fist against his chest. ‘This thing happened to both of us and now I’m losing you. Have you any idea how shit my life is? How low
I
am?’
She reluctantly looked into his sunken eyes and knew that he spoke the truth. It saddened her to hear his next words.
‘There used to be a time when we would have sunk together. I am so, so lonely, you have no idea.’ He couldn’t stop the tears.
She hated to admit that to see him like that angered and repulsed her. She didn’t have the capacity to help him, he was right. She was way too busy looking after herself. Grace knew it was a pivotal moment, as he stood some two feet away with his head hung forward, begging her to hold him, imploring her to join him in a circle of grief. But she had turned away from the sight of his distress and continued to pack.
The memory of that conversation came to her now as, instructed by the satnav, which had finally located her, she turned the car onto a narrow, bumpy track signposted ‘Gael Ffydd Cottage’. The five-bar gate was wedged open and she continued slowly along the potholed, pebble-strewn driveway, which had been built along a ridge that dropped away by a foot on each side. Eventually she pulled up on a tarmac apron, next to a battered, square caravan whose windows were missing, and an equally sorry-looking Land Rover, the open flatbed of which was partly covered in rather moth-eaten faded green canvas.
To the right of the apron was the side of a house – a cottage, to be more precise – made of pale, rough, irregular stone, which seemed to have a greenish tinge, beautiful against the lush setting. One solitary window sat below the apex of the roof, and smoke curled from a single chimneypot above that. Grace inhaled the scent that reminded her of childhood, of bonfire nights and sitting in front of her grandma’s real fire with her parents on either side, while Alice danced in the firelight. She had felt happy and safe. Safe – unlike Chloe. Grace shook her head, not wanting to succumb to tears, not here, not now.
To her left was an open-fronted workshop in which she could see a workbench scattered with various tools and a pile of logs neatly stacked in one corner. The sagging, rust-coloured pantile roof was tightly bound with ivy.
Turning her head, she listened. There was nothing bar the babble of water in the valley, the crow of birds overhead and the far-off bleat of sheep in the distance. It was just as the advert had said: quiet.
‘Hello.’
She hadn’t heard the man or his fat blonde Labrador approach. She jumped a little.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ He raised his palm as if to show he came in peace. ‘I tried making a noise, but you were miles away.’ He clicked his fingers and patted his thigh. The dog sidled up to him and stood by his leg. ‘Good boy, Monty.’ He splayed his flattened palm in front of the dog.
Grace turned to face the middle-aged man, noting his bushy, wild beard, curly dark hair and muddy Rigger boots. His thick red plaid shirt was unbuttoned over a once-white T-shirt and his oil-covered jeans were tucked into his boots.
‘I was just, looking… the view… it’s incredible.’ She blushed, hating having been caught unawares, wondering if she’d been talking to herself, as she often did.
He nodded. ‘You found us okay then?’
Grace suspected visitors were scarce as he’d correctly surmised that she was his guest. ‘Yes. The satnav went on strike a couple of times, but I’ve arrived, so…’ She let this trail, in no mood for making small talk with this stranger.
‘Let me grab your bag for you.’ Without waiting for a response, he took a step closer. Grace realised he wasn’t as old as she had first assumed; his clear, hazel eyes were those of someone closer to her own age.
‘Oh!’ She was more than capable of carrying her own bag but didn’t want to offend with a rebuttal.
She opened the boot and watched as he grabbed her suitcase. Then she gathered up her pashmina and rucksack from the back seat and followed him down a rather precarious path that wound around the back of the workshop.
A few steps across a muddy field sat a single-storey rectangular building, made from the same green-tinged stone as the main cottage. Grace gulped, wondering where on earth she was heading, alone in the middle of nowhere with the bearded man. She looked back towards the track and realised she was miles from the road.
You can always jump in the car and disappear if you don’t like it. Just make your excuses and leave, say you’re going to fetch milk or whatever and just go.
‘I’m Huw by the way.’ He turned towards her and offered this a little gruffly, as if remembering that such information might be useful. ‘And this, as you might have gathered, is Monty.’ He patted the dog’s head, his tone flat and formal.
‘I’m Grace.’ She nodded, her response indicating that, like him, she was not interested in making friends – of the human or dog kind. She had to admit, it was rather nice to be in the company of someone who didn’t talk to her as though she were going deaf or was wounded, someone who didn’t know to ask quietly how she was doing, someone who didn’t define her by her grief or her daughter. The frisson she felt at this realisation was instantly replaced by a spike of guilt that lanced her gut.
Happy? Relieved? How dare you.
Huw placed the case on the small flagstone terrace at the front of the property and paused at the bottom of the three steps that led up to the green front door.
Grace was busy taking in the details of her home for the next few weeks. ‘I can’t believe how quiet it is here. It’s another world.’
‘That’s the idea.’ He turned towards her, smiling briefly and seeming to appraise his guest’s face for the first time.
She did likewise. He looked kind behind his rather bluff exterior.