The Garden House Read online

  El leans forward, head in hands, digging her fingers through her hair, which falls out of its knot and all over her shoulders and face. She groans aloud when she imagines how he will be driving through the evening, across the moor, alone with his thoughts. He’s been so kind, so understanding, and when she thinks again of her reaction and how she’s behaved she feels she might die of shame. She can see no way back; no possibility of explaining to him the complicated emotions or that childish outburst, which was a complexity of guilt about Pa and an attempt to salvage her own pride; to cover her embarrassment.

  As she sits on the edge of the bed she wonders exactly what he intended. It wasn’t a friendly kiss. Was he hoping that they’d go to bed? And then what? El pushes her hair back and twists it into a plait, gets up and goes slowly up the stairs. She stares at the dirty plates, the half-empty bottle of wine, and feels that she might weep with frustration and disappointment.

  On the table lies the leaflet from The Garden House, the map of the grounds, and she thinks of how they walked around, laughing when Will found Sophie’s Place, her arm in his, holding him close to her. Dimly she begins to see that this quest has been a smoke screen to distract her, first from grief for Pa, and then from her love for Will. It has distracted her, concentrated her mind, and she’s been using it – and Will – to get her through.

  It’s odd that just at this moment the quest seems unimportant, that Pa’s relationship with the unknown sender of the texts has lost its worth beside this loss of her friendship with Will. There was so much they were planning to do together, and now there is nothing. El can think of no way she can explain to Will the reasons behind her outburst. She feels too embarrassed.

  She wanders around, putting a log on the fire, making a mug of hot chocolate, curling up on the sofa – and all she can think about is Will. Will at the funeral, helping to clear Pa’s clothes, walking on the moor; his kindness, his humour, his kiss … In a starburst flash of comprehension, El sits aghast before the reality of her love for Will. She loves him, not just in a romantic way, nor just in a physical way – though both of these are present in her feelings for him – but in a totally overwhelming passion that encompasses everything that is generous and good and necessary. She needs him, wants him, loves him: he makes sense of everything.

  El sits silently, trying to see some way forward. At this moment any kind of reconciliation seems impossible, the damage seems irreparable, but maybe things will look more hopeful in the morning. She finishes her chocolate, washes the mug under the tap, and trails downstairs to bed.

  * * *

  Will’s hands are clenched in frustration on the steering wheel as the car surges across the dark moor. He feels the temptation to speed, to let the car have its head and drive fast and heedlessly into the night, but it is not in his nature to be undisciplined. On this road, high in the cold blackness, any bend might reveal an animal on the tarmac, a patch of ice, a rock tumbled on to the road so as to catch the unwary.

  Over and over he replays the moment in his mind, leaning forward, kissing her. She kissed him back; he knows she kissed him back. And then, in that perfect, wonderful moment, a sudden tension in her body and her hands rising and pushing him away in rejection, and her incoherent outburst of grief and confusion. He can see now that his timing was all wrong. He’d allowed the happiness of the day, their shared affection, to mislead him. Clearly, El is not ready to contemplate a step forward yet, and he knows he should have been aware of that. He curses himself for his lack of perception.

  He passes Two Bridges and takes the road left to Moretonhampstead. Here low stone walls line the road. Coppices of trees race left and right through the glare of his headlights. A sudden sharp shower hitting his windscreen forces him to use the wipers for a few moments and he slows a little in the reduced visibility. As the rain clears, the road narrows unexpectedly. He sweeps over a single-track bridge and on up to a long dark fir wood that obscures the view to his right. Now he is passing the sign for Postbridge and descending into the little village. There are few lights on in the houses and the village store is dark as he passes on the road that leads down to the narrow stone bridge. He does not need to slow down, there are no other cars out on the road tonight. Here are the homely lights of the East Dart Hotel on the right beside the road, then the village hall, dark and empty. He feels the double ‘brmm brmm’ of his tyres on the cattle grid that marks his return to the moor and he begins the climb towards the Warren Inn, which sits in lonely isolation high on the shoulder of the tor.

  Will knows where he is going now. He can feel the stone drawing him, and a strange kind of turmoil building within him until he physically shakes with tension. The dark inn passes unheeded on his left and he descends, slowing, till the headlights pick out the low stones marking the entrance to the parking area. He brakes hard, turns in and to the left, and pulls up in a shower of small pebbles.

  He is out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Heedless of the cold, he strides out through the marker stones on the short narrow path on to the moor. In the night sky above him, clouds are revealed by their absence, which allows glimpses of the stars beyond. There is no effective light from these solitary guardians. It is dark, so dark he can hardly see the ground, but he doesn’t slow his pace. He stumbles on the uneven ground but presses on, weaving between the tufts of moor grass. And then, looming in the darkness, he perceives the greater dark of the stone blocking his path. a stooped brooding sentinel; immobile, almost human. Will can feel it, like a presence: Bennett’s Cross. It has become a symbol for him, a manifestation of his present confusion, and the grief in his past. He feels a powerful, almost pagan, connection to this stone, to the unknown craftsman who fashioned it. Tonight, he cannot perceive it as a Christian symbol, despite its name. He moves closer, reaches a hand out to the ravaged stone, to where, earlier, he and El searched for his initials, which were once carved into the west face. His own initials, W. B. – Warren Bounds. He remembers how they stood together only a few hours ago, laughing, happy; their hands sweeping over the stone, which now seems to lean towards him.

  A gust of wind strikes from behind and Will turns towards it; towards the west. For a brief moment the sky above the north-western horizon is clear. Etched there in startling clarity Cygnus stretches her wings wide. In the deep darkness every star in her wings is visible and Deneb shines like the taillight of an aircraft. Another gust of wind and now the racing clouds clear from beneath her left wing and Vega flares into view, ice cold and steady. Will flings his arms up and wide, as if to mimic the stars, and shouts up at the night sky.

  ‘Is that it? So what’s next? Come on. What’s next?’

  With a blast of wind sweeping up from the west, a curtain of rain strikes into his face. In a second the stars fade and are gone. For a moment Will stands there in disbelief, water streaming over him, and then he begins to laugh out loud. He turns, looks again at the cross, and it is just a misshapen stone in the middle of a valley on the moor, set there for who knows what purpose, who knows when.

  Still laughing at his own melodramatic foolishness and self-pity, he touches his right hand to the rock and he is suddenly aware of the cold and the wet, and the totally inadequate shoes he is wearing. He looks back along the path. In the dark he can still see the sidelights of the car. Drawing his arms about him for warmth he sets off back towards the lights. He has barely left the cross, striding into the dark, when he feels a loose stone move under his left foot, and his ankle twists outwards as his weight comes down. There is an instant of blinding pain, he loses balance, stumbles, and crashes heavily on to the ground. For a moment he lies in the wet, then rolls on to his knees, his hands supporting his weight. The pain in his ankle is ferocious. He tries to stand, but can put no weight on his left foot at all. It takes considerable effort to get up but eventually he stands, with all his weight on his right leg.

  It seems a long way back to the car. He cannot hop on the uneven ground, and his left ankle will not tolerate ev
en the briefest of loads. Nevertheless he has no choice but to get back to the car. Every limping step is agonizing, a long, sharp and repetitive torment, and he seems to be making little progress. The rain falls harder now and he is soaked to the skin. He knows that in this temperature he doesn’t have a lot of time before the cold will begin to incapacitate him, and then he falls again, jarring the ankle so that he cries out in pain. He stays bent double, using his right foot, hands and knees, protecting the ankle as best he can as he crawls and shuffles towards the parking area. Metre by metre he makes progress. The little gullies and divots in the path that were of no consequence on his outward walk to the cross have become obstacles that require serious effort to pass. By the time he reaches the stone markers at the end of the path he is shaking with cold and sick to the stomach with pain. But he is able to get up, to hop the three last steps to the car bonnet. Shuffling round to the back passenger door Will wrenches it open, grabs his bag and chucks it into the front passenger seat. He pulls his sodden muddy shirt over his head and throws it to the footwell before slamming the rear door and opening the driver’s door. With difficulty, trying to protect his left foot, he climbs into the car, shuts the door and with shaking hands fires up the engine. The motor is still warm and, with the heating set to maximum, it is not long before the interior temperature begins to rise. Will rips open his bag, grabs his pullover, and struggles into it before he sits with his hands pressed to the air vents, sucking the heat into his frozen body.

  Eventually the shaking stops. He still feels sick from the pain and his ankle is throbbing but, at rest, it is just about bearable. His trousers are soaking, but the thought of trying to get them off over his ankle is intolerable. Thankfully, the car is automatic, so he should still be able to drive.

  Briefly he considers going back to El but he rejects the thought. He decides to go on, to test how well he can drive and, putting the car into reverse, he manoeuvres it to leave the parking area.

  Later, he will wonder why he didn’t stop, didn’t drive to the A & E in Exeter, but by the time he reaches the M5 he is fixated on getting home. The miles go by in a blur of pain but there is no possibility of stopping. If he were to stop he would never be able to drive on. There is no thought of calling for help. He is almost ashamed by his stupidity, unable to explain even to himself what he was playing at, what had driven him to go to the cross. There is within him just the primal urge to get home, to get back into familiar surroundings, to curl up, disappear and drop out.

  By the time he pulls up on the drive at home he is barely able to move his foot and get out of the car. It is only then, when he can no longer function properly, slumped in the driving seat, that he calls Christian.

  What follows is something of a blur for Will. Christian is opening the car door, his initial amusement rapidly turning to alarm as he takes stock of the situation, and Will yells in pain as he is helped out of his seat. Christian half carries him into the house, takes one look at Will’s ankle and insists that he’s going to A & E. Will doesn’t protest. He’s just utterly grateful that Christian is taking command, getting him out of his wet clothes into warm dry ones, and half carrying him out to the Mini.

  Head back, eyes closed, he is barely aware of the journey to Bristol. Christian is dealing with reception at A & E, getting Will a wheelchair. The triage nurse arrives quickly, but Will has no idea how long they wait to be seen by a doctor, though he is aware of Christian calling Ops, reporting Will sick and signing him off his scheduled flight. In one of Will’s more lucid moments Christian asks him if he should speak to El, but Will shakes his head very definitely. He has already been humiliated by her rejection, ashamed by his own insensitivity towards her, and now he feels emasculated by this injury and his helplessness. No, he tells Christian strongly. No way does he want him to speak to El. And then there is a whirl of X-rays, examinations and meds that finally begin to take the edge off his pain.

  * * *

  El can’t sleep. She is sitting at the table in her pyjamas, staring at her phone, unable to make the decision to speak to Will. She has the contacts screen open and her thumb hovers over the top line, which reads, simply, ‘Will’. It would be so easy to let her thumb drop to the glass, to activate the call, but she can’t face the potential humiliation of hearing his voice sounding angry, or worse, indifferent. She presses the photo button and looks at the selfie she took at The Garden House. She and Will together, her hand forward and out of picture as she takes the photo. Will has his arm around her, his head above hers; they are embraced by the pale blue of the sky, illuminated by the sunshine.

  She remembers laughing up at the plaque on the stone gate, and Will saying, ‘Look! Sophie’s Place!’ There was certainty in his voice, knowing that he was right, that another clue had fallen into place, and she recalls his pleased grin as he looked down at her, his hair flopping forward over his eyes as it so often does.

  Even as her thumb presses down and the connection is made, she has a moment of panic, an overwhelming desire to hit the red button and kill the call, but she doesn’t. The number is ringing, and ringing, then there is a click, and a voice she doesn’t recognize says: ‘Hello, El. This is Christian. Will isn’t available at the moment.’

  El is silent. She doesn’t know what to say. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is, ‘Hi.’

  For a moment Christian says nothing. Then he says: ‘So, do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’

  El is filled with confusion. What can she say to him? Supposing Christian really is more than Will’s house-mate?

  ‘I’m sorry, Christian … I didn’t know…’

  She hesitates, because she knows that she wanted Will to make his move, welcomed it, and suddenly she is resolved to challenge her doubts and fears. She needs to ask the question.

  ‘Christian, are you and Will in a relationship?’

  There is a silence, then a disbelieving laugh. ‘Seriously, El? You think Will and I are “in a relationship”?’

  It seems as if he is mocking her, and she feels humiliated and regrets her brief moment of courage.

  ‘So you think that because he shares his house with a gay man, Will must be gay?’ There is humour in his voice. ‘Don’t you think that’s just a tad prejudiced, El?’

  There is a silence. For a moment El wonders if he is fetching Will, but then Christian speaks again, quickly and quietly.

  ‘OK, just for the record, El. Will is my best friend. I love him like a brother,’ he pauses, then says slowly, ‘but Will is not, and never has been, gay. Trust me, El, if he was, he wouldn’t be on the market. Are we clear?’

  El nods: she is clear, and she knows that she has made a huge mistake.

  ‘El?’

  She realizes she has to say something. ‘Yes.’ She almost whispers it. ‘Please can I speak to him?’

  ‘He can’t speak to you yet.’

  El shuts her eyes, squeezing back tears.

  ‘Please, will you tell him I called and when he’s ready, please ask him to call me?’

  She says it as a question, pleading with this stranger on the phone.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ says Christian. A pause, then, ‘’Bye, El.’

  There is a click, the line is silent, and then there are the three beeps that signify the connection is closed.

  Still clasping the phone, El folds her arms on the table, drops her head and allows herself to weep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Julia sleeps fitfully and wakes early. She hates these dark mid-winter mornings. She longs for the early summer sunrises when she can snatch a cup of coffee and then take Bertie out to walk in the lane; to listen for the cuckoo and hear the lambs calling. She rolls over to peer at the bedside clock – nearly ten to seven – and is relieved that it’s not much earlier. After Bob died, she woke regularly at twenty past three every morning for nearly a year and then, quite suddenly, her sleep pattern changed again, returning to her normal routine of waking between six and seven. Nobody
could explain the phenomenon but those long wakeful hours before sunrise, missing him, longing for him, had been devastating.

  She lies for a moment, thinking how different these processes of mourning are. Back then she mourned for Bob in all those small daily routines and intimacies that couples share. This time her grief takes a different form. She misses the randomness: the unexpected text, the spontaneous meeting, the secret knowledge that at any moment the day will be brightened by the connection between her and Martin. It gave colour and excitement to her life.

  Now she must learn to deal with her bereavement alone. No family or friends, this time, to comfort her, to help her through it. She must continue to keep their secret and manage on her own.

  Quickly, so as to prevent that familiar slide into misery, Julia pushes back the duvet, sits on the edge of the bed, and reaches for her dressing gown, flung across the old wicker chair. She huddles into its softness, folding it around her, tying the belt. Mentally she begins to plan her day, refusing to allow herself to become depressed. After Bob died, the boys provided her with a framework. Their own commitments – school, friends, clubs – filled her waking time with activity. This time she must concentrate on work: this will be her solace.

  But first comes Christmas. The boys will be home, expecting the usual routines, and she must begin to get organized, to make lists, finish writing Christmas cards, fill the freezer. Julia stands up, pushes her feet into sheepskin slippers and goes to the window. It’s still dark outside but the sky is clear and there is no wind. It will be a fine day. She goes out on to the landing and down the stairs, to let Bertie out, and to make coffee.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Angus and Kate are walking the dogs on Whitchurch Common. He saw her coming out of Crebers and suddenly thought how nice it would be to be up on the moor in this bright December sunshine with Blossom and Dearie, and even nicer with Kate and Flossie, too. She agreed at once, told him that she’d take her shopping back to Chapel Street, pick up Flossie and meet him up on the Common. Angus hurried back to get the dogs and they arrived within minutes of each other, the dogs delighted to be together, bounding around, uttering yelps of excitement, whilst he and Kate pulled on jackets and hunted for leads.