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‘Sounds to me like you’re using Alfie as an excuse.’ Andrea fires from the hip as usual. ‘What’s at the root of it? Darren?’
I can’t answer immediately. Andrea is far too perceptive. Zoe stretches her hand over and squeezes my arm. ‘You can’t put your life on hold forever. Darren is dead. What happened, you can’t change. You need to accept that.’
‘He can’t hold you to ransom from the grave,’ adds Andrea. ‘You deserve better than that. Fucking hell, what he put you through, I don’t know why you’re still so loyal. Your marriage was bad enough, the separation ugly, but to do what he did – and not just to you, but to do that to Alfie too. That was evil.’
Having Andrea as a best friend can be wonderful most of the time, but other times, she can be brutal in her honesty. I close my eyes tightly at the two-year-old memory of coming home from work to find Alfie on the doorstep. Darren had forced himself into the house and locked Alfie out. I will never forget the sight that greeted me as I stepped over the threshold. Darren had hanged himself from the banisters. I had tried to shield Alfie and to push him out of the house, but it had been too late. He had seen it. How did a sixteen-year-old lad ever get over that?
‘Andrea, don’t.’ Zoe’s voice is soft and full of concern. I feel her fingers rub my hand.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Andrea. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, but sometimes I get so frustrated that you constantly punish yourself about Darren.’
‘Andrea!’ Zoe cuts in again. ‘Enough.’
I give Andrea a half-smile. ‘It’s OK. I know you’re right but I still have this tremendous amount of guilt and, no matter what, I can’t shrug it off.’ The truth is, I don’t deserve to shrug it off, not after what happened that day.
‘We understand,’ says Zoe. She nudges Andrea. ‘Don’t we?’
‘Yeah, of course we do.’
‘Can we not mention it again? Not this weekend anyway.’ I look at each of my friends in turn. ‘This is supposed to be a fun few days to celebrate Joanne’s birthday.’ I remain silent about the real reason why I don’t want to talk about my late husband. I ponder at the expression late husband and think how ludicrous it sounds. Late? What’s he late for? He’s been dead two years. Shit-husband, self-absorbed-husband, insecure-husband or even bastard-husband would be a better description. As always, I keep these thoughts locked away, allowing my loyalty to Darren to be misconstrued.
The sound of a car engine breaks the silence that has fallen between us. We all look towards the road. The engine grows louder and a black Transit-type van appears from around the corner, drawing to a halt on the other side of the gate.
A man dressed in blue overalls, who I estimate to be in his thirties, jumps out of the vehicle.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ he says, in a broad Scottish accent. ‘Good to see you made it safely.’ He slides open the side door and then walks over to the gate, unhooking it and opening it wide. He indicates to the van. ‘Climb aboard, your hostess is waiting for you.’
I look towards the pilot and am relieved to see him making his way over with the phones. Only once I witness the handover of the bag and I’m convinced the phones are coming with us, do I venture into the vehicle.
The back of the van is boarded out in plywood and fitted with bench-like seats along each side. The rear windows have all been blacked out so there is no danger of us being able to see where we are going. There is a plywood partition between the rear of the van and the driver’s seat, with a small rectangle cut out.
‘This is ridiculous,’ says Andrea, taking a seat next to me. ‘What’s happened to the plush MPV and private plane? Now we’re in a boarded-up Transit van.’
‘Oh, stop,’ says Zoe. ‘It’s a bit of fun.’
Andrea makes a grunting noise but doesn’t comment further. The driver appears at the door. ‘All belted up? Good. That’s what I like to see. We don’t want any accidents along the way. I’m sure Mrs Aldridge wants you all to arrive in one piece.’
‘Please tell me this is the final leg of the journey,’ says Andrea, folding her arms and blowing out a disgruntled breath.
‘Aye, in under thirty minutes, you will have reached your final destination,’ says the driver, before sliding the door shut, leaving us in semi-darkness. A small shaft of light streams through the gap in the plywood.
I’m not sure why, but I involuntarily shudder at the driver’s turn of phrase.
Chapter 4 (#u1e228bbe-8a17-5e1d-acfe-557b143364c0)
We sit in an uneasy silence as the van trundles along the road, our bodies swaying from side and side as the driver navigates what I can only presume to be small winding roads. I’m not convinced the lap belts will actually do much to save us if there is an accident and as the van hits a pothole and we jerk forward, I tighten the belt for good measure.
Although it is chilly outside, here in the van there is no air and I begin to feel a little stifled. I rest my head against the plywood which lines the van. Although my mind is clear and I know this is all a bit of fun on Joanne’s part and I know we are going to get out of here soon, my body is offering a different interpretation.
I’m conscious that my heart rate has picked up and I can feel sweat gathering under my arms. I concentrate on breathing in slowly through my nose and control the out-breath from my mouth. Techniques I have had to learn since Darren’s death.
I stopped seeing the counsellor about six months ago and this is probably the first time I have felt under duress since then. It’s the small space of the van that is getting to me. I don’t know what it was about finding Darren that caused this claustrophobia, but it’s certainly a symptom. My counsellor suggested it could be something as simple as the closing of the front door behind me that day, the sense of being shut in a house and then dealing with the devastation before me. My mind has somehow connected the two things.
I eye my rucksack on the floor of the van. In the side pocket is my little box of pills. I have recently found another way to deal with the panic attacks. Neither Andrea nor Zoe know about the pills. In fact, no one does. Not even my GP.
‘You OK, Carys?’ Andrea’s concerned voice filters into my thoughts.
I sit myself upright and take another deep breath as I open my eyes. I turn and smile at her. ‘Yeah. Just finding it not quite so fun now.’
Andrea nods. ‘Typical of Joanne to take it one step too far.’ She leans forward and bangs on the partition.
‘What’s up?’ comes the voice through the small cut-out hole.
‘How much longer?’ shouts Andrea over the noise of the engine. ‘This is taking the piss now.’
‘Patience, ladies, patience,’ comes the reply. ‘We’re nearly there.’
The speed drops and the van takes an unexpected turn to the left. The ground noise changes. It sounds like we are on an unmade track. I can hear stones pinging up against the wheel arches every now and then, and the van rolls and lollops more as if navigating potholes and dips in the surface.
I close my eyes again, resigning myself to the fact that shouting and getting stressed isn’t going to get us there any quicker. I make a conscious effort to take my thoughts to a more positive place. It’s easier said than done. I think of Seb and my heart lifts as I bring his face to mind. His fair skin and almost translucent blue eyes. I smile as I remember him telling me why he has his hair cut so short.
‘It’s to stop any of the bad guys being able to get a grip on me, should I get into a tussle,’ he had said, referring to his job as a detective with the Met. Once I had made a suitably impressed response, he’d broken into a broad grin before continuing: ‘I can’t lie. It’s really because, if I let my hair grow, it turns into a mass of curls; looks like pubes.’ We’d both laughed for a long time at this imagery. I think that was the moment I realised how much I enjoyed being with Seb and relished spending my free time with him. I miss him when he isn’t there and want him in my life more. However, my next thought is of Alfie, which should be a positive one. But it’s not.
Before I can visit this further, the van slows down. There’s a change of gear and the engine noise lowers. We grind to a halt; a small jolt indicates the handbrake has been applied and then the engine is cut.
The driver’s voice comes through the gap. ‘Could all passengers disembark. This service will now be terminated.’
‘Finally,’ says Andrea.
The side door opens and we emerge from the bowels of the van, blinking as daylight floods our pupils. The driver jogs over to the croft and opens the front door, places the blue bag containing our phones inside. He closes the door and jogs back to the van.
‘Enjoy your weekend, ladies,’ he calls, jumping into the van. We watch as the vehicle makes a U-turn and then disappears down the track.
I look at Andrea and Zoe, who return the look with equal bewilderment. ‘Well, that was the strangest holiday transfer I’ve ever experienced,’ says Andrea. The fun has worn off and we take a moment to study the building in front of us.
It is a stone cottage made up of a ground floor and a first floor. A solid oak door is centred in the stonework, flanked by windows each side. In the roof, there are two dormer windows and on the side of the building is a single-storey extension which, judging by the lighter colour of mortar between the stonework, was probably added at a later date.
‘So, here we are,’ I say needlessly. ‘I suppose we’d better go in. I assume Joanne is already here.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on anything right now,’ says Andrea. ‘Maybe that’s her surprise.’
‘What?’ says Zoe, frowning.
‘The surprise is, she’s not here,’ says Andrea.
I pick up my rucksack. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ I give my friend a nudge with my elbow. ‘Come on.’
Before we take a step, the front door swings open and Joanne appears in the doorway. Her brunette bobbed hair, immaculate as ever, frames her petite features. She opens her arms wide. ‘You’re here!’ She trots over and hugs each of us in turn, the blue phone bag in one hand. ‘And all in one piece. I hope you enjoyed your journey. What did you think?’ Joanne looks expectantly at each of us.
‘Loved it!’ says Zoe, injecting possibly rather too much enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Yeah, loved it,’ says Andrea, her lack of enthusiasm balancing out Zoe’s excess.
‘Put it this way,’ I say. ‘I’m glad we’re here now. I hope the return journey is rather more orthodox.’
‘Oh, don’t be worrying about the return journey.’ Joanne flaps her hand in the air. ‘You’ll love that too.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ says Andrea. ‘Jesus, let’s get inside. I’m freezing my tits off here.’
‘What do you expect in that flimsy fleece? I hope you’ve brought a warmer jacket with you.’
‘This has to be your best surprise ever,’ says Zoe, hooking her holdall on one shoulder and slipping her free arm through Joanne’s.
‘Maybe not ever. Just to date,’ replies Joanne. ‘You have no idea what other surprises I have in store for you three.’ Joanne leans into Zoe and squeezes her arm. She then looks around at myself and Andrea, and I don’t miss the little glint in her eye. ‘Let me show you to your rooms. I have some lunch ready for you and then we can crack open our first bottle of wine.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ I say, following on behind. I look over my shoulder at Andrea. ‘Come on, misery. This isn’t an audition for the seven dwarfs, you know.’
‘If it is, then Andrea gets the part, hands down,’ calls Joanne. Her laughter echoes around the porch roof.
Andrea pulls a face, which only makes me laugh too.
Inside the croft, the small entrance hall with an oak staircase and a red quarry-tiled floor greets us. Years of feet travelling the surface have worn the shine from the centre of the tiles but the edges have managed to retain some of their former gloss. I look through the doorway on my left. It’s the living room, with two big comfortable sofas either side of a large brick fireplace. A wooden chest sits between the two pieces of furniture, acting as a coffee table. The floorboards in this room have been sanded and varnished, giving a more modern feel to the room, and a black-and-white hide is spread out in front of the hearth.
‘Cow hide,’ supplies Joanne. ‘All the rage, apparently. Not so keen myself. Not at two or three hundred pounds each, anyway.’
‘I quite like it,’ says Andrea, peering over my shoulder.
‘Now you’re a successful business owner, I expect you can afford these luxuries,’ says Joanne.
I shoot Joanne a look. Was there a hint of tightness in her voice? A topic of conversation that is always sidestepped with a sense of awkwardness. I watch now as Andrea gives Joanne a long look, one that Joanne matches without flinching.
‘What’s beyond the trees there?’ Zoe pipes up, as she gazes out of the window.
I don’t know if the change in conversation was deliberate on Zoe’s part, but it breaks the deadlock.
‘More trees,’ says Joanne, turning towards the rear window where Zoe is standing. ‘That’s the edge of a bloody great forest. It stretches around from behind the croft in a big arch and then all the way along the edge of the track.’
Zoe gives a shiver. ‘Even in daylight, it looks spooky.’
‘After lunch, we’re going exploring,’ says Joanne. She nods towards the trees. ‘There’s a walk through there which eventually leads to a clearing. Legend has it that it was once a site for pagan rituals and human sacrifices.’
‘Sounds delightful,’ mutters Andrea.
Zoe turns away from the window and drops into one of the sofas. ‘I’m glad I’m not here on my own. When did you get here, Joanne?’
‘Last night, actually.’
‘You were here on your own all night?’ Zoe leans back and looks up at Joanne.
‘No big deal. Anyway, you’re on your own at night times, aren’t you? Or are you? No secret lover you haven’t told us about?’ She flicks Zoe’s ponytail with her fingers and winks.
‘No!’ protests Zoe. Her cheeks flush red. She sits upright and looks round at us.
‘Ah, you’re blushing,’ teases Joanne. ‘Look how red Zoe’s gone.’
Zoe has turned a deep crimson colour and I can’t help feeling sorry for her, yet at the same time I wonder if Joanne’s teasing has some substance. For all Zoe’s bouncy childlike enthusiasm and seemingly innocent charm, I’ve always felt this has been to cover up the after-effects of a bad relationship. Although she’s never gone into details about her ex-husband, there clearly are unresolved issues in that department. To ease her embarrassment, I take it upon myself to divert the topic of conversation this time. ‘Joanne, are you going to show us round the rest of the place?’
‘Sure. Follow me.’
Across the tiled hallway is another room, identical in size to the living room. It too has a fireplace on the rear wall and to the right of that, in what was once an alcove, is a doorway. A dining table and six chairs occupy the centre of the room and a wing-backed armchair is on the other side of the fireplace with a view over the garden.
‘Through here is the kitchen,’ says Joanne.
The kitchen looks to have been refurbished recently but it is sympathetic to the age of the property. The units are free-standing and of a farmhouse style with wooden worktops. A Belfast sink is below the window, which overlooks the front of the property. There is an exterior door with glass panels at the top, draped with a net curtain.
I move the curtain to look through. There is a rear porch and beyond that is an outbuilding about the size of a garden shed. ‘What’s in there?’
Joanne joins me at the door. ‘Nothing very exciting, I should imagine. It’s locked, but from what I’ve seen through the window it’s full of old garden tools and a lawn mower. Not that they seem to worry about keeping the grass manicured: it’s more pasture than lawn.’
True, the rear of the property has no fencing to identify the boundaries and blends in with the surrounding open scrubland scenery. A small area immediately outside the back door has been laid with paving stones to create a patio, and a flowerbed has been dug around the edge which is full of shrubs, but that is the extent of the garden.
‘To be fair, we do appear to be in the middle of nowhere. It must be hard to get a gardener up here,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose they want to pay someone to come up here every week.’
‘Exactly,’ says Joanne.
‘How far are we from civilisation?’ asks Zoe, as we walk back through to the entrance hall.
‘Bloody miles,’ says Andrea.
Joanne gives a laugh but ignores the question. ‘Oh, before I forget. I need to take a picture of us all. A selfie. Wait there a moment while I get my camera.’
She disappears into the living room, leaving us waiting in the hall. As with the rest of the house, it’s a mix of old and new. Some pieces of furniture and decoration look like they’ve been here for years, whereas other pieces wouldn’t look out of place in an Ikea catalogue. There’s a dark wood telephone seat with a faded green velvet cushion, which seems odd as there doesn’t appear to be a telephone here. It reminds me of something from the seventies. Above it is a picture of a crying boy, another leftover from a past era. And on the opposite wall is a row of modern pictures in white frames. They have almost a seaside feel to them, depicting stick-men in sailor suits with flags in different positions, each spelling out a word in semaphore. I take a closer look to see if the words are printed underneath, but can’t see anything. On the floor, propped against the wall, is a print, about a metre long, of spring flowers, which I personally think would look nicer on the wall.
Joanne reappears almost straight away. ‘I treated myself to a Polaroid camera. Instant photos,’ she says, holding the retro-looking camera in her hand.
‘How very old-school,’ says Andrea.
‘Exactly. Just like us,’ replies Joanne. ‘Now, I need you all to stand here in the hall. Zoe, you here. That’s it. Andrea here.’ She leaves a space between them and then takes my arm. ‘Carys, you stand in the middle. I’ll set the timer up and then I’ll hop on the end.’
Joanne moves a pot plant from the shelf inside the door and prepares the camera. ‘I tested it earlier. It’s the perfect height,’ she says. ‘OK, you ready? I’m pressing the timer button now.’
‘Quick, before it goes off,’ says Zoe, as Joanne darts back and joins the end of the line. ‘Smile!’
We all stand rigidly, while at the same time trying to pose naturally with big smiles plastered across our faces. Just as I think the timer isn’t going to work, the camera flashes.
‘Now to see the result,’ says Joanne, returning to the camera. ‘I love this, it’s so eighties.’ After a few seconds, a photograph emerges slowly from the bottom of the camera. Joanne waves the photograph in the air to dry the ink. ‘Do any of you miss the old days? When life was simple, before we had to deal with all the grown-up stuff?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Andrea. ‘I actually like my life now, as an adult.’
