Never Alone (10 page)

Briefly, he looks up as he hands Sarah another armful of rubbish. ‘You realise,’ he shouts with a grin, ‘any minute now I’m going to slip and fall in?’

‘You’d better not,’ Sarah responds. ‘You’d likely slide on your arse all the way down the hill to the village.’

‘Hold on,’ he says, reaching down into the black, swirling water, ‘there’s something big stuck in here.’

Sarah grasps him by the elbow to counterbalance him while he bends almost double, his arm in the water almost up to the shoulder. She can feel the muscles tense as he pulls and tugs, and then, with a triumphant, ‘Aha!’ and rushing gurgle of water, he pulls out a black plastic bucket, a big one, missing its handle.

‘That was wedged in there,’ he says, panting with the effort. ‘No wonder it was backing up.’

Already the water level in the ditch is subsiding, the stream flowing fast around the bend in the road. Sarah helps Aiden get out of the ditch and back up on to the road. It is getting dark. Sarah can see the sandbag Harry Button had put against his wall. It is about two feet clear of the water now, and the level is still dropping.

They head back up the hill as quickly as they can. Aiden is soaked to the skin, and shivering. So much for the boots, Sarah thinks. He might as well have gone swimming in it.

You have been skiing in Finland and the Alps and you have never in your life experienced cold the way you are now. You sense you are losing focus, although the shivering is at least keeping you from slipping into unconsciousness.

Sarah is talking all the way up the hill, striding at a pace to match your own. You cannot hear her. The wind is blowing what feels like sheet-ice horizontally into your face, making it difficult to see or breathe.

At last you turn into the gate and the wind drops slightly in the shelter of the barn.

‘I’d better get changed,’ you say lamely.

‘Come and have a bath,’ she says. ‘Warm up properly.’

‘No, no,’ you respond through chattering teeth, ‘shower’s fine, honest.’

She laughs, and you think you look a mess, dirty and wet.

‘All right, if you’re sure. I’ll make some soup. Come over, when you’re ready?’

You nod and open the door of the cottage, get inside, shut it behind you. The noise of the wind all but disappears, and you’re left standing in the hallway of the cottage, your face numb, dripping on to the rug. You strip everything off, there and then, emptying your pockets on to the kitchen worktop. Your skin appears as a mixture of white, bright pink, and bits that have a vaguely blueish tinge. You leave the clothes where they are, the trousers hanging out of Jim’s boots, and go straight to the bathroom.

The shower is so hot it stings, but at least it’s making you feel alive again. When you’ve warmed up, and got all the mud off your hands and face, you get dressed in clean jeans. Back in the living room, you’re thinking about lighting the fire when there’s a knock at the door.

The pile of wet clothes and the muddy boots are still there. You drag the laundry basket over and dump everything but the boots in that. ‘Hold on,’ you call out. ‘Just a sec.’

It’s Sarah, of course. Who else would it be? As you open the door and her face drops to your bare chest, your jeans still unbuttoned, you find yourself reacting.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘Come in,’ you say, because the wind is blasting into the cottage and your skin stands up in goosepimples all over again. ‘I’m nearly done.’

‘I was getting worried; I thought you might have collapsed or something.’ She’s looking everywhere except at you.

‘No, I just spent a while warming up. Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute.’

You go into the bedroom and pick out a clean T-shirt and jumper, doing up your jeans with a grin. By the time you get out there, she has put your dirty, wet clothes into the washing machine and is watching them turning in the drum.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says again, with a short, self-conscious laugh. ‘I guess I’ve been a mum too long. Can’t leave a pile of dirty clothes alone.’

‘That’s okay. Thank you.’

‘No, thank you for helping out. I didn’t think it would be that much of a drama. I made chicken soup.’

‘That was quick.’

‘No, no, I made it the other day. Feels as though you need it after an ordeal like that. Do you want to come over?’

Her hair is still damp so she must have showered, too; it’s scraped back into a clip. She looks pale.

‘Sure,’ you say at last.

As you leave the cottage, the Royal Mail van turns into the yard and performs a neat circle in front of you so it’s facing the right way to leave. The postwoman gets out and hands Sarah a pile of envelopes, then drives off before you’ve reached the door of the house. It’s stopped raining again but the wind is still howling around the buildings, and you’re glad to get into the kitchen and the warmth of the range, the delicious smell of soup and the slight tang of damp dogs. Sarah puts the pile of post on the kitchen table and you sit down. Basil ambles over, leaning against the side of your leg. You rub his head and he lets out a contented sigh. Sarah busies herself pouring soup into two bowls, and cutting thick slices of wholemeal bread from a misshapen loaf.

‘So, other than rescuing neighbours, what have you been up to since I last saw you?’

‘I met up with Sophie this morning,’ she says. ‘That’s about it.’

She sits opposite you, picking up the pile of post, opening it mechanically, and putting it to one side after barely glancing at it. There is something about the way she is sitting, some tension in her posture, that alerts you. She is uncomfortable about something. Her movement has a deliberate casualness about it, and instantly you find yourself staring at the letters, now discarded and just out of your reach. What is it she doesn’t want you to see?

Her cheeks are flushed and she looks miserable now, even though she’s chewing on a piece of bread, dipped into the bowl of soup. For a while you watch her while she is deep in thought, while you eat your soup, which is as incredible as you thought it would be. You can feel yourself thawing.

‘So how is Sophie?’

‘Okay,’ she says.

Her hand is on the table in front of you, loosely furled. You notice she doesn’t wear her wedding ring. You place your hand over hers, surprised to find it’s cold. You close your fingers around it, and she looks up at you in surprise.

‘Tell me what you’re thinking,’ you say.

She starts, and there is the merest flicker of her eyes towards the pile of letters.

‘Nothing in particular. Thinking about the laundry.’ Her tone is quite sharp, but she’s not pulling her hand away.

It’s a lie. You let go of her hand, reach for the letters and she doesn’t stop you, even though it feels like an intrusion of the very worst kind. You flip through them. They look ordinary enough, official, but the sort of mail everyone gets every day – bills, statements, estate agents’ details. She reaches across and takes them from you before you can do more than glance, puts them face down out of reach.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s nothing, really. I mean – I don’t need looking after, thank you. I really don’t.’

You let go of her hand. ‘I wasn’t trying to do that. But we’re friends, Sarah. You can talk to me if it will help. About whatever it is.’

‘I said it’s nothing.’

Her look, now, is challenging. Her blue eyes meet yours. You find yourself longing to take her hand again, to ask her when and how she got those walls built up so high that she won’t even let you sympathise.

‘Anyway,’ she says, standing up so suddenly that the chair rocks back against the uneven tiled floor, ‘I must be getting on. Glad you’re all right, anyway.’

She picks up the two empty soup bowls and clatters them into the sink, her back to you. For a moment you watch her, giving her some space. Then you stand up and go over to her, close behind her, not touching but thinking about it. You
close your eyes, thinking about sliding your hand across her bare neck, over her shoulder, then round her waist, pulling her against you. Thinking about kissing the back of her neck. You’re lost, for a moment, in some scent that is coming off her, subtle, fresh – maybe it’s her shampoo or even, who knows, it might be the washing-up liquid.

When you open your eyes again you realise you can see her reflection in the kitchen window. She’s staring at you.

This isn’t the right time. You take a step back.

‘Thanks for the soup,’ you say. ‘It was perfect.’

You follow her to the door. Outside the wind is still howling, but the rain is holding off, for now. ‘Is it often like this?’ you ask.

She pulls her thick cardigan tighter around her chest. ‘This is nothing,’ she says cheerfully. ‘Wait till the temperature drops.’

It’s none of his business
, she thinks.
He has no right to waltz back into my life and take up root in it, and start to interfere
.

She stands, holding on to the sink, looking out over the yard, even though he has long since gone into the cottage and closed the door. The smile has dropped from her face. When she looks down at her hands the knuckles are white.

The letters are still on the kitchen table, unread. Whatever they say, they can wait until teatime when it’s going to be too late to do anything, and then she can sleep on it and think about it all tomorrow.

In the past, she would have balked at the notion of not dealing with something financial straight away. She hates debt, hates it. But most debt is like a rising flood, isn’t it? Like standing at your back door watching the water rise and creep across your beautiful green lawn. And, when that happens, you go and get the sandbags and move everything upstairs; you act, like Harry Button; you do something to help yourself.

But this – this wasn’t a rising floodwater; this was a tsunami. While Jim was in hospital, unconscious, helpless, Sarah had opened the letters addressed to him because she had to, and there she had her first inkling that there were things he had not told her. Bad investments, business loans, all the money from the sale of his internet start-up which she’d thought he had safely stored for their future – not where she thought it was.

Luckily, back then, she’d still had a good income from the first books. That had helped a bit: a bucket to bail herself out for a while. But now – now that nobody seems to like her work any more, her income has all but dried up, and the little that is coming in feels a bit like dabbing a tissue at the waves lapping at the back door.

She should have sold the house as soon as she realised the extent of it, got it over with – at least there wasn’t a mortgage. But back then property wasn’t selling well, particularly isolated farmhouses with mediocre broadband coverage; and in any case there were Kitty and Louis to consider, and her own sanity. She’d thought she might be able to get a mortgage on the house to cover the debt, but, as a freelancer with no guaranteed income, already in her forties, and with Jim in hospital, none of the banks would offer her anything. And even then, being pragmatic – and naïve – she’d thought that one of two things would happen: either Jim would survive, in which case they’d be able to discuss it, face it together; or he would die, and then there would be life insurance, and that might not be enough to cover it all but it would certainly help.

A tsunami of debt.

No life insurance.

And Sarah, grieving, spent too long ignoring it, and now denial has become an ugly habit that she cannot talk about. Not to Sophie. Certainly not to Aiden.

Before Christmas, she got a couple of the local estate agents to do a market appraisal on the house. The letters they sent are sitting in her ignored pile of mail. The valuations suggest that the proceeds would be enough to cover the debt with some left over; maybe, if she’s lucky, to buy one of the modern two-bed flats they’re putting up in Thirsk. That’s if the house manages to sell. For now she has left it as a last resort.

The only hope for her is to write something brilliant, something that will sell worldwide, garner merchandising
deals that will clear the debt and keep her going while she sorts her life out. It’s a hope that feels fainter every day, but it drives her back into the workshop and forces her to get her pens out. She has to keep going. There is no other option.

Next morning, Tuesday, Sarah has a meeting with the customer adviser at the bank. They have been asking her for a meeting and she has been putting it off for weeks, keeping them at bay by paying in small amounts when she can – money she gets from Sophie for baking cakes and keeping quiet about it; royalties.

She is there early, as if that might make it better. The woman who calls her in is possibly the same age as Kitty, maybe younger.

‘We really want to do everything we can to help,’ she says. ‘But the situation is getting more serious. We need to look at ways in which you can pay off at least some of the debt, because otherwise it’s just going to keep growing.’

Sarah’s smile is hurting her cheeks by the time she comes out of the bank. She has a bag full of leaflets about debt consolidation and a number for the Citizens Advice in Thirsk. The woman wanted her to sign up for something there and then, of course, but she thinks she has managed to put her off for a little while thanks to the news that Sarah now has a regular income from a tenant.

For a moment she stands on the pavement, taking deep lungfuls of air. Above the noise of the traffic she can hear music.

Will is standing in the doorway of the wholefood shop that closed down at Christmas, playing his guitar. He is singing too, but she cannot quite make out the song. His guitar case is at his feet, and as she crosses the road towards him she can see coins in it. A bit of silver, some coppers. A man passing him gives the guitar case a soft kick, making the coins jump, and offers some comment.

Will does not look at him.

She puts her hand into her pocket and finds the pound coin she uses for supermarket trolleys, puts it down into his case. He reaches the end of the song and strums a final chord.

‘Thought it was you,’ she says. ‘How are you?’

He is pale under his beard, and his eyes look tired, but he still manages a smile for her. Sarah wonders where he has been sleeping.

‘Not bad,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye the other day. Felt a bit awkward, like.’

‘That’s okay. Have you got time for a cuppa? I was just going to get one.’

She wasn’t, of course; she had been planning to head straight home again. But she can’t get over the thought that Will has been sleeping rough somewhere.

‘That’d be great, thanks.’

She waits while he packs his guitar away and they go into Della’s, a tea room that caters for the tourists for most of the year and is grateful for any winter custom. The tables are tiny, crammed in, and today there are only three other customers. Sarah asks him if he wants a cooked breakfast, and he says he has already eaten, which she assumes is not true. She goes to the counter and orders a pot of tea for two and teacakes, and then sits opposite Will in the window.

‘I really fancied a teacake,’ she says; ‘you’ll have one with me, won’t you? I’ll feel guilty eating on my own.’

‘Thanks, yeah,’ he says. ‘The smell’s made me hungry now we’re in here.’

He lifts his teacup with both hands. Sarah can’t be sure, but it looks as though his hands are shaking.

‘I spoke to Louis,’ he says, out of nowhere.

‘Oh?’

‘Aye, I rang him,’ Will says.

‘How’s he doing?’

‘Yeah, yeah, he’s okay. Seems like he’s doing quite well for himself. He was telling me he’s got a new contract, some big hotel near Pickering.’

‘Who would have thought that salad leaves could turn out to be so profitable, eh?’

Will laughs, and it lights up his face. ‘I know! I think he’s growing other stuff now, too, not just the leaves.’

Her son, the horticulturist. Louis had dropped out of university after a year that had been ruined by Jim’s accident, six months of torture with Jim in hospital in a coma, then his death. Louis had come back to her angry and traumatised, monosyllabic. Eventually he had been offered the tenancy of a patch of land with some polytunnels already in place, and had started growing vegetables for something to do.

‘But he’s well?’
Did he ask after me?
she wants to ask, as though he’s an ex or something.

‘Aye. Seems just the same. Quieter, I guess. Didn’t say that much.’

Sarah drinks her tea to give herself time to think.

‘I’d like to call him,’ she says, ‘but he doesn’t answer when I do ring. I tried going to his flat a few times but he was never there.’

Will lays a hand over hers, gives it a little squeeze. ‘He’ll come round. He just needs a bit of time.’

‘It’s been years!’

The teacakes arrive, which gives her a moment to compose herself.

‘So,’ she says, watching Will tucking into his. He looks hungry, and thin. ‘Where have you been staying?’

‘I found a B&B,’ he says. ‘It’s okay. It’s just for a few days.’

‘Have you spoken to Sophie?’

An odd little smile plays across his lips. ‘Maybe,’ he says, chewing.

‘Did you meet her husband at the pub? George, his name is,’ Sarah says. Why did she say that? It feels like a cruelty.

‘Yeah, I didn’t talk to him, though. He’s an MP or something? What’s he like?’

Sarah wants to say that he’s a pompous git who doesn’t always treat Sophie well, that he neglects her and cheats on her, but what she actually says is, ‘He’s okay. He’s a good cook.’

That makes Will laugh. He has finished his teacake, wipes his mouth on the napkin.

‘You want that other half? I can’t manage it,’ Sarah says, pushing her plate towards him.

‘Only if you’re sure,’ he says, but he’s already picked it up. ‘Thanks.’

She watches him eat, thinking of Louis. Wondering if Louis skips meals, if he’s warm enough in his flat.

‘I really like her,’ he says, and she hears it again. Something in his voice. ‘She’s…’

He hesitates, and Sarah wonders what it is he wants to say, waits. But he doesn’t finish.

‘She’s my best friend,’ Sarah says decisively. It sounds like a warning.

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I care about her. And you, of course.’ He has finished the second teacake, and the teapot is empty.

Aiden opens the door of the cottage.

‘Well, this is an unexpected surprise. Come in.’

Now she’s here she feels silly. All the way home, thinking about the bank, and Will and Sophie, she has been holding on to the thought that she can go home and see Aiden. She needs him, she thinks. Needs the distraction.

They are standing in the hallway and she looks across to the open door of the bedroom.

‘I needed to see you,’ she says.

Aiden gives her a slow smile.

But he gets the message, quicker than some men would. Perhaps women come on to him all the time. She doesn’t need to spell it out, which is a relief, because what can she say?
I need you to take my mind off things?

He walks towards her purposefully and eases her gently backwards until her back is against the wall. He’s close and yet still he’s looking right at her, right into her soul. She thinks he can see everything; can see right through her. Everything she is ashamed of, every last mistake. Every fantasy.

She waits for him to kiss her but he doesn’t move. He’s still watching.

Sarah thinks he wants her to say something, to ask for it maybe, to give him permission. She is trying to find the right words because his gaze is intense, curious, analytical. The frustration of it is clutching at her inside, and then, just a second before he kisses her, she sees what it really is.

He is keeping himself under control – right before he lets go.

In the bedroom he helps her undress, then strips off his clothes while she waits for him. The bed is cold and it takes her a moment to relax again. His hands are warm against her skin, and for now he is just holding her. His fingers on her shoulder, and then his lips following them, planting a kiss on her bare skin.

She feels him, hard, against her thigh. She grips him tightly, and he responds with a gasp against her mouth. He moves his fingers across her hip, across her belly, before sliding between her legs. He knows what he is doing, she thinks. There is something deft, expert, confident about the way he does it. She does not need to concentrate or fantasise in order to build her arousal. He is doing it all for her. She gives in, lets him, while he kisses her. For a moment she opens
her eyes and is alarmed to see how he is focused on her face, watching her, gauging her reaction to what he’s doing. She closes her eyes again quickly.

‘Don’t think,’ he says. ‘Just relax. Let me do it.’

‘Oh…’

After a while he says, ‘I want to see you come.’

And then, almost unexpectedly, she does.

It feels like belonging. That she is able to visit him in this place that was hers and is now his, to walk in here and ask for this. He is familiar and yet different. Just as she was all those years ago, she is attracted to him in a way that is almost visceral. Being with him feels as if she has come full circle, come home.

‘Hey,’ he says, softly. ‘Where did you go, just then?’

He has stopped moving against her and his hand is on her face, stroking one finger down her cheek.

‘I was just thinking about… back then. You know.’

Something clouds his face. ‘I think about it all the time.’ His finger traces a line down her cheek, her hairline, down to where it meets her ear. ‘I got everything so wrong.’

‘No,’ she says softly. ‘You didn’t. You really didn’t – I did. And then you just disappeared…’

‘I hated myself for years because of that. I should have been here. If not before, then definitely when he had the accident. That must have been… I can’t even imagine.’

‘It was all a bit of a blur, to be honest,’ she says.

‘What happened? Can you talk about it?’

Sarah thinks: she has been asked this so many times that it has become an anecdote, and just for once she wants to remember it properly.

‘We were at a party, for New Year. I was supposed to be driving, but when it was time to go I wasn’t feeling well – I had a rotten cold – and he said he’d only had a couple, it would be fine. It was only a couple of miles. He was going
too fast, and the road was icy; the car skidded and hit the wall at the bottom of the hill. He hit his head. That was all.’

‘You weren’t hurt?’

‘Just bruises.’

He strokes the side of her face, tenderly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I thought he’d be fine. I mean, he’d cut his head, I could see that, but you know, when there’s no broken bones, you sort of expect…’

‘He never came round?’

‘No. It took six months, lots of ups and downs, and then he got pneumonia.’