The Shadow Year (21 page)

‘Well you take care, ducky,’ says Sally as the man turns to leave. Lila feels his sliding glance as he passes and looks up to smile but he doesn’t quite meet her eye and is gone with a ring of the bell on the door. Sally leans in close to Lila and whispers, ‘No idea why he’s on his own, that one. Never found a decent woman, apparently. Shame, I hate to see a good man go to waste, don’t you?’

Lila nods. She really doesn’t want to get drawn into a long conversation about the dating restrictions of the rural Peak District. She is thinking, instead, of the muddy track she needs to negotiate back up to the cottage in her car and those low hanging clouds threatening to dump another downpour at any moment. She will have to hurry.

‘So hubby’s joining you later?’ Sally continues, ringing up the price of the wine and placing it into a shopping bag for Lila.

‘Yes, Tom,’ she says, piling up the rest of her groceries onto the counter.

‘No kids then?’

Lila takes a careful breath. ‘Not yet, no.’

‘Plenty of time for that. You’re young, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ says Lila, swallowing.

‘Nice drop you’ve chosen,’ Sally adds, indicating the bottle of wine again. ‘You’ll enjoy it.’ Then she leans in close. ‘You need anything else – chocolate, ice cream,
gossip magazines
,’ she adds in a theatrical whisper, ‘you come and see old Sally, OK?’

‘OK,’ says Lila, finding her smile at last.

Fat globs of rain are beginning to fall from the sky as she runs back to her car. They land on the road in front of her and mark the tarmac like giant ink blots. She slings her shopping across the back seat then jumps into the front, pushing her hair from her eyes. She’s too late. The rain is coming. Her key turns in the ignition and Lila waits for the engine to roar to life.

Nothing. The engine sputters, clicks and then stops. She tries again but it doesn’t even sputter this time, it just clicks and clicks then nothing.
Shit
.

She peers through the rain-spotted windscreen and spots the Land Rover parked on the opposite side of the road, the man from the shop just visible in the driver’s seat. He fixes his seatbelt in place, then looks up and notices Lila watching him. Their eyes meet across the tarmac and she glances away, embarrassed. ‘Come on,’ she wills and tries the key in the ignition once more.
Click
. . .
click
. . . nothing. She slumps back in her seat in frustration. Now what? Call Tom and just sit here waiting for him to arrive God knows when to save her? Not exactly the self-sufficient, independent, coping-on-her-own image she has hoped to portray to him. She could call out a mechanic but in this part of the world that could take hours too, and worse, would probably cost an arm and a leg. Think, Lila, she wills herself, think.

She is jolted out of her reverie by a sharp rap on her window. Outside is the man from the shop, the rain teeming off his wide-brimmed hat and streaming in rivulets down his wax coat. She unwinds her window a crack. ‘Trouble?’ he asks.

‘It won’t start.’

‘I’d offer to take a look but in this weather I think the most sensible thing to do is get you home. Can I give you a lift? You can come back for your car tomorrow.’

Lila hesitates, her city sensibilities kicking in.

‘You said your husband was on his way up here?’

Lila nods.

‘Presumably he can help you get the car going tomorrow?’ He shivers and looks pointedly up at the sky. ‘Getting a bit wet here . . .’

Oh screw it, she thinks, throwing caution to the wind. Sally in the shop had seemed to think he was nice enough. ‘Yes please,’ she says, quickly. ‘Just let me grab my shopping bags.’

By the time she has transferred her shopping to the back of the man’s Land Rover and settled into his passenger seat she is soaked to the skin and shivering.

‘Brrrr.’ The man removes his hat and starts up the wipers, directing the blowers of the car heater onto the windscreen to remove the fog building on the inside of the glass. ‘We’ll just give it a minute to let this clear . . . need to be able to see where I’m going.’

Lila nods. ‘Thanks.’ The Land Rover smells of wet dog. There are discarded mint wrappers on the floor by her feet, as well as clumps of dry mud and hay.

‘Sorry about the state of the car,’ says the man a little sheepishly, seeing her glance about.

‘That’s OK. And thanks for this. I doubt I’m anywhere close to where you’re going.’

‘No trouble,’ he says, ‘I think I know roughly where you’re headed. You can direct me the rest of the way.’ He turns the car around and guides them down the narrow lane that will eventually take them back towards the lake.

For a while, the only sound inside the car is the rain lashing against the windscreen and the swish of the wipers, travelling valiantly back and forth across the glass; they simply cannot go fast enough for the onslaught and the man has to slow the car and creep around hairpin bends, their visibility reduced to just a few metres. Lila waits a while, hoping he will say something else to break the awkward silence, but in the end it’s her that speaks up. ‘I’m Lila,’ she says.

‘William,’ he replies, leaning right over the steering wheel to gain a few extra inches of visibility.

‘Nice to meet you.’ She pauses. ‘You’re a farmer round here then?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort of farmer?’

‘Sheep, mostly. But I keep a bit of game and poultry too.’

‘That must be interesting.’

He glances across at her and nods.

Just shut up, Lila, she thinks. No need to be nervous. He seems perfectly nice – a little shy perhaps, a little reticent to make eye contact – but perfectly pleasant. Yet for some reason she can’t relax and she sits tense and awkward, listening to the endless splash of puddles beneath the car’s wheels. ‘It’s up here,’ she says finally, pointing to the unmarked turn-off.

William nods and indicates left, peering to see the gap in the hedgerow, then begins to bump them up the muddy track.

‘I hope your husband’s got a vehicle with high clearance,’ he says at last. ‘He’s going to need it to get up here tonight.’

Lila can see he is right. The recent comings and goings of the roofers had already churned the muddy track horribly, but now with the torrential downpour it’s beginning to resemble a quagmire. They lurch along, occasionally dipping wildly into a ditch or puddle so deep a huge gush of muddy water surges up over the bonnet.

‘Can you swim?’ William asks and Lila gives a nervous laugh.

‘I’m so sorry about this.’

‘No trouble.’

‘I don’t actually think my car would have made it,’ admits Lila, ‘even if it had started back there. Tom should be OK though. He’s got a four-wheel drive.’ She points to the grass verge and reaches for her seat belt. ‘Just here is great, thank you.’

William clears his throat, his hands still on the steering wheel. ‘I have some old railway sleepers up at the farm. I could pull them down here with the tractor one day, if you like. If we sink them into the track they’ll give you a bit more traction, stop it getting quite so boggy.’

Lila is embarrassed. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but I really wouldn’t want to put you out . . .’

‘It’d be no trouble,’ he says. ‘They’re just sitting up at my place rotting.’

‘Honestly, it’s fine. This rain won’t last for ever.’

He shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’

Lila reaches for the door handle, just as another huge gust of wind sends a barrage of raindrops splattering loudly onto the windscreen. The noise makes Lila jump. ‘Goodness,’ she says, ‘it really has turned foul.’ She knows she has to get out of the car but she just can’t bring herself to leave the warmth of the vehicle.

‘Come on,’ says William, reaching over to the back seat for a bright orange plastic poncho, ‘put this on. It’s not pretty but it’ll be better than that fleece you’re wearing. I’ll help you with the bags.’

‘Oh – thank you, but it’s still quite a long way from here,’ she says, but William is already gathering her shopping, and so Lila does as she is told and pulls the poncho over her head and follows him out into the rain.

She stumbles across the meadow with William following and by the time they reach the copse of trees her shoes are filled with water and her jeans soaked up to her knees. There is little shelter among the near-leafless trees and as they troop down the ridge and reach the front door of the cottage she is not only soaked through but caked in mud too. She feels something akin to hysteria grip at her; for some reason she finds she can’t stop laughing. What on earth is she doing in this remote, inhospitable place with this strange man? Another fit of giggles seizes her. ‘Sorry,’ she says, trying to compose herself, ‘I don’t know
what’s
got into me.’

The man stands beside her on the doorstep looking somewhat bewildered and Lila can see from the expression on his face just how deranged she must seem. ‘Please,’ she says, putting her key to the lock, ‘come in for a moment. You can dry off in here – maybe take a look around at my little project while you wait out the rain. I’ll make us some tea?’ It seems like the least she can do.

He hesitates again, seems about to say something, but then just nods and follows her silently into the dark interior of the cottage.

‘Let me take your coat.’ He is already sliding off his muddy boots and he hands her his dripping coat, watching wordlessly as she hangs it on one of the rusty nails set into the wall near the front door. ‘I’ll just change, then I’ll get the fire going and put the kettle on. Make yourself at home, take a look around.’

He nods, but stays rooted to the spot.

‘Or you could light the fire?’ she suggests.

‘Yes,’ he says, obviously grateful for the suggestion. ‘I’ll do that.’

She points him towards the fireplace and the basket of logs then leaves him to it and heads upstairs where she strips off her wet jeans, socks, fleece and sweatshirt and replaces them with dry clothes, before heading back downstairs to boil water for tea. William is hunched before the hearth as she passes. She is amazed to see he already has a good blaze started and he leans into the grate, blowing gently, fanning the flames until the logs crackle and spit in the heat. ‘I wish I could get it going that fast,’ she says, wandering past and then on into the kitchen where she puts the kettle on. She tidies her groceries away, standing the bottle of red wine on the window sill, filling a bowl with the oranges and opening the packet of biscuits, laying a few out onto one of the few plates she has. She puts mugs and milk on the table, next to a jug of red berries she has picked from the garden, then adds the teapot.

‘All set?’ Lila starts at his voice. He is watching her from the doorway. ‘The place will be warm in no time,’ he adds.

She notices for the first time how weather-beaten his skin is, deep lines etched around his mouth and across his forehead, the impact of years spent outside in the sun and the wind, no doubt. His shoulders are broad and his arms strong, his hands red and callused. With his cropped grey hair and worn face he is hard to pin down in age, but she supposes him to be in his late forties or early fifties.

‘I forgot to buy sugar,’ she says, turning back to the table and fussing with the teapot, embarrassed to realise she has been staring quite openly at him. She’s not sure why, but it feels strange to have him here in the cottage with her – her first visitor. There is something about the sight of him, a tall, strong man in a navy fisherman’s jumper and socks, filling the doorway to the kitchen, that makes her feel a little odd. It’s that strange déjà vu again. Perhaps it’s the intimacy of it all, the two of them going about the domestic chores, padding around the cottage in their socks, their hair damp and their cheeks rosy from the cold. She shakes the feeling away and indicates he should sit on one of the long wooden benches, settling herself on the seat opposite.

‘So how have your renovations been going?’ he asks. ‘Getting along all right?’

‘More or less,’ she says, pouring them both tea from the pot. ‘It’s hard going but I’ve done some of the tougher jobs now, with a bit of help. The damp proof course has been sorted,’ she says, nodding to patches of plaster drying on the walls, ‘and I’ve had the roof fixed, the electrics checked, the chimneys and the basic structure of the building gone over. It’s old and neglected, but surprisingly sound. I was particularly worried about the old beams running through the property but they’re relatively solid – a little sagging on the one in that front room but a column should help.’

He nods and takes a slurp of his tea. ‘You seem to know what you’re doing.’

Lila shrugs. ‘It’s my job, although I’ve never taken on anything quite like this before. You should see the pile of junk I’ve cleared out the back. I’m going to have a bonfire tonight with Tom, to get rid of it all. It’s Guy Fawkes Night, after all.’ She stops, realising what she’s just said. ‘Oh. We
were
going to have a bonfire . . .’

‘Ha,’ says William, ‘I’d like to see you try and light it tonight.’ As he smiles, his eyes crinkle beneath bushy grey eyebrows.

Lila is disappointed. The cosy image she’d entertained of her and Tom standing hand in hand at the top of the garden dissolves before her eyes.

‘So what will you do with this place when you’re finished?’ he asks, taking a biscuit from the plate between them.

Lila thinks for a moment. ‘I honestly don’t know. Perhaps I’ll sell it. I haven’t quite decided yet.’

William nods, staring down into his mug, munching quietly. ‘Nice to take your time,’ he says eventually. He sits for a moment, then reaches out to touch one of the brilliant red berries hanging on the stems in the little jug.

‘Pretty aren’t they?’ she says. ‘I found them growing in the garden.’

He nods. ‘Hawthorns.’

‘Is that what they are? I didn’t know.’ The room falls silent once more. Lila clears her throat. ‘So where’s your farm? I hope I didn’t bring you too far out of your way.’

‘It’s a few miles north of here. Quickest route by road is back down the way we came, past Little Ramsdale and then on through the next village. It’s another mile or so from there by car.’