The Widow's Tale (18 page)

I
just want to see him. To know that he's still alive. I really do believe that will provide me with some solace. To know that there's someone close at hand who once cared for me – possibly even loved me. For me to explain it more coherently I'd have to understand it better myself. But it's as if knowing that he's there would give me something to cling onto. And give me sufficient reassurance to go limping on for another week or two.

Throughout this whole dreadful episode that has been the biggest nightmare. The sense sometimes that it's simply not going to be possible to navigate my way through the next few moments, let alone the weeks and months beyond. I think back to how I felt when I was in my late teens and early twenties. I may not have been deliriously happy, but things at least seemed possible. There was space for me to move into. Whereas, these days, there are moments when I seem to have run right out of options and I can't think how on earth I'll carry on.

I've reached a couple of conclusions lately. Firstly, that trying to watch the house from the path is almost completely impractical – due to the trees, which tend to obscure things, but also the actual distance involved. They are indeed back, from their holidays or wherever they've
been. The next time I was out there I could just about make out their car parked up in the garden. And could see various lights on in the house. But not much else. So I checked up and down the path to make sure no one was approaching, then slipped down the bank and climbed over the fence.

The ground beneath the trees is incredibly boggy – more like a swamp than woodland – and within twenty yards the water had come right over the tops of my boots. But I carried on, and kept my head down. And about halfway between the path and the cottage I reached a tumble-down wall, covered in moss, where I sat, all huddled up, for a while. Then brought up my binoculars. And from there I had a much better view of what was going on.

There wasn't a great deal of activity. In fact, there was precisely none. I must have sat there, against my mossy old wall, for well over an hour, with my feet soaking in ice-cold water and my backside slowly going numb. But nobody came or went. And this led quite quickly to my second conclusion, which is that I'm probably watching the cottage at the wrong time of the day.

So I went back to the shop where I bought my binoculars and bought their greenest waterproof jacket – indeed, I would've bought a proper military-style, camouflaged jacket if they'd stocked them. And last night, before bed, I made myself a sandwich and a flask of coffee, and by half past five this morning I was up and driving down the coast road in the pitch dark. Then making my way out to the coastal path. And slipping down that bank towards
the trees before there was even a hint of light in the sky.

I had my little torch with me, but there's not much point wearing a jacket that you hope is going to help you blend into the landscape then letting everyone know your whereabouts by flashing a torch all over the place. So I held one hand over the glass, to try and minimise it. And just turned it on for a second at a time, to give me some rough idea where I was.

It was about quarter to seven when the first light went on in the cottage. I wasn't actually watching. I must have been looking somewhere else. But when I looked back I could tell straight away that something was different. And when I had a peep through the binoculars I could pick it out, in one of the upstairs windows. I imagine it was someone going to the bathroom. Then, a couple of minutes later, a second light went on downstairs.

For the next half an hour or so, nothing much happened. Just various lights, and some movement around them. And, let me tell you, half an hour out in the woods in the middle of winter can seem like a very long time.

I had a pretty good view of the little porch at the front of the cottage. Or, rather, I was looking at it from quite a good angle, despite the cottage still being some way away. So when the woman emerged I could see her quite clearly. I couldn't make out her features. She was just a woman, in a coat and hat, getting into a car. But, of course, assuming she was who I thought she was, she was a good deal more than that.

She reversed out onto the lane and once she'd driven off
it was back to the stillness. For another good half an hour or so at least. I could've had a cup of coffee, or eaten my sandwich. But I was convinced that the very next second Paul would come walking out. So I just squatted there with my elbows resting on that old, damp wall, staring through my binoculars, with my heart beating ten to the dozen. Until, finally, I saw the lights go out in the cottage and Paul appeared.

He had two young children with him. One barely toddling. The other – presumably, the one whose bike I tripped over – pottering about the place with a fair amount of confidence. There was a general herding of children towards the second car. A back door was opened and each child was strapped into their seat. When the doors were closed Paul went round to the driver's side. He was about to get in when he paused and looked around, just for a second. I don't honestly think he was looking in my direction or contemplating anything to do with me. He might have just been wondering if he'd remembered to turn the heating off. Or checking that he had his wallet with him. He was a fair distance away, and, like his wife, all wrapped up against the cold. But as he stood there, for those precious few seconds, I watched him with such intensity it was as if I fixed him in my mind. I held him there. And ever since, I keep referring back to that moment. Him standing by the car. And I keep thinking, ‘There he is. There he is again.'

T
hings seem to have fallen into some sort of pattern. For the first time in many months I'm close to having a routine again. Plus I'm beginning to eat a little better. Or, at the very least, more regularly. I somehow seem to have drummed up a bit of an appetite.

There's the odd moment when I consider what I'm doing and worry that I've gone completely loco. That I'm on the verge of doing something dreadful, etc. But then I fill my flask and stuff a couple of tuna rolls into my pocket and go merrily on my way.

I've thought about coughing up the five or ten pounds and trooping round the actual reserve with all the regular punters. I suspect that, with a little forethought, I could quite easily contrive to trip over him. But I'd like our encounter, when it finally happens, to be a bit more intimate. I don't want anyone else wandering in and spoiling the scene.

I did something rather reckless this lunchtime. I'd slept in, and missed them leaving. But I felt the need for a little fix, so I crept through the woods and up to my tumble-down bunker. Then, having checked that both cars had gone I took a deep breath, climbed over the wall and carried on right up to the house.

I had a little walk around it. Peered in through the various windows. This is where they sit to eat their breakfast … this is where they sit and watch TV … etc.

I sat in the little porch for a couple of minutes. On the opposite side, under the bench, was a load of logs, all neatly chopped and stacked. And on my side, right by my feet were a row of dirty boots and wellingtons, big and small.

It's a lovely little porch. The actual front door is a solid old thing, probably the same age as the house and painted a beautiful deep green. I sat and looked at it for a minute. Some of the paint was worn away below one of the keyholes, presumably where the other keys on the ring have rattled against it over the years. So you could see the bare wood revealed beneath it, and all the layers of paint in between. The paint on the rest of the door was pretty much pristine. Had an almost perfect finish, like plastic. And I had this peculiar urge to puncture that perfect finish. To carve my name, or maybe just my initials into it somewhere. In a corner. Just to say, I'm still here. I haven't gone away.

If I could've found a bit of wood sharp enough to do some decent scratching I would've done so, but I couldn't. All I really need, I thought, is a little vegetable knife. And I made a mental note to try and remember to bring one along next time around.

Going right up to the house really was pretty stupid. Paul could've quite easily popped back at any moment – just to pick something up. Of course, that in itself
wouldn't necessarily have been the end of the world. Except that when we meet I very much want to be in control of the situation. For once I would like to decide how things unfold.

My mobile phone is as dead as a dodo. The battery packed up about two weeks ago. Which is no major privation, but may well have made life a little easier today, in that the bank might've got in touch to warn me that I'd exceeded the limit of my overdraft. As it was I had to suffer the indignity of having my card rejected – or should I say,
declined
– at the local shop. Lesser mortals, no doubt, have run outside and doused themselves in petrol following such public humiliation. Personally, it'll take a lot more than the faux embarrassment of some overweight shop assistant to worry me.

But the little to-do in the Spar shop was followed soon after by a dressing-down in the bank in Sheringham, where a youth in a drip-dry shirt took it upon himself to lecture me on the finer points of cash-flow and money-management. I was tempted to say, Have you any idea how much my house is worth, you little dickhead? That big, empty house on top of the hill in north London. The one where I can't watch the telly without flipping my lid. Or how much I have in my savings now that my hubby's popped his clogs. Cut a girl some slack. All I need is enough money to keep myself in booze and fags and tuna sandwiches while I stalk my ex-lover for another couple of days.

But apparently I must seek absolution and overdraft extension from some faceless sage up at head office. Which I flat-out refused to do. So I just withdrew a couple of hundred quid on one of my credit cards and sashayed out of there. Which is the kind of wanton, reckless behaviour that would've brought poor old John out in a nasty rash.

I
very nearly buggered things up this morning. I'd been watching the cottage – to try and get a firm idea of their routine. They'd gone off to work and I decided to head back home. And was just scuttling up out of the woods onto the bank when a proper, fully paid-up birder came bearing down on me.

I could tell straight away that some sort of explanation was called for. He looked quite affronted. Presumably at seeing some woman my age on her hands and knees, scrambling about the place.

‘You know, you shouldn't really be wandering around in there,' he said. ‘That's private property.'

Honestly. What is it with men and territory? I mean, is it the only way they're able to relate to the world? By parcelling it up into what's theirs and what isn't, then getting tetchy at the first hint of an encroachment. Even when it's on someone else's behalf.

I think the fact that he felt at liberty to be so utterly patronising to a complete stranger rather spurred me on – in that it put my nose out to such a degree that I switched immediately from apologetic/pathetic to something far more combative.

‘I needed a pee,' I said. Or declared, perhaps. It was that other version of myself speaking again now. And I told
him, quite plainly, that I thought I'd been doing everyone a favour by seeking out a little privacy. But that from now on I would simply squat down and pee in the middle of the path for all the world to see.

I'm not sure. Perhaps I'd been a little too graphic. From his expression, you'd think it was just about the most disgusting thing he'd ever heard.

Well, he flustered and blustered about for a couple of seconds. Then he went storming off down the path – his mind quite likely addled for the rest of the day with the image of me defiantly squatting and peeing before him. And I went off in the other direction.

I think I must have been feeling slightly guilty, because five minutes later I came across another pair of birders and went out of my way to stop and have a chat with them.

I asked if they'd seen anything interesting, and they mentioned – with, I suspect, a large helping of false modesty – several birds whose names meant nothing to me. All the same, I had the distinct feeling that I was meant to be impressed. And when they asked if I'd had any luck myself I found I simply couldn't help myself and, perhaps imagining that saying anything with sufficient authority might somehow compensate for my having nothing remotely intelligent to say, I plucked a couple of birds' names out of thin air and pointed down the path to where I'd recently seen them.

The birders both stood and stared right back at me. As if I were drunk. Or deranged. I can't even remember what
birds I claimed to have spotted. But I think there's a good chance they were specimens which are currently meant to be nesting in the Arctic. Or South America. Or possibly completely new birds that I'd just invented, by combining bits of other birds' names.

I don't mind the cold and wet. Some days I quite like it. The discomfort. As if I'm punishing myself. I lean against that old wet wall in the semi-darkness and think perhaps today instead of getting light it might just get dark again. And the darkness will wrap its velvet arms around me and the dark wet wood will just swallow me up.

I've really got to get my act together. I'm just going to have to take a breath and actually get on with it. Because if I don't I'm going to be stuck here forever, in my own home-made purgatory. I'll try and do it tomorrow. Maybe I should have a little slug of rum or brandy. Like they used to give the lads in the First World War – to give them courage before sending them up the ladders and over the top.