Page 36 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“Yes, I was twenty-one.” She paused. “Peter was—is—twenty years older than me.”
James raised his eyebrows as he glanced at her. “How did your parents feel about that?”
She smiled wryly. “Not amazing.”
He nodded in understanding. “I can imagine. I don’t know how well it would have gone over, if Jane had wanted to marry someone so much older.”
“And after only knowing him for two months,” Anna added. “Really, it was mad.”
“So why did you marry him, if you don’t mind me asking?” He gave a little grimace. “I know it’s a bit of a nosy question.”
Anna glanced out the window at the wintry landscape blurring by. “Why did I marry him…” she murmured thoughtfully. “Well, I loved him, or I thought I did. I loved what he represented—the wholeCountry Livinglifestyle, the rugged farm, the home he’d had for generations, although by the time I came along both his parents had already died. It was all so different than what I’d experienced growing up—dry, stuffy academia in a semi-detached in a grey Reading suburb.”
James let out a dry chuckle. “Yes, when you put it that way, I suppose I can see the appeal.”
“I was young and far too romantic,” Anna told him. “I’d barely had a boyfriend all through university because I was so shy. Peter swept me off my feet, in a manner of speaking, but to tell you the truth, I don’t know that it took all that much. I was ready to fall in love with the whole fairy tale.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” James replied after a moment. “So, what went wrong? Or are we ratcheting up the levels too fast?”
Anna sighed, knowing she had to give at least some sort of answer. “We weren’t suited, for a start, and I had no idea what I’d let myself in for, in terms of the endless drudgery of farming life, as well as…other things.” She considered telling James about Peter’s affair, but for some reason it didn’t feel entirely fair, when the man was on his deathbed. She also, she realised suddenly, didn’t want to be an object of James’s pity. He seemed to have it all together—a successful career, a productive retirement, a beautiful house and a loving daughter. What did she have?
“There were some other issues that caused problems,” she finished, her tone both vague and final. “After twenty years, I suppose we’d simply run our course.” Which, Anna realised belatedly, made it sound like they’d just got tired of each other, and it had been so much worse—so much more scarring—than that.
“I’m sorry,” James murmured after a moment. “It sounds like it was hard.”
It felt like an ending to the conversation, and Anna was glad. Surely there were other, better, nicer, funnier things to talk about? As if sensing her thoughts, James asked suddenly, “What’s your favourite ice cream flavour?”
Anna laughed. “Rum raisin,” she said impulsively, while James’s jaw dropped. She laughed again, the sound ringing out in a joyful peal. “No, I’m teasing. Doesanyonelike rum raisin? Salted caramel probably, or anything with peanut butter and chocolate.”
“Phew,” James replied, pretending to wipe his brow. “Because liking rum raisinmightbe a deal breaker.”
*
By the timethey arrived at her little house in Stroud, Anna was feeling happy and relaxed but also tired; it had been a long drive through the rain, and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect when she arrived back home, how she would feel.
As it turned out, as she stepped out of the car, she didn’t feel all that much beyond a sense of unreality that she was there at all.
“Nothing on your barn conversion,” she felt compelled to say as she fished out her key.
“It looks lovely,” James replied. “And you clearly love your gardening.” He nodded towards the neatly tended flower bed in front of the sitting room window, now, in late January, filled with winter jasmine and hellebore and scattered with snowdrops. Anna always planted her flower beds in a way that ensured they were never bare.
“I do,” she agreed, and then unlocked the front door.
After nearly a month away, the house smelled musty and unlived-in. A thin layer of dust covered the hall table. As Anna stepped in and looked around, she felt as if she were inspecting something unfamiliar, or at least half-forgotten. There was the gilt-edged mirror she’d bought at an antiques fair; there was the aspidistra her neighbour had offered to water, looking healthy but a bit dusty. Here was the armchair she curled up most nights with a glass of wine and a book. Here was the little kitchen table with its two chairs. Everything about this place, she realised, spoke to a solitary life.
A lonely one.
“It’s a lovely place,” James said, and Anna let out a huff of laughter, although she wasn’t sure what she found funny—or sad. She felt as if she were looking at her life from a distance, a spectator to her own self, at least for these few moments. It was the oddest feeling.
“I’m not even sure what I want to bring back,” she admitted as she looked around. “I should have made a list.” That clearly would have been the obvious and sensible thing to do. Right now, she felt overwhelmed, gazing around at all the vestiges of her old life, a life that just a month later she didn’t quite recognise anymore.
“Why don’t we go room to room?” James suggested. Anna heard a gentleness in his voice that almost made her eyes sting. “Or you can do it by yourself, if you’d rather, and I’ll find my way to the kettle and make us both a cup of tea.”
Again, Anna was struck by how understanding he was, how emotionally astute, sensing she might want to be alone, but willing to be there with her if she wanted him to be. They really did barely know each other, and yet…
Just as James had said, it didn’t actually feel that way at all.
“A cup of tea would be nice,” she finally said, “and I’ll start upstairs.” She didn’t particularly think she was ready to usher James into her bedroom just yet, even if it was just to fill a suitcase.
