Page 6 of Sunset at Embthwaite Farm
“Anna…” The voice was female, her name said in a wondering tone. “Anna Mowbray? I knew you’d come back—Ben had said, but…”
The woman let that sentence trail away as Anna turned to see her old neighbour, Diana Mackey, walking towards her, a trio of dogs, two springer spaniels and a black Lab, trotting behind her. She carried their leads in one gloved hand, a waxed jacket buttoned up to her chin, and a fuzzy bobble hat pulled down over her ears.
“It’s Diana,” she said, and Anna managed the approximation of a light laugh.
“Yes, of course. I remember you, Diana.” They’d been neighbours for twenty years, sharing pots of tea and slices of cake around each other’s kitchen tables. Did Diana really think she would have forgotten her?
“Goodness.” Diana came to stand in front of her as she shook her head slowly. “I’ve been meaning to pop round and say hello, but…”
“It’s awkward, I know.” Anna heard how brittle she sounded.
“It’s not that,” Diana replied quickly. “I wouldn’t care a fig about that, even if it was. I just…I just didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”
What could she say to that? “I always felt we were friends,” Anna replied after a moment, sounding even more brittle.
“Yes, as have I,” Diana replied, “but it’s been a long time. And I’ve known Peter since I was born. He’s a few years older than me, admittedly, but…we’re both born and bred in Mathering. I…didn’t know if that would make a difference, to you.”
Did that somehow invalidate their own friendship? Anna wondered. She supposed she’d been aware of that relationship, when she had chosen not to stay in touch. “I came back to help with Peter,” she told Diana. “Now that his health is starting to fail.”
Diana nodded. “That’s very good of you.”
“Not really,” Anna replied, the words wobbling all over the place. She’d been able to hold it together for her daughters, but in the face of someone she’d once counted as a friend, she felt herself starting to fall apart. “At least, it’s nothelpfulof me. I’m just making everything worse. Much worse.” She blinked back the tears, but there were too many and a few slipped down her cold cheeks. She dashed them away quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry…”
“Oh, you poor love.” Diana’s voice was warm and full of empathy, which made Anna want to positively howl. “Why don’t you come back to mine for a cup of tea? I’ve got a banana loaf that needs eating, as well.”
“Oh…” Anna felt she should refuse, although she couldn’t say why. Some part of her didn’t feel she deserved this kindness, especially from a childhood friend of Peter’s.
“Come on, then,” Diana said, clearly not taking no for an answer. “We can go through the sheep pasture and get there all the quicker.”
“All right then,” Anna mumbled, still wiping away tears. “Thank you.”
They didn’t speak as they headed across country towards the Mackey farm; it was enough effort to round up the dogs and navigate the tufty and uneven ground of the sheep pasture. A few heavily pregnant sheep looked at them balefully as they passed, and Anna made sure Fred was securely on the lead even though she doubted he had the energy, never mind the desire, to worry a sheep.
Ten minutes later, they were at the Mackey farmhouse, a long, low, whitewashed building that seemed as if it had sprung right from the earth. The kitchen was exactly as Anna had remembered it—rambling and cluttered, warm from the Aga, with the promised banana loaf cooling on one of its round lids. It all looked so welcoming and homely that she felt as if she could cry again, and just when she’d finally got herself under control.
“There now,” Diana said comfortably as she unwrapped herself from her hat, scarf, and coat, leaving her boots by the door. Her hair was liberally streaked with grey, and the years had added a few lines to her face as well as a few inches to her middle, but she looked comfortable in herself, which was more than Anna could say. Diana had lost her husband a few years ago, Anna recalled. Rachel had told her about it recently, as she hadn’t kept up with any Mathering news since she’d left.
The dogs had rushed into the kitchen, sniffing for crumbs, only to flop, seemingly exhausted, in various places around the room. As Diana moved about, filling the kettle and cutting thick slices of banana bread, she stepped around them, as nimble as a ballet dancer.
“Take a seat,” she told Anna, who slowly unbuttoned her coat. As grateful as she was to be here, she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about whatever conversation was coming next. She hadn’t been in touch with Diana since she’d walked out of Embthwaite Farm one morning in December, having no idea where she’d go, only that she had to.
Months later, when she’d finally had the strength and wherewithal to reconnect with people, her daughters had been on the top of the list. When they’d both rebuffed her, she hadn’t seen the point of trying to reach out to anyone else in Mathering. It was too painful, and her life there had clearly come to an end. It felt safer and cleaner simply to cut all ties.
Yet here she was, in Diana Mackey’s kitchen, just like old times, the kettle starting to whistle as Diana pushed a plate with a slice of banana bread towards her.
“Get that inside you,” she said, which made Anna smile, because that was exactly the sort of thing Diana always said, as if banana bread or tiffin or whatever traybake she’d made was some sort of restorative medicine, and maybe it was.
Diana didn’t speak again until they were both settled at the table with cups of tea alongside the banana bread, the dogs settled by their feet, the Aga rumbling away.
“Well,” she said, and took a sip of tea. “Isn’t this a turn-up for the books.”
Anna managed a tiny, wry smile. “I suppose it is.”
“How did you hear about Peter?”
“Rachel phoned me.”
“That was good of her.”
