‘One of us?’
‘Yes. We have a hive mind. Just stand in the street and shout. We’ll all come running.’
She winks to show that she’s joking, and disappears off with her wicker basket. She pauses outside, watching the men appreciatively as they work. Matt gives her a hug and she melts into him a little. I don’t miss the fact that she gives his bottom a little slap as they part, and can’t help but smile. That kind of togetherness has never been for me, but it’s very pleasant to see anyway.
The removal men, along with their newfound helpers, make short work of the rest of the unpacking. I didn’t bring everything I own because I wanted to leave the London flat habitable, and because my new home is on the petite side. After an hour orso, the lorry finally moves on– without a single beeped horn or angry motorist objecting to their visit at all. Unreal.
Matt, Cal and Sam stay for a few minutes more, asking if I need anything else. ‘You’ll probably decide you want the furniture moved around,’ says Sam, raising his eyebrows. ‘Women always do that.’
I raise my eyebrows right back– it’s impossible to take offence at his playful tone, but I feel obliged to try. ‘Right. Well, it’s good that you’ve got us all figured out.’
‘Lord no,’ he replies, looking horrified. ‘I grew up with a million sisters and I live with two women, but you all remain a mystery to me. Anyway. Hope you settle in okay. We’ll see you around, in the pub or the café or whatever.’
‘Thank you,’ I say firmly, ‘all of you. You’ve made it so much easier. I owe you all a pint.’
I have no plans whatsoever to spend a night in the pub with the villagers, but I’m sure there’s a way I can leave some money behind the bar as a gesture of my appreciation.
By the time I am finally blissfully alone again, it is approaching evening. Thanks to Laura, I don’t even need to go to the shops, and the night is my own. I stand in the middle of the kitchen, gazing out at my little patio garden, and enjoy a flush of contentment. It feels peaceful here, but there is a pharmacy nearby for emergency antibiotics in case I develop a flesh-eating bug, and enough people that we could rebuild society if a solar flare takes out civilisation.
My mind is a strange place, like Sally is constantly pointing out. I’d love to say that ‘hope for the best, plan for the worst’ is my motto, but it’s actually just the second half. At least a few of those unloaded boxes contain emergency supplies that I will tuck away under my bed, just in case; I feel less anxious if I’m prepared. It might be crazy, but having a stash of multi-vitamins, first-aid stocks and water purifying tablets makes mefeel secure. And Sally didn’t think it was quite so crazy during the early days of the pandemic, when I was the only person in London with spare loo rolls and hand sanitiser.
I make up my bed and unpack essential toiletries, and then decide that it’s time to go and explore. I have work to do, but it will wait for me until tomorrow. My bike is here with me for longer trips, but for now I’d like to walk. The drive from London was long and stressful, and I need to decompress. I love walking, especially at this time of day– that perfect moment between light and dark. I have unravelled so many tricky plot points during a walk, come up with so many twists and turns, conjured up the scariest of villains, fixed so many problems. In my fiction, obviously. I’m not quite so good at fixing problems in real life.
It’s half six, and the little shops have all closed up. None of them have metal shutters over the windows, which is a nice surprise, and I enjoy browsing as I work my way down the street. There is a magnificent Halloween display in the storefront of the pharmacy, with models of vampires and werewolves all taking multi-vitamins and iron tablets, and a big felt black cat surrounded by antihistamines. A child– or a very bad artist– has drawn posters to go with them, in bright colours and rainbow-shaded block capitals. It’s all very imaginative.
I glance into any homes where the curtains are open, catching glimpses of life unfolding– domestic routines that are both mundane and fascinating to me. I stroll past the pub, the Horse and Rider, and hear laughter as I pass. I speed up a little, just in case I get sucked in. I’ve had more than enough social interaction today.
I notice a small community centre, and a glass-screened notice board promises me all kinds of excitement: a Knitting and Crochet Club, a choir, gardening sessions, and an upcoming talk on fossils by ‘our very own Sam’. There’s a pumpkin-carvingmasterclass, and the chance to sign up for a coach trip to Bristol to see the pantomime in December.
I can’t imagine myself at any of these events, but they make me smile anyway. There is also a small wooden sign directing me to a pet cemetery, but I decide against it. I love graveyards of all kinds, and enjoy piecing together the stories of people’s lives from the few words that summarise their time on earth. When I was a teenager, I preferred hanging around in the local cemetery on my own to hanging out in the local park with Sally, drinking cider and lounging on the roundabouts. Neither of us especially wanted to be at home, because it wasn’t an easy place to be– we just had very different avoidance techniques.
A pet cemetery might be a bit much for me tonight, though. I will inevitably cry about the loss of the beloved dogs and cats, because I’m a big softie when it comes to animals. And then my mushed-up mind will process it while I sleep, and I’ll have terrible nightmares about zombie Labradors and armies of undead Poodles. Then I’ll have to write it all down in the notepad I keep by my bed, because my 3am brain will tell me the nightmares might make good stories. Then I’ll wake up in the morning and decipher my scrawl and realise it’s all nonsense. This is a tried and tested series of events– I have a box of notepads full of such delirious scribbles.
I do as Laura instructed and follow the road down towards the sea. I can hear it calling me, and not just in my imagination– the village is quiet, and the sound of the waves is clear as I approach. I feel a little thrill, a sense that maybe I haven’t made a mistake after all. I reach a small car park, the only vehicle still here is a white van emblazoned with the words Comfort Food Café. The name is entwined with a pretty design of trailing red roses, and beneath is what I presume to be their company logo: ‘Making the world a better place, one cake at a time.’ It makes me laugh, and then it makes my stomach rumble whenI remember the treats that are waiting for me back home. Matt’s instruction to not eat the cake is going to be completely impossible.
I glance up at the cliffs and see what I presume to be the café in question perched on top of them. A couple of paths lead up towards it, and although the inside of the café itself is dim, strings of multi-coloured lights dance around the building. It looks so inviting, like a little beacon of hope and hot chocolate gazing down at me. Maybe I’ll go at some point, even if I am a little reluctant. I didn’t come here to make friends, or to immerse myself in the community. Everyone so far seems delightful, and kind, and keen to welcome me, and while most people might want that, I don’t. To me, it feels like the emotional version of nails scraping down a chalkboard. It’s not that I hate people– I really don’t– I’ve just learned that life is simpler if I don’t get too close to any of them. Or let any of them slide too close to me.
I walk down from the car park, along a rough sandy path that takes me to the beach. I stand there for a few moments, watching the sun slowly sink into the sea, the darkening sky a swathe of deep blue, streaks of purple, the glimmer of stars beginning to twinkle above me. I stare, and I breathe, and I almost cry– it is so very beautiful it makes my heart swell. It’s like I’m standing at the edge of the world, and anything could happen.
I sit on one of the big boulders that fringe the base of the cliffs, and I listen to the hiss and suck of the water on the sand. I sit there for a while, watching the day turn into night before my very eyes, and I allow myself a moment of complete and perfect peace. I do not get many of those, and I appreciate the ones that come my way.
I give it another ten minutes, letting my mind wander freely and feeling my body finally unwind after a challenging day. I stand and stretch my arms upwards, and close my eyes. Theuniverse flows around me, and I welcome it. This is my fresh start. This is my new home.
This is where I will begin again.
Chapter Two
I’m just about to head back up to the village when I hear a voice shout: ‘Ahoy there!’
I jump and curse myself for not having my keys gripped between my fingers like I would if I was walking in London. Then again, I decide, a vicious killer probably wouldn’t shout first to get my attention– plus the voice sounded female. Not that women can’t be vicious killers, but let’s face it, history tells us it’s a lot less likely.
I glance behind me, wondering if someone, or even something, has emerged from the sea– maybe a water goddess, or a mermaid! Nope, predictably enough. I look left and right, in case there is someone else on the beach I didn’t notice. Also nope. There is only one option left– I am hearing voices.
‘Up here!’ it shouts again. ‘At the café!’
I turn in that direction and see that there is a balcony facing out over the sea. I can only imagine how spectacular the view is from up there. On a clear day you can probably see to infinity and beyond. I see the rosy red glow of the tip of a cigarette, and it waves around like a little ghost spark. I have to assume that theghost spark is in the hands of a human, one who is waving to me. She seems to realise that I can’t really see her, and a sudden glow of light surrounds her face– the torch from her phone.
I’m not sure that’s much better, because now there’s a whole Blair Witch Project vibe going on instead. And I’m still too far away to make the face out properly.
