Page 45 of The Start of the Story
‘I have to tell them he’s gone.’
‘What, them as is under the stone?’
Lilian stopped and turned. Nell took a step back. She’d never seen her friend look like that before, red-rimmed eyes and a face so white that her freckles stood out like pebbles. ‘I have to tell them.’
‘That’s bees, Lil. You tells the bees when someone is… when something happens.’
‘He was going to marry me, Nell. He really was. He said so before he went away, he said, when he got leave first thing he’d do was find me and marry me.’
‘I know.’
‘And I have to go to the Stone and tell them he won’t be coming.’ Lilian stumbled and then crumpled to the ground. ‘He won’t be coming, Nell. Not ever.’
Nell sat down on the damp tussocky grass and put her arms around her friend, while she sobbed and sobbed herself into blank-faced acceptance.
Now
We unpacked, cooked and ate whilst chatting about weather and childhood pets, nothing meaningful, and went to bed. I lay in my chilly room, listening to the water run past over the ford in the quiet air, and tried not to think about Connor, lying similarly quietly in his room, a wall’s thickness away.
He’s not Elliot.
But Elliot’s gone.
I like him. He’s rather sweet, in a peculiar way. Great cook. And his conversations aren’t that bad.
But he’s not Elliot.
Am I so lonely that I’d fall for any man that was nice to me? Any man that made the nights feel a little less dark and long?
Elliot wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t want me moping and weeping forever. After all, if I had died, would he be still living alone? Or would he have kept my memory but moved on in the real world? He was pragmatic, he worked with wood. He saw how life didn’t have to come to a dead stop just because of death – it might take a different shape from that moment, but it went on.
Am I so lonely that I’m seeing something that isn’t there? He’s kind, he didn’t want me spending Christmas alone, that’s why he invited me to Dublin. He’s never so much as put a toe over the landlady/tenant line. He’s been nothing but friendly, and I’m mooning over him.
And he’s not Elliot.
But Elliot’s gone…
I fell asleep and woke late to a chill grey light and a sense of relief that Connor was flying to Dublin, and I’d got at least a week to get my sensible head back on. By the time he got back I’d be deep into the book, I’d be busy and casual and dismissive. I’d have fixed that damp patch over the door, and he could be as friendly and cook as many meals as he liked, but I’d be looking forward to his eventual removal back to Ireland.
Besides, he still wanted to lift my stone.
I stretched and yawned into the quiet. Maybe Connor had already gone? A late flight didn’t mean he might not have wanted an early start. I pulled on my dressing gown and padded down the stairs to the kitchen for tea, with a sense of relief.
Connor hadn’t gone. He was sitting glumly at the table, staring alternately out of the window and at his phone. He hadn’t even put the kettle on yet.
‘What’s up?’ I asked cautiously.
In answer, he waved at the window. A duck perched on the ledge, waiting for crusts.
‘Yes? They can’t get in, you know.’
‘No, beyond the duck.’
I crouched to see past the feathery bulk and saw the snow. It lined the river edges, so that the water cut through its deep whiteness like a black thread. Further back the hills wore a uniform white. The track was invisible and the trees that overhung it had branches so heaped with snow that they bent beneath its weight as though the wind had become visible.
‘Oh, bugger,’ I said.
‘Bugger is right. I’ve rung every taxi company for twenty miles, and nobody is moving today anywhere off the main road.’ He stared at his phone screen again as though a miracle might be about to burst forth. ‘The amount of snow seems to have caught everyone by surprise,’ he said, glumly.
