Amelia Grey's Fireside Dream (29 page)

She walked away without a backward glance. Striding towards the check-in desk, Mirabel was more of a woman than when she’d arrived.

*

When I got back to the cottage the carpet fitters were there, putting the oatmeal carpet down in the living room. Already the whole room looked different – intimate and cosy.

I brought in the remainder of the furniture from storage – Grandma Niki’s walnut drinks cabinet and side table, the armchairs I’d picked up cheap in an eBay auction – and, with help from one of the fitters, our sofa from home.

When the fitters had left I put some music on and draped the sofa with the warm red fabric throw I’d made. Singing, I hung up the matching curtains, put our books on the bookshelves and arranged our ornaments on the furniture
and windowsills. I took out the wedding photo of me and Jack by Clifton Suspension Bridge, and put it in the centre of the mantelpiece.

I sat back on the sofa and took it all in. The living room was finally finished. Everything was right.

And yet nothing was right at all.

On the Mood Board

Cream and green-apple wallpaper to complement the view into the front garden. Re-carpet in oatmeal or cream. Antique wooden desk and chair facing outwards. Swatches of organic colours – greens and browns
.

Saturday, 30 November

November had brought with it a deepening chill, and it seemed as if every time I looked out of our windows, the frost on the oak tree and hedges was brighter and thicker. Wandering through the garden that morning, with a cup of hot chocolate in my hand, I felt I should be in an advert for country life. But at the same time I felt like a fraud. Our country idyll was just mine now.

Back inside, the cottage was blissfully warm, especially now I’d got the woodburning stove in the dining room going. I’d bought an Advent calendar ready for the start of the new month, and begun collecting holly and evergreens from the garden ready to make Christmas decorations. The golden early autumn days when Jack and I had first moved into the cottage, and when everything was still simple between us, seemed a long time ago. It felt almost normal now, just me in the cottage, alone.

We’d been using the smallest room upstairs, with the view of the apple tree, as a bit of a dumping ground since we first moved in. All the pieces of furniture that didn’t have a home, and the paintings that weren’t our favourites, and the lever-arch files full of papers that we’d never known where to put them, were in there, piled on top of each other, so that the little room was a microcosm of the chaos the whole cottage had been in when we’d first arrived.

Today I had time to tackle it. I brought in the steamer and began stripping down the dark wallpaper – a nicotine-stained William Morris design that must have been there since David and his brother were children. Below it was a layer of rosebud paper. By the door I saw dates and heights marked in pencil – Ewan and David’s names were still legible. I ran my finger over them. It seemed a shame to cover them up.

The rolls of apple-print wallpaper I’d got discounted in
town were in the corner of the room. This room was where I’d put my sewing machine – I’d have all the space I wanted to make cushions and even dresses now. Dexter meowed in the doorway, and rubbed himself up against the frame.

Not that I’d have as much free time for things like that – I was working a bit now and hopefully would be able to do even more in the new year. I’d recently covered a few English classes at Woodlands Secondary, and enjoyed every minute of them. The teenagers were bright and enthusiastic and had read all of the set texts – they even listened without me having to shout when I asked them questions, and participated dutifully in the activities I gave them. It felt like another world – I was finally able to use some of the techniques and plans I’d learned at college, rather than just disciplining pupils all the time. While I missed some of my students from St Catherine’s, the change was refreshing.

Charlotte Jacobs had called me earlier in the week asking if I could do some more supply work in the new year, and confirming that they’d be interviewing for a new English teaching post in the spring.

‘Your CV’s right at the top of my pile,’ she’d told me on the phone. ‘I do hope we’ll be seeing you, Amelia.’

While I’d needed a break, not teaching had left me feeling like part of me was missing – I couldn’t wait to get started again. There was something else I’d been mulling over too.

From the window, I could see Rachel and Fred’s farm. I thought again of the change in Mirabel, and wondered what might happen if only I could get some of Class 10E here: Trey, Paul, Shanice and the other students who never got out of the city, not even for a single day. Was there a way that I could bring some of them down here and show them something different? The country, albeit just in books and films, had given me an escape when I was a kid. Perhaps the real thing could do even more? Perhaps the less troubled teenagers at Woodlands Secondary would benefit from placements of a few days too?

I put down the steamer and decided to drive over to Rachel and Fred’s farm. There was something I wanted to ask them.

*

Back at the cottage, I sat on the window seat in the spare bedroom and dialled St Catherine’s.

‘Is that Lewis Garrett?’ I asked, when a familiar male voice picked up.

‘Speaking.’

‘Hi, Lewis, it’s Amelia. Amelia Grey.’

‘Hello, Amelia. It’s good to hear from you again.’

‘Yes, I suppose I wasn’t really expecting to be calling,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Is everything going well?’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘I hope you know by now how sorry we were to lose you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I have some good news to pass on, actually.’

‘Don’t tell me – you haven’t seen Paul O’Reilly for detention since I left?’

‘Oh, I’m afraid not. He’s in here every week, like before. Mr Kilfern’s not having any more luck with him. Trey Donoghue’s back in class, though, and seems to have pulled his socks up a bit since last term.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I said, feeling a glow as I pictured Trey’s formerly empty desk by the window, with him seated in it once more.

‘But actually the good news is to do with Isabel Humphries. I’m delighted to be able to tell you that she’s recovering well, is currently in remission, and should be returning to work with us in the spring term.’

A smile broke out on my face. Isabel’s chemotherapy had worked!

‘That’s fantastic news.’

‘We’re all delighted,’ Lewis said. ‘She looks better. Much better.’

‘Please give her my love.’

‘Of course I will. Was there something in particular you were calling about?’

‘I had an idea I wanted to run past you, actually. Something to give the pupils a break, particularly those who don’t often get the chance to get out of the city.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Lewis said, curious.

‘There’s a farm near where I live. It wouldn’t take long for me to bring a few of the teenagers down on a coach, maybe once a term. They could spend the day helping out – get a break from the city, do something different. The farm owners would be happy to talk them through what happens, and if they can lend a hand with some of the work, well, all the better.’

‘Hmm … I rather like the idea,’ Lewis said, mulling it over. ‘Let me discuss it with a few people, and I’ll get back to you. But I don’t see why not.’

*

I got back to working in the apple-tree room. By midday the walls were ready to be re-papered, and I’d sugar-soaped the window frame and skirting so that it was all prepared for a fresh coat of wood paint.

I took a break and went down into the kitchen to make myself some lunch. I buttered some bread and took out some ham and some fresh salad from the fridge. Next year, I thought to myself, there might be vegetables from our very own vegetable patch. It would feel good to get out there and start growing things.

Apart from the dining room, the cottage makeover was now nearly complete.

My mobile rang.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I answered.

‘Hello, darling,’ she said. I could hear right away that something was wrong.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’m at home and Callum and David are here with me. We’ve just had a call from Eleanor’s neighbour to say that she’s gone missing.’

I could hear Callum and his father in the background, talking to each other.

‘Oh no, that’s awful,’ I said.

‘Yes. Something must have spooked her. Apparently the neighbour saw her wandering up the road in her nightdress about an hour ago. We’ve taken the car out for a drive around but there was no sign – David’s been in touch with her other neighbours and one thought they saw her heading back home, so we’ve been back and forth today.’

‘Poor Eleanor,’ I said, thinking of the frail woman I’d seen on the high street from Sally’s cafe. The winter chill had intensified over the past few weeks and the weatherman said there was a frost coming – these weren’t the conditions for a pensioner to be wandering around the village in her night clothes for hours on her own.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Mum said. ‘This is a long shot, I know. We wondered if there was a chance she might have walked back to the cottage on autopilot. You know how cats can be? Not comparing her to a cat, but you know what I
mean … Would you be able to give the place a quick check, just so that we can eliminate it from the search before we get the police involved?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a look right now.’

I thought of the morning’s painting – to air the house I’d left the front door and ground-floor windows open. As Eleanor knew the house so well, it was more than possible she could have found her way in without me even realizing.

‘Mrs McGuire,’ I called out softly, opening the door to the downstairs toilet, and then crossing the hallway to check the living room. The space was bare, and it was immediately clear that the room was empty – I wasn’t going to find her in there.

I climbed the stairs, continuing to call her name. I thought of how disorientating it would be for her – to arrive back at her familiar home, at the cottage, but find that everything had changed, her bedroom furniture no longer crammed into the ground-floor rooms, all her things gone.

I looked into the rooms hurriedly, worried about leaving her alone and bewildered for any longer than was necessary – after the walk down from her bungalow she might already be suffering from the cold. I checked the room I’d been painting – nothing. The house was empty.

There was one last option – I glanced up at the attic. But no – Callum had said she couldn’t even get up the main staircase these days.

I headed back downstairs and called Mum back. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve searched the house but there’s no sign of her.’

‘Thanks for looking, love. It was just an idea. And I suppose we were all hoping it might be the answer, given that your place is safe and warm. But it was only a silly hunch.’

‘It was worth trying,’ I said. ‘Well, good luck tracking her down, and if there’s anything else I can do, just let me know.’

I hung up, and looked over at the sandwich I’d started to make. My hunger had disappeared. I tore the bread into pieces. The birds would want it.

I put on a thick wool cardigan and opened the back door, and an icy blast entered the kitchen. I pulled the sleeves over my hands and looked out over the garden. As I put the bread out on the bird table I saw a flash of white in the distance, down by the stream. It disappeared as quickly as I caught sight of it. I stepped further out into the garden and made my way down the paving-stone path that led to the stream. After a few steps I spotted the white-clad figure again, and this time I could see her properly – a woman of Eleanor’s age, her white hair loose, pacing up and down by the side of the water.

‘Mrs McGuire?’ I called out. She seemed lost in her own world and didn’t look up – but I could tell it was her. The features, so much like her son’s and grandson’s, were un- mistakeable.

‘Mrs McGuire,’ I tried again. This time she tilted her head towards me and there was a glimmer of recognition in her bright green eyes. Not of me – but of her own name. She smiled at me.

‘The garden,’ she said softly as I drew nearer.

‘Here,’ I said, taking off my thick wool cardigan and passing it to her. ‘Put this on. You must be cold out here.’

She shook her head, then reluctantly put her arms into the sleeves and pulled it around her. ‘I was cold. But the garden,’ she said, with a faint smile, ‘is pretty this time of year, isn’t it? I’ve always taken good care of it.’

I saw now that her feet were clad only in slippers, and her pale white legs, with veins showing through the paperthin skin, had a blue tinge.

‘It’s a lovely garden,’ I said. ‘Beautiful. Shall we go inside?’ I asked, holding out my hand.

‘No,’ she replied stubbornly. ‘I came here to be by the stream.’

I offered my hand again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten her reasons for wanting to stay, and took it, walking slowly with me towards the warmth of the cottage.

‘I’ll get you a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘And some cake. And then I’m going to call David and he can come and get you. You’ve had everyone worried, you know. Your family care about you a lot.’

‘Too much,’ she muttered. ‘For the liar I am.’

After the slow walk, we arrived at the kitchen. Her eyes came to rest on the one feature from her time at the cottage – the Aga in the corner, and she seemed comforted by its familiarity.

I put the kettle on, thankful that the other, newer features in the kitchen didn’t seem to have alarmed her.

‘I’m just going to call your son and let him know you’re OK.’

‘If you have to,’ she said, sitting down at the table.

I called Mum and told her that Eleanor was fine, and that she was inside now, getting warmed up. I heard the relieved responses of David and Callum in the background.

‘You came back to the cottage,’ I said, putting her tea down in front of her. She eyed it suspiciously.

‘I came for her things,’ she said. ‘I need to find them. She took my hand in hers and looked me directly in the eye. ‘You know.’