The Family. Louise Jensen
thought, late 30s I would guess. Shadow fell across his chin that could equally have been bruising or stubble.
‘You must be Laura.’ He was well spoken. I chided myself for being so judgemental as we shook hands. ‘Saffron told me you’d be coming. I’m Reed. Can I just say, we’re all very happy that you’re here.’
‘Umm, thanks.’
‘Really. I came here when I was in need and…’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, I know you’re in a bit of a bind and if anyone can help, Alex can. Carry on straight.’ He pointed down the track and his sleeve fell back exposing his forearm, the skin barely visible under his inkings. ‘You can’t go wrong.’
Still, I didn’t move. Wondering how he knew I was in trouble, and wishing he hadn’t said anything in front of Tilly. The last thing I wanted was for her to find out just how bad things were. Just what was I driving us into?
‘It’s okay.’ He caught my worried expression. The way my eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror at the signs. ‘The fence isn’t electrified. Don’t be afraid.’
‘Mum! What are you waiting for?’ Tilly asked.
Flustered, I put the car into gear and released the handbrake. We bunny-hopped forward and I tried not to flinch as the gates creaked shut behind us.
Trapped. I hated feeling trapped.
Out of the cover of the trees it was lighter. In the far distance I spotted smoke spiralling from a chimney, and even without the sun smiling down, the stone farmhouse surrounded by a scattering of outbuildings looked chocolate-box idyllic. I left my sense of foreboding behind with the flattened undergrowth and the worrying amount of security.
That just made it safer, didn’t it?
One snowy Sunday afternoon last winter, I had curled up with Gavan on the sofa after too many roast potatoes and herb-crusted pork loaded with apple sauce, and watched a documentary on the Amish.
‘It must be lovely to live without technology.’ I’d thrown a sideward glance at Tilly. She was tucked up in the armchair, mesmerised by her phone. It was nice to have her in the same room as us, but I doubt she registered we were there, let alone what we were watching. The modern day Pied Piper wouldn’t need a magic pipe, he could just wave an iPad. Through my 42 inch flat screen, fingers of tranquillity reached out and caressed me, and as I drove into Gorphwysfa that day there was the same sense of being transported back in time. I wouldn’t have been surprised to pass a horse and cart. Men in hats and braces. Women in capes and aprons. Children playing with hoops and sticks. Free-range chickens dipping their beaks for seed. Instead Saffron leaned against a Land Rover, waving as she saw us approach. I slotted my car next to a battered old minibus.
‘Laura!’ The second my feet touched the ground outside the car I was swept into a hug. Momentarily I stiffened. I didn’t like being touched, particularly by strangers, but then I relaxed into her embrace. It had been so long since I had been held. Besides, after she’d witnessed me twitching and writhing on the floor last week, the kindness she showed, it seemed churlish to try to maintain a distance between us. ‘I’m so pleased you’re here,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so worried. I’ve a feeling everything’s going to be all right now.’
The energy buzzing from her lifted me.
‘Saffron, this is Tilly, my daughter.’
Tilly muttered something incompressible and I shrugged a teenagers – what can you do to Saffron who melted my embarrassment with her hundred-watt smile. ‘Tilly I can’t tell you how good it is to meet you! You’re genuinely very welcome here. Now, Laura, I’ll take you across to Alex.’ She gestured away from the farm house, towards a woodland. ‘Did you want to wait here, Tilly? I’d hate for you to ruin those suede boots. They’re fabulous!’
Instead of giving a proper answer, Tilly shook her head. I threw her a where-are-your-manners glance.
We all set off, striding across the open field, the first spots of rain blowing into my eyes. My head bowed as I pushed against the blustery wind that snatched my breath. The bitter breeze biting my nose, the tips of my ears.
‘Not far now.’ Saffron led us into the woods where it was sheltered. I pushed down my hood, breathing in the scent of pine.
Sticks snapped underfoot as we weaved in and out of the autumn stripped branches and the evergreens. Trees towered above us, blocking the already receding light. Tilly was walking so close to me, our arms brushed.
‘I hope you know where you’re going,’ I said in the tone people use when they’re seeking reassurance, but pretending not to.
‘You see these?’ Saffron pointed to the bright white stones snaking through the gloom. ‘They’re kind of a path. It does all look the same here, particularly at night.’
A shudder ran through me at the thought of being out there in the pitch-black with the scuttling animals and the rustling bushes.
‘We have to be careful.’ She gestured with her hand over to the right. ‘There’s a ravine over there. Don’t want anyone falling down it. Hey, what do you call a nun lost in the woods? A Roamin’ Catholic. Geddit?’
I groaned.
‘Not one of my best! Anyhoo, we’re almost there.’
We followed our Hansel and Gretel trail for a few more minutes until we rounded a corner and there it was. A small whitewashed cottage. Smoke curling from the chimney. Storybook perfect. Gingerbread House enticing.
‘This was a weaver’s cottage,’ Saffron said as she pushed open the latched door. ‘It’s over a hundred years old.’
She kicked off her boots onto the mat in the porch. Tilly and I wobbled as we pulled off our footwear in the confined space. Elbows jabbing into walls. Into each other.
In the lounge, a fire crackled and hissed. The smell of wood smoke was comforting. Dark beams striped the low ceiling. A battered black leather sofa with a cross of duct tape over one cushion was angled by the cracked window. To its side, a coffee table stained with white rings. Two faded, mustard armchairs flanked the fireplace.
‘Wait here, Tilly,’ Saffron said. ‘I’ll take your mum through and then I’ll show you around the farm.’
Tilly’s gaze met mine, a don’t-leave-me expression on her face, but it was better that I talked to Alex in private. I didn’t want her to know how bad things really were.
‘You’ll have a lovely time, Tilly.’ I dragged myself away from her pleading eyes.
‘This was a dining room but it’s more of an office now,’ Saffron said as she pushed open the door to the adjoining room, and there he was.
Alex.
Dark hair curling over the neck of his cream fisherman’s jumper. A beard framing lips that spoke my name as if he’d said it a million times before.
‘Laura.’ His voice a soothing balm on a sting. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He was only around thirty but he carried the sense of confidence you’d expect from somebody older. He took my hand, his skin rough. His nut-brown eyes, flecked with gold, held mine. I was barely aware of Saffron saying goodbye. Her footsteps receding. The slamming of the front door. Hers and Tilly’s voices growing fainter.
‘Hello.’ It seemed rude to pull my hand away, and if I’m honest, I didn’t want to. Instead, I squeezed his fingers, not wanting to feel them slip away from mine. He released me first. Embarrassed, I did what I’d always done in uncomfortable situations; I babbled, cramming the tiny gaps of silence with words, but my voice trailed away when I noticed the shotgun propped against the desk.
In the far depths of my mind a memory slithered to the surface.
There’s nowhere to run to.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it. Panic rising as I remembered the fences, the wire, the locked gate.