Twenty-two months later
The sun reflects down on the river outside Willow River Mill as I lean against the wooden garden table with my hands curled around my mug of tea. I lift my face up towards the sunshine; I want to make the most of the rays that are shining down on me before the freezing temperatures start again. It is getting chillier now. The nights are drawing in, and I have already started hoarding wood for the log burner. Fortunately, there is plenty of timber in the two acres that belong to the mill, and I have become quite handy with an axe since Craig left. In fact, I find chopping logs quite therapeutic at times. It gets all my frustrations out as I picture his face.
I look around the garden and thank my lucky stars that we randomly drove past the mill when it was for sale all those years ago. If it wasn’t for Craig making a wrong turn on the way to Llandovery and ending up accidentally heading down a single-track road, we wouldn’t have known about it. It is one of those places that you would never find unless you stumbled upon it, which is precisely what we did. There it was, all run down and uncared for, a bit like how I am feeling at the moment. It was as though it was meant to be, and we were its saviour. If only life were that easy. When we bought it and were so excited for our new start, I never expected that I would be living here alone all these years later, without Craig by my side. At least I am grateful that he had the decency not to fight over the house during the divorce. I suppose he wanted to get out of the marriage quickly when he knew all along that he wanted to marry Josephine and have babies with her. Number two is already on its way, and I suspect Josephine was pregnant with number one when he unceremoniously broke up with me.
I try not to think of either of them, and especially not the children they have that I couldn’t conceive. What good would it do to torture myself like that? Instead, I have kept myself to myself since the moment Craig walked out. I don’t need anyone. It is only at Christmas that it can get a little lonely, so that is why I have decided to no longer celebrate it.
Last Christmas, I mostly spent the day alone as Aunt Grace was in the hospital after a fall, and so, apart from my visit to her in the morning to give her some gifts, it was just me. My friends kindly asked me to have lunch with them, feeling sorry for me, but I pretended I had plans. I certainly wasn’t going to be that sad person that friends feel obliged to invite over. So, the truth is that I have pretended I have other plans for anything I am invited to for almost two years now. The more excuses that I make, the more people leave me alone.
My best friend, Liz, who I grew up with, doesn’t even check up on me any longer. She has given up. Of course, she isn’t to blame. There are only so many unanswered calls that a friend can take. Liz would come all the way out here at first and drop cakes on the doorstep. When she knew I was home, but not answering the door, she would shout through the letterbox and tell me how she had made me a carrot cake and to get it quickly before a fox came along. In fairness, they were lovely carrot cakes. But I couldn’t face seeing Liz because she has the perfect husband and three perfect children with cutesy names. I figured that she could never understand how I was feeling, and why should she?
The night that Craig walked out, my life immediately stopped. I no longer wanted to see anyone, not even my best friend, and only felt safe at home in Willow River Mill. It is as if my walls guard me from the harsh reality of the world. I don’t have to explain to anyone that my husband left me for a younger model to have kids with, and I can sit around in a dressing gown or onesie all day without anyone judging me. I don’t feel as if I need to be accepted into the world any longer. I am just me, with no make-up and greying hair that I choose not to colour. Some may say I have let myself go. I prefer the idea that I have decided not to conform to societal pressure.
I do make sure I get dressed properly some days, like when the supermarket delivery is due, or if I need my hair cut with the local mobile hairdresser. But, generally, I am mostly a hermit in a onesie. I grow vegetables in the garden, and I am pretty sure that this year my strawberries were better than any in the supermarkets. The blackberries this autumn were so juicy, and I made several tarts to store in the freezer. The idea is that I will eventually become completely self-sustainable. I don’t want to depend on anyone.
I smile to myself as I take in the rays of this most glorious November day, and I am thankful for my safe haven. I look around to tell someone what a lovely day it is, but nobody, apart from the postman or the odd angler, come out this way.
If only Aunt Grace were here, I could have called her for a chat. We always had the best conversations. It has been two months since she went to bed one night and never woke up, which is exactly how she would have wanted it.
As her next of kin, her solicitor keeps asking me to go to the office to discuss her last will and testament, but I can’t face going into town. It was a miracle that I managed to leave the house for her funeral, but I was determined not to let her down. It was incredibly hard for me, though, and I just wanted to run back home. It is far toopeoplyout there for me.
After staying out here for so long, I can’t bear the hustle and bustle of towns with their crowds. The thought of meeting with the solicitor is just too much for me. So, I have told them, they will have to do it the old-fashioned way and write me a letter with whatever they want to tell me. I can’t face speaking to them on the phone about it either. Aunt Grace always wrote people letters, so I am sure she would approve of that. She had penfriends all around the world at one point and always had the most beautiful stationery with matching envelopes on her bureau. She also sent charity Christmas cards. Nowadays, far too many people send e-greetings. When I enjoyed Christmas, I adored finding cards on my doormat. It doesn’t feel quite the same to get a ping in your inbox.
Time flies, even when you’re alone, and another Christmas is coming around so soon. My first without Aunt Grace. I will probably do the same as last year and have beans on toast and pretend it is another normal day in Olivia world where everyone has given up trying with me. I don’t know how I would react if someone held a Christmas cracker near me, but I’d imagine it wouldn’t only be the cracker that fell apart.
I head inside to change from my nightgown and dressing gown to my daywear of a furry blue onesie when the ringing of the home phone takes me by surprise.
I pick it up, holding it as far away from me as possible as though it is a poisonous snake. Who on earth could it be?
I pull the receiver closer to me as I hear a female voice on the other end of the phone. It is Charlotte, the HR manager at the bank.
‘Hey, Olivia, how are you doing?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’ Immediately I know the true purpose of her phone call. The bank was so supportive of me when I took sick leave and said that they would keep my job open for as long as it took for me to feel better. Thankfully, as Craig and I hadn’t gone away together for ages, some holiday time has been added to my salary, along with a few weeks of unpaid leave. However, the truth is that I still don’t feel any better, and the thought of sitting behind that glass panel all day handing out change and cashing people’s cheques fills me with dread. I can already imagine the small-town gossips coming in, asking me questions about Craig and his new wife. I don’t want to be the subject of this week’s gossip. I hear them in my mind saying things about me. How I look, how I seem emotionally. I would have felt trapped in that little kiosk, but it was inevitable that I would have to return one day. They can’t keep my position open forever. I try to calm down the panic in my voice before answering Charlotte about what my intentions are.
‘Um, I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it. I still don’t feel ready to come back in and face everyone, to be honest.’
‘Okay, I understand. I don’t want to push you, but we do need an answer. We can’t keep the job open indefinitely, I’m afraid.’
‘No, I get that. Can you give me a few more days to decide?’
‘Sure. How about I call you at the end of the week?’
‘That’ll be fine. Thank you for your patience.’
Putting the phone down I realise the time to face reality has finally arrived. I can’t sit around all day any longer. My money is starting to run out no matter how much I try to live sustainably. The thought of being back in the corporate world makes me feel terrified. I know I am lucky that they have been so supportive and paid me sick pay for so long, but the day has finally come when I must consider returning, and that is a highly scary proposition. Whatever will I do?
I take a blackberry tart out to defrost from the freezer. Comfort eating is a terrible habit of mine. Only lashings of cream and a piece of tart are going to make me feel better about the decision I have to make. I pop the kettle on for a cup of tea to soothe my throat, which has suddenly gone dry, when there is a knock on the door. My goodness, it is like Piccadilly Circus here today. A phone callanda knock on the door in one day is practically unheard of.
As I reach the front room, I can see the postie’s van from the window.
‘Hiya, lovely. You alright?’ says Ken when I open the front door. He is always so jolly and my favourite of all the postmen. He never complains in the winter about the icy road up here, unlike some of the other posties.
‘Yes, all good, thank you. What do you have for me today?’
‘Ooh, not sure. But you’ll have to sign for this one. Important, is it?’
‘Hmm, looks like it.’ It must be the letter I am expecting from the lawyer.
