I shake my head. ‘Sad, I think.’ I like that Patrick had been thinking of ways to make Lucy happier. We’d reached for exactly the same solution: Sullivan Scrimengor and a holiday romance. Shows what webothknow.
Patrick blows out a hard exhale. ‘That’s a shame. You’re really close, you two, aren’t you?’
‘We were, once. She’s opening up slowly, though.’
I’d feel a lot less happy about leaving her back at the cottage alone if I hadn’t seen her at the kitchen table turning to the first page in her sketchbook and opening up the little palette of paints I bought her. I’d left them out for her to discover this morning when she woke. Things have felt so bleak and Lucy’s looked even more lost since the exhibition was destroyed and she has nothing to do. I didn’t want to wait any longer to give them to her.
She didn’t dip her brush, at least not while I was there getting ready for my afternoon out, but she was contemplating it, I think. There’s nowhere for her to hide away now, pretending everything’s fine, keeping busy with my failed projects (the grotto and even the online dating). Maybe now she’ll focus on herself and her own interests. Might that make her happier? I hope so.
I scrunch the empty paper cone in my hands and reach once more for my posy. Their sweet honey scent hits me, and I bring it to my chest. ‘Winter flowers definitely have the edge over summer ones,’ I say, wanting to try and focus on this moment and not let my mind be dragged back to Wheaton.
We’re reaching the end of the path and Patrick gently guides me by the elbow, the touch lasting only a second. ‘This way,’ he says. The route breaks off into four smaller paths. We take the one leading off to the farthest left. ‘More people turn right for some reason, some kind of human preference; it’ll be quieter along here.’
‘I’ve read about that, I think. Something to do with right-handedness?’
‘Ah, well, I’m left-handed,’ he says as we break away. ‘Maybe that’s why I always end up on my own.’ He realises he’s made a joke and it sounded sorrier than he intended so he laughs to chase away any hints of self-pity, but I felt a little shift in the air too. There was some truth in what he said. I think of Charlie taking over the family business, taking his girlfriend, being the favourite of the two.
‘Do you get lonely, living alone?’ he asks, like we’ve both been thinking the same thing.
‘Um, yeah, of course I do. I’ve lived with other people more than I’ve lived by myself, and it’s still strange waking up on my own in an empty house.’
Patrick takes this in, nodding in agreement. ‘I’ve never lived with anyone. I don’t know if it’s the late-night drives home from this place and letting myself in to a dark house that’s doing it, but I wish I had someone waiting for me.’
I keep my eyes on the bark chips underfoot as I tread. ‘I know exactly what that feels like.’
‘Don’t let your Mum know, or she’ll ship one of her strays straight to your door.’
I’m grateful he made the joke, so we can relax again. I tell him he’s right; Mum doesn’t need any encouragement.
‘I don’t like to think of you being lonely, though,’ I add once the silence settles around us again, and Patrick doesn’t reply.
The gardens grow quieter the deeper we go down the path and under the tree line. We seem to be walking away from the blaze of changing colours lighting up the mist in the air where, over on our left, even though I can’t see it from here, Dunham Gravey House is situated, a grand Victorian home made of light Cotswold stone, all turrets and towers.
‘Is this really part of the lights walk?’ I ask as we’re forced to walk closer together by the increasingly narrow path.
‘See that glow up ahead?’ he says, and sure enough, there’s a peachy colour rippling through the rustling beech hedges. ‘We have to head towards it.’
Passing through a gap between the brown hedges, we find ourselves inside the skeleton framework of a parterre garden, all bare branches and low box topiary. We’re sheltered a little from the cold of the late afternoon by the towering horse chestnut trees over our heads. There’s a grey statue of a sylphlike woman lifting a basket above her head in the middle of the space, which has the intimacy of an outdoor room.
It’s a moment before I register them, but all around us in the bare flower beds are the tiniest pinpricks of coloured light at the heads of black stalks.
‘Hah,’ I gasp, seeing their soft glow, and as if by magic, each little light bursts into a bloom of hot pink before fading again. ‘What was that?’ I ask, and again the lights explode, into teal green this time, brighter and lasting longer than the pink, before dying away again.
‘They’re voice-activated,’ Patrick whispers, and the lights shimmer tiny and white.
‘They are?’ A burst of yellow heats up the night, then disappears just as fast. ‘Oh, I love them!’ Those words are translated into a thousand blushing red bursts.
‘This bit of the display’s made by a local artist,’ Patrick tells me. ‘To turn sounds into light. There are hidden sensors in the trees.’ As he speaks, all around us, there’s a brief riot of rainbow colours. My laugh sets a small cluster of lights glowing a low orange.
‘It’s not just voices it translates,’ says Patrick. ‘The sensors can hear the trees rustling, and they pick up birdsong. You should have seen the place at sunset last week when a flock of starlings came for my sandwich crumbs.’
He’s smiling in a flush of blue and indigo lights, and I picture him here alone, eating his sandwiches before his shift begins, not even having time to go home after the school day. He works so hard and he doesn’t complain about anything.
‘Try moving around,’ he says.
I have to think for a second what he means but when I shift my boots against the crispy conifer chips that mulch the footpath there’s a scuffing sound that brings the colours back.
Laughing, I dance along the path, which is fine because there’s nobody else here; they all took the three busy, brightly lit paths to the right, just as Patrick predicted.
