He wants to tell Maggie once again that the barn should not be rented out, to press his case urgently, but she’s heard it before, and he can’t stand to see any more sympathy in her eyes. She’ll understand how he feels but she’ll only say, “We can’t vet people before they arrive here,” and “We need the money,” and she’s right so he keeps his mouth shut and concentrates on driving them safely up the track.
The journey up to the barn is difficult. It takes about twenty minutes and the steeper they climb, the more the Land Rover lurches and rolls. Finally, the track curves sharply and they emerge from woodland high in an isolated valley.
You can see for miles, but Dark Fell Barn is the only building in sight. In every direction, below racing clouds, shadow and light play chase across the limitless terrain. Perspective contracts and expands. Layers of detail are shrouded then revealed as conditions change. Colors are fickle, dulling one moment, intensifying thenext. Textures look velvety and welcoming, before turning raw and pitiless.
John Elliott has spent his entire life here and loves it with his whole heart. He knows he’s losing his memory and knows that reality, for him, is now warped and no longer easily navigable, and that Maggie is his only anchor to it.
But he makes a daily vow to himself that he will never forget his purpose as custodian of this land.
Rain hits the car windscreen like a handful of pebbles. Ruth, in the passenger seat, flinches and looks behind to check on Emily. Maternal habits are hard to break, even if newly acquired. Ruth’s baby, Alfie, is only six months old and she feels practically rabid with protective hormones, but knows that she mustn’t treat Emily as a child substitute just because she’s so young.
That would be wrong in so many ways. They are three women of equal status, married to best buddies, and Ruth hopes that by the end of the weekend she’ll be able to count Emily as a new friend.
Ruth fires off another text to Toby asking if he’s arrived safely at his sister’s house. He hasn’t replied to any of her recent texts, but he should be there by now, playing the white knight. Like the other two husbands, he found a last-minute reason not to travel up to the barn today and Ruth isn’t happy about it. Long weekends away are a ritual for their gang and this year the talk has been that getting away is more important than ever, in the aftermath of Rob’s death.
So, what a time for Toby to prioritize a sister who never lifts a finger for him! When does he ever prioritize Ruth, his wife? Or, for that matter, their son?
She knows she probably shouldn’t send so many messages—more than ten in the last hour—but it drives her mad how badToby is at texting, especially at a time like this when he’ll know full well that she’ll be wanting reassurance.
It’s just not the sort of thing he cares about, though. His phone is an old model he refuses to upgrade. His head is always in his research and as a result he’s disorganized, overly reliant on Ruth to run their lives. She used to love that about him; it made her feel useful, as if she was an excellent supportive wife, and became another area of life that she could excel in. But since the baby it’s become overwhelming.
Alfie should be waking up from his afternoon nap about now. Since she left home this morning, she’s felt uneasy, unsure whether her mother will have the patience to look after Alfie the way Ruth would like her to.
Ruth stayed up late last night writing pages of notes on how to care for him, covering every eventuality she could think of, but her mother took them from her almost offhandedly and didn’t so much as glance at them. Ruth made her promise she would read them, but who knows if she will. Professor Flora MacNeill always knows best.
Ruth sighs and shifts position. She’s uncomfortable in body as well as in mind. The waistband of her jeans is digging into her. There’s a coffee stain on her cotton top. A quick check in the vanity mirror confirms that her mascara has migrated to stain her cheeks and it resists a tidy-up with a licked finger. She stops trying when the car jolts over a pothole and she almost stabs herself in the eye. She feels mumsy and frumpy by comparison to the other women. Emily is gorgeous, young and svelte. Jayne is whippet thin and super fit, her face bare of cosmetics. She radiates health and certainty.
Jayne turns off the wipers when they start to squeak. The rain has stopped. It was a passing squall, violent but moving swiftly. Nothing to get excited over.
“You okay?” Jayne asks, glancing at Ruth. “You’re frowning.”Jayne is dismayed by how tired and strung-out Ruth seems. Ruth hasn’t been as silent as Emily during this journey but has definitely not been her usual chatty self either. There are bags under her eyes and her skin has a pasty, plump look to it, as if Ruth hasn’t been taking care of herself in the past weeks since Jayne last saw her.
“I’m fine.” Ruth closes the mirror and tries to stretch, forcing her shoulders back, feeling the muscles resist. Jayne is a good friend. Never effusive or excitable but steady and kind. A safe pair of hands. Worth putting on a brave face for. “Looking forward to getting there.”
“Are you worried about leaving Alfie?”
Ruth’s grateful for the question, for Jayne’s thoughtfulness, though it won’t do to admit how deeply anxious she feels. It would be embarrassing in front of Emily. “A bit.”
“He’ll be fine.”
Ruth nods, but gratitude has turned to irritation because the comment smarts. People always give bland rejoinders like that when she verbalizes her worries about the baby. It’s almost a reflex, an automatic response. But what if her worries deserve more serious attention? A follow-up question perhaps? One displaying concern and consideration?
Ruth finds being a new mother the most intimate but also the loneliest of places. She wonders when she last felt she connected to her friends. It was before Alfie was born, certainly. A sense of loss comes with the realization that it’s probably almost a year since she got together with some of them.
Even being back at work at the surgery hasn’t helped her isolation; in fact it’s made it worse. Working full-time, which is necessary because she and Toby need the money, means she lost the mum friends she made during maternity leave because she could no longer make it to their coffee mornings or baby groups.
Her days are packed. She’s either commuting, dropping Alfie at nursery, or at work racing through her patient list and worryingabout what she’s missing out on at home. There doesn’t ever seem to be time for casual chats with colleagues or after-work drinks with friends. Everything feels hurried. And she feels permanently inadequate, as if she’s not doing anything well.
She checks her phone. Her mother hasn’t replied to the last text she sent either, but to be fair cell reception is becoming patchy.
Anxiety feels like pressure that germinates in her chest and radiates into every part of her body.
Before she had Alfie, she was enthusiastic about motherhood. Wanted it, looked forward to it, prepared diligently for it, reading every book on babies that she could get her hands on, consulting recent medical research. No detail was too small for her to take seriously; nothing was going to catch her out.
This was how Ruth had always approached life, how she’d achieved her dream of becoming a doctor and how she’d tried to live up to her family’s expectations. Rigor. Attention to detail. Hard work.
She was astounded after Alfie’s birth to find out how useless all her planning was. Instead of having a sense of control, she felt feral and instinctual about motherhood the moment they placed her son on her tummy and everything she’d read suddenly became redundant. It was as if she’d undergone a personality change during his birth.
She became obsessed with the vulnerable flop of his damp head, the delicate folds of his skin, every single detail of him. In the last six months she’s experienced the most powerful feelings she’s ever felt in her life. Sometimes she thinks she could eat Alfie up for dinner and want more of him for dessert. There’s nothing she wouldn’t do for him.
