‘Yeah. I need to get my head round everything. Catch my breath.’
‘You should go out on the horses – have you met Brett properly?’
‘Yes, he treated my sprained ankle,’ I reply, following her up the stairs to the kitchen.
‘He’s really nice. I couldn’t believe it when I was told he was in prison.’
‘No! What for?’
‘It was when he was, like, eighteen – he robbed a shop in Glasgow. I mean, so the rumour goes.’
‘Good God.’
‘Oh, don’t be scared. He’s the nicest person I know. Like most of the staff, he got a job here at Last-Chance Saloon. That’s what Anis calls it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because most people here are on the run, or at the end of the road. Irene collects strays.’
‘Are you a stray?’
‘Not yet,’ she says with a grin. ‘Seriously, go riding! Get Brett to take you out on one of the horses. There’s an amazing trek right along the loch. He should have time.’
‘Oh shit, no. I’m too scared,’ I reply.
‘Don’t be scared. He’ll put you on one of the old ones, you’ll be fine. Do it!’ she says, grinning. ‘I promise you’ll love it.’
‘Okay, Roxy,’ I say, humouring her.
Then she’s gone. Almost skipping down the hill to the cottages.
The sun is more powerful this afternoon,almostwarming. I shrug my trench off and toss it over my shoulder, as the ground below me becomes more sodden and muddy.
I pull out my phone and there’s a message from Tim.
It’s shit in London. Damo isn’t drinking this week and they’ve shut down the Rose and Crown for the new rail line.
Nothing to do in London when his favourite pub is closed issoTim. If I was there, we would have been moaning about it together and moping along to the Market Porter, to try to make do with a substandard pale ale at tourist prices for Tim, and rancid white-wine spritzers for me. I miss the markets in Borough, though. Our favourite haunt: me and Heather. Mooching around on a Saturday morning was great, but we most liked to go after work on a Friday night. Heather knew the staff at several of the restaurants, so there was always somewhere to pull up a pew and get drunk.
Tim only ever went to the Rose and Crown, though. And without fail he would end up doing something hilarious, like swimming naked in the Thames, being photographed by tourists who had accidentally strayed south of Tower Bridge and were astonished to learn that not all English people are from Downton Abbey, or Mary Poppins.
I wander downwards and come to what has to be the now thoroughly overgrown kitchen garden, a fenced-off rectangle on a slope, with a half-dozen terraces joined by little well-trodden walkways.
From here, the house is mostly obscured by the bank. Two horses lazily eat grass behind the stables, and I can just make out the top of one of the cottages.
I decide to keep walking down the bank.
The valley hits the river upstream from where I started the walk with James the other day, so I know there is a path I can follow. I struggle through some waist-high bushes and tumble out onto it. I decide to walk in the opposite direction, downstream, to see where it comes out. I know there is a loch here, but I’ve not seen it yet. The windy path has been neatly cleared for hikers. Then it takes a sharper turn downwards, but the roots of the trees have formed natural little stairs and I can easily make my way down.
As the trees ahead start to thin, the stony river spreads to a wide, low stream, cutting ribbons through the pebbles as it races to join the mass of cool, dark-blue water ahead. I pick up speed and chase the river out onto the bank, and gasp.
A beautiful lake – loch – dark and wild, with bare grey-and-green hills rising up on all sides. The wind blows gently around my ankles and up my body in little gusts. Above, sheets of grey-and-white clouds blow slowly across the sky, obscuring the sun and plunging the temperature down momentarily. I spot a large, flat rock to my right and decide to sit and take in the view. There is something about this kind of beauty that reflects back to us the best we can be.
I feel, for a moment, absolutely at peace.
My mind wanders back to London and sitting on the pier in Wapping by the Prospect of Whitby with Heather, staring out across the Thames. She had just turned eighteen and had finally received the inheritance her father had left her. It was a weird, bittersweet moment.
She had wanted to drink and talk about her dad. It was one of those strange, disconnected conversations where I struggled to find true empathy. I couldn’t imagine losing my dad, but I also couldn’t imagine truly caring about it. How do you care about losing someone who believes, likereallybelieves, that 5G and Bill Gates are the greatest threats to humans since vaccines? But for Heather, it was like she had lost her handsome prince. Her absolute everything.
