Four years ago, I was more assertive and ready to stand up for my beliefs. If there was a march, I’d be on it. I suppose it’s in my genes. I come from a family of strong female activists. My great-grandmother was a suffragette; and my mother, a supporter of the ‘make love, not war’ campaigns of the 1960s, took part in the famous protest against the Vietnam War in Grosvenor Square when she was a teenager.
There I was, marching along with my flatmate Petra, and a guy fell into step beside me. After a while, he leaned over and said, ‘Hi, would you mind holding this? I need to tie my shoelace, but I can’t stop walking in this crowd. I’m going off to the side, but I’ll find you.’
‘Uh, sure,’ I replied, taking his sign, which said ‘I SHOULD BE STUDYING, BUT I’M AGAINST THIS SHIT’. He took off into the crowd, and we kept walking.
Petra rolled her eyes. ‘Doh, you shouldn’t have agreed. That’s the last you’ll see of him. He’s scarpered off to the pub. Now you’re lumbered with two signs.’
‘He’ll be back,’ I said, trusting that the cute intellectual-looking guy with the messy brown hair and glasses would keep his word.
Five minutes later, he was there again by my side.
‘Told you I’d find you,’ he said with a grin, taking back his sign.
I grinned back. Here was a guy that interested me, someone who also wasn’t afraid to stand up for his beliefs. Plus he had confidence in spades. With Klint, there was no pussyfooting around. We chatted throughout the march, much to Petra’s annoyance. He got my number at the end and promptly called me the next day to ask me out on a date. I liked that. It showed he was mature and wasn’t into playing games, which I hated. I’d been single for two years, and I was ready for a proper relationship. Klint Cooper—with his witty, sarcastic banter; dependable nature; and methodical research methods—was just what I wanted.
After that, we quickly became a thing. Our friends even called us Klizzy, and as much as I hated that nickname, it seemed to suit us. For quite a while, we were happy—and then we weren’t.
***
The first tree yields no treasure even though I dig multiple deep holes, so I fill them back in and wipe my frozen, muddy fingers on the grass. The branches overhead shelter me from the worst of the rain, but the drops are starting to intensify and pelt disconcertingly on the back of my windbreaker. Refusing to give up until I’ve seen this through to the bitter end, I switch to the second tree, crouch down, and start digging again ...
***
The change in Klint’s personality was gradual. I can’t pinpoint it to a particular date or month, but it was happening around the time I was near the completion of my undergraduate English degree at UCL. I remember I was visiting him in Oxford only every other weekend and relieved to have essay deadlines as an escape from his dark mood.
He’d send me an apologetic message on the Monday following, saying sorry for being a grumpy bastard and that he was stressed about his dissertation and money, and I’d forgive him because isn’t that what you do when you love someone?
I understood his situation too. He was deeply committed to his research on the Industrial Revolution, but it was mentally taxing. He was also paying off a Balliol short-term loan, which was an added pressure.
As I had an idea of my master’s dissertation topic (nineteenth-century American feminist literature), he suggested I apply to Oxford and we rent a flat together. He also encouraged me to apply for any scholarships or funding I was eligible for. Ever the perpetual student, he knew the system pretty well by then since his parents weren’t interested in funding his ‘hobby’, as they called it. If he’d been heading a tech start-up, like his brother, they would’ve gladly dipped into the coffers. But since they couldn’t see any ROI on a degree in history, they kept the purse firmly closed. I felt for him then—I still do now. He wants to pursue his dreams like anyone else, and not having supportive parents makes it doubly difficult. I know what that’s like.
So I applied, not expecting anything because the admission process is competitive; and to my utter astonishment, I got accepted and offered a partially funded studentship as well. We were over the moon and quickly set the wheels in motion to rent a flat.
Things were fine for a while. We were enjoying our study and living together, but Klint’s ‘bad days’ started to turn into ‘bad weeks’. He couldn’t seem to get on top of it, so his mother got him an appointment with her psychiatrist. He was prescribed antidepression medication, which seemed to help. His moods evened out. We repaired the cracks in our relationship and continued on.
Then three months ago, we went to a midsummer party at his supervisor’s house. I drank too many margaritas and royally fucked things up between us.
In essence, I dug my own muddy grave.
Chapter 13
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.
(Emily Brontë, ‘Spellbound’)
I’ve failed. Whatever Charlotte did with Emily’s novel, it’s not buried under the trees at Top Withens. I’ve got multiple blisters on my fingers and brown dirt smeared all over my clothes to prove it.
Currently, I’m holed up in one of the corners of the farmhouse and reluctant to set foot out into the turbulent gusts of wind and rain sweeping across the moors. Gareth warned me, but I had no idea the weather could get this violent. The sheer force of it is terrifying, but rather exciting to witness, at least from the safety of these sturdy stone walls. Luckily, the wind is driving the rain sideways, buffeting the farmhouse. So the fact it doesn’t have a roof isn’t directly affecting me—yet. But it’s getting dark, and I’m cold. Am I going to be here all night? It’s not a fun thought. I poke my head out the nearest window opening to see if it’s clearing up, and my face is pelted with hailstones. Shit. That hurt.
I have to message Klint; he’s going to freak—if he hasn’t already. But upon extracting my phone from my backpack, I see a curt text message sent ten minutes ago:Lizzy - Gareth.Klint said you’re not back. Are you out in this?
Me (feeling guilty):Yes. I’m waiting until it clears.
