The impressive old structure had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life, walls cleaned of cobwebs, floor swept and mopped three times over, and the smell of mildew and cow poop replaced (mostly) by lemon oil and dried lavender. String lights twinkled along the main beam and a huge rug she’d rescued from the attic and beaten senseless in the garden made for a centrepiece. She’d also found an assortment of scatter cushions in the harbour charity shop. Upturned milk churns, for which she had fashioned a soft seat, provided further seating if required and the old apple crates she had found were now the home for yoga mats, meditation cushions and blankets.
The hayloft had been sectioned off with a floral curtain that Zenya said looked very boho, although Rita privately thought it looked like a shower curtain from a 1990s caravan, but she wasn’t going to argue aesthetics. Not when she was so close to opening and with the newly cleaned-up and clothes-washed Zenya being the epitome of woo-woo and so perfect for the retreat. She checkedher watch. The ever-talented health guru was also cooking her an early dinner and she mustn’t be late.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the sound of tyres crunching on the gravel. Realising it was the familiar cough of Stan Bodkin’s battered old Land Rover, she tentatively walked outside and, shielding her eyes from the sun, saw him step down from the driver’s seat, his tweed cap pulled low. He walked slowly towards her.
‘Morning, Mrs Jory,’ he called out with his strong Cornish accent. ‘You got a minute?’
She tentatively met him halfway. ‘What’s all this? I’m surprised you’re even talking to me.’
Stan looked her right in the eye and just the familiarity of having him back on the farm caused a surge of emotion to run through her. Her ex-farmhand was older than Archie, early sixties now, if Rita remembered correctly, with a kind and open face, weathered by a lifetime of hard graft under open skies, eyes lined through squinting beneath the shadow of a battered cap, and his hands, large and calloused. A slight limp from a motorbike accident when he had been a teenager but with the reliability of an ocean tide. Rita had always loved the quiet gentleness of the man in the way he talked to animals and the overwhelming loyalty to Archie and herself that had run deep for over twenty years.
On hearing his voice, Henry ambled over from his sunbathing slot behind the barn, and they made a fuss of each other.
Stan gestured to his Land Rover. ‘Come on, the pair of you, get in. I’ve got something for you…’
Rita frowned, intrigued, and climbed into the car. They sat in silence as they made their bumpy way up to the High Meadow, where he stopped right next to the Singing Tree, Henry sitting upright on the seat as if he were back in one of his rightful places. After opening the door for Rita, Stan went to the back of the vehicle and tugged at the tailgate. With a loud grunt, he slid out a handmade wooden bench, smooth and sturdy, the grain of the oak glowing honey-gold in the morning light. Rita’s heart lurched asshe stepped closer. Along the top rail, carefully carved in neat, shallow letters, were the words:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ARCHIE JORY – MAY YOU ALWAYS HEAR THE SEA
Rita brought her hand to her mouth, blinking quickly. She couldn’t stop shaking her head in disbelief.
‘That noddle of yours’ll fall off in a minute, if you don’t stop doing that,’ Stan said matter-of-factly. ‘I had some offcuts in the barn up there.’ Stan gestured towards Hawthorn Acre. ‘Figured the old sod might like to rest up here. He quite often used to sit here with a flask of tea and a scowl, in times of trouble.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Rita felt tears pricking her eyes.
‘Sometimes there’s things in life we don’t ever need to know.’ Stan paused for a second. ‘Your Archie, he said the wind in the branches helped him think.’ The wise man looked up into the tree’s vast canopy, where the leaves shimmered and whispered their own secrets. ‘So, it’s the right place.’
They carried the bench together, placing it to look out where the view opened wide to the sea, sky, and the endless pull of the horizon. Henry plonked himself down under it and whimpered.
Rita ran her fingers over Archie’s name, then sat down slowly, letting the silence settle. She could almost feel him beside her, grinning that lopsided grin.
‘I’ll add it to the retreat map,’ she whispered. ‘A place for remembering. For listening. For love.’
Stan tipped his cap. ‘Not sure what he’d have said to them kind of words.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ll have to tell me all about this new business of yours.’
Rita’s voice cracked. ‘Stan, I’m so sorry that I had to let you go.’
‘Apologise when you’re wrong, not when you’re real, love – and well, Jago, he says he can spare me for a couple of days a week, to help you with this retreat malarkey and any other bits you may need.’
‘Really?’ Rita felt a warmth go through her.
‘Yep! I can spread my time across every weekday, if you like, if that helps an’ all.’
‘Oh, wow, that would be amazing, but I’m not sure I can pay you right away, Stan.’
Stan put one of his big hands on top of her small one. ‘It’s covered.’
‘No, that’s not fair.’
‘Nor is the weather that often up here, but we just get on with it, don’t we?’
Rita smiled warmly. ‘I have to ask you something.’
‘More, she wants more.’ Stan laughed.
‘Did you leave me a note in here?’ She pointed to the hole in the tree.
‘A note? What kind of note?’ He screwed up his face. ‘I barely have time in the day to brush my hair.’ He winked as he took off his cap and rubbed his bald head. ‘Your Archie loved you like the tide loves the moon, you know. And maybe that’s all you need to know.’
