It was the first time Rita had known Hilda lost for words.
Later, as Rita loaded the dishwasher, she found herself watching Zenya chatting away to her mother-in-law. The young woman tilted her head when she listened like she really did care. There was something magnetic about her, something wild and deeply kind.
With Hilda moving to her bedroom, Zenya got up from the table and stretched. ‘I’d better hit the hay. I’m going to make a proper start on the vegetable garden tomorrow.’
After finishing tidying, Rita made drinks and took them outside. The moon hung low, silvering the tops of the waves way in the distance and catching the tips of the long grass that covered the orchard. She had suggested that Zenya move into the spare room in the upstairs of the annexe above Hilda’s flat, and was happy to pay her bed and board and give her a fee for each session she was going to be running. But the free-spirited thirty-year-old wasn’t having any of it. She would accept being fed and getting the going rate for her services. Plus, the use of the amenities in the annexe would be a bonus, but it was under the stars where she was quite happy sleeping. She was also delighted to be introduced to the vegetable patch and with May being a prime time for planting, she had said she would gladly help getting it back to its full growing and eating potential.
Her tent, now tucked at the back of the orchard, still with a view of the ocean, was positioned next to the low stone wall for a bit of shelter. She had made it cosy with bunting, solar lights, and two old wicker chairs from the barn. Zenya now sat on one of themwrapped in a blanket. She looked entirely at home when Rita appeared wearing a night torch on her head.
‘It’s still a bit nippy for May.’ Rita held out a mug. ‘Thought you might like something to warm you up.’
Zenya took the mug with both hands. ‘You read my mind.’
‘Isn’t that your job?’ Rita’s lips turned upwards in a half smile.
The wild woman smiled. ‘Hot chocolate, too, what a treat.’
They sat side by side for a while in companionable silence, listening to the soft bleating of sheep drifting over the fields, mingling with the distant call of gulls and the gentle, steady rhythm of waves lapping against the cliffs down below. The occasional cluck of a nearby hen completed the quiet symphony of farm and sea. The goats were clearly sleeping.
Rita broke the silence. ‘You really like it out here, don’t you?’
Zenya nodded. ‘I do. It’s quiet. Simple.’ She looked up to the sky. ‘And the stars don’t ask anything of me.’
Rita gave a small laugh. ‘A caravan is about my limit.’
‘I tried that.’ Zenya breathed a big breath. ‘But even then I felt like the walls were closing in on me.’
‘Have you lived like this for a long time?’ Rita enquired gently.
Zenya took a sip of her drink. ‘I was in foster care, mostly, as a kid. Never stayed anywhere long. Five homes by the time I was ten. When I was old enough to leave, I didn’t want anything permanent. I’d had enough of people telling me where I should be, how I should behave, what I should want.’ Her voice tailed off.
Rita quietly absorbed the woman’s pain.
‘Society with all its boxes. Wife. Career. Mortgage. Kids. It doesn’t know what to do with someone who colours outside the lines.’
‘So why Cornwall?’
Zenya shrugged. ‘I love the landscape and being by the sea just fills my soul with joy. Plus, people tend to stare less down here when you say you live in a tent and believe in the healing power of plants.’
Rita smiled. ‘We stare a bit.’
Zenya laughed. ‘Yes but give me curiosity over judgement any day.’
Rita took a drink. ‘You’re braver than me. I’m staying exactly where I am to try and rebuild my life.’
‘And I ran from everything and ended up in your field. Maybe we’re just two sides of the same storm.’
Rita looked up. The stars were bright tonight, clear and sharp. Somehow, beside Zenya and under the open sky, things didn’t feel quite so tangled anymore.
‘Maybe we are.’ Rita sighed, and took a sip of her hot chocolate.
SIXTEEN
Rita cast Stan a huge smile as she saw his Land Rover rattling towards her at the top of High Meadow. It was early and the sun was already up, causing sprinkles of golden light to seep through the dense branches of the Singing Tree, where they shimmered and danced on the earth below. With a cheery nod, Stan doffed his cap, then heaved the two large canvas yurts, their wooden frames bundled up like giant puzzles waiting to be solved, off the roof.
Rita grimaced. ‘Shit, they look bigger than I remembered. Yurt assembly is a two-man job, apparently. But I’ll do my best.’
‘I gotta get the bases up ’ere first, Mrs Jory. Made ’em myself for you, I did. I read that having the platform elevated eighteen to twenty-four inches above the ground will create a handy crawl space to access plumbing, wiring or storage for you later on, if you go that way.’
