Part One
BEFORE
1
August 2017 – two months before
The girls are unusually quiet in the back seat. From the rear-view mirror I see them gazing out of the window as the scenery unfolds before them: the built-up suburbs with graffiti-stained high-rises and cluttered roads transforming into rolling hills, valleys and mountains. Amelia’s expression is morose, as though she’s harbouring thoughts of murdering both me and her father for taking her away from her friends. Evie, on the other hand, is more serene, dreamy as she takes in the road signs in English and Welsh. My six-year-old has always had a vivid imagination. She’ll see this as an adventure, try to seek out the magic in it. She believes in fairies, Father Christmas and the Easter bunny. She sees animal shapes in the clouds, four-leaf clovers that aren’t there, a face in the moon.
Amelia, five years older, is more sceptical. Her sensitivity announces itself in different ways. As soon as you enter a room she’ll feel your mood and behave accordingly. At least, she used to. Not so much now that the hormones have kicked in. She’s no longer so eager to please. Adrian and I have tried to hide how badly the last eighteen months have affected us, but she’s more astute than Evie. She won’t have failed to notice the strain we’ve been under. But, even so, she can’t really understand why we’ve decided to leave London. There have been occasions, in the preceding weeks, when I’ve had the same thought.
We hadn’t planned to move back to Wales. Not yet, anyhow. Buying a guesthouse in the Brecon Beacons had been a long-held ambition of mine. Something to daydream about while I toiled at my dead-end job in marketing, or when I was on maternity leave, surrounded by nappies and wet wipes. The Brecons held fond memories for me, of picnics in the foothills, of family days out, my brother, Nathan, and I bickering in the car, our dad barking at us good-naturedly. Of home-made egg sandwiches and milky tea from a flask. Of Frisbees. Of those hills and mountains that seemed to go on for ever. When I was a kid they always reminded me of the drawings in theMr Menbooks, they were so perfect – they seemed worlds away from where we lived in Cardiff.
Moving to Wales and running a guesthouse was something we imagined we’d do in the future, when both girls were at university, when we were in our late forties or early fifties and had had enough of our cramped terraced house and frantic city living. Then, suddenly, the idea of fresh air and peace became more appealing, more urgent. A gentler pace of life, a quiet spot for Adrian to write – which he’s always wanted to do – and a safe haven for the girls, away from all the distractions and temptations of London.
In the distance I can see the glint of sunshine beneath the clouds, beckoning us. I reach over and squeeze Adrian’s hand. He returns the gesture and I flick a glance in his direction. He looks happy and relaxed. He’s grown a beard and his hair is longer, now touching the collar of his blue polo shirt. There is nothing left of his City persona. He shed the smart suits and the clean-shaven look as soon as he walked out of his job. But there are other changes too. The old Adrian would be trying to coax excitement out of Amelia right now. He’d be fiddling with the radio and singing along to Absolute 90s or playing I Spy with Evie, rolling his eyes when she pretended to spot a unicorn or a pixie. Instead he’s staring at the road ahead, the radio switched off. He’s calm and content in his own way. Just …different.
But at least he’s here.
I want him to reassure me that we’ve made the right decision in leaving. That Amelia won’t hate me for ever. That it will all turn out for the best.
Anxiety curdles in the pit of my stomach. In all my fantasies of running a business in the place I love the most, I never envisaged I’d have to do it with my mother.
‘Kirsty?’ I’m jolted out of my thoughts by Adrian’s voice. ‘When is Carol expected to turn up?’ It’s as though he’s read my mind. We used to joke about that.Before. How we always seemed to know what the other was thinking.
‘Um, next month, I think.’ I change gear as we head into the national park, the SUV juddering over the cattle grid. I notice Evie sit up straighter, and I know she’s hoping to see wild ponies clustered at the side of the road, as we did the last time we visited.
‘Next month?’ he says incredulously.
‘She said something about waiting until the house is more habitable.’
‘So, not until the renovations are done, then.’ He’s laughing as he says it, to take the sting out of his words.
‘She did up plenty of houses with my dad before he died.’
‘Yeah. Over twenty years ago.’
‘Her DIY is a lot better than mine.’ I’m nettled that he’s so easily putting her down. I’m allowed to say what I want about her, but he isn’t. Despite her faults my mother is one of the most capable, practical people I know.
‘Great. Then what’s she waiting for?’ He laughs. ‘Tell her to get here pronto! We’ll need all the help we can get.’
Hasn’t she done enough?I want to ask, but I don’t. I’m trying not to feel resentful that we were forced to eat into our savings after Adrian left his job. It wasn’t his fault. And it was kind of Mum to agree to come in with us. Her money means we could buy the house and carry out the restoration. Going into business with her wouldn’t have been my first choice, but now we have, we must make it work.
We first saw the Old Rectory six months ago.
We’d been on a family holiday in Brecon, driving through those mountains I had so admired as a child. Adrian was shrivelled up in the passenger seat, still shell-shocked from all that had happened, as if he were a war veteran or disaster survivor. We were still tentative with each other, like lovers who had been apart for many years and were getting to know each other again. The mist was like dry ice, nudging the hills and draping itself over the mountains in the distance. The land was spread out in front of us in varying shades of green, our road zigzagging through it. There wasn’t another soul for miles.
It was when we were on the edge of a little village called Hywelphilly that we saw it: a double-fronted Victorian detached house, almost Gothic, with its pointed roof gables and arched windows. Set back from the road, next to a beautiful old church, and framed by mountains in the distance, it had a ‘For Sale’ sign propped up in the driveway. The tiles were falling off the roof, the paint was flaking and some windows were boarded up, but I could see the beauty in it even then. With a bit of TLC it could be magnificent, I thought.
I pulled on to the kerb, blocking the driveway with its rusty iron gates, to get a better look. Weeds protruded through the cracked tarmac and a large oak almost obscured one of the windows. Adrian must have been thinking along similar lines because when he turned to me, his eyes were bright. For the first time in ages he looked excited.
We arranged a viewing for the next day, and as the four of us followed the estate agent through the crumbling, neglected house, the anticipation hummed between us.
‘It’s a bit creepy,’ Evie said, as we stood on the threadbare landing carpet. She stared up at the ceiling as if expecting a ghoul to descend from the attic.
‘And it has a weird smell,’ offered Amelia.
But I was convinced it was what we needed. A project. A change of direction for Adrian. A distraction. For all of us.
