Chapter Fifteen
BRODY OPENED THE door to his study just before dawn and flicked on the light. He walked over to the desk and took a moment to look out over his garden through the window. There was only just enough light to differentiate the edges of the bushes and the trees from the receding night.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pulled a notebook from a stack crammed into one of the shelves and leafed through it to see if there were any empty pages. There were. Lots of them. Only a few at the front had been filled. As he glanced at them, he noticed how much his handwriting had changed in the years since he’d last used it. The scrawl in these pages wasn’t that of a schoolboy, although it had something of that innocence, that optimism. These days, he printed carefully, making deep black scratches in the paper.
Okay, he thought to himself.It’s just words. Nothing to be scared of. Once upon a time, you used to be good at this.
Years ago,a little voice in his head whispered.And how many times have you tried since then? How many times have you walked away leaving nothing but a blank page? Plenty, he told himself. But he hadn’t pulled a notebook off this shelf in at least five years, possibly more. It might be different this time.
He sat down and picked up a fountain pen from a pot on the windowsill. He had to shake it a few times before it would make a mark on the paper, but he eventually got the ink flowing. He lifted the pen, letting the nib hover just above the creamy paper and exhaled.
And that was how he sat, staring at a spotless page of empty lines, for a good ten minutes. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he stood up, threw the pen down, and stormed out of the room.
He tugged on a fleece and headed out the back door. Lewis followed behind and immediately disappeared down the garden, running after an unseen quarry with glee. Brody shook his head then entered one of the small outbuildings in his yard. It was pretty rough-looking, with no plaster on the walls, and a rumpled and crumbling concrete floor, but it had electricity and everything else he needed. He flicked on the light and the old oil-filled heater sitting on the floor, then pulled a tarp off a long workbench.
Underneath were tools and some partially carved wooden shapes: rings, chunky blocks, a few other irregular pieces. He picked up one of the rings. It was still rough in places where the grain had fought being shaped. He reached for a piece of sandpaper and gently, rhythmically, rubbed the possible splinters away, using finer and finer grades of paper until the object was smooth and shiny, ready for paint.
He worked on five rings, each progressively smaller than the last, and when that was done, he began painting them in colours so bright they jarred with the muted greens, soft greys and cool browns of the moor outside.
Leaving them to dry, he hauled a large box from under the workbench and placed it on top.It was full of similar wooden shapes in bright colours. He stared at the assortment of handmade toys for a moment and began pulling them out one by one, assessing them. Most went back in the box once it was empty. One or two remained on the workbench. Not quite perfect. He’d see to them later.
Once all the acceptable pieces had been loaded back in the box, he looked at it and sighed. Moji had left a message on his landline answerphone last week, saying she was desperate for stacking rings and building blocks. According to her, there’d been a bit of a baby boom in Totnes. Her children’s book and toyshop was crying out for more stock.
He would make one of his semi-regular deliveries today, more to help Moji out than because he needed the money his hobby brought in. In the days when he’d earned plenty, he’d invested well, and he lived frugally now. Still, a little extra spending money wouldn’t hurt.
However, the thought of leaving Dartmoor, of driving into town, even one as quaint and friendly as Totnes, filled Brody’s stomach with ice. He ignored the sensation, opened the workshop door and whistled for Lewis, who came running immediately, ears raised, eyes aglow with anticipation.
The dog raced off towards the car the second Brody reached for his keys. Brody followed him, trudging towards his ancient Land Rover with his box full of hope and joy. At leastoneof them was looking forward to this trip.
THE SUN WAS still low on the horizon, colouring it with broad streaks of lemon and peach, when Brody pulled into the public car park behind the High Street in Totnes. Since the place was virtually empty, he chose a space close to the exit. He turned the engine off and sat there, staring straight ahead. Lewis, who had been curled up in the back, jumped through to the passenger seat, looked at him and woofed.
Brody looked back at him. ‘I know,’ he said wearily. ‘Give me a minute.’
He’d caught a segment on television a few months ago, something about wellbeing and mental health. What had the slick-looking, white-smiled TV doctor said about calming yourself down in stressful situations? Something about breathing? The need for mental preparation? He’d been determined not to pay attention to the segment, but it seemed as if some of the information must have sunk in anyway.
And as he sat therenotremembering, he was aware of his heart pumping, rapidly but not uncontrollably, in his chest. The bottom half of his lungs seemed to be closed for business, causing him to suck air in through his nostrils and release it again unwillingly. His hands, which gripped the steering wheel, were starting to get clammy.
But he couldn’t stay here like this, frozen, all day. The shops would be opening soon and he wanted to be driving back towards the moor, foot pressing pleasingly on the accelerator, when that moment came.
He glanced across at Lewis. ‘Just do it, right?’
Lewis cocked his head and barked joyfully. Brody swore he’d never met a dog so unfailingly enthusiastic and optimistic. It was almost sickening.
He took a deep breath and opened the car door. The first thing that struck him was the noise, even though it was early and hardly any cars or people were about. There was a hum in the air, the particular collective reverberation of people living and working in close proximity. When his home had been in the city, he wouldn’t even have noticed the sounds – just part of the wallpaper of life – but compared to his cottage on the moor, even the rumble of a distant car a few streets away seemed noticeable and loud.
Had he really lived in London for all those years? It seemed like a different person who’d done that.
He quickly retrieved the box full of toys from the boot and, taking Lewis with him on his lead, navigated the back streets and alleyways, ending up at the rear of a shop near the bottom of the narrow, steep High Street.
He placed his cargo down by the back door and slipped an envelope with an inventory and prices for each item inside. He was just about to walk away when he paused and glanced at the door. Speaking with Anna recently had made him realize what a hermit he’d become. Instead of retracing his steps, he picked the box up again, making sure it was secure in his left arm, and rapped on the wood with his free hand.
A few moments later, the door opened and Moji appeared. ‘Brody! To what do I owe this pleasure?’
He’d known Moji for close to two decades. Long ago, in that other life, she’d owned a children’s bookshop in south London, but then, when her husband had divorced her and flown back to Nigeria, she’d moved down here, along with her eldest daughter. It had been on Moji’s recommendation that he’d looked in this area for somewhere quieter six years ago, when the city had become unbearable.
She was petite and round, and she had to reach up to put her arms around him so she could pull him into a hug and press a kiss on his stubbly cheek. Brody let her, but it had been a long time since he’d touched another human being and it felt strange. He wasn’t sure it was an entirely pleasurable experience anymore, which seemed odd, seeing as he’d always considered himself a tactile sort of person.
Moji released him and, for some reason, Brody thought of Anna, of what she’d said about her husband. She hadn’t got used to the lack of these basic human things yet, the way you do when you lose someone. That hunger for connection still burned inside of her. He suspected that was what had prompted her to call her husband’s number in the first place. It was probably why shekeptcalling Brody. It wasn’t him she wanted, really, just what he represented. A tenuous bond to what she’d lost.
