Ash said that my sneezes sound as cute as my sniggles. I love that he remembers the name he gave my laughter all those years ago.
I have a flashback to the way he covered his face with his palm when we sat up on the hill by his cabin – I’d just laughed at our exchange about the moon and he looked like he was in pain. Shortly afterwards he told me that he missed me.
I don’t know why I think of this memory now, or why I suddenly know that his pain was related more to me than to Beca in that moment.
Heading past the sundial sculpture that’s set into the lawn and down the steps leading to the Georgian garden, I walk past the rainbow of lupins. At the bottom of the hill, the orangery’s windows glint in the late-afternoon sunshine. I pass it and Maple Garden, which is the last of the garden rooms that Owain, Evan, Bethan, Harri and I are responsible for, and carry on into ranger territory. Celyn and Dylan are the bosses out here.
Skirting the glittering lake, I smile as a duck flies out of the reeds, quacking wildly with fright, and then I pause to watch as ten tiny ducklings zoom through the water after their mother.
Up ahead, the woods are bathed in sunlight. A flock of birds fly through the blue sky overhead, and I turn around and look back at the house, sitting pretty on higher ground. Sun shines on the crenellated roofline – the notches look like battlements, but they’re more decorative. The simpler arched windows of the eighteenth-century section contrast with the opulence of the cream stone gatehouse in the middle. My eyes are drawn to the Tudor wing. I can’t believe it was built at a time when Henry VIII was on the throne.
I’m struck by the realisation that Ash’s family owns that house, that it’s been in his family for five hundred years. The enormity of it still hasn’t sunk in. I think of his parents and his grandparents and his great-grandparents and his great-great-grandparents and my head begins to swim at the notion of an incredible twenty-one generations of his family living there one after the other. Andhewill inherit it one day, andhe’llhave to keep it safe for future generations of Berkeleys. That responsibility must feel huge.
I think back to how Ash said the house had frightened him when he was little. He never elaborated, but my heartstrings twang at the thought of a young Ash feeling scared as he walked down long corridors and turned into old rooms, fearful of what might lie around the corner. I can imagine it, and I know that I’d hate it too. Itwouldfeel scary, being in a big old house like that.
My mood dips as I carry on past the lake and into the woods, but then the sounds of the forest pull me out of my slump. Birdsong rings out from high branches as I walk over the spongy earth, the crackle of twigs filling my ears.
‘Hello.’
The sound of Ash’s voice doesn’t startle me. It’s almost as though I knew he would be here.
‘Hello,’ I reply, smiling at him as I approach.
He’s leaning against the wide trunk of a giant oak tree, his mouth curved up at the corners. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a grey T-shirt with a pair of green Vans that have seen better days.
‘Thought I’d walk with you the rest of the way,’ he says.
‘You look as though you’ve been waiting for me.’
‘I have. I saw you coming down through the Georgian garden.’
‘You were watching me?’
‘Yes. And that sounds very, very creepy,’ he adds impishly. ‘But your hair was glinting in the sunlight and you just looked so …’
So fucking pretty.
His compliment from almost six years ago zips through my mind, but whatever words he was going to say hang in the air unsaid.
I look back towards the house. ‘I can’t believe you own that.’
‘I don’t.’
I glance over my shoulder at him. ‘No, I mean your parents.’
‘They don’t really own it either,’ he says seriously, pushing off from the tree trunk and coming to stand beside me. ‘We’re just custodians.’
‘Yeah, but if you sold it, you’d get the money from it.’
He huffs out a laugh at my bluntness. ‘Technically, yes. But who’s going to sell it? Every parent has a responsibility to pass it on to their children. Imagine being the arsehole to take it away from future generations.’
‘What if you ran into financial difficulties, though? Don’t these old properties cost a bomb to maintain?’ A memory slams into my mind. ‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim before he can answer me. ‘We had a whole conversation about this at the park in Lisbon! I’ve just remembered!’ I sound accusatory, but I’m only a bit piqued. I’ve given up holding his caginess against him.
‘I thought you remembered everything,’ he says drily, looking down at me.
I remember the details of our time on the beach with breathtaking clarity, but I admit this particular conversation didn’t have a lasting impact.
‘I take ityouremember,’ I say.
