Chapter 6
Megan’s Fiat Panda had actually made the journey all the way to the Cotswolds, much to her surprise. Packed to bursting with her belongings, complete with a roof rack creaking with the weight of suitcases, the little car had chugged along gently until it reached its destination, Treweham village. Staring at the stone cottage, with its pretty front garden packed with daffodils, Megan still couldn’t believe all this was actually hers. Her heart longed for Gran to come scurrying out of the front porch and up the cobbled pathway to greet her. But no, everything stood still, except for the soft, gentle sway of the conifer trees and the overgrown pampas grass. The trickle of the nearby stream and a wood pigeon calling in the distance were the only sounds. Taking a deep breath, Megan got out of the car, reached her suitcases down from the roof rack and began to heave them up to the front door.
She had been given a key to the cottage, but on impulse she bent down to the flowerpot standing at the side of the porch, bursting with purple, white and yellow crocuses. As always, a spare key was buried underneath it, amongst the gravel and soil. A lump suddenly appeared in Megan’s throat that she couldn’t swallow. The key still had the familiar key ring attached to it, a copper heart, all tarnished and worn now from years of being hidden under the terracotta pot. Megan turned the key and slowly opened the door. The hinges creaked and the place smelt slightly of damp.
Everything was just as she remembered it: the tiny kitchen with the white ceramic butler sink, brass taps and wooden draining board, the stone floor and oak table and chairs, the Welsh dresser displaying various pieces of crockery, the cosy inglenook fireplace in the lounge, the floral wallpaper that was now blotched with damp patches, the steep, narrow staircase with squeaky wooden boards.
Upstairs, her gran’s bedroom was exactly as she’d left it, with her patchwork quilt cover neatly spread over the bed, patiently waiting to be pulled back and to keep its occupant warm, the French-polished dressing table stood at the side with photo frames containing pictures of Megan and Christopher, and bottles of perfume. Megan walked towards it, picked up a round, lilac bottle and sprayed it into the cold air. A comforting memory seared through her immediately: Parma violets, the smell of Gran. Her knees buckled and she quickly sat on the edge of the bed, taking steady breaths. After a few moments her eyes searched the room, and she smiled when they rested on the cast-iron fireplace, then stopped when she noticed the pile of ash at the bottom of the grate. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A chill hovered over her momentarily. This was ludicrous, Megan chastised herself. There was no need to feel uneasy here. This had been Gran’s home, and now it was hers. This was a safe place, away from everything that had caused her pain. The only communication she had had from the office was a phone call from Kate, whom she had worked alongside and had grown close to. Megan had told her she wasn’t coming back, despite Kate’s pleas for her to return. Megan hadn’t needed to ask if she was the subject of office gossip – she knew damn well she would be. Kate had kept her word and not told a soul where Megan was, especially Adam, who had come sniffing round her for information. She allowed herself a moment to picture Adam, slouched in his chair, hands behind his head, swivelling behind his desk, oozing confidence that once she had fallen for. She shuddered, then with determination hauled herself up and made her way back down to the kitchen. She could almost hear Gran’s voice saying, ‘It will all seem much better after a cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Gran, I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said aloud.
