Page 17 of Snowflakes Over Micklewick Bay

By the time it reached three thirty, she couldn’t stop glancing over at the road, hoping to see Penelope nosing her way into the parking area, Lachie at the wheel, raising his hand in a wave as he usually did. At four o’clock, when the heat of the late spring sunshine was waning, a sense of disquiet kicked in but she explained it away by telling herself he’d probably got caught up in the roadworks and temporary traffic lights that had been springing up all over the region in recent weeks.

At almost quarter to five, with the burger van spick and span and ready to head for home, she had to agree with her aunt that Lachie probably wasn’t going to show that day. ‘I’m sure there’s a very simple explanation for it, lovey,’ Colleen said sympathetically. Hannah hoped upon hope she was right.

But he didn’t return the following day. Nor the one after that.

NINE

Two weeks had passed since their almost kiss and though Hannah had accepted that Lachie wasn’t coming back, it did nothing to stop her heart from feeling like it had been ripped apart. She’d veered from imagining various scenarios, from his campervan breaking down somewhere – Penelope had been around the block a few times, after all – to him, heaven forbid, having an accident and ending up in hospital, to him having a girlfriend and going back to her – which could account for the dip in his mood the first day they’d got talking – to him thinking she was joined at the hip to her aunt and there was no way he’d get her on her own, that they came as a package – double heaven forbid; lovely as her aunt was, she could see why that would be off-putting! – to him just not being in to her. And worse, that he was a player and had dropped her as soon as he was certain she was interested. If that was the case, then he’d utterly fooled her.

Each time her aunt had enquired after her, doing her best to be subtle and sensitive to her niece’s feelings, Hannah had adopted a breezy tone and replied, ‘I’m fine, Auntie Coll, honest. Please don’t waste your time worrying about me.’ But honest was the last thing she was being; she felt heartbroken and foolish for letting herself get swept up in a way she’d always sworn she would never allow again.

The abrupt end to her friendship with Lachie had made Hannah take stock. He’d occupied her every thought as she was busy prepping food in the Bougie Burger van, turning over everything she knew about him and the conversations they’d had in the brief time they’d spent together. It made her realise she actually knew very few details about him. In hindsight, it made her wonder if that had been deliberate on his part, although to be fair, she’d never pressed him with too many questions, mindful of the shadow of sadness that occasionally lurked at the back of his eyes or flittered across his face. She hadn’t wanted to pry or make him feel uncomfortable, and she could certainly empathise if he had things lurking in his past that he’d rather not share. She was the last person to judge anyone on that; she respected there might be things he’d prefer to keep to himself until he got to know her better. Having said that, she had volunteered a smattering of personal information to him. She’d told him she’d been to catering college, and let slip, inadvertently, that she had family connections in Micklewick Bay, though she’d been careful not to go into details. Their conversations had been easy and light, but now she thought about it, though she knew he was from Scotland, she didn’t know which part, and she didn’t even know his surname. All she did know was that he was called Lachie which could, she supposed, be short for Lachlan, that he was thirty-five, owned an adorable Labrador cross called Roly, drove a 1973 VW campervan and that he was a chef who was taking a bit of time out. Oh, and that he could speak Gaelic.

It baffled her that she knew pretty much nothing about him. An outsider would be forgiven for thinking they were little more than strangers, yet she had somehow managed to develop these enormous feelings for him, and over such a short space of time, too. Surely they should have shared more personal information than merely peripheral stuff?

They hadn’t even exchanged phone numbers which had baffled her aunt when Hannah was forced to explain why she couldn’t carry out her suggestion and call or text him to see if he was all right. ‘I thought that was the first thing you young ’uns did these days. You never go anywhere without your phones glued to your hand. Mind, I know you’re not big on texting, but it doesn’t mean me laddo isn’t.’

‘I wouldn’t call him anyway, Auntie Coll. It’s best left,’ she’d replied. In truth, Lachie had never offered his number, and it had never crossed her mind to share hers. Come to think of it, she’d only ever seen him with a mobile on that first day and she’d always left hers in her bag in the van. And anyway, she’d quite liked the building anticipation of his arrival; enjoyed the ‘old school’ aspect of it. Not sharing phone numbers removed the pressure of constantly having to text and think of something to say, which had always been a part of mobile phones Hannah had been uncomfortable with. She’d been known to spend a disproportionate amount of time working on a reply that didn’t make her sound stilted and boring.

‘Well, I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ Colleen had continued, ‘if he comes back and expects to get his loyalty card stamped, I’ll tell him to shove it up that kilt of his.’ Hannah hadn’t been able to help but chuckle at that.

Laughing aside, she’d been forced to accept that he was nothing more than a charmer, a player. It was no doubt his thing: flirt with a girl then move on when he’d reeled her in. Granted, he’d been convincing, which made it hard to swallow that she’d been nothing more than an ego boost to him. He’d toyed with her heart and tossed it aside once he got bored. He’d left it hurting and raw. She’d gone against her better judgement, ignored all the promises she’d made to herself and let her guard down. Lachie had taken advantage and played her for a fool.

It would be the last time it would ever happen.

And just like that, Hannah retreated back into her shell where she felt safe and out of harm’s way.

TEN

FEBRUARY – PRESENT DAY

On the drive back to Beckinthwaite, myriad thoughts had tumbled around Hannah’s mind. They’d veered from what Mr Cuthbert had imparted during their meeting, to her bumping into Florrie Appleton which had led to her wondering why Florrie had acted as she had at mention of Darryl’s name. She was sure she wasn’t wrong in her assumption that Florrie didn’t like him and she was interested to know why.

Her mind had eventually become so occupied with Darryl’s calls and texts, overriding thoughts of Mr Cuthbert, that she’d found herself getting increasingly wound up about him, and reaching the turn-off for the moors had come as a surprise. As had the change in the weather which made the narrow country roads dicey in places. It hadn’t taken long before the hailstones were replaced by large snowflakes, tumbling from the sky like goose feathers being shaken from a pillow. She’d had a couple of heart-stopping skids and had come perilously close to coming off the road and heading down a sharp drop and into a river below. It had been a real heart-in-mouth moment. There was no easy way to reach any of the villages that nestled within the dramatic landscape of the North Yorkshire Moors; each not only had its own set of hazards, but whichever way you chose to drive, there was inevitably a steep hill to be tackled. Hannah knew it could be just as treacherous going uphill as it was down. You needed your wits about you, that was for sure. It meant that for the latter part of her journey she’d focused all her attention on driving and the road ahead. Thoughts of Darryl were pushed to the back of her mind.

Despite the dangers, there was no getting away from the fact that the moors looked stunning in their winter finery. Snow was clinging to the skeletal branches of the hawthorn hedges while large swathes of white covered the fields and moorland, creating a stark beauty. Not for the first time did Hannah think that each season brought its own unique and dramatic splendour.

As she drove on, a pheasant glided by, landing on a drystone wall, its plumage a burst of colour against the pristine whiteness of the snow. When Hannah had left first thing this morning, all that had remained of the previous day’s dusting was at the foot of the drystone walls and in the hedge backs, but now everything was hidden under a thick winter blanket. Dusk had inched its way in early, turning the lead-grey clouds a threatening charcoal hue. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the half-mile long lane to her home hadn’t been ploughed or gritted, and the journey along, with her wheels spinning and sliding, had sent her stress levels soaring.

By the time she pulled up outside Fern Cottage, Hannah breathed a shaky sigh of relief and her shoulders, which had been hunched up around her ears for the bulk of the journey, finally dropped. It had been just over half a day since she’d set off for Micklewick Bay, but it felt more like she’d been gone a week. So much had happened in that time and right now, she didn’t have the mental capacity to know where to begin unpicking any of it. She felt utterly wrung out.

‘Oh, lovey, by I aren’t half glad you’re back. You’ve been gone ever such a long time, I’ve been past myself with worry.’ Hannah had just climbed out of the car, the voice making her look up to see Birdie from next door picking her way carefully down the snow-covered garden path of Snug Cottage, the quirky two-up, two-down stone-built property that stood spitting distance from Fern Cottage. Birdie’s tiny home had been some sort of outbuilding in a former life, before its thoughtful conversion into a dwelling house in the eighties by the then owner of Hannah’s home, which was a characterful vernacular longhouse, complete with thatched roof, and was considerably bigger than Birdie’s house. Smoke was curling from the squat chimney pot of Snug Cottage while Smudge, the older woman’s black and white cat, was watching them with interest through one of the small panes of glass in the sash window. Birdie’s dainty face was wreathed in concern and almost as white as her neatly trimmed chin-length bob of fine hair. She came to a halt at the gate, her breath coming out in puffs of condensation. ‘Mind, I wasn’t half relieved when that snow stopped. It had been coming down thick and fast and I didn’t like to think of you out there, driving in it.’

Hannah, who’d been equally relieved when the snow had eased up, was taken aback to see her neighbour looking older than her seventy-five years. And, exhausted as she was, she felt a pang of guilt. She cursed herself inwardly. She didn’t like to think of her neighbour anxiously peering out of the window for the bulk of the time she’d been out.

‘Hi, Birdie, I’m really sorry I worried you, but I’m back now, and my car won’t be budging an inch until the snow clears. Promise.’ She gave an apologetic smile, hoping Birdie wouldn’t be able to tell she’d been crying; she still felt raw and ragged around the edges from her stint in Micklewick Bay and didn’t want to add to her neighbour’s concern, nor did she feel up to explaining why just yet.

‘That’s good to hear,’ Birdie said in her broad moorland accent, her relief evident as she hitched up a smile.

As a rule, Hannah – and Colleen when she’d been alive – would let Birdie know whenever they were going out along with an estimate of the time they expected to return. But this morning Hannah had neglected to do that. She’d been so wrapped up in her own troubles, not to mention being tied up in knots about heading back to Micklewick Bay, that it had smothered all other thoughts and she hadn’t stopped to think about mentioning her trip to her neighbour. And if she had, Hannah was sure she wouldn’t have shared the destination, conscious that it would trigger too many questions. She’d have to have fibbed about where she was going and that wouldn’t have sat well with her.

In fact, there was a fair bit she hadn’t mentioned to Birdie recently, particularly the file of letters and documents she’d found in the drawer in her aunt’s bedroom early last week. There was one piece of correspondence in particular that had been addressed to Hannah in her aunt’s unmistakable neat handwriting, the contents of which had unsettled her with its references to the past – a place Hannah usually avoided venturing to – and the gentle instructions that she should talk to Birdie who had information that was apparently important for her to know. But, if Hannah was being completely honest with herself, rather than encouraging her to pursue this, the letter had, unfortunately, meant she’d avoided getting drawn into conversation with her neighbour for fear Birdie would broach the subject. Which, right at this moment, made her feel terrible. Poor Birdie.

On top of that, she knew Auntie Coll’s death had hit the older lady hard which was totally understandable since the two women had been lifelong best friends and had always lived close by one another. Hannah didn’t want to add to her worries and sorrow, especially while she was struggling to get her head around it all herself. But then, sharing her feelings had never been Hannah’s strong point. As Evan – the man she’d had a relationship and lived with for two of the three years they’d been together – had been so keen to remind her. His observation that ‘a block of ice shows more emotion’ jumped into her mind, quickly followed by ‘ice queen’. Hannah shook her head as if to shake away the cruel words he used to throw at her on a regular basis. She didn’t need Evan Arnold taking up headspace right now – or ever again, for that matter. He was past his sell-by date, at least, that’s how Auntie Coll had described him – amongst a whole slew of other things that had brought a smile to Hannah’s face when her heart had been aching and sore.

‘Thought you’d be glad about that, Birdie.’ Hannah threw her a smile as she closed the driver’s door, doing all she could to mask the feelings she was still struggling to shake off. Already, the cold was seeping through the thin fabric of her soggy trainers and making her wonder why she’d thought such inappropriate footwear was a good idea today.

‘Aye, too right, I am, them roads’ll be right dangerous when it freezes – the forecasters are saying it’s set to get as low as minus six or seven tonight – and then there’s all the drifting snow to think about. I’ve seen it get over six foot deep on that moortop in my time. You’re best off leaving your car where it is till the risk of snow’s gone.’ Birdie wrapped her thick cardigan more tightly around herself.