Page 1
Chapter 1
‘It’s like Caractacus Potts’ inventing room!’ I say with a smile to Tegan, my small Pembrokeshire Corgi. Tegan sneezes loudly at the dust, surprising herself, and then turns away in disgust. She waddles out of the broad barn doorway into the windy, chilly autumn morning.
I watch her go, knowing exactly where she’s heading: back into the farmhouse to settle down on the patchwork-covered sofa in front of the ancient Aga, which will be giving out its gentle heat like a hug. It does its job of keeping the kitchen warm while I shut the doors on all the other rooms and try to forget they’re there.
That’s where I’m happiest: in the kitchen, just me and Tegan. There’s the sofa, very comfy if a little saggy; a small television that I rarely watch, as I’m happier with the radio in the evenings these days; and the shelves filled with books that I’ve loved over the years. I live a quiet life, but sometimes I go out to the local cinema or theatre, or even for lunch on a Sunday at the local pub. I know I need to keep doing things, like I promised Paddy, my late husband, I would. Keep moving forward. And it’s not like I’m not busy here on the farm – I have plenty to do just to stay on top of the jobs around the place. Replacing the bucket in the attic where it leaks in the rain. Dealing with the downstairs toilet that needs gently cajoling to work. Repairing fencing around the henhouse and keeping the water troughs flowing when it’s cold. And then there are the craft fairs where I sell my knitted or crocheted gloves and hats, and I teach those skills during term time at the adult education centre. It brings in enough for me to live on.
I shiver. My breath comes out like a plume of smoke in the cold, fresh air, and I bang my hands together in their almost-matching fingerless gloves. I’d much rather be in the kitchen with Tegan, but there are jobs to be done. With the farm officially on the market now and viewers keen to see it, I need to start getting rid of everything I’m not going to take with me to the new place. There’s no room for clutter in the brand-new one-bedroomed flat with a small box room, they call it a dressing room, but will be perfect for my crafting table and with its sea views over the Cardiganshire coastline. I can just picture myself there. A workbench by the big window to crochet and craft. Not having to worry about a leaking roof, or about getting the Aga going again when it decides to take a breather from life. It’s time for a bit more ease. Time to pack up and leave this place behind.
The barn is nothing like it used to be when it was me and Paddy working the farm. I look around; I can hear Radio 2 drifting in from the farmyard, but in here it’s quiet and very still, so different from when he was here. This was his world, his place to make and repair. It was always a hive of activity with his old Roberts radio going, a cup of coffee rapidly cooling on the workbench, little projects on the go all over the place. Whether he was repairing old Christmas Tree Farm signs, mending the henhouse or bagging up mulch to sell at the farm gates, Paddy was always busy with something.
My nose tickles; I give a little sniff and then take a deep breath, rolling my shoulders and setting them firmly. I glance up at the wooden staircase and the door in the chipboard wall leading to the big studio room Paddy made for me, for my crafting, as a surprise before he got ill. I’ve only been up there a couple of times, with him, to see the progress and the final build. Once he got ill, I wasn’t able to face it, so I shut the door on it and haven’t ventured up there since. It’s still just an empty space, filled with light from the Velux windows he put in so I could work under them, waiting to be brought to life.
My nose tickles again and there’s a dull ache in my chest, a sensation of longing and loneliness that actually hurts. I draw in another deep breath and try to shake off the feeling, looking around at the boxes stacked up in Paddy’s workshop area and beyond, behind the straw bales. Far too much straw for the three ducks and a chicken that I’m hoping the new owners, whoever they may be, will take on.
I walk towards the workbench where Paddy would stand and fix things. It’s what he did – he fixed things. And if something couldn’t be fixed, he would keep it in case it could be used to fix something else. I put my hands on the worn surface, in the groove where his hands would have been, feeling as if I’m in his space and he’s right there with me. If only he could have fixed this. Me, now, without him. Our time at the farm was over long before we wanted it to be. I rub the worn wood and then stand on tiptoe to peer into one of the boxes, its contents a mix of cables, wires, tubs and tubes. I put my heels to the floor and let out a long, slow sigh. I have no idea where to start.
Who knew one person’s treasure in his large barn-cum-garage could be quite so overwhelming and baffling to another? I don’t know what half of . . . correction, most of this stuff is. I peer into other boxes full of nails, screws, bits of rope and extension cables. It’s almost as chaotic as my crafting room at the back of the house, I think with a fond smile. That’s another room that will have to be cleared out soon. Decluttering, they call it these days, not just sorting out or throwing out. It’s got an actual name, and people talk about it online! Make money from it! I wish I could make money from it. I’ve put every last penny I’ve got into the new flat, so I need to get the farm sold. The agent already has viewers lined up, and this barn has to be sorted and emptied. I need to pull up my big girl pants and be brave, chucking out what hasn’t been used in ages and won’t be used again. Like ripping off a plaster, I know it’s going to hurt before it feels better.
Most of what I’m looking at will probably be taken to the dump. I can just imagine Paddy’s look of horror as I throw out his precious boxes. At the same time, he’d probably find this highly amusing. We used to joke that we should have a good sort-out or the other would be left with a heck of a job to get everything cleared out, whichever of us went first. Years of his family’s clutter had already accumulated before we took over the farm. Well, here I am, with that heck of a job!
Once it’s done and the sale goes through, I’ll pack up and move to the new flat. I’ve put a deposit down on a new build, buying off plan, everything pristine and in working order. No leaking loos or draughty hall, broken light fittings or temperamental heating – all of which Paddy used to take care of, until he wasn’t here to. I’ve had to use all our savings, but it’s for the best. Staying on here without him isn’t an option. If I were to try renting out the little worker’s cottage in the forest as a holiday let, it would need a lot of work, as would the access path so that it could be kept clear. And even if I wanted to move into the cottage myself and rent out the farmhouse, to be honest, I’m not sure I could cope with seeing other families happy in what used to be mine and Paddy’s home. It’s much better that I sell it all and move to a home that’s just for me and Tegan. Not one where I’m rattling around and continually worrying about what will need mending or fixing up next. It’s not that I’m not good with a hammer or plunger; I am, I’ve even done a course on how to use a drill. But I’m looking forward to not having to always be mending and making do.
It’s time for a fresh start. The farm needs a lot more love and money than I can pour into it these days. I’ve got to move on and leave the old memories behind. I find myself blinking back unshed tears. It’s the right thing, I tell myself firmly. I’m sure Paddy would say so, too. It’s going to be good for me, living somewhere I don’t have to think about the roof tiles shifting in high winds or trees coming down on the property, or listen to the air in the old pipes making a ticking noise all night long. It will be a life free from quirks. It will be orderly, tidy and calm. Not like this chaos.
‘It’s been three years now, Paddy,’ I say aloud, my voice cracking. ‘It’s time.’ I pick up a box and carry it towards the barn door. ‘Time to move on.’
I don’t regularly talk to Paddy these days, or sit and cry and feel sorry for myself. During the first year, yes, getting out of bed was a struggle. But now I get up every morning, let out the three ducks, Huey, Dewey and Louie, and Gloria, the remaining chicken, and take Tegan for a stroll down the long drive before I go about my day on the farm. I’ve even tried joining a dating app, but I didn’t get beyond a couple of dates with anyone. To be honest, inviting someone to dinner at the house can be a bit testing. A high-end microwavable ready meal, the lamp with the wonky shade and having to give instructions on how to flush the downstairs loo (two short, sharp tugs on the chain) – it all reveals that things in my world don’t always work as they should. I think there was one man who saw pound signs when I first mentioned the farm, but then realized it wasn’t quite the meal ticket he was looking for. Another said he found my lifestyle ‘too quirky’; and then there was the one who thought I’d ghosted him. I’ve never been very good at keeping my mobile phone close at hand.
I’m not really looking for another full-time relationship. There’ll never be another Paddy, someone I loved and trusted with all my heart. I’m not trying to replace what we had. It was special, a one-off. I won’t find that kind of connection again, that closeness with someone. I quite like the idea of having company sometimes, but now that I’m moving I’ll be surrounded by people, and in the town too. I’ll find people to talk to, shops and cafes to visit. There are local crafting groups I can join. It’ll be different. Not so lonely.
I look out across the yard. The cold wind of the morning has picked up and the sky has darkened, and now I can hear the first drops of rain on the corrugated iron roof. It quickens, the volume of rain accelerating until it’s thundering on the roof, blocking out all other sounds. I turn and fetch another box, setting it down beside the open door. I can just hear a volley of distant barks from Tegan. Despite her age, her hearing hasn’t faded. The ducks start up quacking, too, and I wonder if there’s a fox in the yard. I pull my coat round myself, tugging the hood over my head, and hurry out into the cold rain to shoo it away.
But to my surprise, it isn’t a fox. It’s a car. A small Fiat Panda is approaching along the drive, windscreen wipers working at full speed to swish away the fat, fast raindrops.
Who could be visiting me out of the blue? Let’s hope it’s someone from the lottery to say I’ve had a big win, I think to myself. Then I could pay someone to come and do all the decluttering for me. And I smile, glancing skywards to share the joke with Paddy.
Chapter 2
I step back into the barn doorway, watching the little car bounce its way up the drive and slowly pull into the yard in front of the farmhouse. The driver must have had the bones shaken out of them on the uneven track. There are a lot of potholes that need filling, that’s for sure, but it’s a job that can wait for the new owners. They’ll have to love this place warts and all.
After a couple of attempts, the driver’s door opens against the wind and rain. A young woman starts to get out, in her early thirties, I’d say. Her dark hair is flying about her face as she battles with a small umbrella while trying and failing to hold back the door. The umbrella flips inside out and attempts to take off on the wind. She reins it back in and shoves it under her arm, clamping it there tightly, then takes a step away from the car and lets the door slam itself shut. I come out from the shelter of the barn doorway, the rain hitting my waterproof hood like a rapper’s drumbeat. The young woman tries to speak to me, but I can’t hear a word she’s saying what with the rain and the radio playing loudly in the yard.
‘Hang on,’ I call to her with my hands cupped around my mouth. ‘I’ll turn the radio down. Keeps away the foxes.’ I head past her towards the old milking parlour across the yard, where the radio with speakers has lived since milking still took place on the farm. Now I just keep the speakers facing out to the open windows. I step inside and turn off the old stack system, cutting off Vernon Kay’s mid-morning show. I usually have it on every day for a couple of hours while I let Gloria and the ducks have a free-range wander.
‘That’s better,’ I say, coming back out of the parlour into the pouring rain to join the young woman. She’s really not dressed to be out here in the Cardiganshire countryside, halfway up a mountain, in this dreadful wet weather. While big, fat droplets are falling from the rim of my hood, keeping my face dry, her face is wet, with her hair sticking to it.
‘Gwenllian Bevan?’ she asks loudly, trying to brush the strands away from her face without losing hold of her umbrella.
‘Yes,’ I smile and nod, wondering if this really could be what happens when someone wins the pools, the lottery or premium bonds. But as I don’t do any of those, it’s definitely not going to be that. There’s something about her manner, a seriousness in the way she says my name, that tells me she’s not here with good news.
‘Er, who’s asking?’ I add, suddenly feeling the fingers of the past creeping up my spine, like the day Paddy’s consultant spoke to us and delivered the bad news.
She looks around the concrete yard, taking in the milking parlour behind her, the farmhouse opposite with the single lamp on in the kitchen and the valley dropping away to the main road in the distance beyond, full of rain and cloud today.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ She nods towards the farmhouse. ‘Out of the rain?’
‘Talk? Yes. This sounds serious,’ I say, trying for a light tone, and she gives me a kind smile back. I hold out a hand and lead her in the direction of the farmhouse, where the doors are ajar, opening into the warm kitchen. I know there’s a saying about not letting strangers into your home, but this poor young woman is drenched to the skin. The least I can do is get her inside and warm.
