WRITE ME A LOVE STORY Prologue

WRITE ME A LOVE STORY

By Janet Baldey 

Prologue

As I opened the door of my cottage, sunshine flooded in, its warmth washed over me.  I looked up at the sky, listening to the quarrelling birds in the trees and my spirits rose.   At last, the dead hand of winter was loosening its grip.   For almost another year the ache in my bones wouldn’t sing in tune with the bitter wind; spring had arrived and the golden length of summer lay before me.   Reluctant to break the spell, I stood treasuring the moment.   

Memories of hard silver frosts fading, I set off towards the smallholding, following the winding path down the hill.   Every now and then I caught a glimpse of the village nestling on the floor of the valley.  From this height, I could cup it in the centre of my palm, the houses were tiny and minuscule cars, like beetles with flashing eyes, trundled through its streets.  

         At one point, I left the track and walked a few yards across the verge towards a field.   Leaning against its gate, I could just see the remains of the camp:  under a shimmer of sunlight, it stood silent, a part of my life frozen in time.  Green veins of ivy crawled over the huts and tough purple mallow was pushing its way through cracks in the concrete. Gradually, nature was taking over; in a few years, nobody would know it had ever existed.  I turned back to the path, not really sure why I was there; I was only stirring up memories best laid to rest.   Georg was no longer part of my life and after so many years, I should have got used to the idea.   

The smallholding glowed under the sun as I walked up its drive.   When David took over a few years ago, he’d stripped away the ugly plaster, revealing its fine brickwork and had built on a couple of wings, extending it to right and left so that it now lay, curved like a bow.   But, before lifting so much as a finger, he’d taken me aside to explain why he needed to alter the family home so drastically.

‘It’s not a working farm any more, Mum.   We’re turning it into traditional farmhouse accommodation so it needs to be made as attractive as possible.   People must want to stay here, you do see that, don’t you?’

I remember a feeling of tenderness as I saw the anxiety on his face, but he needn’t have worried.   I loved its new look.  I didn’t even strongly object to its changed name.  No longer just the smallholding, it was now ‘The Olde Farmhouse.’   Inwardly I cringed but was grateful he’d preserved the original building’s one redeeming feature, the misty blue wisteria flowers that, each spring, dripped from its eaves like static waterfalls. 

Pushing open the back door, at first, I thought the kitchen was empty.   White light streamed in through the brand new picture windows, rebounding off the chrome and enamel surfaces in glittering shards.  Dazzled by its brilliance, I narrowed my eyes and squinted about the room.

         ‘Anybody home?’

There was a small movement in a corner and, as my sight adjusted, I saw David slumped over a small oval table littered with paper.

         ‘Hello, love.’ 

         He lifted his head and my smile faltered.  His eyes were streaked with crimson, reminding me of images I’d seen while researching a novel set in the Punjab.  The novel never came to anything.  I’m more suited to writing for children, but I’d never forgotten my research.  For dramatic effect, Indian actors push aubergine flower seeds under their lids to redden their eyeballs and David’s must-have rivalled theirs.   A layer of stubble prickled his chin and as I watched his fingers ploughed in nervous gestures through his hair, corrugating it into ridges. 

         ‘David! You look terrible.  Is anything wrong?’

         ‘Morning Mum.  Been up all night.  Trying to make sense of this lot.’   He waved his hand at the scattered paperwork.

         ‘Where’s Anna?’

         ‘Upstairs.  Sleeping, I hope.  She was up most of the night.’  His voice was terse.   With a gesture of hopelessness, he tossed down his pen.

         ‘Look, Mum, I’m sorry but I’ve some bad news.'  Avoiding my eyes, he picked up his pen again and tapped black dots into a sheet of paper. 

         ‘The business has gone down the drain.  We’re selling up.  There’s nothing else we can do.’

          For a moment I stared, frozen into silence, then my hands flew to my ears as if to block out his words. I shook my head. This couldn’t be right. Over the past few years, every time I called round they’d made some improvement, either to the house or garden.   There was always something new to see and with all the new gadgets following close, one upon the other, I’d imagined the business was thriving.

         ‘Don’t be silly, you’ve just had a new kitchen fitted’.   As soon as the words were out, I bit my lips.  The look on his face should have told me this was serious.   Desperately, I tried to make amends.   For both our sakes, there had to be some hope.

 ‘Perhaps, it’s just a case of too fast too soon?   Maybe you just need more time to get established.  You’ve worked so hard.  It’s bound to come right in the end.’

         He laughed without humour, an ugly cawing noise that made a mockery of my suggestion.

‘Try to understand, Mum.  We have no more time. We’re bust.  We’ve no bookings.   For months, it’s been just a few one-nighters, and they don’t cover the bills. Nobody’s holidaying in England any more.  They’re all going abroad.’

He paused and my face must have reflected my feelings because suddenly he stood up, reached out and drew me close.   My body slumped against his and I rested my face against the bony rim of his collarbone feeling the tears gathering behind my closed lids.   Although I no longer lived here, the smallholding had been my life and I couldn’t believe that now, after all that had happened, it was going to be sold.  A stranger would move in and take over my home and I didn’t think I could bear it.    

         Misunderstanding, David tried to comfort me.     

‘Don’t worry Mum. We’ll have no problem finding a buyer.  We ordinary folk can’t make ends meet but there's plenty of people with money to burn, itching to buy a place in the country.”  His voice was bitter. ‘Anna and I will be all right.   I’ve already got something lined up.   But, it’s you I worry about.’  He hesitated.   ‘We’ll be moving away but you could always come with us….’

         I stepped back, disentangling myself from his arms. Part of me wondered why I hadn’t been told before.   He must have known for some time, these things don’t happen overnight: but then David had always been like that, a little secretive.  I never really knew what was going on in his head.  In the past, whenever I’d caught him out in a white lie, or something he’d chosen not to tell me, I’d felt as if a lance had been thrust deep into my side.   Then, I’d remember my secret.   A secret so huge it made his petty lies insignificant.    It was a secret I’d vowed never to reveal and now that Sarah had moved away, it would die with me. 

         As so often in the past, I forced a smile. ‘I’ll be okay. I’ve got plenty of friends.’

It was a lie and we both knew it.  The truth was, for many years, I’d lived a solitary existence.   It hadn’t always been that way but times change.   If nothing else, life had taught me that.  When Frank and I had first married there had been a strong community of local farmers working small plots all over the valley but over the years most had left the land.  Large consortiums had taken over the vacant fields, the distance between farmhouses had increased and gradually the sense of pulling together had been lost.   It was the same with the village.   I’d lived here most of my life and had been on nodding terms with almost all the villagers.  But now, when I did my weekly shop, I felt out of place amongst the familiar maze of streets. Everywhere ‘For Sale’ signs were sprouting in the tiny cottage gardens; like alien vegetation, they were crowding out the hollyhocks and wallflowers.  Most of the people I’d known were gone and all the new faces made me feel as old as the hills that ringed the valley.   But I knew I could never leave.  This was where I belonged and the past had too strong a hold on me. I reached out and patted his arm.

‘You mustn’t worry about me, there’s always my writing.’

         David laughed again and this time the sound rang true.

‘You and your stories, Mum.   When are you going to write me one?’

         I froze.  That’s just what he’d said; just before he went away.

         ‘Write me a story, Flora.  One of love and loss and love regained.’  The words had sounded foreign on his tongue.

         ‘Mum?’

         I came to with a start, realising that David was speaking; he looked at me, a question in his eyes.

 ‘Sorry, just daydreaming.’

‘I said that sometimes I wish you’d married again.’

         I shook my head.  ‘Over the hill.’

         ‘Nonsense.  You’re still a looker.  But I suppose there was never any other man for you after Dad. ’

         My eyes flicked towards his face but it was in shadow and I couldn’t read his expression.

As I left, I passed a line of laburnum trees their branches bowed under their burden of liquid sunshine.  My shoulder brushed against the heavy blossom, releasing its musky perfume.   I remembered planting those trees just after Frank and I moved in.   The smallholding had looked very different then; just a single storey building with a swaybacked roof.   Damp patches had spread across walls that were peeling and discoloured as if suffering from some chronic skin disease.    At that time it had been just one up from a hovel but inside Frank’s head, it had been quite different.  He had plans.   We’d work hard, buy more land and live happily ever after.  I wandered back to the cottage, remembering things I’d not thought of in years.  As time went on, I noticed this was happening more and more.  Increasingly, I inhabited the past and dreaming the days away had become a habit. 

       Unlatching the door, I walked into my living room towards my writing desk, Georg’s words chiming in my head. Maybe, it was time to write that story. Another chapter in my life was drawing to a close; who knew how many more there’d be?  Maybe, this was a sign.  I sat down and reached for some paper, inserted a sheet into my typewriter and stared at its blank, white face.  Slowly, my fingers started to move.   They felt stiff and awkward at first, my movements were jerky and several times the keys jammed but then my nerves settled.   I was doing this for myself and Georg, nothing else mattered.

Copyright Janet Baldey

This is the prologue to a longer story, would you like Janet to post more?