Two hours later, Hope had been fed, changed and changed again. I, on the other hand, had only managed to consume a glass of water and the mushed up remains of her banana. For some reason, Hope thought she was the one with something to cry about.
An hour after that, watching the clock like a crack sniper scrutinises their target, only while weeping slightly and with far less steady hands, I gave up trying to placate her screams and decided to distract myself with some further farmhouse exploring.
I peeked into three additional bedrooms on the first floor. Each contained a bed, a solid looking wardrobe and maybe a chest of drawers or a pair of matching bedside tables. The walls were covered in tatty wallpaper similar to the rest of the house, with threadbare carpets in indistinguishable shades, and yet more oppressive curtains. One of them must have been Daniel’s childhood bedroom – there were football trophies decorating one shelf, the others filled with children’s books and a wonky globe. There was also a tiny box room lined with shelving full of bedding and other odds and ends like broken lampshades and cracked leather suitcases. And then, behind the final door, I found another staircase. Balancing carefully as I carried Hope up the steep steps, we found an attic split into another bathroom, a large storage space tucked under the eaves, and what I instantly knew was Charlie’s room. Stretching half the length of the house, the room included three gabled windows and a sloping roof on either side. Rather than a carpet, brightly coloured rugs lay on top of faded floorboards. Three of the walls were covered in white wallpaper dotted with unicorns, while the wall opposite the windows was a deep yellow.
Her bed was utterly Charlie: a gold bedframe with a pale pink canopy, still made up with pink and gold speckled bedding. There were open wardrobes and shelving filling half of one wall, haphazardly stuffed with clothes, shoes and other accessories as if trying to make it impossible to find what she wanted quickly. A dressing table was covered in make-up, jewellery and other knick-knacks, and the rest of the room – a huge armchair, the bookcase, the floor – was simply filled with Charlie. Stuffed toys, souvenirs from her travels, pretty notepads and art equipment. Stacks of books and yet more shoes. A string of fairy lights in the shape of flamingos draped across one wall, mobiles and windchimes dangled from the higher points of the ceiling.
There were still old bottles of toiletries scattered about the tiny shower room. Musty, mildewed towels squatted in one corner, and a brightly coloured robe hung on the back of the door.
There was a photograph on the little table beside her pillow: Charlie in her pyjamas, in this bed, a newborn baby in her arms. I recognised the blanket Hope was swaddled in as the now worn piece of cloth that she snuggled in her cot. But I barely recognised the woman who held her: I had never met this Charlie. She looked… serene. Like she had finally found the answer. Like those brain-death demons of darkness had been vanquished forever by the tiny, beautiful promise in her arms.
Oh, Charlie.
I had never understood that heartbreak was a physical pain that genuinely felt as though something vital had splintered inside your ribs, leaving shards jamming into the soft flesh deep inside.
I lay on the bed on one side, Hope safely tucked up against me, buried my head into the sweet, subtle scent of my friend, and wished and ached for all that had not been, and now could never be.
Unfortunately, seven-month-old babies don’t have much patience for moments of unbridled desolation. Once the wiggling became accompanied by whimpers, we got up to explore the contents of the room. Hope opted to make a thorough investigation of a plastic sandal while I tackled some notebooks.
I found it near the back of the second one. So far, I’d skimmed through poetry and scattered jottings that ranged from joyful exuberance through wistful musings to bleak, all-consuming anguish that skittered chills up my spine.
But here, I found hope for a future. Dreams and plans. My heart cracked all over again as I read pages and pages of Charlie’s ideas to turn the farmhouse into a retreat. Asanctuary.A place for artists and writers, bakers and crafters. Overworked health workers who spent all day every day taking care of others at the expense of themselves. Businesspeople, frayed and frazzled and so stuck in their never-ending treadmill of achievement that they couldn’t remember what was really important.
A chance for people to reconnect with the earth again. To slow down to nature’s steady pace. To stop thinking and startsensing: to smell the damp wood after a storm, the fragrance of the blossom in spring. To listen to the sound of life thriving in every corner, every crevice – the birds, the bees, the rustling of the leaves. To taste – tomatoes plucked that morning, bursting with goodness. Herbs grown on the patio sprinkled over pasta rolled out the old-fashioned way. And, of course, to touch – hands buried in the textures of the garden, seeking treasure in the peaty vegetable beds. The kiss of sunshine on tired skin. The glorious exuberance of icy wind in their hair.
And to stop, and look. To soak up a world unobstructed by concrete and tarmac. Rolling hills stretching out across the horizon. A myriad of stars undimmed by city lights.
I was flabbergasted. I had no idea Charlie had this in her.
She had added sketches of the rooms, as well as listed the gatherings she would hold in the orchard and the field beyond that ran down to the river. Examples of menus, and plans for secret nooks she would create in the garden for people to sit and ponder. There were designs for a vegetable patch, and a fire pit beside a tiny stage area at the top of the meadow, space to dance as well as relax.
Charlie had invented a tiny heaven on earth.
She had peppered the pages with mentions of me: ‘Ask El about prices’, ‘Check with El if this could work’, ‘EL I NEED YOU!’, ‘How much could El invest?? – would need to draw up contract so proper business partners.’
She’d finished off the last page of the notebook with this:
A place to feed your senses, your stomach, your creativity and your soul. To recharge, reconnect and reimagine. To wander and to wonder. To remember who you are, and that who you are matters.
I wanted to go to this place so badly my feet were twitching to get on up and get there.
And as I read, and thought, and wandered through my friend’s imagination, Hope gnawing on her fist, eyes transfixed on the crystal mobile gently spinning above her, I began to wonder.
Could I create this place? Could I do it, without Charlie?
I could cook and clean, and probably manage some basic decorating. I knew how to serve people, take bookings, and complete most of the admin that came with running a hotel – and what I didn’t know, I could ask my parents. Daniel could teach me how to grow things. I’d been to enough events to know how to create an atmosphere. And what if Nora ended her career by writing about how coming here had transformed her, been her grand epiphany?
My heart began to accelerate. It was like seeing the first streak of pale light washing across the horizon. Now, I had something worth working for. Worth living for.
I could do this.
I would do it for Charlie, as my legacy to her. And for Daniel, and for Hope. And for me. And every other lost and lonely, stress-riddled, worn-out, washed-up person who needed it, too.
10
After cobbling together a basic lunch for us both out of a giant jacket potato and some cheese and salad, we went shopping. Ferrington had two small supermarkets according to my online search, one on Old Main Street, and one on the New Side of the river, imaginatively called New Main Street. I could have made a longer trip to a proper supermarket, but I wanted to have a look around the village – and although Daniel had left me full instructions about how the pram converted into a car seat, a walk seemed enough of an expedition for now.
It was a twenty-minute stroll through the orchard, across the field and along a short footpath beside the river until we reached the first row of cottages that led us into the village. The day was mild for January, although the sky was overcast and the shadows gloomy, and pushing Hope ensured my cheeks retained a warm glow. It was easy to spot the shop, and I was grateful I hadn’t risked driving as every space was full along the narrow street leading up to it.
