My Dearest Nellie,
The storm last week brought the telephone wires down. Lorcan Davies will hopefully have them up and running before this letter reaches you, but I couldn’t wait to let you know that I’ve booked my flights. Da is not pleased, but Richard says he’s happy to keep things ticking over for a week. Bucky will lend a hand if anything untoward happens, but I’m sure Da and my brother will be grand.
I’ll be landing at midday on 27 March. I can’t believe I’ll have gone a whole seven months without seeing your face (or kissing you!) but the photographs help – thank you for sending them. I’d be wondering if last summer was a foolish dream if it wasn’t for hearing your beautiful voice every Sunday. Speaking with you is like a drink of water from Liath Spring after six days labouring in the dirt. I’m afraid that knowing I’ll be with you in March could make the days drag even slower. But I’m a farmer and, even as my heart bursts with longing, patience is in my bones.
Besides, there’s plenty of work to keep me occupied. Ma wants a new greenhouse for her spring seedlings, on top of everything else. Da is slower every year, although he’d rather blame the tools or the weather – his sons – anything but admit he’s growing old. Which again brings up the same arguments about investing some money into making the farm easier. If it was up to him, we’d still be harvesting with a scythe.
Anyway, I’m rambling again.
All this was simply to tell you that I’ll be in Nottingham before you know it.
And I love you.
And will think of you and miss you every minute between now and then.
Entirely yours,
With faith, hope and love
G
I lay in the luxurious bed for a long time that night, gazing at the sliver of moon through the window. My thoughts tossed up and down like a dinghy from Port Cathan harbour out on the Irish Sea: Mum. The kiosk. How Barnie had the audacity to charge a pound for those mutant doughnuts.
I thought about change. How terrifying it had always seemed. How exhausting it was proving to be.
And yet, like when doing anything momentous or significant – climbing a mountain, building a house, or childbirth – I imagined, because I’d never come close to doing any of those things – for the first time in longer than I could bear to remember, I felt properly, wholly alive.
The last thought, before my mind gently drifted into the harbour of sleep?
I had talked, and laughed, and sat in a truck beside Pip.
I was in his sister’s house.He’d come to find me.
His family seemed to believe Pip liked me, as more than a friend.
Could I dare to believe it too?
11
After waking at the decadent hour of six-thirty, I scrolled through my phone for a few minutes until the Wi-Fi vanished, made another cup of tea and pulled up the armchair to admire the view out of the sash window. The yellow room overlooked a long lawn, dotted with fruit trees. There were two hammocks, more chairs, a complicated climbing frame and, in one corner, a chicken coop. Beyond the back wall were fields, which I guessed were part of Hawkins Farm, owned by Pip’s family. A herd of cows were meandering along a hedge, and on the horizon behind them glistened a thin, silvery ribbon that I realised, with a flush of delight, was the sea. I looked for any sign of a farmhouse, but there were trees blocking the view on one side, and a cluster of cottages on the other.
Just after seven, Malcolm ambled down the garden, a small child in a mole onesie holding his hand, a slightly older boy dressed in shorts, wellington boots and a cowboy hat walking next to them. The boy, who must have been Jack, reached up to open the door on the chicken coop, and, after a little encouragement, five black and white hens trooped out. Malcolm had a brief tussle with Beanie over whether she needed his helpto scatter a carton of food (Beanie won), and they left the birds to their pecking and scratching.
Deciding it was probably breakfast for humans as well as chickens, I took a blissful shower in the en suite wet room and selected the rose sundress that Blessing assured me complemented the strawberry-blonde tones in my hair. What she hadn’t mentioned was that it had straps instead of a proper back, and only reached halfway down my thighs. For a woman who lived in cotton trousers and a T-shirt, I had to fight feeling as though I were heading to breakfast with strangers half dressed.
The scent of scrambled eggs and coffee greeted me at the kitchen door. Malcolm and the girls were sitting at the table eating, while Lily stood at the stove, supervising Jack prodding the contents of a frying pan, an apron over his bare chest.
‘How did you sleep?’ Lily asked, her face a mix of eagerness and trepidation.
‘Brilliantly.’
‘The bed was comfy?’
‘It was wonderful.’
‘Room wasn’t too hot or cold? Because I forgot to show you where the thermostat is…’
‘It was just right.’