Chapter Text
Isla’s hand shook as she eased open the top drawer. Her heart fluttered high in her throat, making it hard to breathe, hard even to think. How could he? Why would he? She knew the answer to that – because it was all her fault. But she hadn’t thought... the grief of her grandfather dying, the stress of the promotion, and the extra workload that came with it... They’d only been supposed to calm her nerves, not... not kill her future. Their future.
She lifted the underwear and drew out the sleek leather sheath. Slid out its contents in a shimmer of silver. Her fingers gently caressed the blade. It bit, hungry for blood – still sharp, still waiting, always waiting. Ready – ready for when she would need it again. And oh, how she needed it now, needed the sharp bite of the razor blade. Her flesh parted beneath its touch, drew back in a wicked red smile. A droplet beaded, bright red, like a tiny jewel. Then another. She flinched a little, tears dancing in her eyes, hazing her vision. She eyed her pulse, fluttering just below the translucent skin of her wrist. So fragile, her flesh. She could do it, slice deep, let the blood escape. But she wouldn’t. Too risky – too damn messy. Besides, wrist slitting rarely worked. If Isla really, really wanted to kill herself (and the thought had crossed her mind oh, pretty much every day since that terrible, tragic day) she would choose something more permanent. A cliff, perhaps, a death dive into the ocean, where the waves would whisk her away, and her body feed the fishes.
Another slice, parallel to the first, and she felt the heavy weight ease, just a little, as though it too were draining from her. Blood trickled down her arm, mingled with her tears, dripped on her jeans. She set the blade aside, reached into the drawer to fish out a handkerchief, but her fingers brushed paper. An envelope? When had that got there? Curiosity rose, forcing her despair into submission and she drew it out. Light blue, slight creased around the edges, the stationery familiar. Her grandfather! She’d given it to him on his 80th birthday, because what else did you give an old man?
She had forgotten the letter, pressed into her hand three years ago, when he had moved into respite care, before the demons of dementia completely destroyed his brain. How had she forgotten it? He’d given it to her, told her that one day, when she felt crushed by the burden of life, and all that lay ahead was a growing emptiness, she could open it. At the time, she’d been married six months – and she’d been horrified. Felt almost like he was cursing her relationship. She’d refused to open it. “Just the ramblings of a sick old man,” her mother had insisted. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
Hadn’t she thrown it out? Obviously not, although she was almost certain she had not placed it in her underwear drawer. How had it got there? And what was in it? Money maybe? She could do with some of that right now. She’d been given two days to pack her things and leave; he was selling the house, their house, the house they had brought together, the house that was going to ring with the laughter of their children, the house in which they would grow old together. He wanted to erase her from his life.
Blood dripped from her arm, smeared across the envelope. She tied the handkerchief around her wrist. Her grandfather’s prophecy – or whatever kinda bullshit that was – had come true. Life was a fucking wretched burden, and all that lay ahead was a dark miserable void.
And perhaps it contained money.
She sliced it open with the razor blade; it tore the paper as smoothly as it bit her flesh. There were two pieces of paper inside, folded against one another. One, handwritten on notepaper that matched the envelope, in her grandfather’s shaky hand:
“Dear Isla,
If you’re reading this, you’re obviously in dire need of a change.”
Too right, she thought and read through. Then read it again. She unfolded the other piece of paper. It was much older, the paper weathered and crumpled at the edges, the creases deep enough that they were almost tears.
“Holy Yoba,” she whispered. “He’s left me the farm.”
*
Her pocket trilled with an incoming message. Isla set the final carton next to the pile on the porch, fished the phone from her coat and glanced at the screen. Four words, cold and to the point: Have you signed them?
Isla stared at the message. There were so many ways in which she could reply, so many things she could say: That she was sorry. Sorry she couldn’t be the perfect wife, couldn’t give him the perfect family. Sorry that things had gone so very, very wrong. But it didn’t matter. In the end, nothing mattered. Her words would change nothing.
Instead, she sent back one word: Yes.
The response came fast, phone vibrating against her hand: Good.
And that was that. Her marriage, terminated. House, gone.
Time for a new start.
*
She had been warned it would be derelict, it had been abandoned for almost a decade, but Isla had never thought it would be such a jungle. Nature appeared to have claimed her grandfather's farm with vigor.
“It's not as bad as it looks.”
She turned her attention to the elderly gentleman beside her. She hadn't really expected a personal welcome, but Mayor Lewis had been her grandfather's friend. Well dressed in corduroy and suspenders, a flat cap perched upon his head, he looked precisely like he had just stepped from the pages of English Country Life – the only thing missing was a border collie at his side. Lord of the manor indeed. She was willing to bet that his “manor” wasn't an overgrown mess of weed and rock.
Isla rose an eyebrow. “It isn't?” The rough wooden walls of the cottage were barely visible beneath a duvet of wisteria.
“Come on, I'll show you.”
Isla followed him up creaking stairs and stood patiently while he fumbled with the key. She cast her gaze over the farm – her farm now – and allowed herself a small sigh. What a damn mess. Still, at least here the people didn't know her, didn't know her past. Wouldn't look at her with sympathy and make petty small talk, afraid they might invoke the forbidden topic.
The door swung open with the faintest squeak, revealing a relatively tidy interior, illuminated by a fire dancing in the grate.
“Takes the edge of the cold,” he explained. “We might be headed into spring, but it can get a tad chilly in the mornings. A couple of the local ladies have tidied it up a bit, put on fresh sheets, that kind of thing. You can thank Miss Marnie for that. Anyhow, I’m sure it has been a long day – it’s a long trip from the city. So, I'll leave you to get settled in. If you need anything, just follow the path past your gate, but remember, country rules here – so everything closes early, except the saloon.”
“Thank you,” she replied, and he took that as closure, gave her a slight nod of farewell, and departed. She waited, listening until the sound of his boots crunching along the stone-strewn path faded, then shut the door with a click.
Isla blinked away unexpected tears, taking in the interior of the cottage, the sweet scent of lavender bringing back childhood memories. She had been here before, of course, spent holidays, and numerous Christmas's, with her grandfather. She had hunted for tadpoles in the farm pools, teased the goats, ridden the donkeys. How had it gotten into this, ramshackle state? Best not to think too hard about it – her grandfather’s final years, alone, before age and infirmity had led him to the hospice. She blinked unbidden dampness from her eyes. Damn those allergies. Must be all the dust in here.
Her possessions, such as they were, had been neatly stacked against one wall, cardboard boxes sagging a little beneath the weight. A crocheted quilt lay, neatly folded across the wide single bed, and a sprig of lavender placed in a vase on the table beside it. She flicked the light switch and released a relieved sigh when the tasseled standing lamp illuminated. Rustic definitely, but thank Yoba for some modern conveniences. Speaking of conveniences... her stomach rumbled, reminding her that lunch had been a sad plastic-wrapped egg sandwich from a small town dairy, many hours ago. A glance in the fridge revealed a selection of casserole dishes. Handwritten post-it notes affixed to them identified the contents, and how to reheat them. There were even more in the freezer – were they trying to make a hermit of her? And were these all from the mysterious Miss Marnie? Isla would have to find her and thank her. It took a bit of fiddling to get the gas stove to light, but soon the casserole was in, adding the delicious aroma of beans, tomatoes and spices to the air. Tomorrow, she would have to make a start on cutting back the wilderness, maybe look into putting in a raised garden bed or two, but tonight, well, tonight she could drift off with only the distant croaking of frogs and hum of insects to shepherd her into sleep.
*
A rooster’s crowing cut through the haze of sleep.
Where was she? Why was it so quiet? Yoba, was she late for work? Or was he still here? Her ears pricked, listening for footsteps, the sound of the shower, and then the rooster’s crow brought reality flooding back in. She was no longer in the city. No longer needed to put on the hideous Joja corporate uniform and plaster a false smile on her face. No longer sharing a house with a husband (soon to be ex-) that could no longer bear to look at her. Alone, but better for it. Or, at least that’s what she told herself.
The Mayor had been right. It was chilly in the morning. The fire had died during the night – she hadn’t banked it, knew nothing about how to care for an open grate fire – but sunlight, weak, early morning sunlight, streamed lethargically through the crack in the paisley curtains. Ugh, paisley. Her grandfather had not had good taste. She eased herself out of the bed, feeling a stiffness in her back. She would have to get a better bed. A bigger one too. Not that she would be sharing it with anyone ever again, but still... She wrapped her favorite dressing gown – a thick, canary yellow, flannel hug – around herself and padded, barefoot, into the kitchen. Leftover bean casserole for breakfast? No, she couldn’t stomach that right now. A coffee would have to suffice. The tap spluttered, pulsing out a horrid rust-red liquid for a few terrible moments, then with a ‘wooosh’ ran swift and clear. She set a pot on the stove to boil, fumbling through her boxes until she found the instant coffee and her favorite – slightly chipped – mug.
She stood on the porch, sipping the rank, sugary brew. Milk, she needed to buy milk. And proper coffee. The early morning light did little to improve the overgrown state of the place. Trees clustered in clumps, the ground scattered with logs and rocks, between them a tangled mass of weeds and knee high grass. What was that, beyond that cluster of trees, some sort of building? Her grandfather had definitely had a barn. Which would probably, now, be overrun with rats and other vermin. Well, might as well start there. She took a step, kicked something. A small box, a note bound to it with a bright red ribbon.
A present, for her?
Not quite. The note merely said, “Some seeds, to get you started.” Within, Isla found several packets of parsnip seeds and the information that they would grow within twelve days. Twelve days? That seemed surprisingly quick, but perhaps they were genetically modified. The one time she’d tried gardening at home nothing had sprouted except a rather dubious looking white fungus and a few weedy leeks. They’d mostly tasted like dirt, with a hint of grit.
Still, what else did she have to do? No work, no commitments. Of course, she could explore the village, maybe introduce herself to the locals, but the thought of that awoke the butterflies in her throat, whilst simultaneously dropping a lead weight on her chest. No, she wasn’t up to meeting new people, not yet. After some hunting, she located some tools in a lean-to attached to the house, and found amongst her grandfather’s bookshelf (which mostly contained Reader’s Digested condensed books and a game of scrabble missing all the vowels) a hefty tome on gardening. The watering can was old, and dribbled water all over her hands, so she set up her small, rudimentary garden near the pond.
*
Hours later, and Isla leaned against the porch. She wiped the dirt from her gloved hands, before wiping the sweat from her face. Gardening was surprisingly hard work, and parts of her were busy reminding her that perhaps she should’ve lived a slightly less sedentary existence. A different kind of pain from that she inflicted upon herself, but it seemed to numb her nerves with the same sense of calm. What time was it? A glance at her phone revealed well after lunch – and with that, her belly reminded her with a rolling rumble. Lunch, then perhaps she could explore her farm further. It would take forever for her lunch – something encased in pastry – to heat up, so she began flicking through the channels on the television. There seemed to be only two: one channel playing endless info-commercials, and the other a cooking show. She was partway through watching the rather comely chef cutting up raw fish to make sushi, when a knock at the door made her jump.
“Lewis?” she wondered aloud. Her legs groaned in protest when she stood to answer it and found, not the well-dressed mayor, but a red-haired woman.
“Hello,” she said. “You must be Isla. I’m Robin.” She held out her hand for Isla to shake. Her grip was firm, palm rough. “I’m the local carpenter.” She gave a slightly sad smile. “Sorry I wasn’t part of the welcoming committee. I was supposed to meet you yesterday but, well, something came up.” Her gaze drew away from Isla and drifted around the room, appraising the woodwork, no doubt. “She’s got a solid frame on her,” she continued, “but your grandfather – may he rest in peace – lived a fairly spartan life. If you need to upgrade, let me know.” She stepped forward, into the room, and Isla took a step back, unsure of how she felt about this invasion of her new sanctuary. If Robin noticed her reluctance, however, she didn’t let it show. Instead she stalked around the room, eyeing the corners. “Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause, “I could certainly extend your kitchen – maybe put in a larger window – let in the morning light. If I remember rightly, this place was quite dreary in winter, and you never know, one day you might want to start a family here.”
“No,” Isla replied quickly, biting back the stab of pain. “It’s fine, thanks. I like it the way it is. Homey, and all that.”
Robin nodded, the flicker of minor disappointment gone in a heartbeat. “Of course,” she said. “Well, I can help with the outbuildings too. If I recall correctly, there was a coop and a barn.”
“That would be great,” Isla replied, not wanting to upset the visitor, but also wanting her gone. She had lived four years in the city without sharing more than a nod with her neighbors. Conversation with strangers was draining, especially one as forward as this red-haired carpenter.
To her credit, Robin seemed to sense Isla’s discomfit. “Well, best be on my way then,” she said. “If you need help with anything woodwork wise – or just want some company, as I imagine it must be quite lonely here – follow the path up behind the house. It’s a bit of a steep climb, but follow it around, and it’ll bring you straight to my house. I can see myself out,” she concluded. “Enjoy your lunch.”
As if on cue, Isla’s phone timer trilled, telling her it was time to check on the pie.