On the day Alicia Carlyle drove towards the village, a lone car weaving through the lush green flow of the countryside, with a small suitcase and laptop computer on the back seat of her second-hand Renault, and a rawness in her heart too tender to touch, there were no indications of what was to come. The summery stillness was as smooth and unshakable as a painting, and she was only focused on trying to empty her mind of what she’d left behind. What awaited her, after a prolonged absence – not of her choosing – could be worse, but she wasn’t going to think about that either. She was simply going to continue her journey, keeping her eyes on the road and her thoughts skimming over easy issues such as the need to pick up some milk when she reached the village, and how wonderfully familiar and welcoming everything looked in the generous sparkle of the sunlight.
Alicia was tall, very slim, with long, crinkly fair hair that flowed down her back in a tangle of bouncy coils. Her eyes
were pale blue – as clear and inviting, Craig used to say, as a tropical sea before it reached the shore. ‘They make me want to wade in so I can get even closer to you and maybe find out what’s hidden in the darkest depths.’ She smiled as she recalled the words, then her lips shook and tightened as grief threw its black cloak over the memory. She hadn’t had any secrets back then, and as far as she knew nor had he.
Alicia’s large, ruby red mouth formed a vital part of her beautiful smile, as infectious as the ring of her girlish laugh. Though she’d turned thirty-nine a week ago, thanks to the events of the past two years – the last six months in particular – she felt closer to fifty. She’d acquired several lines in recent weeks, and plenty of shadows, both inside and out. Today she was dressed in her usual get-up of skinny jeans with rips in the knees, a long white shirt girdled by a low-slung belt, and a hand-embroidered waistcoat, plus her trademark man’s cap, to top it off – a look highly approved of by Darcie, her fashionista of a twelve-year-old daughter.
Alicia had grown up in Holly Wood. After leaving to take up her place at Oxford Brookes to study the history of art, she’d always visited regularly, spending long weekends with her mother, as well as summer holidays and every Christmas. This hadn’t changed when she’d met Craig and they’d married. The only Christmas they’d missed was the year Darcie was born, when Monica had come to London, to help take care of five-year-old Nathan.
Alicia would never have got through the first eighteen months of Darcie’s life without her mother’s support, and nor would Craig. The terror that they might lose their precious baby girl at any moment had made it impossible for them to carry on functioning as a normal family until the mysterious virus attacking her tiny heart was diagnosed and treated, or gave up of its own accord. Monica had been there throughout, calm and steady, throwing reins around rampant fears, and always keeping their hopes alive even in the darkest hours. And, just as importantly, Monica had been wonderful with Nat, making him feel special and the centre of her world while his mummy and daddy were at the hospital, willing his little sister to stay with them.
The mystery virus never had been identified, but these days no one would ever guess at Darcie’s difficult start in life. She was the picture of health, as lively and gregarious as any girl her age could be, with a properly pounding heart and an overly developed sense of her own importance. Merely thinking of her was enough to warm Alicia all the way through and when she added her handsome young son, now seventeen, to the mix she was reminded of how very much she had to be grateful for.
Now, as she turned from the main A37 road, away from the distant view of Glastonbury Tor, to start winding towards Holly Wood, Alicia’s insides were unbearably tense. She wondered how much the village might have changed since the last time she’d seen it, while knowing it almost certainly wouldn’t have, because it never did. It was one of the things she loved most about it, and also what she was dreading.
She’d never have stopped coming if her mother hadn’t insisted. She’d have found the courage to brave out the mess they were all in, but Monica couldn’t bear the rift that had developed between Alicia and her older brother, Robert, who still lived in the village with his wife, Sabrina, and her flighty, exquisitely lovely young daughter, Annabelle. Though neither Robert nor Alicia was to blame for what had caused the rift in their family, whenever Alicia was around Monica felt forced to choose sides, without ever doing so. When she became ill with cancer Alicia had given up arguing. The stress would only worsen her mother’s condition, and loving her as much as she did she wanted her around for many more years to come, even if she wasn’t allowed to visit her.
Monica had died a year ago. By then she was in a hospice about ten miles from Holly Wood, so Alicia had been able to visit without upsetting her. She’d stayed with her right to the end, holding her hands, smoothing her face and swearing on her children’s lives that she forgave her for pushing her away.
‘I didn’t mean to exclude you,’ Monica croaked, tears rolling from her jaundiced eyes. ‘You know I love you with all my heart, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ Alicia assured her. ‘It was an impossible situation. You were right in the middle…’
‘But it wasn’t your fault. I should have been there for you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Mum. I survived and it was important for you to be able to go on living in the house.’
Monica didn’t argue with that. She couldn’t, when Holly Wood was the only home she’d known for the past forty-two years – the nineteen before that had been spent growing up in a neighbouring village.
During the final days, at her mother’s request, Alicia had brought Nat and Darcie to say their goodbyes. It had been heart-rending to watch Darcie, barely eleven at the time, sobbing as she clung to her grandmother’s bony hand begging her not to go, but harder still was the way fifteen-year-old Nat, who’d always adored his grandmother, had refused to come any closer than the end of the bed. His pale, handsome face had shown his grief, but the fact that Monica hadn’t wanted to include his father in her final goodbyes was a slight he couldn’t forgive.
Craig hadn’t come to the funeral, either. He and Alicia had agreed it would be for the best if he stayed away. Alicia knew that Nat was still baffled by the decisions his parents had taken, but to explain them would have hurt and confused him even further, and no one, least of all Alicia, wanted to do that.
So this was the first time since her mother’s funeral that she was going to set foot in the village where she and Robert had grown up, her mother had organised all the charity events and her father, and grandfather before him, had been the local GP. As children they’d been devoted to their father, who’d had the magical knack of making everything all right when the end of the world was closing in fast, and turning small achievements into the greatest triumphs with his booming laughter and ready praise. Losing him when they were still in their teens had opened Robert’s and Alicia’s eyes to how randomly cruel life could be. Robert’s realisation of this was particularly acute, as their father had drowned trying to save his son from a freak riptide on holiday in Spain. Though more than
twenty years had passed since that terrible time, still hardly a day went by when Alicia didn’t think about her father, and she knew Robert did too. During the past couple of years she’d often found herself wondering how he might have reacted to the events that had torn his family apart. How different their world might be now if he were still with them.
The strangeness inside her began sharpening and softening as the lazy sprawl of the village came into view. It was painful to see, yet wonderful too. Beside it the new estate sat basking in the sunshine, seeming too gaudy and polished next to the crumbling old cluster of buildings, like a hopeful tart on the doorstep of a stately pile, as Craig had once described it.
The high street was deserted as she drove in, no sign of anyone even in the pub garden, as far as she could make out. News of her return would spread soon enough though, since her decision to call into the shop to pick up the milk she’d forgotten to get at Sainsbury’s on her way out of London would be bound to speed things along.
The quaint little store hadn’t changed much – the same tinkling bell over the door, the familiar smell of liquorice and tobacco, and shelves crammed full of jars, boxes and cans dating back to the 1970s. The cold counter was in its usual place, stuffed with Wiltshire hams, sides of country-cured bacon, pressed loaves of locally made corned beef, and succulent rounds of cheese from Cheddar. The till had clearly been updated, but the newspapers were still displayed on a rack in front of the ice-cream freezer, and an oval island in the middle of the shop remained home to everything from Tetley’s tea bags, to tubes of Germolene, to disposable barbecues in silver-foil trays. What used to be the post office was now a large cold store offering freshly made baps, Cornish pasties, quiches, Scotch eggs and an impressive selection of soft drinks. There was even, Alicia noticed, a separate fridge for wine, and two bistro tables sporting tea menus chalked on little blackboards propped up between the sugar bowl and the condiments: Holly Wood’s answer to café society.
As Mrs Neeve came bustling through from the back,
Alicia helped herself to a half-litre carton of milk and took out her purse to pay.
‘That’ll be sixty p,’ Mrs Neeve announced, clearly not recognising her right away.
Alicia handed over the money and smiled as Mrs Neeve’s expression turned from bland to curious to outright astonishment and pleasure. ‘Alicia?’ she said, tilting her head to one side. ‘Yes, it is. Well, I’ll be damned. There’s a surprise. Never knew you was coming. How are you, my dear?’
‘I’m fine,’ Alicia assured her. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, mustn’t grumble, but it’s been that hot these last few days…On a visit, are you? How long are you staying?’ Her voice darkened. ‘I’m really sorry about your loss. I know how close you were, so it must have been hard for you these past…’
‘Thank you,’ Alicia said softly. ‘I see the post office is gone. I expect you miss running it.’
‘Oh, I do, that’s true, but there was nothing we could do. Not that we didn’t fight to hang on to it, mind you. You might even have seen us on the news. You know what Sabrina’s like when she starts up one of her campaigns. She nearly always wins, God bless her, whether she’s sorting out something for the old folk, or protecting the wildlife, or trying to save our little-biddy old post office. She kept us going a lot longer than some, though, because this was the second battle we fought. You might remember how we won the first one a few years ago. There was no winning this one, though. Their minds was made up, they had to make cuts and we was for the chop no matter what. I think Sabrina took it hard. She doesn’t like losing, and what with her not really being herself at the time… She seems a lot better now, I’m glad to say. Or she did the last time I saw her, but you know what it’s like, one day up, the next down. I don’t think they ever found out what was wrong with her, did they? I was only saying to Mimi the other day, she takes on too much in one go, that’s her trouble. She should pace herself a bit more. Mind you, I don’t know where half of us would be without her. We got in a right pickle when we was left to organise the summer fete ourselves thanks
to her problem, and the harvest festival, and she still wasn’t up to much come Christmas.’
Alicia was smiling politely, knowing she’d have to get used to hearing Sabrina’s name, but wanting only to think of a suitable exit line without seeming rude.
‘Listen to me rambling on,’ Mrs Neeve clucked, ‘and I haven’t even asked about the children. They here too, are they? Be lovely to see them. I expect they’ve really grown up since the last time I saw them.’
‘Probably too much,’ Alicia told her wryly. ‘I’ll be sure to send them in when they arrive. I’d better go now, thanks for the milk,’ and before the gossipy old soul could draw breath to lavish any more praise on the redoubtable Sabrina, or ask again how long she, Alicia, was staying, she beat a hasty retreat. She knew that by the time she reached her mother’s house news of the surprise visit would be buzzing through the Holly Wood phone lines like currents of electricity, perking up everyone’s interest. They’d probably all have an idea as to why she’d turned up now, some would even speak with the kind of authority that suggested they had inside info, but they didn’t, because she hadn’t contacted anyone before coming. For a while she’d toyed with the idea of getting in touch with her oldest and dearest friend, Rachel Herrington, but had decided in the end to wait until she was installed before letting Rachel know she was back. Rachel would feel obliged to take time off to greet her, and as the only vet for miles around, it was time her friend could ill afford.
Alicia steered the car around the village green, as the locals called it, in spite of its narrowness and lack of grass, and felt a lump starting to form in her throat. Would she be able to face driving into The Close, then going into her mother’s house without her mother being there? She had done this once, after the funeral, but the place had been so crowded with mourners that the emptiness had had no real chance to register.
Now, after avoiding it for a year, she was dreading what she might find; broken windows, mice, mould, a hopelessly overgrown garden? She wondered how she could have allowed her mother’s pride and joy to go to rack and ruin.
She felt so much shame that she almost braked to stop herself going any further.
A few minutes later she was still sitting in the car outside the Old Coach House, staring at the recently mown lawn and baskets of fresh flowers hanging either side of the black front door. In days gone by this was where the carriages of travellers used to be stored while their gentrified owners rested at the local hostelry. Her great-grandparents had turned it into a home which had undergone several internal changes down the years, but the outside, being listed, had never been altered, only restored. Now, its honey-coloured Hamstone walls, arched leaded windows and black slate roof were glistening wetly after a summer downpour a few minutes ago. It made the place look slick and new. The ornamental carriage wheel beside the door appeared as polished as the brass knocker, and the yellow flowering clematis roaming its way over the climbing trellis was as healthily abundant as it had ever been in her mother’s day.