filing insurance claims. A sedentary lifestyle was no good for a man.
The dripping tap interrupted Pauline’s thoughts. She shuffled over to the sink and used all the brute force she had in both hands to turn the tap off. The drip persisted and Pauline shook her head. The tiles were cracked around the window, the wooden frame was rotten. There was so much to do. She poured her tea, carried it to the scrubbed oak table and sat down, reaching for the cake tin and fingering a chocolate cream fudge square. She sipped tea and munched her cake, deep in thought.
She and Douglas had moved here just over three years ago. She’d loved Winsley Green from the first moment she arrived, and they’d said it would be their last home, their most comfortable, the country idyll. The little three-bedroomed cottage was cosy, in need of some TLC, but it would be perfect when it was finished, like something from a glossy magazine about perfect rural lifestyles. Pauline remembered with a sigh. Douglas didn’t make it through the winter. He’d been in the pub, the Sheep Dip, drinking a single malt with the locals. By all accounts he was on his fourth when he fell down on the flagstones and died where he lay. His heart had stopped. A kind doctor had told her much later that Douglas had had a pulmonary embolism; he probably hadn’t felt a thing.
Pauline had felt alone and empty. Her elder sister Barbara had come over from Cambridge to stay for a week, but she hadn’t helped. Barbara had said that at least Douglas had died the way he’d have wanted to, with a glass of malt in his hand, and he hadn’t suffered. But Pauline was left behind, suffering. She was alone and the house was badly in need of renovation. It was all so sudden, and at first she’d no idea how to pick herself up, or where to start. She’d spent those days after his death sitting in stunned silence. Then, gradually, she started to occupy herself with small things: cleaning, tidying, trying to become independent. The locals were friendly, always offering a neighbourly word or a carton of free-range eggs, and two years had passed slowly, but she was coping. The house was cold.
Some days had been better than others; for the first few months, it had been too easy to retreat into herself and she’d been glad of the distraction from the local residents, who would call in whether she’d asked them to or not, and would help themselves to coffee or tea and fudgy cupcakes. She hadn’t seen Barbara for a while, though. Barbara had said that Winsley Green was a terrible place, either too remote and lonely or full of gossips and busybodies; she’d go out of her mind if she had to stay in such a backwater for long.
Pauline smiled. She was coping well now. She missed Douglas but she was made of strong stuff. Winsley Green was her home now; the community surrounded her like a warm blanket. She belonged; she’d become part of the fabric, part of the thick stone walls of the cottage, a small spoke in the hub of the community. The locals were lovely, like a second family.
Pauline wiped crumbs from the corner of her mouth and swiped the last morsels of cake from the wooden table into her hand, then into the bin. She picked up the empty teacup and took it to the sink, placing it below the dripping tap. At least the water wouldn’t go to waste. She leaned against the Belfast sink and wondered what to make for lunch. She’d treat herself to something nice and nutritious, like homemade soup and crusty rolls.
She picked up the radio and fiddled with the switch; she’d listen to Radio 4. A friendly voice in the room might lift her spirits, which had started to sag a little today. Pauline glanced at the silver urn again. The Sheep Dip would be open now, Oskar and Justina pulling pints and chatting to the customers. A log fire would be burning in the huge hearth and, if Douglas were still alive, it was likely that’s where he’d be. The dripping tap would still need fixing; the window frame would still be rotten.
Pauline was pulled from her thoughts by a resonant banging sound: someone was at the front door, heaving the huge horseshoe knocker. She wiped her fingers on a teacloth, dabbed a hand over her hair where the strands had come loose, and rushed down the hallway to open the heavy door. Len Chatfield filled the doorway, his square shoulders broad inside a tight jacket, the fabric torn and dirty. His blue eyes stared at her from beneath grey wavy hair. His face was ruddy, wind-ravaged, whiskers blooming from the lower part of his cheeks, and he looked anxious.
‘Pauline…’
‘Hello, Len.’ Pauline offered him a warm smile.
‘Brought logs,’ he muttered in his crackly accent, nodding behind him at the Land Rover. ‘I’ll put them in the woodshed for you, shall I?’
Pauline nodded. ‘That’s nice of you, Len. But spring’s well on the way. It’s late for logs. Still I suppose they’ll come in useful for next winter.’
‘No.’ Len’s face clouded with further anxiety, his curling eyebrows moving upwards. ‘Weather will turn next week. It’ll come cold again before summer is here proper – it’ll come icy, snow even, mark my words.’
Pauline met his eyes. Neither she nor Len spoke for a moment, then she said, ‘Thanks, that’s kind.’
Len brought his lips together, wiped his face with the back of his wrist. ‘Ah, yes, right. So, I’ll put them in your woodshed for you then, Pauline.’
She fingered the neck of her jumper. ‘Thanks, Len.’ Her eyes met his: a thought came to her. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No.’ He shook his head fiercely, as if a bee was buzzing against his nose. ‘No. Best be off. Things to do. Lambs. Sheep. Tractor.’
Pauline nodded as if she understood. But she didn’t really understand how Len Chatfield managed to find time to bring her gifts. He was a busy man; he owned Bottom Farm and many other fields around the village, and of course he was always working, daytimes and even into the late evening. She wondered how they coped up at the big farmhouse on the hill, Len and his son Gary, who all the neighbours said should be married and gone now he was in his thirties. But perhaps he didn’t want to leave his father, in his seventies, a widower of some twenty years, or the farm where he had worked since he was a boy.
Pauline studied Len’s strong features and wondered how well he cooked for himself. Of course, he could easily kill a chicken with his bare hands but she had no idea how he managed with basic meals from day to day. Pauline reached out and patted his arm.
‘Thank you, Len.’
He grunted, his cheeks ruddier than ever, then he turned and ambled back to the Land Rover, lifting out two sacks filled with bulky logs. He heaved the sacks towards the wood shed, where he pushed the door open and deposited the logs on the floor. He strode back to a Land Rover parked by the gate without turning to look back. Pauline watched him go, noticing his square solid back in a thick checked shirt, the steadiness of his stride. He swung himself into the Land Rover. She waved as he drove away down the lane, but his eyes were firmly on the road. She was alone again. Pauline sighed.
A gust of wind swirled the grass of her front lawn and she saw Derek decapitating a sparrow. She closed the door with a clunk and wondered if Len was right, if the weather would change. It was almost midday. She’d hoover the lounge, lay a fire for later and perhaps she’d have a little snooze in the afternoon. The phone started to trill in the kitchen. Pauline disliked phone calls; it usually meant that she had to do something she didn’t want, or talk to someone she’d rather not. It might be the surgery reminding her about a routine appointment; double glazing salespeople; life insurance. And she’d heard stories about all these scammers. She breathed into the receiver.
‘Hello?’
Barbara’s voice boomed back. ‘I’m coming to visit, Pauline. The day after tomorrow. There’s nothing wrong with me but I’ve been in hospital and they’ve told me to take it easy so I’m coming to you for a rest.’
