I just want to see him. To know that he’s still alive. I really do believe that will provide me with some solace. To know that there’s someone close at hand who once cared for me – possibly even loved me. For me to explain it more coherently I’d have to understand it better myself. But it’s as if knowing that he’s there would give me something to cling onto. And give me sufficient reassurance to go limping on for another week or two.
Throughout this whole dreadful episode that has been the biggest nightmare. The sense sometimes that it’s simply not going to be possible to navigate my way through the next few moments, let alone the weeks and months beyond. I think back to how I felt when I was in my late teens and early twenties. I may not have been deliriously happy, but things at least seemed possible. There was space for me to move into. Whereas, these days, there are moments when I seem to have run right out of options and I can’t think how on earth I’ll carry on.
*
I’ve reached a couple of conclusions lately. Firstly, that trying to watch the house from the path is almost completely impractical – due to the trees, which tend to obscure things, but also the actual distance involved. They are indeed back, from their holidays or wherever they’ve been. The next time I was out there I could just about make out their car parked up in the garden. And could see various lights on in the house. But not much else. So I checked up and down the path to make sure no one was approaching, then slipped down the bank and climbed over the fence.
The ground beneath the trees is incredibly boggy – more like a swamp than woodland – and within twenty yards the water had come right over the tops of my boots. But I carried on, and kept my head down. And about halfway between the path and the cottage I reached a tumble-down wall, covered in moss, where I sat, all huddled up, for a while. Then brought up my binoculars. And from there I had a much better view of what was going on.
There wasn’t a great deal of activity. In fact, there was precisely none. I must have sat there, against my mossy old wall, for well over an hour, with my feet soaking in ice-cold water and my backside slowly going numb. But nobody came or went. And this led quite quickly to my second conclusion, which is that I’m probably watching the cottage at the wrong time of the day.
So I went back to the shop where I bought my binoculars and bought their greenest waterproof jacket – indeed, I would’ve bought a proper military-style, camouflaged jacket if they’d stocked them. And last night, before bed, I made myself a sandwich and a flask of coffee, and by half past five this morning I was up and driving down the coast road in the pitch dark. Then making my way out to the coastal path. And slipping down that bank towards the trees before there was even a hint of light in the sky.
I had my little torch with me, but there’s not much point wearing a jacket that you hope is going to help you blend into the landscape then letting everyone know your whereabouts by flashing a torch all over the place. So I held one hand over the glass, to try and minimise it. And just turned it on for a second at a time, to give me some rough idea where I was.
It was about quarter to seven when the first light went on in the cottage. I wasn’t actually watching. I must have been looking somewhere else. But when I looked back I could tell straight away that something was different. And when I had a peep through the binoculars I could pick it out, in one of the upstairs windows. I imagine it was someone going to the bathroom. Then, a couple of minutes later, a second light went on downstairs.
For the next half an hour or so, nothing much happened. Just various lights, and some movement around them. And, let me tell you, half an hour out in the woods in the middle of winter can seem like a very long time.
I had a pretty good view of the little porch at the front of the cottage. Or, rather, I was looking at it from quite a good angle, despite the cottage still being some way away. So when the woman emerged I could see her quite clearly. I couldn’t make out her features. She was just a woman, in a coat and hat, getting into a car. But, of course, assuming she was who I thought she was, she was a good deal more than that.
She reversed out onto the lane and once she’d driven off it was back to the stillness. For another good half an hour or so at least. I could’ve had a cup of coffee, or eaten my sandwich. But I was convinced that the very next second Paul would come walking out. So I just squatted there with my elbows resting on that old, damp wall, staring through my binoculars, with my heart beating ten to the dozen. Until, finally, I saw the lights go out in the cottage and Paul appeared.
He had two young children with him. One barely toddling. The other – presumably, the one whose bike I tripped over – pottering about the place with a fair amount of confidence. There was a general herding of children towards the second car. A back door was opened and each child was strapped into their seat. When the doors were closed Paul went round to the driver’s side. He was about to get in when he paused and looked around, just for a second. I don’t honestly think he was looking in my direction or contemplating anything to do with me. He might have just been wondering if he’d remembered to turn the heating off. Or checking that he had his wallet with him. He was a fair distance away, and, like his wife, all wrapped up against the cold. But as he stood there, for those precious few seconds, I watched him with such intensity it was as if I fixed him in my mind. I held him there. And ever since, I keep referring back to that moment. Him standing by the car. And I keep thinking, ‘There he is. There he is again.’