Selena stood shivering in the kitchen in her pyjamas and dressing gown, thick socks on her feet, her phone in her hand. She had just called Lesley about the Aga not working, hoping that she or Ian could pop over and show her how to light it. Lesley had replied in a rush that she was sorry: she and Ian were on their way to Dorset to see their daughter for the day; it was their grandson’s sixth birthday, so they wouldn’t be able to fix the Aga themselves until late in the evening, but she’d have someone call round who would sort it out later today. Selena was puzzled; it wouldn’t be easy to get a heating engineer or a plumber out on a Sunday, but Lesley had reassured her that she wouldn’t let her down.
Selena took tea and a bowl of cereal into the conservatory where her easel was set up. It was bright, the warmest room in the house, but outside, the garden was wet and rain was slithering in rivulets against the blurred glass windows, the sky bleak beyond the fields where sheep stood still as if fixed in paint, their heads drooping and their wool soaked, staring at the ground. Selena knew how they felt. The damp April weather and the cold air had the effect of making her mood flat, dulling her optimism. She gazed at her latest painting: a branch of the blackthorn tree in black and white, starkly beautiful in its detail. It was a departure for Selena in terms of her style: she usually preferred sweeping landscapes, but the intricate blossom and the sharply pointed thorn had fascinated her, a contrast of beauty and spite.
She glanced at her phone and found two texts: one from Claire saying that she already had a buyer for the painting of the back garden of Sloe Cottage in sunshine, crammed with bluebells, tulips and daffodils. A customer had seen it on the website. Claire was excited, gushing that she was looking forward to seeing her in a week’s time, and they’d have great fun together exploring the nightlife of the local village. Selena smiled, thinking about her visit to The Royal Oak last night: Claire would be baffled by the quaint old pub, the quiet drinkers, the empty seats.
The second text was from Laura, apologising for leaving so soon last night: her father’s blood pressure tablets were exactly where he’d left them – in the bathroom. Selena replied that she was looking forward to meeting him and she reminded her that they were both invited to dinner at Sloe Cottage with her and Claire next Sunday, the first of May.
Her cereal unfinished, Selena took the bowl back to the kitchen and placed it in the sink. She wandered through the lobby into the living room. The fire was still glowing in the wood burner, so she placed another log inside and closed the doors, watching the blaze flare. She gazed through the window; rain dripped constantly from the blackthorn branches; beyond, puddles were filling on the drive. A lone pigeon waddled across the lawn and began pecking at something in the garden by the well.
Selena went back to the warmth of the fire and curled up on the sofa against the softness of the cushions. She closed her eyes and wondered if the baby would have been showing by now. She counted: she’d have been twelve weeks pregnant. She pictured how life might have been with David, with their baby. Images filled her mind: Selena holding a sweet bundle wrapped in a cream shawl, David looking on, his eyes shining with pride; both of them clambering into a car, the baby in her new seat at the back; late-night-time feeding, Selena smiling as she held her daughter close; David attempting to change a nappy and them both laughing together. She squeezed her eyes tightly at the thought; it was a dream; it could never have happened. She had been wrong about David; she’d misjudged his feelings for her, and now she didn’t feel bitterness or pain. She simply felt empty.
Selena sat up, opened the doors to the wood burner and stared into the fire; the flames crackled and smoke swirled upwards to the chimney. She stretched out her feet in the fluffy socks and wondered if she should put on a coat and wellingtons, go for a walk across the fields or even into Ashcombe. She could photograph St Bartholomew’s church; perhaps it might be a focus for another painting, an idyllic village scene in the haze of rain, surrounded by the little cottages.
A loud knock shattered the silence, two sharp raps, and she eased herself from the sofa and rushed into the hall, opening the door to see a man in a black anorak, hood up, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. Selena raised her eyebrows in question and he said, ‘Hello. I believe your Aga doesn’t work. Would you like me to take a look at it?’
‘Did Lesley ask you to call?’ Selena asked, staring over his shoulder to see if there was a car or a van parked in the drive, but there was none. He must have walked to Chitterwell from the village. He had a bag over his shoulder, clearly containing tools.
‘Yes, she said the flame had gone out. I’m guessing it just needs a new wick. You’ll need it working, especially in this weather.’ He was standing just beyond the porch, the rain dripping onto his hood, a light rhythmic drumming.
Selena stood back. ‘Oh, please come in.’
The man followed her through the hall, ducking slightly beneath the door frame into the living room. She noticed him glance around at the fire, then towards the plastered alcove and the bay window before they reached the kitchen. He took off his damp jacket; he was wearing an old sweatshirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans. He was probably close to forty, Selena thought; his light brown hair was ruffled, the beginnings of stubble on his face.
‘It’s good of you to come here on a Sunday,’ she said, thinking that he looked like he’d recently dragged himself out of bed.
He moved towards the Aga, kneeling down next to the small door, examining the burner.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ Selena offered.
‘Do you have Earl Grey?’ he replied from the floor.
‘I’ll check.’ Selena emptied the contents of her tea caddy, searching among the mixture of tea bags. ‘Is Lady Grey all right?’
‘Just as good,’ he said. ‘No milk or sugar please.’
Selena bustled around with filling the kettle and clanking cups; she’d make herself another mug of tea. It was bitterly cold in the kitchen and she was suddenly conscious that she was still in pyjamas and dressing gown; the fluffy socks were not particularly becoming either.
She placed the mug of Lady Grey on the table and watched the man working, the muscles in his sinewy forearms moving as he held a pair of scissors. He didn’t appear to feel the cold; he pushed a hand into his bag and pulled out a length of pale tape, then he grunted, ‘Yeh, it just needs a new wick. I’ll let the oil come through and we can light it in about twenty minutes and check it’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ Selena sat at the table and cradled her mug of tea. The man joined her, sitting easily, picking up his mug and inhaling steam.
‘I think that will do it. It’s a cold house. You can’t really do without the Aga.’
‘It is cold – but I have the fire in the living room.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s cold in there too.’
Selena nodded, feeling awkward that they were having a conversation about heating. But then, he had come to fix the Aga, so what else would they talk about?
He changed the subject for her. ‘I hear you’re an artist?’
‘I am.’ Selena wondered how he’d known. Her paintings were not visible from the kitchen, but she supposed that everyone knew about everyone else in Ashcombe. It was a small community, and she was a newcomer, so it was no surprise that people talked about her. She offered a smile and said, ‘Do you live in the village?’
He shook his head. ‘No, I live just outside Exeter.’
‘Oh,’ Selena said. ‘That’s a long way to come on a Sunday…’
He shrugged. ‘Not really – it’s just a short trip down the M5. It doesn’t take long.’
Selena wondered again where his car was; perhaps he had parked it beyond the gate. She watched him sipping tea, casually stretching his legs beneath the table.
Then he said, ‘I’d love to see some of your paintings, if that’s okay.’
Selena could smell the sickly-sweet oil soaking into the wick. ‘All right – I’m set up in the conservatory.’
She pushed open the door to the glass room and he stepped inside, standing next to her, not moving, just scrutinising two pictures, the blackthorn branch, which was still on the easel, and the painting of the tree beyond the garden, which she had stood upright against the wall. He pointed to it. ‘That’s the old oak tree just outside the gate.’
‘It is.’ Selena was surprised he had recognised it.
‘It’s very good – you’ve captured how it’s so solid – how it’s been standing for years.’
Selena almost smiled; he clearly thought of himself as an amateur art critic. Then he was staring at the painting on the easel, the black and white one she’d almost finished.
‘That’s very dramatic. It’s the tree outside, but you’ve made it really impactful – the creamy blossom and the spiky thorn, one contrasting with the other. I like that.’ He gave her an appraising glance. ‘I’m not sure I’d hang it on my wall though – it has a really eerie feel to it.’
‘Does it?’ Selena was almost affronted. She thought her painting was a strong representation; she was surprised he thought it eerie.
‘Well, it is a blackthorn tree,’ he replied simply. ‘Do you know what it symbolises?’ Selena shrugged and he continued. ‘There are all sorts of myths surrounding the blackthorn, from way back to the time of the Celts. Death, misfortune – some people call it the witches’ tree – it has a long association with witchcraft. It’s about opposites too: spring and autumn, blossom and berry. The way you’ve captured the blossom is beautiful.’ He thought for a moment, and murmured:
‘Into the scented woods we’ll go and see the blackthorn swim in snow.’
‘Is that a poem?’
‘Mary Webb. “Green Rain”.’ He nodded towards the huge panes of glass where water drizzled down in wiggly lines. ‘That’s just a perfect poem for today. Right. It must be time to light the wick.’
‘I suppose so.’ Selena followed him into the kitchen, wondering about the engineer who quoted poetry and analysed paintings. She wondered why he wasn’t wearing a name badge, or, at least, why he hadn’t said his name when she’d let him in. She ought to have asked or introduced herself. Selena pressed her lips together; the experience with David had left her flustered and awkward. She imagined the engineer visiting Ariel Art in Manchester, gazing at her landscapes, making comments about the sense of eeriness and foreboding in the dark brushstrokes of the hills and skies. The idea made her smile.
Then he stood up, pushed his sleeves further up his forearms and said, ‘All done now. The new wick’s lit – that was all it needed. You should feel the benefit in an hour or so.’
‘Thank you.’ Selena watched him reach for his damp anorak. ‘How much do I owe you?’
He gave her an enigmatic smile. ‘I think it’s all taken care of in your rent.’
She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m glad. I feel warmer already.’
‘Well, thanks for the tea.’ He was already on his way to the door. ‘And for showing me your paintings. They are really good.’
‘Thanks.’ Selena opened the front door.
‘No problem. And I’m glad you’re settled in at Sloe Cottage. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.’
‘I will.’ Selena watched him pull up the hood of his jacket and walk towards the gate; it was still raining heavily, but he didn’t seem to hurry as he turned to the right and began to walk in the direction of Hilltop Farm. Selena assumed he must have parked there.
She gave a light laugh; it was becoming interesting, living in rural Somerset. She had met a warm-hearted lilac-haired woman who was a supply teacher, a man who had given her a lift home in his Land Rover and offered to bring her logs despite never having met her before, and now an enigmatic engineer who drank Lady Grey tea, quoted poetry and expressed an interest in art and had fixed the Aga. Life in Chitterwell was full of surprises.