IN APRIL THE cold, sweet, fragile spring is blown away by wild gales that stream in from the south-west. Rotten branches crash down from flailing trees, scattering twigs and dead leaves, blocking the lanes: storm-driven, white-tipped rollers shoulder powerfully along the cliffs, wrenching up boulders, stones, rocks, and dumping them all anyhow along the littoral. Chimneys tumble, slates smash. Delicate blossoms lie crushed and torn, strewn confetti-like in gutters and ditches. Sheep huddle with their gawky, shivering lambs beneath protecting thorn hedges whilst, overhead, gulls are tossed like flakes of paper against the dark, stormy sky.
Tim stands aghast before this display of elemental destruction. Never before has he witnessed such brutal force: never realized with such clarity that puny man is not in control of his universe. Nothing in his quiet city life and hot sunshiny holidays abroad has prepared him for this experience. Oh, he has seen terrible images on television, witnessed the drama and grief at second-hand, but never has he felt the wind’s hands tearing at his clothes, battering his face, buffeting him along. He is horrified and exhilarated all at once. As he drives in the lanes at the edge of the moor, peering upwards through the streaming rain at lashing branches and scurrying clouds, he wonders why he is not afraid. But then why should he be afraid? He has nothing to lose.
This knowledge emphasizes his vulnerability, his aloneness. On an impulse he pulls into a trampled muddy gateway and fumbles in his pocket for his iPhone. He scrolls down, presses the key and puts the phone to his ear.
She answers immediately. ‘Hi.’
He relaxes, slumping a little in his seat. ‘Hi, Mattie. Listen, I’m in a little, narrow lane driving through this massive gale. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
She laughs. ‘Crazy man. Why would you do that? It can be dangerous. You might get a tree across your car.’
‘I know.’ He laughs with her, feels a sudden glorious upwelling of joy. It’s always been easy to laugh with Mattie. ‘When are you coming down?’
A surprised little silence, then: ‘Oh, well, I’m not sure. I usually wait for an invite from Charlotte.’
‘You could come here. I mean you could stay with me.’
Mattie begins to laugh again. ‘Well, I could. I mean, why not?’
‘Yeah, why not?’
‘OK.’ She sounds amused, intrigued. ‘So, this weekend then?’
‘I know it’s short notice. Is that possible?’
‘Mmm, just about. I’ll drive down after work tomorrow. You’ll have to explain to Charlotte, though she’ll be relieved not to have the trouble of the camp bed in the sitting-room.’
‘Why should she mind? After all, if I were living somewhere else you’d come and stay with me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Would I? Yes, I suppose I would. If you asked me.’
‘Well, then. That’s great.’
‘Tomorrow evening, then. I shall be late, probably not much before ten.’
As he drives home the exhilaration remains with him: the degenerative disease that is eating its way into him might disappear; the prognosis might be wrong. Just for today, for this moment, all things are possible.
His optimism buoys him up, carries him through the shopping, the search for bed linen and towels, the dusting and hoovering, so that when she comes driving into the yard, runs skittering across the wet flagstones, he has the door open ready for her and he pulls her inside out of the rain, hugging her, gazing down at her sweet face. He feels strong and confident, full of hope and courage.
Mattie is here with him at Brockscombe: all will be well.
It carries him into the evening, through the supper he has made for her, on to the sofa together before the log-burner, where she gazes at the flames and falls into a doze against his shoulder. She is warm and heavy and he is full of protective love for her, and a longing desperate lust, so that when she wakens, and looks around puzzled for a moment and then smiles at him, he pulls her close, kisses her, and they make love. The relief, the bliss of it – this intimate, passionate act that he’d thought never to perform again – swamps him with such gratitude that he weeps silently, violently, for a moment, crushing her against him so that she can’t see him or feel him shaking.
They stumble together up the narrow staircase, perform the necessary acts in the small bathroom, and then fall together into his bed, holding each other closely. The night is full of love.
Saturday is full of family: of meetings with Aunt Kat and William, of Mattie playing with Ollie, a walk in the lane with Wooster, and all of them sharing supper in Charlotte’s cottage.
And on Sunday, after lunch, she is gone, with a toot of the horn, a flourish of a hand from the window. Everyone is there to see her off – it’s accepted that she has been to Brockscombe to see them all – and Tim’s time with her alone has been brief but incredibly special.
He slips quietly away, walking off into the grounds, where hellebores and vincas flourish beside the overgrown paths that wind through the wood. He’s still thinking about Mattie, not really noticing his surroundings, so that the cleared area takes him by surprise. He sees small headstones all amongst the overgrown grass and stands still with shock: it is a graveyard. Just for a moment he thinks that these must be the graves of children until he moves closer, bending to read the inscriptions, and sees that these are dogs: Mitzi, Benny, Jimbo . . . each name has an image roughly carved into the stone. There are spaniels, terriers and Labradors here, and on the newest grave – of a cairn terrier called Brack – is a small posy of primroses.
Tim crouches before the grave in the long wet grass. The carving brings to life the small dog and he can imagine the pricked ears, the bright eyes, the rough warm coat. Long ago he knew just such a little dog: running with him in the sunshine, cuddling with him on the sofa. His name was Ban.
Still crouching before the grave, Tim bends his head, closing his eyes as if to ward off the familiar grief and guilt. It’s as if he can feel again the gate-latch, cold and smooth and stiff beneath his small fingers; he can remember how he cried out a greeting to his mother on the opposite pavement, about to cross the road towards him. She was carrying the shopping bag in one hand, waving to him with the other. To his surprise the latch clicked free, the gate swung open – he’d never managed that before – and quick as a flash Ban slipped out, dashing into the road, with Tim behind him.
He can remember his mother’s scream as she ran forward, the squeal of brakes, the thump of flesh on metal. He could just see her legs, bent at an odd angle beneath the wheels of the car, shopping rolled everywhere, and then his father came hurrying out, pushing Tim aside, and someone lifted and carried him away.
Afterwards, his father wanted Ban rehomed, he couldn’t stand the sight of him. It seemed that he couldn’t stand the sight of anyone, family or friends. He took a job abroad and Tim went to live with his grandmother, and with Ban. Ban became the recipient of his tears and guilt, his confusion, his fear. The little dog was his friend, his comfort, his connection with all that he had known and loved for nearly four years.
Tim stands up, wondering to whom Brack belonged: old Cousin Francis, perhaps? But surely it’s not Francis who picks wild flowers in this small damp wood to honour Pan or the grave of a little dog?
He wishes now he’d brought Mattie to see Pan, and, as he thinks of her, the courage and hope that have carried him through the weekend drain away from him, leaving him lonely and afraid. That elemental moment, during the storm, breached his defences and allowed his love to betray him into believing that he might have a future with Mattie. He has been so careful to allow nobody to come close to him since Rachel left him. Not that it was a particularly serious relationship. He has no regrets about that. His only real regret is that when he first met Mattie she had a boyfriend and then, when they broke up, he and Rachel had already begun their relationship.
Standing in the dogs’ graveyard, gazing around him, Tim tries to convince himself that it was all for the best: that Mattie, like Rachel, having heard the diagnosis, might have left him just as abruptly. At least Mattie doesn’t pity him, feel sorry for him. Their lovemaking was genuine, glorious: he felt viable, alive. He hugs the memory of it to him, warming himself in its residual glow.
As he turns he just glimpses a movement in the trees, a tall shadowy figure slipping away out of sight. Tim pauses, peering into the woodland, wondering if it is Rob, but there is no one there. He hurries back, suddenly in need of companionship, of warmth.
The storm has cleared away to the east and the sky is rinsed a shining luminous blue. In the courtyard William is holding Ollie, showing him the daffodils and the cars in the barn, whilst Aunt Kat talks to Francis, who is seated on the bench, and Charlotte comes out of her cottage with a tray of mugs.
‘Oh, hi,’ she calls to Tim. ‘There you are. Hang on, I’ll get another mug.’
So here they are: his family. Aunt Kat turning to beckon him into the group, Francis smiling at him, William putting Ollie into his arms and saying, ‘There now. Here’s your uncle Tim.’
He holds the warm bundle of baby, hiding the weak tears that are never very far away these days, looking down into the small face that breaks unexpectedly into a gummy smile. He smiles back, touched by Ollie’s trustful reaction, and sits next to Francis on the bench. Wooster comes to lean against his knees as if he knows that Tim needs comfort.
‘Mattie was in good form,’ says Francis. ‘What do you think of her applying for this job at the BBC in Bristol?’
‘She’s well qualified for it,’ answers Tim – and then falls silent. Any further remarks seem fraught with implications: of how good it would be to have her closer; of his own future.
He wants to say: ‘I love her but it’s all completely pointless.’
He glances sideways at Francis and is taken aback by the compassionate expression on his face: compassion – not pity – as if he is suffering with Tim and wishing he could alleviate the suffering.
Charlotte appears, gives Tim a mug of tea, and takes Ollie from him.
‘Andy’s Skyping later,’ she says. ‘What did you want to tell him, William?’
William strolls over, Aunt Kat joins in, and Tim sips his tea, watching them as the sun sinks and it grows colder, and all the while he can hear the thrush singing in the ash tree below the cottage.