Although I never realised it, in suburbia there is a constant hum, even at night; distant traffic, the muted burble of TVs, the footsteps of late night dog walkers – and it is all quietly comforting. Out here, well, there’s nothing.
If it really was nothing then I could get used to that; the trouble is the long stretches of nothing punctuated by sudden alarming noises which always wake me up. At first the screeches and screams completely unnerved me but when I mentioned them to Margaret she explained they were owls or foxes, so rather than being irrefutable evidence of murderers under my bedroom window they are just a pain in the neck.
It doesn’t help that it’s so muggy I have to sleep with the windows open. It’s an invitation to every bug in Yorkshire and most of them buzz and some of them even bite. After weeks and weeks of rural sleep deprivation I am starting to feel decidedly grouchy.
Most mornings I’m a bit of a zombie so it is no surprise that I’m staring blankly out of the kitchen window when I hear a scrunch of tyres on the gravel. I’m not expecting anyone, but soon I hear Richard’s voice calling.
“Yoo-hoo, Princess, are you there? I’ve brought Bob to have a look at the damp proofing work.”
“How do you always know when I’ve just put the kettle on?” I yell back, trying to stir myself. “Come through to the kitchen.”
After our cup of tea I open the big barn doors to let the light stream in and William and I follow the men as they walk around inside, looking critically at the cobwebbed walls and scratching around in the cracks in the concrete floor.
“This will all have to come up,” Bob explains. “Then I’ll put a plastic membrane underneath and inject a chemical damp proof course all round the walls.”
“It doesn’t seem that damp to me,” I venture.
“No, love, but the air can get through it now. You have it all cosy and sealed in, and you’ll soon have a problem. Just re-concreting the floor might make the place damp. Best do the job properly.”
I’m not completely convinced but Richard is nodding and I have to trust his judgment; anyway, I’m feeling particularly crabby so it’s better to keep my mouth shut.
It’s too hot for much in the way of lunch so William and I spend a few hours in the garden. The area destined to become the patio for the holiday let is out of the afternoon sun so I attack the weeds until my arms are raw with scratches from the brambles. One cut is quite deep and stings like hell. After a futile hunt for the Savlon I grab my keys and handbag and head for Boots in Northallerton.
On the way back to the car I find myself in the alleyway that passes Caffé Bianco. I have heard nothing from Owen since that wonderful kiss on the cheek last week – it seems beyond him to reply to a text – but even so I have half a mind to pop in to see him if he’s not too busy. When I peep through the door Owen is leaning on the counter, deep in conversation with a skinny blonde. I turn away before he notices me.
When I get back to the car I positively throw my handbag into the footwell and slam the gears into reverse. I am about to pull out when I catch sight of myself in the rear view mirror. The months of stress are taking their toll and I am confronted by a pair of sunken brown eyes peering miserably at the wrinkles forming around them. The rosiness in my cheeks has been replaced by an unhealthy pallor and there is a nasty spot on the side of my nose. No wonder Owen prefers talking to the skinny blonde.
I take my foot off the clutch and the car stalls. Hot tears well up behind my eyelids. But after a few moments I tell myself to get a grip; I only look so rubbish and feet so grotty and ratty and confused about everything because I am so tired. I make a split second decision; straight back to Boots to buy the most expensive face pack they have and a packet of Sleep-Eazee. And there’s no way I’m walking past Caffé Bianco.