SOMEWHERE A PHONE WAS RINGING. Then Alec heard a voice, muffled; a woman’s voice. He opened his eyes and got his bearings. Daylight, but not much of it. Beyond the French doors in his room, Cadair Idris was cloaked in cloud and rain clattered on the roof as if the gods were slinging gravel. He turned toward the clock on the bedside table and winced. He’d stiffened overnight, especially his bruised ribs. That was the problem with getting older: you could do the same things as before, like climb a mountain, but the price you paid for it in pain got higher with each passing year.
It was after eight o’clock. He pulled on the clothes he’d worn the night before, yawned, and headed for the stairs. No time to shower before breakfast. He didn’t want to inconvenience Fiona by being late again.
There was a light on by the phone in the front hall, but the dining room was as dim as the day outside. He padded toward the brightly lit kitchen but found it empty. On the table was a pot of tea and two mugs, along with sugar and a small pitcher of milk. He poured himself a cup and then rummaged through the cupboards until he found a bowl. He went back to the dining room, where there were several clear-plastic storage containers with cereal selections, and filled the bowl with a chunky granola. He had just finished the cereal and poured himself a second cup of tea when the back door burst open and Fiona bounced into the room.
“Good morning, Mr. Hudson; it’s a fine Welsh day!”
Water streamed off her jacket and pooled on the floor.
She tossed her wet jacket over a chair and glanced at the clock on the wall.
“Ah, just in time.” She switched on a slender radio that was screwed into the underside of one of the cabinets. Alec hadn’t noticed it before.
“The shipping forecast issued by the Met office, at 8:25 GMT, on behalf of the Maritime and Coast Guard Agency,” the announcer intoned. “There are warnings of gales in Rockall, Malin, Hebrides, Bailey, Faeroes, Fair Isle, and southeast Iceland.
“The area forecasts for the next twenty-four hours: southeast Iceland, southwest 7 to gale 8, becoming cyclonic 6 to 7, rain, moderate to good. Fair Isle, Faeroes, southwest 6 to gale 8, occasionally severe gale 9, rain or showers, moderate. Hebrides, Bailey, Rockall, Malin, south 7 to severe 9, becoming cyclonic for a time, rain, heavy or moderate ...”
Fiona switched off the radio.
“What’s that all mean?” Alec asked, fascinated by the obscure language.
“It means you won’t be climbing Cadair Idris today, for one thing,” Fiona replied. And you’ll be here for at least another day, her heart said.
“The numbers and descriptions are for wind speed, precipitation, and visibility,” she explained. “The names are those given to different quadrants of the sea off our coast. Because my father was in the merchant marine, I got used to listening to the marine forecast. Around here, it’s the best way to know what’s funneling into the Irish Sea from the Atlantic.”
Alec watched the rain sheeting down beyond the kitchen window. “Pretty obvious from here.”
Fiona looked at him: “Okay, Mr. Smarty-pants, what’s the window tell you about tomorrow?”
“Um, nothing.”
“Exactly. Whereas I know from that report that tomorrow may be nearly as bad: a big low-pressure area is shoving aside yesterday afternoon’s high-pressure front.”
“May be as bad?”
“Well, this is Wales,” she confessed. “You can never be too sure.”
“Aha.”
“Aha what?! See if you get a nice cooked breakfast!”
“Actually, the cereal’s all I need. Doesn’t look like I’m going to get much exercise today, anyway.”
“Then again,” she said, “maybe you’re like those Ramblers ...”
“Ramblers?”
“A national association of walking enthusiasts. They do very good work keeping public footpaths open and so forth. The footpaths, after all, were there long before any of us were—long before there were even roads, in some cases. But I don’t know; the Ramblers who’ve come here seem all to be of a type.”
“What type is that?”
“Oh, you know: hearty, earnest; so very intent on completing whatever walk they’ve chosen, rain or shine. A day like this wouldn’t faze them; they’d just plod off though the downpour with their sturdy boots and their dun-colored anoraks and their clear plastic rainproof map holders hung around their necks. Where’s the joy in that? Bunch of masochists is what I sometimes think. Plus, they’re missing the point.”
“And the point would be ... ?”
“It’s not about the peak, it’s about the place,” Fiona said with a passion that surprised him. “It’s about the magic of this particular spot, this particular mountain, about how different it is from any other, about its antiquity, its drama—its danger, even. Sometimes they remind me of the bird-watchers you see down at the Mawddach estuary, ticking off bird sightings on a list, as if that were the sole reason for being there. I think some of them come just to tick Cadair Idris off their list.”
Alec smiled. “That was quite a rant.”
Fiona laughed. “Yes, I suppose it was. Anyway, we’ve got two of them coming tonight—Ramblers, that is. A couple from Cardiff, the Llewellyns. Also another couple, from Birmingham, so we’ll have a full house tonight. Not bad for a Monday. Any tea left in that pot or have you hogged it?”
“There’s plenty. Thanks for leaving it.”
Fiona sat at the table opposite him and marveled at what was happening to her. Somehow this oddly withdrawn man, this very private gentleman who sometimes seemed like he was peeking out of a foxhole to see if it was safe to emerge, had released a playfulness in her she’d long forgotten. When she’d met and married David, she had folded herself into her husband’s quiet. But before David, she’d always been the quick-witted one in her group of friends, full of sharp quips and easy laughter. It was one of her girlfriends at school who pointed out that being smart and snappy with clever remarks only scared off the boys. Now, though, it was as if all that bottled-up antic energy had been released. Was she imagining it or was the very self-contained Alec also uncurling?
“Look,” she said after a few moments, “I have to go into town in a bit to do some marketing before the other guests arrive. You’re welcome to stay here and write or whatever, or you could come into town if you wish.” She glanced at the window and the rain. “Lovely day for sightseeing.”
“I’ll come. I have some things I need to do in town, too. When will you leave?”
“I need to do some tidying for the new guests; an hour?”
“Sure.”
“Right. I’ll give you a shout.”
Alec went to his room, got his notebook, and went downstairs again to the guests’ sitting room. Most of the poems Alec had written over the years were reflective, a way of coming to terms with things that had happened long ago. It was as if there was a lag between events and his emotional response to them. But here, in the shadow of the hulking mountain, that seemed to be changing. Words tumbled from him like water in a swollen stream.
He was deep into “the tunnel”—the quiet place within himself that he went to when he was writing—when he heard a car horn. It startled him. He looked at the window. Fiona was waving to him from her car. He dashed out through the kitchen, grabbed his jacket from its hook in the boot room, and jogged to the waiting car.
“Jeez, I’m sorry; I’m kind of in another world when I’m working.”
“You were so still I was beginning to think I’d have to resuscitate you,” Fiona teased.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have moved so quickly,” Alec shot back.
Fiona laughed and they were off.
Once they were on the main road Alec finally asked the question that had been plaguing him—but he did it indirectly.
“Is David very busy this time of year?”
Fiona turned to look at Alec, then returned her gaze to the road. She took a deep breath.
“David is not busy; David is ill.”
For a moment, Alec was speechless.
Then he said, “Look, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you talk about him so often but he’s nowhere to be seen.”
Fiona’s shoulders relaxed and she kept her eyes on the road. “It’s all right, Alec. It’s just that I never talk about it.
“It’s the sheep dip,” she said.
“Sorry?”
“It’s the sheep dip; it’s poisoned him.”
Alec hadn’t a clue what she was talking about, and said so. To his surprise, Fiona started laughing.
“Of course you don’t; how stupid of me! Right, then: ‘sheep dip’ is a pesticide. Sheep in Britain get infested with something called sheep scab mite. It’s a skin disease, a mange, and it can race through a flock. It makes the sheep weak and sickly and their wool falls off in hunks. Back in 1976, the government obliged all sheep farmers to bring their sheep down from the hills every September and run them through a deep trough filled with water and chemicals—organophosphates, they’re called. There are lots of different brands, but farmers just call it sheep dip. The main ingredient is something called diazinon. Undiluted, it is very nasty stuff, but in the troughs it’s supposed to be safe. If you don’t use sheep dip, the government fines are huge. Are you following me?”
“I’m with you.”
“Right. So every fall, not long after sheep dipping, a lot of farmers get sick. They call it ‘shepherds’ flu’—headache, achy joints, upset stomach—that sort of thing. It goes away pretty quickly and no one’s ever paid much attention to it. David got it all the time. I also noticed he seemed to tire easily, and the queer thing was that he became forgetful.”
“Well, none of us is getting any younger.”
“No, it wasn’t that. I’d tell him something—or he’d tell me something—and then he’d have no memory of it, sometimes only an hour later. It was very strange. Then, three years ago, about a week after the sheep dipping, David had a heart attack. He was only forty-five. He’d never had any sign of heart disease. He wasn’t overweight; he didn’t smoke. The doctor was mystified. David and I just accepted it, even though we didn’t understand it. Say what you will about the National Health, David’s doctor didn’t give up. He kept trying to make sense of the whole thing and, in the end, he started to find a pattern of symptoms among hill farmers. In some cases they got dizzy or listless. Some men had racing hearts. Some became temporarily paralyzed. It always happened between four days and a week after the dipping. Most people got better. Some didn’t. David was one of those who got better, or so we thought.”
They had arrived in Dolgellau and Fiona pulled into a parking space in the small central square. She turned off the engine but kept talking.
“The next year it happened again. Another heart attack. Six days after the dipping. He collapsed in the farmyard on his way to the kitchen for supper. I found him there, in the rain.”
Fiona was staring ahead, as if watching a movie on the windscreen. Her hand still held the gearshift. Alec placed his atop hers. She didn’t pull away.
“How awful for you, Fi. For you both.”
She looked at their hands, then at Alec. “And that’s just the beginning!” she said with an artificial brightness. “But there are errands to be run. I don’t suppose you’re interested in playing butler and following me around with a sack. What do you want to do?”
“I need to send a letter and get some money from the bank. Look, here’s an idea: that cereal is going to wear off in a little bit. Is there a café or something where we can meet?”
Fiona thought for a moment and said, “I have a friend who has a tea shop just a few steps away. She’s a terrific baker. Shall we meet there? Say an hour? It’s called the Cozy.”
“I’ll be there,” Alec said as he climbed out of the car, marveling at her change in mood.
He stood watching as she dashed beneath the arcaded front of one of the old stone buildings on the square. Then he crossed the square to a door over which hung a small, oval red sign that said, simply, post. It was a sort of stationery and greeting card shop with a window at the back behind which a matronly woman presided over the Postal Service part of the business. Alec browsed a rack and picked out a picture postcard of the town with the mountain at its back. Then he stood aside to compose a note to Gwynne’s older sister, Jane, who had taken to calling herself “Spirit” for reasons that escaped him. “Dear Jane,” he wrote, feeling just a bit perverse, “I’ve made it to the mountain. Weather permitting, will take Gwynne’s ashes up to the summit tomorrow. All’s well here; hope you are, too.” He paid for the card and the stamp and left it with the postmistress. Then he walked across the square to the Lloyd’s Bank and cashed a traveler’s check so he could pay Fiona for his room. At the teller’s window a small sign displayed the date and he blinked in surprise; somehow, it had become April 12, his birthday.
He’d lost track of the passing days as he walked across Britain to this little town in northwest Wales. That was the beauty of walking with no fixed itinerary and no deadline for being somewhere: every day was fresh and new, every moment was the present. Alec had never understood it when self-help books talked about the importance of “living in the present.” For him, the present had always seemed the merest fraction of a second between grief about the past and anxiety about the future. It probably started in childhood, he guessed; the present was often a frightening place in his family, financially precarious and perpetually at risk of exploding from his father’s volcanic anger. Even as a boy, Alec was constantly testing the emotional atmosphere in his turbulent family, anticipating what might happen next, and preparing for it. When he joined the Boy Scouts at thirteen, mostly so he could get out of the city and into the mountains on camping trips, he’d laughed to himself when he heard the Scout motto: “Be prepared.” No problem there, he thought.
He’d been standing under an awning outside the bank, staring at the rain pounding the cobbles in the middle of the square, when he realized it was time to find the café. He asked directions from an elderly man in a flat tweed cap and a waxed, olive-green Barbour jacket who had sauntered across the square to the bank as if the teeming rain were just a minor inconvenience.
“You’re from away, then, are you?” the man said when he heard Alec’s accent. It was less a question than an accusation. “One of them tourists with their big cars clogging the streets.”
“I am from away, but I walked here,” Alec replied.
“A walker, then! Ah well, that’s different. Come to climb old Cadair, have you?”
“I have indeed,” Alec answered, warming to the man.
“Well,” the old fellow said, squinting at the leaden sky, “fine day for it!”
Alec couldn’t tell whether the fellow was pulling his leg or dead serious. He suspected the latter. He was a tough old bird.
Alec arrived at the Cozy just as Fiona was taking her seat. It was a charming, chintz-trimmed shop, steamy and warm and fragrant with baked goods. He joined her and was telling her about the old man when the plump proprietress arrived to take their order.
“Well, Fiona Edwards,” she said brightly. “We haven’t seen you in ages!”
“I know, Brandith; it’s just I’m so busy.”
Brandith stood and waited.
“Oh!” Fiona said at last. “Where are my manners? Brandith, this is one of my guests, Alec Hudson. Alec, Brandith Evans.”
Alec stood. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans; a pleasure to meet you. Lovely shop.”
“That’ll be Miss Evans, thank you very much,” the woman said, extending her hand and blushing, “but Brandith will do just fine. From America then, are you?”
“I am indeed,” he said, releasing her hand after a moment and sitting again. “Now what do you suggest for a foul afternoon like this ... Brandith?”
“Well, you can choose what you like from the tea cakes on the trolley just there,” she said, pointing to a heavily laden pastry table on wheels by the wall, “but I’ve just pulled some currant scones from the oven and I have some lovely clotted cream I’m sure you’d like.”
“Sounds great,” Alec said, flashing her a broad smile. “And a coffee for me, please.”
Fiona watched this exchange and smiled; Brandith was clearly charmed.
“And what about you, Fiona,” the woman said. “The same?”
“Oh no, Brandith; just tea for me, thanks; Earl Grey, I think.”
“Fiona Edwards,” the owner scolded, “look at you! You eat like a bird!”
Then she softened and inclined her head toward Fiona, lowering her voice, “How’s our David then, Fi?”
“About the same, I’m afraid.”
“Still holed up in that hay barn, is he?”
“Yes.”
Brandith sighed. “Terrible thing, that is. Terrible.” She gave Fiona’s shoulder a sisterly pat. “I’ll just get that tea then.”
Alec looked at Fiona. “Hay barn?”
“I thought you only drank tea,” Fiona said.
“Sometimes I break my own rules.”
“Do you indeed?” she teased.
“You’re evading the question.”
Fiona nodded. “In addition to weakening his heart, the poisoning’s made him sensitive to practically every chemical in the environment—anything with a fragrance, many things without, many foods, especially meat; the list is very long.” She sighed.
“Anyway, living in the house became impossible for him, even though I switched to perfume-free cleaning products and changed our diet. Plus, there are the fragrances that come in with our guests. He was sick all the time.”
Alec thought about the unopened bottle of Amarige in Fiona’s bathroom. Of course. And now the absence of any of David’s things made sense.
“But a hay barn?”
Fiona smiled. “It’s probably the most expensive former hay barn in Britain. It’s a stone building away off in a corner of the farm, near the mountain. Used to store hay when David’s father had a cow. We had it completely renovated. Used nothing but chemical-free materials—untreated wood floors, milk-based paint, unbleached cotton fabrics. Sitting room with fire, bedroom, bath, and a small kitchen done entirely in stainless steel that I can just wipe down with simple soap and hot water.”
“Does he never come out?”
“Oh, he can still do work on the farm; being outside is good for him. He can’t go into the working barns, but he’s out most days fixing fences and walls, moving sheep from one pasture to another, looking after pregnant ewes, culling lambs, and so forth. Even though it’s lambing season now he can only work a few hours a day; he’s weak and tires easily. The doctor says it’s partly because his heart isn’t sending enough blood through his body. The rest is just the long-term effects of the poisoning. Owen does most of the farm work these days and, of course, the annual dipping. Doesn’t seem to bother him. At least not yet.”
“My God, I think I’d go mad if I were David.”
“I think he is,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “But it’s not just being cooped up that’s making him crazy. The poison’s affected his nervous system. He isn’t just forgetful, he has trouble thinking, sorting what needs doing and getting it done. It’s as if there are fissures in his brain he can’t bridge.“ He never was much of a reader, but now he just sits and watches the telly. He’s depressed and angry. He was always a quiet man, but he’s pulled deep inside himself. And he drinks too much; he makes Owen bring him whisky. He can become violent.”
She looked up, her face bleak, her eyes not quite focused on him. “I hardly recognize David anymore; he’s become someone else.”
Alec didn’t know what to say, but his heart hurt for her. A few moments later, Brandith arrived with the tea and coffee and scones, setting before him a pot of strawberry jam and a small bowl of thick yellow clotted cream.
“Sure you won’t have anything to eat, Fi?” she asked.
Fiona rallied. “No thanks, luv; I’m not hungry. The tea will do me fine.”
“Right then; if you need anything, just give us a shout.”
Fiona was staring at the fogged-over shop windows as if she could see beyond them, far into the past.
He had a fleeting sense that perhaps a distance had opened between Fiona and her husband long before his illness. He’d expected sadness, even anguish, but instead Fiona seemed resigned, exhausted. He looked at the scone and jam and thick cream and found he’d lost his appetite.
“It’s been very hard on Meaghan, of course; they’re very close,” Fiona continued. “Fathers and daughters often are. It would have been hard enough for her to leave for university even under normal circumstances, but now ...”
He reached over and poured her another cup of tea from her pot. She looked up sharply, as if suddenly awakened.
“Listen to me rattle on! Let’s change the subject, shall we? Last night you said you didn’t finish something you set out to do on the mountain. Would you like to tell me what it is, or am I being rude?”
Alec looked at the woman across the table. He had planned to carry out his task quietly, privately. Now he realized he wanted to share it with someone he’d known for only two days. It was something about the softness in her eyes; he thought she might understand. It was something, too, about the way she had opened to him, telling him about David. It also occurred to him—and this came as a surprise—that he might need her support to do what he needed to do.
“You said it was a long story,” she added. “I promise not to fall asleep.”
And so Alec told Fiona about his life with Gwynne, about being with her through the last months of her life, about her final request, about how it had taken him a full year to bring himself to fulfill it, and about why he’d decided he had to walk to the mountain.
Fiona said nothing as he spoke. She understood now the sadness that clung to him. She wondered whether that was part of what drew her to him so powerfully. Fiona understood tragedy; it was something they had in common. Yes, it helped to explain the bond she felt with the handsome American, but it did nothing to explain the excitement she felt when she was with him. She decided that part didn’t need an explanation.
When he finished they were both quiet for a few moments.
“You must have loved her very much,” she said.
“Yes, I did. I guess I always did.”
“And you love her still.”
“No, I don’t think that’s true. I think what’s true is that I miss her being here, on this earth—living, breathing, creating, making her magic. I miss that terribly. Is that love? A form of it, I suppose, but not the whole package. We always joked about how we were better as friends than as husband and wife. I think that’s it: I’ve lost my best friend.”
Alec looked down at his plate. Sometime during his story, the scone had vanished.
“Now that you’ve finished off my scone and clotted cream,” he said, “shall we head home so I can have something to eat, too?”
“I just didn’t want to let it go to waste,” Fiona said.
“Right.”