Chapter 6 Kate 
ALNWICK, ENGLAND | NOVEMBER 2010
It’s dark. They’re on the motorway again, rain beating down on the windshield. In the headlights of the car, the road shimmers like glitter in a pool. Kate can hear the soft whir of water spraying into the wheel wells. There’s hardly anyone else on the road. She glances at her dad, his stubbled chin in shadow. The odour of whiskey wafts from him.
But her rage at Adam fills her chest, and she’s about to answer her husband when a sound louder than anything she’s heard in her life fills her ears with the force and volume of cannon fire. It’s inside her, reverberating in her cells. And then there’s silence, and confusion, and the red and blue lights of the ambulances through the shattered windows.
Kate jolts awake with a gasp. It takes several seconds for her to realize that she’s at the Oakwood, that she’s safe. She runs a hand over her damp forehead. Ozzie, who always sleeps at the end of her bed, is resting his snout on the pillow next to her, looking at her with worried eyes.
“Oh, Oz.” Kate reaches to soothe him.
Rain lashes against her bedroom windows as thunder rumbles loudly overhead. The noise from the storm must have woven its way into her dream. She glances at the small analog clock on the bedside table: 6:24.
She leans her head into Ozzie’s, closing her eyes, but the lights from the ambulance are still imprinted on the back of her eyelids like some chaotic film projection, and she tries to blink them away.
The nightmares started not long after she left the hospital. At first, they were debilitating, but now Kate’s learned to focus her attention on grounded things when she wakes from them: the feel of her dog’s fur beneath her fingers, the weight of her body on this impossibly soft mattress. Sometimes she picks up her journal and writes things out.
She takes several deep breaths, then swings her legs out of bed, planting them firmly on the woven rug beneath her feet. She goes to her suitcase. She’d only unpacked a little last night. After a frozen lasagna dinner with Sue and Audrey—in uncomfortable silence punctuated by forced small talk from Sue—she’d gone to sleep straightaway. Now, she selects a turtleneck and heavy knit sweater to keep out the damp chill. She wonders if she’ll have to do some shopping; she isn’t sure the clothes that suited London winters will suffice this far north.
Her mobile vibrates in her purse. It’s a text from Adam.
Got yr voicemail. Sorting things out with the solicitor - be in touch when the docs are ready for signature.
She isn’t sure what, exactly, she expected. He’s never been particularly sensitive in text messages, and there’s really nothing left to say, anyway. They’ve said it all. Cried and shouted it all. But something about the brevity of it, the way he spoke so flippantly of drawing up their divorce papers, makes her wonder if he even gives a shit. If he feels as unmoored as she does, as fucked-up and broken. She turns off the mobile entirely, tosses it back into her purse, then reaches into her suitcase for her silver jewellery box, the size of a deck of cards. A gift from her grandmother on her sixteenth birthday.
She looks at her left hand, the diamond ring Adam gave her sitting atop her wedding band. Whatever power or magic or promises the rings once held have blown away like rotted leaves in the aftermath of everything that happened.
She’s left London, left Adam. The Oakwood is her fresh start. It’s time to let go.
Swallowing hard, Kate wiggles off the rings. The bands have left a divot in her finger, the lingering outline of a previous identity, like new skin cells knitting into a scar. She wonders if it will be visible forever. She glances at the small mirror on the dresser, turns her face to view her scars. One is thicker than the others but masked a bit by her jawline. The others snake out in different directions, one down her neck, the other farther up her cheek, but they aren’t as noticeable from the front. The physical scarring could have been a lot worse. The emotional ones are as bad as they could be. But she hopes they all might fade a little in time.
Pulling her gaze away from the mirror, she sets the rings inside the jewellery box. Her eyes catch on the small silver locket her parents gave her on her twentieth birthday: oval, with an intricate letter K engraved in the centre.
“Your dad picked it out,” her mum had said, as he watched silently from the end of the table. “He figured you’re old enough for real jewellery now.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Kate smiled. He’d nodded in that gruff way men of his age tend to when confronted with emotion, and got up to refill his wine.
She used to wear it every day, but hasn’t since the accident. She turns it in her fingers to access the clasp and look inside, then frowns at something dark crusted in the groove of the locket. Silver doesn’t rust. And then it hits her. It isn’t rust.
It’s dried blood.
Ice floods her veins. She sets it back in the jewellery box and snaps the lid shut.
Half an hour later, Kate creeps down the stairs, Ozzie at her heels. They pass the Elder Room on the second floor. The door is open a crack, but it’s dark inside, and Kate assumes Audrey must still be asleep.
She’d taken a shower to warm herself after the sight of her necklace, and she wishes she’d dried her hair instead of just braiding it damp over her shoulder. The house is drafty, and the continuing rain beats a soft rhythm against the roof and windows.
When they reach the foyer, Ozzie darts for the front door and Kate lets him out.
“Don’t faff about, Oz, it’s raining.”
She watches as he trots in little circles, tail in the air, until he finds the perfect spot. The grounds are just as beautiful in the rain. The grass is dark green, and all she can hear is the soft patter of raindrops on the oaks lining the driveway. Ozzie gallops back inside and they head to the kitchen. Kate hauled his food in from the car the night before, but the bag is half-empty. She makes a mental note to look up the pet supply shop in town. Her move across the country had been impulsive, though necessary, but she hadn’t exactly made a list of all the new roots she would need to establish elsewhere once she’d ripped up the existing ones. The thought of finding a new doctor, dentist, and groomer makes her tired and anxious, so she pushes it to the back of her mind for now and sets about making a pot of coffee.
Once it’s on, she wanders back to the sitting room, and Ozzie curls up on the dog bed in the corner as though he’s lived here his whole life.
“Make yourself at home, buddy,” she mutters with a chuckle, then, noticing a doorway beyond the sitting room, walks over. Before her is the most intriguing room she’s seen so far: part conservatory, part library. Tall bookshelves line the walls with various greenery perched on top. Tendrils of ivy and spider plants cascade down, partially obscuring the spines of the books on the highest shelves. A single large window framed with hunter-green curtains looks out over the extensive lawn on the side of the inn. There’s a cushioned seat with a couple of pillows, a perfect little reading nook.
But in the centre of the room is a large, gleaming baby grand piano, its spindly legs resting on a worn, patterned rug. Kate runs her fingers over it, curious about its colour: a warm oak instead of the classic glossy black. She’s never seen a grand piano like this. Her dad used to play. Pretty well, too, for an amateur. With a lurch, she wonders whether he might have sat down at this same stool and given it a go. She can hear him playing inside her head, see his head bowed at the old maple upright they had in her childhood home.
The thought makes her pick at her cuticles, so she turns from the piano to inspect the bookshelves. She always likes to explore other people’s book collections; it says so much about a person, the books they choose to read, and—perhaps even more revealing—the books they choose to keep. The ones they continuously hold on to, even after spring cleanings, moving houses, downsizing, divorce, and decluttering. The books they curated from their life’s collection.
Kate walks her fingers over the spines. There’s a classic set of encyclopaedias titled with thin gold lettering, loads of aged books on history, botany, and music theory, their titles nearly worn away by the hands of time and readers. Anthologies of poetry, philosophy, and an array of novels both classic and modern. There are dozens of titles in German, too, which piques Kate’s interest. She thinks about Audrey’s elusive accent.
She’s a big ol’ box of secrets, that one, Sue had said.
Kate moves down the bookcase. There’s a gap in one of the shelves at her elbow where a book is splayed, a pen resting in the fold. A guest book. Kate looks at the entries—exclusively positive reviews and well-wishes from happy visitors over the past several months. They’ve come from as far away as Singapore, Australia, and Brazil, or as close to home as Edinburgh, just down for a weekend mini-break. Her eyes slide to the books lined up beside this one; the spines each have dates. With a little skip in her heart, she inspects the long row.
And there it is: 1968. The year of her parents’ honeymoon.
Kate plucks it from the shelf and flips through. She locates the guest entries from April through June, and there they are:
Audrey — thanks so much for everything. Can’t express what it was like to be here. —Joseph & Rose Barber, Shropshire
Outside, the rain continues to splatter the library window, but Kate is rooted to the floor as she stares at her dad’s note, referencing their visit in his own tall, tight handwriting. She didn’t keep much of it, or her mum’s either. Maybe a birthday card here or there. You never think to do those things, and then suddenly it’s too late. But Audrey clearly made them feel welcome—which is a small surprise to Kate, given her own less-than-warm reception, and she wonders what fond memories they created here.
She caresses the cover of the book, then slides it back into place on the shelf. A creak breaks the silence and she startles, turns to find Audrey standing in the doorway.
“Sorry,” Kate says. “I didn’t think anyone else would be up yet.”
She notices Audrey isn’t employing her cane today. The thud of the stick on the floorboards might have announced her presence.
“I normally rise early. I’ve never been a particularly deep sleeper.” Audrey taps her forehead. “Busy mind. And ‘Anyone else’ is only me, Miss Mercer. It’s just the pair of us. And these two.”
Ozzie and the black terrier she met yesterday scramble past Audrey and over to Kate.
“Hello again, little one,” Kate says.
The terrier’s stumpy tail wags back and forth, causing her entire body—including her whiskers—to shake. Kate scoops her up and is rewarded with a lick on the cheek, then she kneels, holding her out to Ozzie, who touches his nose to hers and the tail wagging begins again.
“This is Sophie.” Audrey nods at her dog, now squirming out of Kate’s arms.
“This is Ozzie.”
“Yes.” Audrey peers down at him. “We shall have to get the measure of you, hm?”
Kate finds this to be a rather haughty remark toward a dog, but she lets the comment slide in the spirit of unfamiliarity. A moment later she wonders whether it was meant for her.
“Well, come along then,” Audrey says with a brusque clearing of her throat. “Time for breakfast.”
She leads Kate back through the sitting room and down the hall to the kitchen. She’s clearly moving better than she was yesterday, but still very slow, a little too careful.
She stops inside the doors. “I smell coffee.”
“Yeah,” Kate says. “I was up early, so I put it on.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Audrey says with a grave expression. “I’ve been running on the bloody stuff for decades.”
Kate’s mouth twitches. Between that and the baking show, perhaps they’ll get along after all.
“I usually just have an egg and toast when we’re vacant.” Audrey moves toward the refrigerator. “Nothing fancy. And no fry-ups. I can’t stand potatoes.”
“That’s fine,” Kate says, though she wonders what sort of person hates potatoes. “What can I do?”
Audrey heaves a sigh. “If you must, go ahead and get the Marmite and whatever you like for your toast, and some mugs, and bring them through. The coffee, too, I suppose.”
“I like Marmite on my egg and toast, too,” Kate says, opening a cupboard at random in search of it.
“Some prefer jam or marmalade, but I think a salty punch wakens the morning nerves better than sugar.” Audrey fishes the eggs out of the fridge. “Top cupboard beside the stove.”
Kate retrieves it, along with some mugs and the coffeepot.
Audrey gestures to the swinging door. “Head into the dining room. I’ll come through with the breakfast.” She drops an egg onto the tile floor and curses.
Kate moves forward. “Do you need a—”
“I only need you to go sit down, Miss Mercer.”
Kate purses her lips on a retort and pushes open the door to the dining room with her hip. She sits at the table where they ate dinner yesterday, stomach tightening on a small knot. She wishes Audrey wanted her here. It’s uncomfortable, but she thinks of her dad’s message in the guest book. She doesn’t want to leave just yet.
She swallows that realization as she surveys her surroundings in the morning light. The dining room is brighter than the other rooms. One entire wall is floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the dark woods at the back of the inn. Outside, a muted, pale light diffuses through the clouds. It looks like the rain has stopped now. Kate takes in other details she was too distracted to notice last night—the framed prints of various plants sketched in black and white on the walls, the long buffet table, and the smaller dining tables positioned around the room for when the Oakwood is full of guests—and an eerie feeling of isolation comes over her, as though she’s the sole occupant of a restaurant after hours.
She’s musing on the last time she and Adam went out to eat when Audrey appears in the kitchen doorway with a tray. Kate’s instinct is to leap up and help, but she already knows better.
Audrey settles herself down. “Thank you,” Kate says, then pours the coffee, slides a cup to her. It’s a good sign that Audrey wants to eat with her.
As Audrey reaches for the cup, Kate gets a closer look at her hands. They’re speckled with age, as one would expect of a nonagenarian, but the knuckles resemble the knots of a tree, and two of the fingers on her right hand are bent to the side, as though they were crushed at one point. Whatever it is, it’s more than just age. Kate tries not to focus on them; she knows how it feels when other people stare at her scars.
Audrey picks up the jar of Marmite, struggles to open it. “Bloody lid.”
Kate waits. After a momentary battle, Audrey glances at her, then nods curtly.
“It might need a younger hand.”
With a forced wrench, Kate releases the yellow lid and hands the little jar back to her. She watches Audrey for a moment.
“Eat, Miss Mercer,” Audrey says, fixing her with a pointed glare. “You’re thin as a rail and paler than cheese.”
Kate swallows, indignant, but pulls the plate toward her. She is hungry. “You can call me Kate,” she says.
They sit for a couple of drawn-out minutes, eating their eggs, before Audrey speaks again. Her tone is businesslike.
“So, then. My housekeeper has gone and hired a woman I know nothing about to live in my house.” One thinning white eyebrow arches. “Tell me a bit about yourself, so I have some vague idea who I’m cozying up with.”
It’s a fair question, but Audrey’s inquiry isn’t as straightforward as she thinks it is. How do you tell someone you just met that your life is in the middle of a massive renovation? That you wake up every morning and go to bed each night not entirely sure who you really are, what you want, or where you’re going? Kate sips her coffee, buying time as she rakes together a few scattered details. Just enough to form a pile resembling a whole person.
“Well, I’m thirty-three. I was born in Shropshire, but I moved to London for uni, and I’ve lived there ever since.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.”
“And you were married?” Audrey nods at Kate’s hand. “The groove in your finger there.”
Kate opens, then shuts her mouth. Audrey’s well over ninety and wears glasses, for Christ’s sake. How did she even notice?
“You know—” Kate begins, but Audrey dismisses her with a wave.
“You don’t need to justify it to me,” she says. “I’m sure I’ll learn the whole sorry tale in due course.”
Kate leans back, offended. “How do you know it’s a sorry tale?”
Audrey lifts her coffee. “Have you ever heard a cheery story of divorce and heartbreak? It’s always a sorry tale. I was going to ask you what a young woman like you is doing abandoning the hustle and bustle of London to come up here to work at a sleepy old guesthouse, but I think the divorce is responsible for the career change, too, isn’t it?”
The weight of Audrey’s assumptions quashes Kate’s appetite. She came here to escape the past, but Audrey is intent on bringing it up. Is this her way of driving Kate away? She doesn’t need to put up with this, despite her longing to learn more about her parents.
“Listen, you clearly don’t want me here, so I’ll just go.”
She stacks her fork and knife onto her plate with a clatter, pushes her chair back, and leaves the dining room without another word. In the sitting room, Ozzie is cozied up with the tiny Sophie, his body curled around hers like a chocolate doughnut. He opens one bleary eye at Kate’s approach.
“Well, at least one of them is friendly, yeah?”
There’s a smattering at the large bay window and she glances up to see that the rain has started up again. She breathes a curse. She doesn’t drive in the rain—not anymore. She’ll have to wait it out. In the meantime, she stomps up the stairs to repack.
What a disaster, she thinks, heaving her suitcase onto the bed. Just like everything I do, apparently.
Except, to be fair, she isn’t the problem this time. It’s Audrey, who can’t even manage a civilized conversation over breakfast. Tears prick at Kate’s eyes, and she growls at them.
“Why are you crying?” she whispers aloud as she wrenches open the dresser drawers. “She’s just a bitter old crank. It’s nothing to do with you.”
She pauses for a moment with a stack of trousers in her hands and takes a deep breath at the sight of the sofa across from her, recalling the image of her mum sitting there. Audrey must have been very different then, for her parents to have had such a pleasant experience here. Something must have happened in the interim to make her so aggressive and hurtful. But that’s not Kate’s problem. She would have liked to stay longer, linger a little with her parents’ memories, maybe learn something of them from Audrey, a snapshot of their lives before she was born. But that’s clearly not possible.
She shakes her head. She’d started to want this. She’d felt something akin to hope, an unfamiliar sensation warming her cold, pessimistic mind. But she’ll have to write this off as a failure, tell Adam she needs to move back into their place. She wipes at the tears, stuffs the trousers into the suitcase. She’ll need to ring the shipping company straightaway and tell them not to collect those remaining boxes.
She’s in the bathroom retrieving her toiletry bag when there’s a smart rap on her door.
“Yes?” she calls, a curt clip.
Audrey pushes the door open. “May I come in?”
“I’m busy. I’m packing.”
“I shouldn’t have said what I did about your life being a sorry tale,” Audrey says in her gravelly voice. “I saw your ring finger and…” She seems incapable of completing the half apology. Kate comes to the bathroom door. Audrey’s jaw is set, with determination or embarrassment or both, Kate can’t tell. “The truth is, as much as it severely irks me to admit it, Sue is correct. I do need some assistance. If the time has come where I can’t open my own Marmite jars, it would be foolish to pretend otherwise.”
“Yeah. Your fingers have a sorry tale, too, don’t they?” Kate snaps.
Audrey lifts her chin and the air between them thickens like curdled milk.
“I’m sorry,” Kate mutters. “I didn’t—”
“If you are fortunate enough to live to my age, Miss Mercer, you will understand how loss of independence can weigh on a person. The only thing worse than aging is the alternative.” Audrey takes a few steps into the room. “You must forgive me for my pointed questions. But I am uncomfortable with secretive roommates.” Her eyes flicker over to Kate’s suitcase. “You know, I ended up here when I had nowhere else to go. No place to call home.”
Kate’s throat tightens a little.
“May I ask why you chose the Oakwood?” Audrey asks.
Kate chews the inside of her cheek. “My parents stayed here once. Years ago now.”
“You came here because your parents stayed here once?”
“I told you my mum was dead, but my dad is too. They died in February. And I’m trying to… retrace their steps. To feel like I’m there with them.” She explains how she stumbled across the job advert after googling the Oakwood.
“And your marriage has ended, so you needed somewhere to run. And you ran here?”
Kate doesn’t fancy her trauma being summed up so indifferently, like a statement on the weather or the score of a football game. But she nods, because it’s still the truth.
Audrey’s cold grey eyes melt a degree. “This place was, and continues to be, one of solace and purpose for me. Perhaps it could be for you too. You’re fiery, like I was.”
Kate has never in her life been described as fiery, and she warms a little to the praise.
Audrey straightens and fixes Kate with another pointed look. “Well, then. Now that we’ve each lain down our swords, let’s go have another cup of coffee and try again, shall we?”