Douglas stands by the gate and I see he is stooped, staring at the ground beneath his feet as if in contemplation. I walk to him and he straightens up but still avoids my eyes.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘This is it.’
‘Indeed,’ he replies, and now he looks at me.
I glance at his beautiful eyes. They are deep dark pools of confusion. Not harsh or severe, just rather lost. I see he is holding his emotions in, and there will be no sentimental farewell. I long to embrace him, for him to enfold me in his arms and for us to recapture the way we used to be. But it cannot be. Those days are gone. He has become good at hiding and now my husband is sprung so tightly he dares not allow himself to feel.
He grasps my hand and squeezes, then he lets go and steps back. I do what he expects me to do and I walk out of the gate wordlessly, without looking back, and without making a scene.
It’s a glorious June day, the sky extraordinarily blue, and the sun tinting the tops of the clouds with silver and gold. I am silent at first as we begin the drive, unable to speak to Simone, but eventually I relax. We pass a riot of different greens still lacy with new life, drystone walls lining the road and far-reaching views across the Cotswolds, where fields dotted with sheep butt up against meadows in which horses nuzzle the fences. We make two stops at roadside inns to enable the car to cool down and to feed it with water and petrol. At one stop Simone encourages me to leave the car and take the air, but I remain where I am, so instead she brings me a cool lemonade and a sandwich for lunch.
When we eventually turn off to the left, passing deep woods on both sides, and then begin the descent down the hill to the valley, where the village of Minster Lovell lies, I feel my stomach clench. But after we cross the medieval bridge over the river I am surprised: I hadn’t expected it to be so enchanting. Though narrow, and lined by enormous weeping willows, the river is flowing freely and as we turn right and away from the mill, we pass the pub on the left. Simone points out her cottage. Like several others it too is thatched, a long and narrow house of buttery Cotswold stone glowing in the sunlight, covered in wisteria and with a ditch in front of it. I notice how the ditch travels along the length of the lane to carry away rainwater and how a few of the houses are very close, in fact joined to one another. Simone catches the look on my face.
‘Don’t worry. Yours is detached and right on the edge of the village at the top of the hill.’
I hadn’t noticed the gentle incline but see now that we are rising and am relieved to know I shall not be in the centre of things.
‘There are only two houses after yours, both around the corner, and there is plenty of land between them.’
I’m longing to see my new home. When Simone pulls up she points to a beautiful cottage behind a drystone wall and, from what I can see, surrounded by pretty gardens.
She gets out of the car and then comes round to my side to help me. I feel my heart beating faster but my eagerness to see inside the house overrides my initial nerves and, within minutes, Simone is unlocking the front door and ushering me inside to the hall.
‘I’ve arranged the furniture as I thought you’d like it and the curtains have been hung, but of course you must change anything you don’t like. I shan’t be offended.’
I smile at her, grateful for everything she has done.
She shows me around the house and I have to remind myself it is mine and not hers. Up the narrow staircase, and off a tiny landing, there are three bedrooms and a bathroom. Two bedrooms overlook the road, but with a generous front garden that hardly matters. My bedroom, she says, is at the back, and when I step inside it I steer over to one of the two windows. From my vantage point I can see a well-stocked and well-maintained garden leading to dense woods beyond.
I spin round in gratitude. ‘Thank you.’
‘I knew you’d like it. When I came back from Burma after Roger died I needed to find peace and looked everywhere.’
‘You found it.’
‘But only when I came to Minster Lovell.’
‘I love it. Really I do.’
‘It’s a special place. I always say the tranquillity here mended my broken heart.’
I reach out a hand to her and she squeezes it.
‘I had your trunk brought up here. And, when I stay over, my room is one of the two at the front.’
We go back down and explore a sweet drawing room with a large fireplace, a cosy snug with a smaller fireplace, a dining room and a small kitchen with a pantry leading off it.
‘When you are ready,’ she says, ‘I will take you to the doctor’s house. You turn right just up from this house and go downhill towards the church. You only pass one house set well back from the lane and then his is on the right at the bottom.’
‘I thought he would come to me.’
‘If you prefer, I’m sure he will.’
I nod, feeling relieved.
‘Mrs Jones from the village comes to cook and clean every morning. I’ve explained you’ve been ill and need peace and quiet, and as she’s a sensible woman I don’t feel she will be intrusive. She’ll shop for provisions too and Norridge & Son take care of local deliveries in their specially built Ford T van. It’s really comical actually, looks like a rectangular box on wheels.’
I shiver, suddenly cold. Although it’s June, the late afternoon and evenings can still be chilly.
‘All we have to do is light the fire,’ Simone says reassuringly. ‘Mrs Jones has set one here in the snug, but also in the drawing room and your bedroom. And she’s made us a pea and ham soup for supper. For now, what about your cashmere wrap to warm you up? Didn’t you bring it?’
‘I left it behind. Annabelle might be glad of it one day and I want her to have something of me.’
I try hard not to cry at the thought of Annabelle.
‘I need to go back to mine to collect my night things,’ Simone says and touches my hand. ‘Will you be all right? I can do it later, if you prefer?’
I tell her it’s fine and, while she is gone, I think of home. After I said goodnight to Annabelle last night, I saw Douglas. He was softer than when I left this morning. He came to my room and we held each other for what seemed like a long time. I didn’t want him to see my tears so pulled away and with my back to him dried my eyes. He saw through my little charade, of course, and knew I was crying. And when I looked at him I saw his eyes were sad too and his hands were shaking.
I inhale slowly. In and out.
I am here now and feel sure I will come to know every nook and cranny of my new home as well as every blade of grass in the garden too. The thought of it is strangely comforting. Maybe one day I will know the village as well. The world outside my window feels suddenly less flimsy, and my connection to it less fragile. Simone was right: there is something special about this place, but it has come at such a price and, more than anything, I wish Annabelle could have come too.