We were never country folk. I say this because I’m adjusting so well to living in the countryside and it has surprised me. My mother’s people had once been farmers so there might be something in my blood.
It hasn’t been long, but Minster Lovell is perfect for me. I do miss Annabelle very much; and I feel a yearning for Douglas too, if I’m honest, but not so much I feel deeply unhappy. The missing is offset by the fact I can do as I please without any fear of upsetting anyone. I have Simone and Mrs Jones, who is a good soul, and of course I have Dr Gilbert Stokes, who is coming for our session in a moment.
Although I haven’t yet sat down on a bench in the garden, I like to leave the front door open and stand in the porch. If anyone passes I do feel slightly panicky but I have learnt to wave and set my face into a smile. Today, you can smell the rain in the air, even though the sun is shining – so soothing this fresh air, so worth living for. The rain will be good for the lawn as we’ve had a long dry spell. As the scents of mown grass and the glorious early summer flowers drift over, I wait for the doctor.
His body is at an angle and his head is bent against the rise of the hill when I spot his shock of white hair. But at the top he lifts his face, sees me and waves. I return the gesture. I won’t say I’m not nervous, but he is a kind man and I’m feeling hopeful.
Once we have shaken hands we make ourselves comfortable in my little sitting room where Mrs Jones has left a tray of tea and biscuits. She’s off to market now, so we shall not be disturbed.
I can’t articulate how deeply reassuring it is when he states I must let him know if any of his questions make me feel awkward. I had been worried about that.
So, for a while, we talk about my childhood. I’m not clear what he wants me to say, but he tells me there’s no right or wrong and it’s purely a question of starting somewhere. After he suggests I tell him what my father was like, I inhale sharply and then let out my breath slowly to give myself time to think. I think about how my father used to encourage me to ‘be myself’.
The problem has always been I’ve never known how to do that. I express the thought and when the doctor gives me a gentle, encouraging smile, I notice the light in his blue eyes. ‘Does it worry you, the not knowing?’ he asks.
I chew the inside of my cheek, uncertain how much it is safe to say, but then I remember this man has no interest in sending me to the Grange or anywhere like it. I draw courage from that and tell him it makes me feel sad.
‘And lonely maybe?’ he adds.
I am uneasy, a lump growing in my throat, so stare at my feet and can’t manage a reply. He tells me many people only begin to understand who they are near the end of their lives, or more realistically, who they have been or might have been all along.
I swallow the lump in my throat. For so long I’ve been made to feel I am beyond redemption, that whatever is wrong with me cannot be healed. This doctor gives me a little hope and I reward him with a generous smile.
I tell him I thought we’d be talking about what happened in Burma but when he asks me if I want to talk about that, I shake my head.