February 2018
My vision blurred as a rush of tears filled my eyes. I could barely grip the steering wheel for shaking. I was driving too fast, and the blast of a car horn as I veered across the road caused my already jangled nerves to shatter. I braked hard, swerved into a lay-by, and sobbed.
Had the visions at the farmhouse been real? Are they my memories?
I fumbled in my bag for tissues, and my hand landed on my phone. I pulled it out, wondering whether to call Zoe, and noticed a text from Emmy:
I couldn’t face replying. In fact, was I even equipped to carry on as a psychotherapist? I would text her later, suggest meeting for coffee. I threw my phone back into my bag, deciding not to call Zoe either. I would deal with this alone – for now, at least.
I started the engine. I would return to the bed and breakfast. Hide in the sanctuary of my room. Recharge.
By evening, with the help of two glasses of red wine from a bottle I’d picked up from a nearby off-licence, I’d calmed down. Plus a FaceTime session with Grace had helped lift my mood. I’d been tempted to ask her about Farrah, but stopped myself. I didn’t want to put Grace in the middle of her father’s conspiracy. That’s if there was one, and I wasn’t simply his paranoid ex.
I opened up my laptop around eight, and searched news stories for Evermore Farmhouse, but it didn’t even bring up that Felix lived there – and I assumed he’d kept his private life, private.
It was around nine when I dozed off with the TV on, catching who had gone through on MasterChef before my eyelids grew heavy and I couldn’t fight sleep any longer.
***
Hailstones hammering the window like marbles woke me the following morning. I threw back the duvet, rose, and headed for the shower – determined once more to find out about the past.
A cooked breakfast inside me, I headed for the nearest village to Evermore Farmhouse, windscreen wipers thrashing.
Although Devil’s Corner was a local name for the hazardous bend that had taken my grandparents’ lives, I’d managed to track it down on the Internet before I left for Ireland, and knew it wasn’t far from the village I was driving towards. Surely someone would remember my mother, or my grandparents’ accident – or, more importantly, what happened at Evermore Farmhouse.
Once I’d reached the village, I parked at the side of the road. I dashed along the pavement, hood up, avoiding puddles, and dived into a convenience store. I could tell the teenager behind the counter was too young to recall things that must have happened almost thirty years ago, but decided to ask all the same.
I plonked a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar on the counter.
‘Hi,’ I said, as she rung up the items on the till, throwing her my best smile.
She looked up from under a green fringe. ‘Three euros. Want a bag? They’re five cents.’
I shook my head, and handed her five euros. ‘Have you lived around here long?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Well, me. I just …’
‘Nope.’ She handed me my change, and shoved the items towards me with the length of her arm. ‘Came here with my parents a year ago. Sod all to do around here.’
‘So you wouldn’t know anything about Evermore Farmhouse?’
‘Where the kid died?’
‘A child died there?’ I felt my body tense, and my pulse flutter.
She shrugged. ‘Apparently, yeah. Old Bob, who was a bit barking according to the residents around here, used to talk about it. He didn’t make a lot of sense though, so don’t ask me what he was on about.’
‘Where can I find him?’
She pointed through the window. ‘You go out of here to the end of the road, and turn right.’
‘OK, thanks.’ I was finally getting somewhere.
‘He’s the second grave on the far left of the cemetery. Kicked it last June.’ She grinned. ‘He was gone ninety.’
‘Right,’ I said, trying to hide my annoyance. ‘Is there anyone else in the village who might have lived here thirty years ago?’
Another shrug. ‘Some author bloke lives at the farm now, I think. To be honest, most people are new around here. Although I think Marcus McCutcheon’s been here a while.’
McCutcheon. ‘Do you know where I might find him?’
‘Nope.’ A pause. ‘Anything else?’
‘No. No thank you.’ I gathered up my items, and headed back into the rain, spotting a tearoom at the end of the street. Deciding I might find locals there, I slipped my phone back into my pocket, and broke off a piece of chocolate and shoved it into my mouth, chewing as I raced through the rain.
A comforting smell of baking greeted me as I made my way towards a vacant table in the tearoom. A gorgeous original feature fireplace housed a flickering fire, and teapots of all shapes and sizes lined a high shelf, which ran the length of the room. Tables with yellow tablecloths and vases of plastic daffodils in the centre – far too much yellow – jostled for space. Music played in the background, sounding a bit like the theme from Harry Potter.
A plump woman in her fifties with rosy cheeks smiled from behind the counter. ‘I’ll be right with you,’ she sang, blowing an escaped tendril of black hair from her forehead, as she poured boiling water into a teapot.
I hung my wet coat over the back of the chair, sat down, and picked up a menu.
‘Rachel,’ came a confident male voice, carrying across the busy tearoom.
I looked up to see Felix sitting by the bay-fronted window, his laptop open, glasses dangling from his hand. I hadn’t spotted him when I came in.
‘Hi there,’ I said, my cheeks suddenly hot with embarrassment that I’d stormed from his house without saying goodbye.
His smile was wide, and seemed genuine, and I mirrored it, as I fiddled with the menu.
‘You disappeared quickly, yesterday. Was it something I said?’ He put his glasses on. Eyes back on his laptop screen, as though he didn’t care how I responded.
‘I felt ill all of a sudden. Sorry I rushed off.’
‘No need to apologise. I love it when strange people do odd things. It’s good fodder for my novels.’ He laughed.
‘Well, I’m not normally that strange,’ I said, running my fingers through my damp hair.
The woman approached, brandishing a notebook and pen. ‘So what can I get you?’ she said.
‘Just a pot of tea, please.’
‘Can’t tempt you with a slice of carrot cake?’ There was a twinkle in her blue eyes, as she nodded towards the counter where a delicious-looking cake called to me from under a glass cover. ‘Made it myself.’
‘Oh, go on then,’ I said, smiling at Felix as she walked away. ‘I really shouldn’t,’ I called over to him. ‘I’ve got a huge bar of chocolate in my bag with my name on it.’
He lifted his cup, blew on it, and took a slow sip.
‘So how’s the latest novel coming along?’ I continued. ‘I love Inspector Bronte.’
He took off his glasses again, and overdid rubbing his eyes. ‘And I’m sure that has nothing to do with Bentley Ryan playing him in the TV series?’
I laughed. The actor Bentley Ryan was gorgeous. ‘No, I read all your novels long before the TV series. I’m a stalwart fan. In fact, I’ve got a signed copy of Where are the children?’ But he’d pushed his glasses back on, and his fingers were tapping the keyboard. Our conversation was over.
My tea and cake arrived and, as the woman emptied the goodies from the tray onto my table, I took a deep breath and asked her how long she’d lived in the village.
‘Me, love?’ she said, shoving the tray under her arm, and rolling her eyes upwards as though searching for the answer. ‘Must be twelve years come May. Messy divorce brought me here, but I’ve shown him I’m not just a pretty face.’ She glanced about her, admiring her teashop. ‘I opened this place ten years ago, and since then it’s gone from strength to strength.’ She glanced over her shoulder at Felix. ‘We even get famous authors in here.’
I smiled. ‘It’s lovely,’ I said, but before I could ask anything else, she zipped away to another table, and began clearing plates.
I poured tea, and found another surge of confidence from somewhere. ‘Excuse me,’ I called, trying to get her attention once more, desperately wanting to ask if she knew anything about Evermore Farmhouse, but while Felix was in the café it was a no-go. Instead I decided to concentrate on my grandparents’ accident. ‘I don’t suppose you know Marcus McCutcheon.’
‘Yes, I know Marcus,’ she said, flicking me a look as she scrubbed the table. ‘Comes in here sometimes. Loves my Victoria sponge.’
‘Do you know where I could find him?’
‘Hmm, now let me think.’ She gave her forehead a rub with her fingertips, as though it would release the information. ‘I think he lives in Truman Close – not sure what number. Mind you, he collects gnomes.’
‘Gnomes?’
‘Mmm, can’t see the attraction myself – freaky little things, if you ask me. Anyway, he’s bound to have some loitering in his front garden, so you’ll recognise his house.’
‘Gnomes give me the creeps too.’ I smiled. ‘Anyway, thanks so much,’ I said, as she headed away.
I drank my tea, and ate my cake, scrutinising Felix as he typed. I hoped he would look up, and I could bombard him with questions about the farmhouse, but he was so absorbed in his words I didn’t disturb him. There would be another time. I would make sure of it.
‘Goodbye, Mr Clarke,’ I said, once I’d slipped on my coat and opened the door – glad to see the rain had stopped. He didn’t look up.