Carla, jet-lagged and disorientated, stared in dismay at the room that was to be her temporary home for the coming weeks and wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. She shook the thought away – late summer, after all, is a terrible time to judge a place. Residents are away holidaying, and an influx of seasonal workers and visitors swell a town on the tourist trail. It had been the case in Oxford, and Jericho was no different. She was in another country, yes, but one that Carla had longed to work in. She loved the thought of New England, brought alive in the books by Edith Wharton and John Updike, and wanted to embrace the small towns that retained their settler feel, the changeable seasons each with their own dynamic and the academic excellence offered by Jericho College. It had been time for a move, a change from the lassitude that she could not shrug off. A way to escape the ennui of grief that had dulled but not disappeared.
She’d found temporary accommodation in the attic wing of a brick townhouse and even that hadn’t been easy to locate. The summer season stretched into late September, by which time the semester would have started. Eventually, Patricia, a fellow parishioner of the church attended by her new boss Albert Kantz, had been prevailed upon to house Carla on the understanding that she’d look for somewhere else during the autumn. Standing in her flight-grubby clothes in the large garret room, she remembered once more that you couldn’t run away from your troubles; you just packed them up and brought them with you. Perhaps her mood would improve when she got onto campus. She missed the busyness of a September start of term inundated with emails, invitations to meetings and disputes over office space.
Carla eyed the modern double bed, wondering if it was as comfortable as it looked. The exterior of the house gave off gothic vibes and she’d had visions of sleeping on an ancient iron bedstead infused with decades of other people’s sweat and skin. Her landlady Patricia had promised her the mattress was only two years old, which Carla guessed was the average lifespan for a bed in a hotel room. The other pieces of furniture were older – a bleached pine chest of drawers and a matching thin wardrobe with a mirrored door that creaked as Carla hung her clothes inside its pleasant, closed fustiness. She’d brought three suitcases with her, wincing at the extra luggage allowance, and was determined to make do with what she had. Anything missing, she would buy locally, from a goodwill store if necessary. Her Oxford flat, with its painful memories, had been cleared and rented out.
Carla crossed to the window and looked out over the town. The college, she knew, was over to the east, beyond the river and out of her sightline. In the fading twilight, she could see the white spires of two churches, one Episcopalian, the other Latter-day Saints according to Patricia. Her landlady, while showing her the room, had paused, offering Carla the opportunity to offer up her own religious affiliations. It was too early in their relationship for Carla to admit she had none. Patricia, she gathered, was an expert on religion, stray animals and quilt making. It made her sound more twee than the stocky, no-nonsense mother of five she was. Carla turned at the sound of a knock and Patricia came in with a tray.
‘You didn’t need to carry that up for me. I’d have come down for tea.’
‘I doubt my tea-making skills are up to English standard. I’ve brought you hot chocolate and cookies. It’s your first night and you’ll be tired.’ Patricia put the tray on top of the chest of drawers as the smell of cinnamon filled the room. ‘My son will be bringing a table over from his basement tomorrow for you to work on. Will you manage until then?’
‘Of course. It’s kind of you to go to this effort for this temporary arrangement – I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come to the rescue.’
‘Rescue?’ queried Patricia. ‘I’d hardly call it that and, if you don’t mind me saying, you look the competent type.’
Carla smiled. ‘I guess I am, but it just feels so strange. I mean, I’ve travelled around the world on digs, but I’ve never managed to shake off the unfamiliarity of first days.’
‘Digs? You’re in the same field as Albert then?’ Patricia perched gingerly on the bed, careful not to disturb the smoothness of the home-made quilt.
‘He’ll be my new boss. Do you know him well?’
‘Well enough. He and his wife Viv are regulars at the church, their kids less so, but you know what it’s like for youngsters these days. Plenty of other things to occupy their time. You know she’s a cop?’
Carla started. ‘A cop? No, I didn’t. I don’t actually know much about Albert as I was interviewed over Zoom.’
Patricia snorted. ‘That’s the way everything is going these days. Working remotely. Not much use for an archaeologist though, is it?’
In fact, quite a lot of Carla’s work had moved online over the last couple of years, but Patricia ploughed on, not expecting a response.
‘I have to say it sounds an exciting life. I think if I’d had a choice, I’d have wanted to be an archaeologist too, unearthing the past and all that. Don’t tell me it’s nothing like I imagine because I won’t believe you.’
Carla laughed and picked up a cookie, sure that the sugar would help lift her mood. She bit into it, savouring the burst of flavour in her mouth.
‘I’m a bit of an outlier when it comes to my profession, if truth be told. It’s not enough for me to excavate the sites and build a picture of the lives of the people I’m studying. I want to understand the feelings behind what I find. I call it the archaeology of emotion. It’s what my reputation is built on.’
‘The archaeology of emotion? I like that. People don’t express their feelings as much as they should.’ Patricia held her gaze, a flicker of understanding in her eyes. ‘I heard you were a widow, so I was expecting someone a little older. You’re young to be so unfortunate.’
Carla swallowed her biscuit dry in her throat and took a swig of hot chocolate. Unfortunate? She’d not been described as that before, but it wasn’t a bad adjective. ‘My husband died after a long illness. It’s a been a while, but you could say I’m still excavating my own emotions.’
‘Well, my advice, for what it’s worth, is don’t expect change to produce miracles.’
Carla, suddenly near to tears, turned back to the window. ‘I think I’m beginning to appreciate that. Still, Jericho is beautiful tonight, a bit like the Oxford I left behind. Through this window it looks as if I’m in a fairy-tale town.’
Patricia grimaced.
‘Did I say something wrong?’ asked Carla, thinking of Oxford’s seedier side and the occasional bouts of city centre violence.
‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re actually not that far wrong. Fairy tales have their dark side as well as happy endings.’
‘And does Jericho have its underbelly?’
Patricia hesitated and pulled a wisp of grey hair behind her ear. ‘All places have the wrong side of the tracks. We’re just better in Jericho at hiding it. You just take care. Not thinking about dating again?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Carla hid her surprise. In fact, she had no intention of seeing anyone, but Patricia’s question had prompted her to hedge her bets. Wasn’t this a scene from a Victorian melodrama? The part where the matriarch of the house warns against male visitors. She saw Patricia relax at her reply.
‘That’s all right then. We have our problems like anywhere else. I have to say, I appreciate having company in the house. The town’s got an odd atmosphere. I’ve noticed it for the last year or so. Anyway, don’t mind my fancies. You’ll settle in well, I’m sure.’