It Started With A Tweet(30)

I follow her back out into the courtyard, turning my back on the well. It’s too painful to think about what lurks at the bottom of it.

It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I last logged on, and while I haven’t spontaneously combusted, I have felt like I’ve had a limb cut off. I’ve even experienced the phantom-limb effect by imagining my phone vibrating and making noises all day, and most of the time it has nothing to do with the mice.

‘How are you doing?’ asks Rosie, sensing that I’m floundering.

‘OK, I think. I just feel a bit lost. Like now, if I had my phone, I’d be snapping away, taking photos of your project and posting them on Instagram. I really miss taking photos. Not to mention I’ve never gone this long without speaking to Erica before. It’s not right.’

‘Well, why don’t you write her a letter, or a postcard?’

I look at my sister as if she’s really lost the plot this time.

‘A postcard? Are we on holiday in 1985? It’ll take ages to get to her.’

‘We’re in Cumbria, not darkest Peru. If you post it today, she’ll probably get it tomorrow, or Monday at the latest.’

I yelp. I find it bad enough when I have to wait a minute for a WhatsApp reply from her.

‘Why don’t we go to the post office now? I’m sure they’ll sell postcards.’

‘Really? You’ll let me leave the farm?’ I say, as if we’re headed to some vast metropolis and not the sleepy village of Lullamby.

‘Uh-huh. I double checked with the pub earlier and they don’t have WiFi, so there’s nowhere you can sneak off to for your fix.’

My shoulders sink; she knows me better than I thought.

‘At least we’re going out,’ I say, as I bound over to the Land Rover like a dog who’s just been told he’s going for walkies.

Rosie follows me to the car, climbs in, and starts the engine. As we bump down the drive, I can’t see why I had such a problem with the terrain; it doesn’t seem that bad or muddy from up here. The drive to the village only takes a few minutes and Rosie pulls up in a small car park behind the pub.

‘Here we are,’ she says as she hops out.

I step out and peer at the buildings as if we really are in some far and exotic land. The main street is lined with terraced houses, all made up of the same type of brown and grey bricks. It looks completely different under today’s inky sky to how it looked when we drove through yesterday, when the stone looked yellower.

The post office sticks out from the other houses quite literally, with a bright green, latticed bay window poking out into the street, causing the narrow pavement to get even tighter. We push open the door and the bell over the top of it jangles noisily.

I expect to cross the threshold and step back in time, but the inside is surprisingly modern and fresh. There’s a small post-office partition on the left-hand side, and the rest of the space is given over to the shop. Amongst the usual corner-shop staples of tinned goods, bread and magazines, is a large stand selling local produce of delicious-looking cakes and handmade pots of jam and chutney. Behind the counter is an eclectic mix of everything else from warm woolly hats to needles and thread. This really is a general store.

The three people in the shop stop talking as we walk in. They give us a look confirming what we already know –we’re strangers in the village. One of the women, who clearly works there, starts to tidy the display in front of her. Yet, she continues to eye us suspiciously as she does so.

‘This is a bit awkward,’ I hiss at Rosie.

‘Well, you wanted to get out. Afternoon,’ says my sister to the shop women with a jolly lilt to her voice.

‘Afternoon,’ echoes the woman standing behind the counter, and the three of them go back to their conversation, albeit in more hushed tones than before.

‘Ah, there you go,’ says Rosie, locating a swivelling rack of postcards that all essentially offer the same scene – a sheep or a cow in front of a big hill. She pushes me in that direction before she heads over to look at the cakes.

I pick a few postcards at random before spotting writing stationery. If Rosie is really serious about me digitally detoxing, then maybe I could go proper old-school and write Erica a letter too. Although, what I’d fill a whole piece of paper with I don’t know.

I find a pretty writing pad with matching envelopes, and some gel pens. I reconvene with Rosie at the counter, who, much to my delight, has selected a big fat chocolate cake, some cookies, and some lovely bright pink raspberry jam.

The other customer, who had clearly come in as much for a gossip as the loaf of bread tucked under her arm, says her goodbyes and leaves as Rosie and I spread our goods onto the counter.

‘Did you have a good ratch about at the back?’ asks the women as she rings the items through the till. ‘We’re just in the middle of a sort out.’

‘Um .?.?.’ I say, unsure.

‘Yes, we found everything,’ says Rosie.

Get her, knowing the lingo. She’s practically one of the locals already.

‘That’s good. Got quite the correspondence planned, have you? Got a man to write some love letters to?’

I blush as my shopping is perused.

‘No, just a friend,’ I say, suddenly wishing for the anonymity of Tesco.

‘Oh, but lovely paper all the same. Terribly popular. Although, not that many people write these days. Awful shame that is. But, luckily for Gerry here, everyone’s selling things on eBay and sending back stuff they’ve bought on the Internet. Keeps her in a job,’ the woman says laughing.