A Year at the French Farmhouse(32)
It hadn’t been a restful night. As evening had come on and the area around the house had fallen into silence, she’d suddenly felt more aware of her isolation; of the fact that she was alone in an unfamiliar house in the middle of nowhere. Darkness had set in by the time she’d pumped the mattress – purchased quickly from the supermarket where she’d driven to buy a few provisions yesterday afternoon – and as she’d settled down to try to sleep, she’d felt as if she was seven years old again and afraid of the dark.
With no other furniture, her bags sat in the corner of the room, spilling their contents onto the dusty floor. She’d collected them from Chloé’s but hadn’t had the energy to do much more than rifle through for the few bits she needed.
She’d never lived alone. Sure, she’d had her own small room in uni halls when she was eighteen, but it was on a corridor filled with similar rooms, each with its own occupant. Nights had been filled with the sound of voices passing on the street outside, the purr of traffic, drunken students stumbling back to bed after a night out. She’d known that if she’d opened her door at any time, there would have been someone within easy reach.
Then she’d lived with Mum for a while, before moving in with Ben. A few years later, Ty had come along and filled any empty spaces with noise and activity and a variety of different smells – some good, some not-so-much.
Now, entirely alone in a place where passers-by were rare and genuine silence fell once local residents went to bed, she’d realised what it was to be isolated, what darkness – unpolluted with the constant flicker of streetlights – really looked like. It had fallen across the house like a blanket over a birdcage at around 11 p.m. and she’d felt suddenly as if she might be the only person left in the world.
Some of her fear had melted away when she’d stepped outside to deposit a rubbish bag on the front step, in an attempt to rid the kitchen of its stench. She’d glanced up, then stared, her mouth open like a caricature. The stars – distant flickers in the night sky back home – were bright and close and enormous and magical. There were thousands of them, their glow uninterrupted by light pollution, making them seem both beautiful and alien. They’d shed a dull light onto the scene and somehow made her feel that, despite being alone, she was part of an incredible universe. That she could do anything.
She’d stood for a minute, rubbish bag in hand, and gazed upwards, drinking in the unfamiliar sight. And realising that when humans are removed from the equation nature is able to step into the breach and show itself fully.
It had been somehow reassuring.
The thought of the stars, the evenings she might spend gazing upwards in wonder, had faded again later as she’d laid on her uncomfortable mattress under a thin blanket and willed sleep to come. The house had settled as the temperature had dropped, each creak or click making her hyper-aware. Childhood fears of monsters and ghosts she’d thought she’d left behind had resurfaced, and it had taken every ounce of rationality she had left to ignore the urge to get up and switch on the light; to get in her car and seek out safety. The door was locked, she’d reminded herself as she’d closed her eyes.
Sleep had finally come, to her relief. But now, lying in the semi-darkness she wondered whether she’d benefited at all from the rest. Everything ached, from her head down to her feet. Her back was sore and every time she turned, her elbow would sink into the half-deflated bed and bang the wooden floor beneath.
She sat up, then gingerly stood, stretching out her limbs and feeling her muscles ache with relief. One thing was for sure, if she was going to stay in the house while the transaction went through, she was going to have to invest in a decent bed.
She’d managed a rudimentary wash in what passed for an upstairs bathroom last night. The water had been cold and slightly rust-coloured, but she’d quickly flicked herself over with a flannel, trying not to think of the hot shower and fluffy towels that were waiting in Chloé’s perfect bed and breakfast. ‘I ’ave not so many bookings this year…’ her new friend had shrugged when Lily had told her she planned to move into the house early ‘so if you want to come back, it is possible, yes?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ she’d said, quite positive that she wouldn’t need to take Chloé up on her offer.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
Her phone, plugged in to a two-pin socket courtesy of her one and only travel plug, showed a message and she opened it up with a smile.
House looks cool. Miss you. Ty.
It was short but, by his teenage standards, heartfelt.
Come and visit whenever you can!
She replied.
There was no message from Ben, although she could see from the blue tick next to her photo that he’d seen the picture she’d sent.
Dropping her phone on the mattress, she pulled on her jeans and a T-shirt, socks and shoes and walked down to the dusty kitchen. The box with some of her provisions was on the counter – packing it away into cupboards peppered with ancient mouse droppings had not seemed like a good idea – and she poured some cornflakes and milk into the cereal bowl she’d bought, which still had a stubborn label on the underside. Leaning against the counter and looking out at the ragged mess of the back garden – still somehow beautiful in the morning sunlight – she resolved that while today she’d crunch down this British breakfast on the go, by tomorrow she’d have located the boulangerie and would go all out on crusty pain, croissants and bitter black café.