The Headland: Part 7

The next morning, the sky was colourless and Alice’s cottage was icy. She dressed quickly and wrapped Hetty in a knitted orange coat. As they left the cottage, Mabel Gaunt’s door opened too and the old lady tentatively stepped onto her front path. She scraped her walking stick on the ground to assess the treachery of the ice.

‘Are you headed for church, Mabel? Would you like to walk with us? I think it might be a bit slippery. We’re headed up that way,’ Alice called. 

Mrs Gaunt slammed her cottage door behind her and shuffled forwards. ‘Yes, thank you. I’ll take your arm if you don’t mind. It’s the path through the churchyard I am most worried about. Irene broke her leg last year, if you remember. Oh, look at Hetty in her chunky knit. I am so glad it fits her.’ She looped her arm through Alice’s as best she could. She was dressed in so many layers of bulky clothing, she had trouble bending it at all.

‘It was very kind of you to knit that for her, Mabel. She needs it today. I’d have loved to learn how to knit and sew.’ 

‘Did your mother not teach you, Alice? My mother taught me. It’s the kind of skill that ought to be passed down.’

‘You’ve not met my mother, Mabel. She passed on . . . other skills.’

‘Baking?’

‘Dorothy Parker quotes for every possible situation in life, the recipe for a perfect whisky sour and the etiquette of protest marches. Not quite the same, is it?’

The three set off up the path that snaked across the village green. The grass was pale with frost. It shone both silver and green in the soft morning light like the smoothed nap on velvet. A scattering of tiny snowflakes wavered, suspended in the air, too languid to fall. Progress was slow with Mrs Gaunt. Her legs were swollen and heavy and she walked stiffly, as if on stilts. ‘Mabel, does Mr Wright still go to church every Sunday?’ Alice asked, as they slowly climbed towards the church on the hill. 

‘Yes. Every week. Regular as clockwork. Oh, he’s considered to be quite the catch amongst all the spinsters there. He’s catnip in a cardigan. Not that he’s interested. There’s been no one since his wife died all those years ago. Why do you ask?’ The old lady’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. Nothing got past Mabel Gaunt. 

Alice shrugged, ‘Oh, I taught his daughter, Esther, that’s all. I just heard someone mention her while I was in the colliery yesterday. I remember you telling me before he was hit with the ladies. Not interested yourself?’

The old lady cackled wickedly, ‘Maybe if I was a bit younger. I’m past all that now, dear. S E X. No thank you. But you mark my words, Bill Wright will leave church today with three battenburg cakes, two shepherd’s pies and offers of a lot more to boot. He’s like a white-haired Gregory Peck. Oh, I loved him, Alice. Gregory Peck. There was a fine figure of a man.’

They had reached the church’s peeling blue gate with the rusted latch. The path through the churchyard was a ribbon of silver weaving through frigid tombs and gravestones. ‘Hold on, Mabel. This looks bad.’ The gate creaked as it opened.

‘Are you coming in, Alice? It should be a lovely Christmas service. I am sure the rector wouldn’t mind Hetty joining us.’ Mabel Gaunt adored Hetty and the feeling was utterly reciprocated. Alice had never known the dog walk as slowly or carefully as she did that morning. She kept glancing up at their elderly companion and scanning the path ahead, presumably looking for bearded reprobates to repel.

‘Not today, Mabel. I don’t think Hetty’s allowed in anyway. We’re going to have a little walk, that’s all.’

‘Hetty’s one of God’s creatures, isn’t she? I tell you what, she’s got more right to be there than some. Have I told you about Lilian Brown and her latest shenanigans?’

They had reached the church door. ‘You’d best tell me another time. That sounds like a tale that needs a cup of tea and a scone to accompany it. Shall I meet you for the walk back?’ Alice asked. 

The old lady guffawed bawdily, ‘As much as I love your company, no,’ she dropped her voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Bill Wright is not the only one with admirers, you now. Percy Hillman will walk me back.’

‘I thought you weren’t interested in S. E. X., Mabel,’ Alice laughed, pretending to be shocked. 

‘Well, I’m not. But I am interested vegetables. He’s got an allotment. Plus, he’s not bad at Scrabble. It is nice to have someone to bake for every now and then, you know. Thank you my dear, thank you Hetty. Lovely company, as ever.’ Mabel twirled the feathery tufts of Hetty’s ears and hobbled into the glowing church. 

As she left the churchyard, Alice spotted a man in a heavy grey overcoat and tweed flat cap hurrying towards the gate. The billowing sound of the church organ exploded in the winter graveyard, causing rooks to take flight from twisted branches and wheel and caw in the cold grey sky. The man approached the gate and held it open for Alice, ‘After you, pet,’ he said.

This was better than Alice could have hoped for. The fact that the man was obviously rushing was ideal too. She didn’t want an extended chat. She just wanted to introduce herself. ‘Mr Wright, isn’t it? I remember you from the primary school. I taught Esther. It’s Alice Finch.’

The man stopped and looked at Alice. He had a kind, rosy, weather-beaten face and the same pale grey blue eyes as Esther. Underneath his cap, she could see his hair was snowy white and she remembered then that he had been an older father, well into his fifties when his wife died. ‘Of course, Miss Finch. I remember you,’ he said, taking her hand graciously. ‘Well, I remember Esther speaking of you often. I’d better be going. I’m running a bit late this morning.’

‘Of course. . . Esther was in one of my first classes as a teacher. She had such a lovely imagination. I still remember some of the stories she wrote. I confess, she was a favourite, although I know teachers shouldn’t admit such things!’

The man’s face darkened and he looked away. He was uncomfortable talking about his daughter. She had expected as much, given the circumstances. She chattered on breezily. ‘In fact, I was thinking I might pop in and see her. Just to catch up. Do you think that would be okay? Plus, I’ve got a job in my cottage I think she might be able to help me with. It’s sorting out all my books. I remember how much she loved books. It’s really too much for me to do alone.’ As she spoke, she was aware of how flimsy her concocted story was. She’d been a fool. She felt her cheeks flush. ‘Dear me, it’s bitingly cold, isn’t it?’ she said. She glanced at the man’s face and was astounded to recognise gratitude and relief there.

‘Yes, yes, I think that would be lovely for Esther. She’s. . . well, she’s not been quite right lately and I worry she’s becoming a bit . . . low.’ 

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. We could pop in now. I’m heading that way with Hetty for our walk.’

The man held out his gloved hand to stroke Hetty. Alice held her breath and uttered a silent prayer that the dog would behave herself with this unbearded man. Astonishingly, she did. She even took a step forward and allowed herself to be tickled her under her chin. 

‘She’s probably still in bed. You know what teenagers are like. But yes, she loves animals too. She’ll love your dog. You’re a lovely girl aren’t you, Hetty?’ Hetty leant against the man’s leg to signal her agreement. She looked up at him with adoring eyes. 

‘I know the house. I’ll pop in. She’ll be doing me a favour really. With my books, I mean.’

‘Oh, she still loves her books. That hasn’t changed. You may find her changed in other ways though. Please understand that.’

‘Of course. I understand. I won’t force anything. I’ve thought of her often over the years though, that’s all.’

‘Good. Very good.’ The organ music had stopped and the lilting voice of the rector drifted through the graveyard. ‘That’s my cue to go, I think,’ Mr Wright said and he hurried up the path and disappeared into the church. The heavy door banged and rattled as it closed, sealing the worshippers and their hushed, secret prayers safely within.

Esther’s street was a short walk from the church, past the little school and through to the far side of the village. It was a curious street of 8 pre-war semi-detached houses with large gardens. It was the location of the street that made it seem so peculiar. The houses looked typically suburban, with their mock-Tudor panelling and pebble-dashed walls, but the street was oddly isolated. It curled through treeless, wind blasted fields like a lone bird’s footprints across a snowy garden. It felt exposed and barren, far, far away from the hubbub of the village green with its jumble of cottages and tiny shops. 

            Alice was nervous as she walked up the path to number 4. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a stirring in the upstairs curtains. She’d rehearsed dozens of opening sentences as she’d left the churchyard but they felt stale and unconvincing. Why would she be ‘just passing’ now, after all these years? Others felt inappropriately ardent, as if written for a low-grade daytime soap opera. Words. They were slippery things. She just couldn’t grasp the right ones. Then, she remembered Esther’s red and gold button box and smiled to herself. The thought was galvanising. ‘Come on Hetty, there is someone I would like you to meet.’ She raised her hand and pressed the doorbell and waited.

Eventually the door was opened by a tall, gangly young man holding a slice of toast. ‘All right?’ he said. His eyes kept sliding from Alice’s face to the floor. He was awkward. His whole body was rigid with shyness, as if opening the front door and muttering those two words had taken a superhuman fearlessness. 

‘Hello. I’m Alice Finch. Is Esther in? I’ve just been chatting to your dad and he suggested I might pop in to say hello. I’m one of Esther’s old teachers from the primary school.’ 

The young man hesitated, ‘She’s in bed, I think.’ He appeared to be utterly befuddled by the principles of social interaction and was at a loss as to what to do or say next. His eyes dropped to the floor again, as if dragged by weighty gravitational forces. He uneasily scuffed the doormat with his feet. He was as tense as a getaway driver, itching for escape. 

‘Oh, well, maybe you could tell her I called and I’ll try . .’ Alice stopped speaking. Without a word, the boy turned his back and melted back into the darkness of the house. 

‘I saw you from the bedroom window. I heard the gate squeak.’ The voice made Alice jump. Hetty woofed and wagged her tail. In the shadows of the large hallway, at the bottom of the stairs, a young woman stood with a gigantic ginger cat in her arms. ‘Will your dog be okay with Clementine?’ the girl rested her chin on the cat’s head and looked at Miss Finch with pale blue eyes. They were still smudged with the previous day’s, the previous week’s kohl liner. Her died black hair was scrunched untidily into a straggly bun on the top of her head. She was dressed in striped men’s pyjamas that were far too large and an old cardigan that hung loosely to her knees. She was bare-footed and Alice noticed that her toe nails were painted lapis blue and spangled with gold flecks. Esther looked sad and beautiful and knotted with the self-conscious agony of youth. Alice remembered how crippling those feelings of inadequacy could be. She had spent her teenage years feeling gauche and ugly. She wanted to hug Esther. She wanted to tell her that one day she would look back at pictures of youthful self in utter amazement. She would see the dewiness of her skin, the freshness of her face and the immeasurable capability that she possessed, but never recognised. Then, like Alice, she might rage against the years she had wasted feeling scared and incomplete. Esther had been self-contained and solitary as a child, and she had retained that otherness. Like a painting behind a braided rope in an art gallery, she was cool, untouchable and fascinating. 

‘Oh, Hetty loves cats. She used to have a cat brother called Atticus. They slept in the same bed. Esther, it is nice to see you. I didn’t see you come downstairs. You made me jump. I wondered if you fancied coming for a walk with us?’

The girl hugged the cat tightly to her body and buried her face into the soft velvet of its fur. She was unsure. Torn. Unmoored. She held on to the orange cat as if it were the only thing that was keeping her afloat.

‘I can wait outside with Hetty while you put a coat on. You’ve grown up, Esther, but I would still have recognised you anywhere, you know.’ Still the girl did not speak. She did not even look up. Her body began to turn away from Alice, back towards the staircase and the safety of her bedroom. It was as if she was a marionette being manipulated by invisible strings. I am losing her, Alice thought frantically. ‘You know what I thought about the other day? Your stories about Bakewell the cat.’ 

The girl turned back to Alice and took a tiny step forward, she lifted her head and smiled shyly, ‘I’ve still got that blue notebook somewhere.’ She spun away and clumped up the stairs. When she got to the half landing she hesitated. Her body swayed slightly from side to side, as if the unseen controller of the marionette was unsure what the next move should be. Finally, Esther turned and looked down at Alice. The enormous cat adjusted itself lazily in her arms and yawned theatrically. 

‘You’ve not changed, Miss Finch. Not one bit. Clementine’s having kittens. She’s made a nest in a cardboard box under my bed. I’ll go and put her in that and then I’ll meet you outside in a couple of minutes.’

Alice felt her chest bloom with light and colour. She was so relieved she felt she might cry, but she kept her voice light and breezy. ‘Lovely. I am so glad you’ll come. Wrap up though, it’s bitterly cold.’

Alice waited in the garden under a leafless rowan tree. Its bark was like silver parchment. The garden was well tended and neat. Alice could imagine in spring and summer the borders would erupt with colour. Esther’s father obviously found solace in his garden, in the eternal cycle of decay and rebirth. It echoed the teachings of his church, she thought. She had heard he was a quiet and devout man. 

‘I’m ready,’ Esther called as she closed the front door behind her. On top of her pyjamas she had pulled on a heavy black overcoat. It swamped her. She’s trying to make herself smaller, invisible, Alice thought. I remember that feeling too. Esther took some grey fingerless gloves from her pocket and pulled them on. ‘Which way were you going?’ she asked.

‘I don’t mind. Are there any good walks round the fields here? Or shall we have a stroll to the village green?’

Esther walked over to Hetty and started scratching the dog’s bristly neck. Hetty whinnied with joy and her back leg began to twitch in uncontrollable pleasure. 

‘Let’s walk to the green and have a sit on the wooden seat. I like the view of the sea from there. It’s all a bit bleak round here this time of year. Nothing but wind and muddy fields. It’s great for blackberries in August though.’

‘Good idea. I love the view from there too. We’ll pass the school too. It will be like the old days. Here, would you like to take Hetty for me?’ Esther took hold of the red leather lead and Alice could feel an instant lightening of the girl’s mood. Suddenly, she was a balloon sailing carelessly; the lead was her string lightly tethering her to the trotting dog. It was not the first time Alice had wondered at the extraordinary ability of animals to soothe and comfort. They walked companionably for several minutes. Esther was enthralled with the dog and kept stopping to ruffle her ears and kiss her long, pointed snout. They were approaching the school.

‘I bumped into your dad in the churchyard. I told him I was thinking of calling in to see you. He said it would be okay. Look where we are. Do you remember much about your time at primary school?’

They stopped outside the school gates and looked at tiny stone building. In its circle of towering bare trees, it looked like a shy grey mouse hibernating in a nest of twigs. 

‘I loved this school. I was so happy here.’ Esther said. ‘Everything was simple and ordered. Treacle pudding on Monday. Recorder club on Tuesday. Art on a Friday afternoon. Story time at the end of the day. You read us Carrie’s War, do you remember?’

Dry, dead leaves scuttled through the playground. A school devoid of children has a peculiar and melancholy stillness. Absence can be more powerful than presence, Alice thought.

‘I remember Carrie’s War. It’s still my favourite children’s book. I am glad you were happy here. It makes me think we must have got something right.’

They moved on past the silvered churchyard. The congregation was singing The Holly and the Ivy. Their voices were distant and haunting, as if unseen worshippers from past centuries had converged in the church that morning to celebrate Christmas.

‘I used to run to school each morning. And walk home slowly.’

Esther still had the ability to say the most starting and revealing things, but to say them lightly, casually, as if talking about the weather or last night’s Top of the Pops. 

‘You had a lot to deal with at such a young age. Losing a mother to cancer is a terrible thing. I am glad we were able to give you a place of sanctuary, at least.’

Esther stopped walking. They had reached the top of the village green. The covered wooden seat was behind them. ‘Let’s sit and enjoy the view, Esther.’ From their wooden bench, they could see the sloping village green with its rambling border of cottages and further east the orderly red brick terraces of the colliery. Beyond, the wintry sea surged and rippled under darkening clouds. ‘I think we might get some snow tonight,’ Alice looked at the girl. She had tensed again. A blackness was creeping through her, spreading like ink on blotting paper. She was so pale. Her skin was like marble. And her hair was now so black. She’d become a negative image of the blonde haired, golden skinned little girl who’d joined Alice’s class ten years ago. The girl who looked as if she had spent the summer making dens, climbing trees and leaping across streams. She’d put on some lipstick, Alice noticed. It was a dark ruby stain, and it made the girl seem even wilder and more elemental, as if she had been eating berries she’d found in a wood. She reminded Alice of an illustration from Rose Red, Snow White. Her fragility was heart-breaking. ‘Esther. What’s wrong?’

‘I didn’t know she died of cancer,’ the girl said. ‘No one told me that. What kind of cancer was it?’

Alice was astonished. How was it possible that the young woman had not known the cause of her mother’s death? ‘I am sorry, I thought you knew. It was breast cancer. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Please forgive me.’

Esther laughed. It was a joyless laugh and Alice found it disquieting in its sourness. ‘No one ever talks about my mother. No one ever told me why she died. We have no pictures of her in the house. I have a few in a box in the wardrobe, but I don’t want my dad to know that. There are a thousand things I’d like to know about her, but no one to ask. At least you’ve answered one of my questions, Miss Finch.’

‘Oh, please call me Alice. Surely you could ask your father? An aunty? Brother’

‘No, don’t you understand. That is the way it is. It’s like concrete that has been set. We don’t speak of her. Not speaking about something makes it disappear. Didn’t you know that?’ She scratched Hetty’s ears and the old dog leant against the girl’s body. 

‘How old is Hetty?’

‘Ancient. I worry about what will happen to her. I don’t want to lose her. She means such a lot to me.’

Figures, smartly dressed in hats and coats had started to file from the churchyard and make their way down the village green. Alice noticed plump, well-upholstered Mabel Gaunt girlishly holding on to the arm of a wisp of a man in a tweed overcoat. They looked like Laurel and Hardy as they slipped and skidded their way down the opalescent path. Hetty noticed her old friend too. She stood up and barked vigorously.

‘That’s my next door neighbour, Mabel. She bakes incredible cheese scones. Hetty’s recognised her. I don’t think she heard you, Hetty. Too busy flirting by the look of it. That’s my cottage there, Esther.’ Alice pointed. ‘The one with the red door behind the holly bushes.’

Alice felt a warm swell of pride as she looked at her home. It wasn’t grand or fancy. It hadn’t become the family home she once thought it would be. The windows needed washing and she should really sweep up the sepia leaves that lay in piles the front garden. But it was her home. Full of her things. A sanctuary. 

‘That one? I wondered which one it was. I knew you lived somewhere on the green. You told us that folk tale about the village woman and the hare, do you remember? The men in the village believed she was a witch because she lived on her own and brewed potions from plants she collected in the dene. They thought she could turn herself into a hare to avoid being captured. One day, one of their dogs, probably a dog just like you Hetty, snatched at a hare and bit it on the leg. It escaped and they chased it across the green to the woman’s cottage. It slipped under the door. When the men got inside they found the woman sitting by the fire wrapping a bandage around her bleeding leg.’ As Esther retold the story, Alice watched the huddled figures of the churchgoers retreat from the silvered green into the honeyed glow of their cottages. 

‘I loved that story. I always thought the witch was you. Your long hair, your cottage on the green, your love of the flowers in the dene. A good witch, obviously.’

‘Well, I’ll take that as a great compliment. Thank you. I must confess, I quite like the idea of being a witch, a good witch.’

The village green was now silent and empty. Alice imagined now the bustling enterprise that was taking place in steamy kitchens as families prepared their Sunday lunch. She pictured earthenware bowls of thick yellow batter whisked ready for Yorkshire puddings and the spit and sizzle of beef roasting in the oven. 

‘Why do you think the men of the village were so determined to catch the witch? Why were they so obsessed with the woman? She never hurt anyone. Why couldn’t they just let her be?’ Esther asked.

‘A woman on her own can be a troubling thing to some men. Her confidence. Her independence. Virginia Woolf said something about women being mirrors, whose job it was to reflect the figures of men at twice their size. I think the woman in the story wanted to be her own mirror. And that made the men feel smaller.’

‘Do you live on your own, Miss Finch, sorry Alice? Oh, that sounds wrong. I don’t think I can call you Alice. I think you’ll always be Miss Finch to me. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. I am very happy being Miss Finch. Yes, I live alone. Just me and Hetty. It’s rather wonderful most of the time. Sometimes it’s lonely. I mean, I bet in all those cottages now families are planning to sit down together for dinner. That must be a wonderful thing. Sometimes, when a fuse blows or a bird comes down the fireplace I wonder if I’d have been better off married. Mostly though it’s just peaceful. And all mine. I must be greedy.’

‘I think it sounds heavenly. And you can be just as lonely in the middle of a family, believe me.’

‘That is very true.’ Alice thought about how she had purposefully orchestrated a Christmas day on her own, away from her mother. How she had even looked forward to it. The idea of a solitary Christmas was something luscious, decadent, slightly shameful even; something to be tucked under her pillow and savoured quietly. ‘Esther, have you ever read Lolly Willowes? I think you might like it. Our talk of witches and women made me think of it.’

‘No, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Listen, I’ve got a chap coming out to build me some bookshelves. I’ve got piles of books everywhere. In the loft. In suitcases under the bed. Would you like to come for lunch one day and help me sort through them all? I need some sort of system. Plus, I’ll find you Lolly Willowes and you can borrow anything else you fancy. What do you think? Can you help me get organised?’ 

Esther laughed, ‘I don’t think you’ll ever be organised, Miss Finch. I remember your desk at school. You could never find the chalk for the blackboard. You always lost the book you were reading us because it was hidden under piles of papers. We all used to love helping you find things. We all wanted to be the one that found the missing object for you. One day you put the blackboard rubber in the staffroom fridge and your ham stottie on the blackboard. Do you remember? I can imagine what your books are like.’

Alice laughed heartily. ‘Oh dear, I hate to admit it, but my desk is still like that. Miss Howard’s desk is pristine, of course. Never a thing on it. Not one thing. I just don’t understand how she does it. So, will you come for tea and help me with my books?’

‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d like to see your cottage. I’m vegetarian though. Is that okay?’

‘Oh, that’s fine. In fact, now you have said that, I have the perfect dish in mind. It’s Hepziabah Green’s speciality in Carrie’s War. Can you remember what it was?’

Esther nodded, ‘Cheese pie, of course! That would be lovely. Hepzibah was another witch, wasn’t she, with her potions and spells and her big creepy house.’

The heavy black clouds that had gathered over the sea began to roll slowly inland, dissolving the grey roofs of the colliery houses in their tumbling eddies. Snow was coming.

‘She was. I’ll give you a ring when the shelves are up. Come on, I’ll walk you back Esther. Those clouds look threatening. I bet you want to check on Clementine too. How lovely to have kittens on the way.’

They retraced their steps through the silent village under clouds heavy with the promise of snow. 

‘Clementine was a stray until we took her in. The vet is going to help us find homes for the kittens when they’re old enough and make sure there will be no more kittens for Clemmie, of course. My dad says I can keep one of them though. He’s soft really. He loves cats.’

‘That’s exciting. I keep thinking I might get another cat. A witch needs a familiar after all. . . Tell me about college, Esther. The last I heard, you got amazing A’ Level results and went off to London.’

The girl didn’t answer and the silence felt glacial. Alice wondered if the question had been too penetrating, too uncomfortable. She had tried to word it in a way that was open, unthreatening, but maybe it had been too soon. Alice was comfortable with silence though. Solitary people usually are. She imagined Esther would be too, so she allowed the stillness of the moment to surge and swell as they walked. She felt sure that Esther would answer eventually. 

‘I went to London because it was so far away from this place. I don’t just mean distance. I mean so far away in every sense. I wanted to get away. I thought I’d be a different person if I was away from here. I thought I’d feel free. I thought I could reinvent myself. I found I was the same drab person. I was still a small person, actually even smaller. I chose to do drama. That was a mistake too. I think I was punishing myself. Why would someone so shy make themselves do that. It was torture. And everyone else was so shiny and polished and confident. They could breeze into a room and chat and laugh and smoke. They seemed to glide, like ghosts. There were no walls for them, no barriers. They were magical to me. I was the only one on the course who had not been to some posh private school. People thought my accent was quaint. I got sadder and sadder. I didn’t think I could be any sadder than I was here. I was wrong. Every morning I would give myself tests, look for omens. If I saw a green car by the time I got to the end of the street, everything would be OK. If I opened a book and chose a word at random and it started with a vowel, everything would be OK. If I saw three dogs on the walk through the park, I’d be OK. The omens changed every day. Odd things. Random things. In the end, I just couldn’t stand it. You’ll think I’m mad. I am sure everyone does. I was desperate. I was walking down a path that was getting darker and darker and narrower and narrower. In the end, there was no light left at all. Of course, we don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about what I did and because of that it has disappeared. It never even happened.’

They walked on. They were approaching the edge of the village and Esther’s lonely street. Three horses huddled together in the middle of a desolate, thistly field. Their breath looked like smoke in the icy air.

‘Have you ever felt like that, Miss Finch?’

Alice put her arm through Esther’s. The girl did not resist. They kept walking. Their footsteps were perfectly synchronised. 

‘Yes, once. I have.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was with someone. I thought he loved me. But he was cruel, manipulative. My thinking was clouded, like ink through water. Nothing was clear anymore. Everything was distorted and terrifying. I began to believe things he said. I began to think I couldn’t live without him. I found out he’d been seeing someone else. She was pregnant. I thought I could not go on. I thought my future had been erased. And yes, I remember that narrowing, darkening path well. It’s a very good description of depression.’ 

They walked down Esther’s street. Every house, every house but Esther’s, was glowing with tree lights and amber-tinted lamp light. The morning had blackened completely. The snow laden clouds had caught up with them. Heavy white flakes began to fall. Esther’s house sat in front of them, curled within itself like a solitary black bird with its head tucked under its wing.

‘What happened, Miss Finch?’ Esther’s voice was faint and tremulous, as if travelling through water.

‘One summer’s day, when school had finished and I’d endured weeks of him coming back to me, leaving again. Games. Unbearable games. One day, it was all too much. I went to the main road and stepped out in front of a car. I can’t remember much of what I did, really. There were broken bones. Two weeks in hospital. My mother wanted to talk about it all the time. Believe me. That too can be . . . difficult.’

Esther did not say anything. She simply nodded. ‘I do know this, Esther, I am lucky to be alive. If I had succeeded in erasing myself that day, I would have missed so much. I’d not have had the chance to meet and care for all the wonderful children I’ve taught. I’d not have Hetty. I’d never have seen the bluebells in the dene in May or smelt the wild garlic. I’d never have never heard the roar of the sea again. They’re all little things, but they are important things. Important to me anyway. Maybe little things could help you too, in those moments when you feel the path narrowing. Your kittens. Your books. Helping me. There is hope everywhere, if you try to see it.’ 

The front door of Esther’s house opened and Esther’s father waved to them. 

‘You go in now Esther. Get warm. Thank you for coming out this morning. I’ve enjoyed our talk.’ 

Esther walked to her house and stood with her father in its arched doorway. Her father put an arm tenderly around his daughter’s shoulder. They waved at Alice as she walked away.