No Longer Safe(7)

As I turned away from the bathroom, I noticed another set of stairs at the far end of the landing.

‘More rooms?’ I said.

‘Just one – a dormer attic conversion.’

She led me to my room. Like everywhere else in the cottage, it was quaint but basic. There was an old washstand on a dressing table, a wardrobe that didn’t appear to close and a scattering of rag rugs covering the threadbare carpet. The bedstead was the only piece out of context, with its bold and ostentatious black cast-iron frame topped with what looked like small cannon balls.

‘No one will bother us,’ said Karen, pulling my curtains closed for me. A small heater on the floor was rattling, but wasn’t making much difference to the air temperature.

I peeked inside Karen’s room. It was strewn with baby things: a changing mat, piles of nappies, sleepsuits, lotions, bottles – and there was a cot in the corner.

As Karen bathed Melanie, I hung up my gear, listening to the splashes and squeals. There was a clunk followed by the swoosh of water gurgling down the pipes, and shortly afterwards, I heard her footsteps pass my room and a door close. She came out humming to herself, swept into my room without knocking and flopped down on the bed.

‘She’s all sorted,’ she said. ‘I want you two to get to know each other.’ She sat up, smiling at me. ‘You’ll be changing her nappy before you know it.’

I bit my lip. This was Karen as I remembered her. She’d had her baby torn away from her for months – not knowing if she was going to live or die – and yet she was still keen to make me part of their intimate reunion  .

Nevertheless, there was something about her that was trying a bit too hard. So far, our conversation sounded straight out of a woman’s magazine, where a celebrity invites cameras into her home and gives a trite interview to promote her new film. I wanted her to let down this ‘everything’s wonderful’ façade and tell me how things really were for her. I knew enough about hiding feelings to know something wasn’t right.

I shivered and she reached out her hand, inviting me to pull her to her feet. ‘Let’s get you warmed up,’ she said as she led me to the stairs.

‘I want to hear everything about you,’ I said, as we hunched up close to the fire. ‘The baby…and…’ I stopped short, realising I didn’t have a clue about what else she’d been up to over the last six years.

‘We’ll have all the time in the world for that,’ she said, rubbing my arm.

London life already felt like it belonged in my past – it was built of a tighter, rougher fabric, where everyone was happy to elbow you out of the way. Perhaps the back-to-basics living here would help me reconnect with simple things. I could stretch my legs and explore a new landscape, take photographs; I might even write some poetry. It would be like a retreat; a chance to get back in touch with myself again. Most of all, however, I wanted Karen to trust me, open up to me and stop treating me like a guest.

‘Let me show you the rest of the place,’ she said on cue, just as the warmth was starting to penetrate my outer layer.

It was like visiting a museum. Under the kitchen window was a small cream-coloured fridge and, further along, there was a low tap over a drain in the floor. In between, there appeared to be the one concession to modernity; a stainless-steel sink unit and draining board.

‘There’s a big chest freezer in the scullery,’ Karen said, pointing to a door in the corner. ‘I bought a few pieces of fresh meat from the village.’ She brushed a cobweb away from the draining rack. ‘We’ve got milk and butter – all the essentials to keep us going. The corner shop is three miles away.’

She swung open the fridge door and a cauliflower fell out with a thud onto the flagstone floor.

‘Crikey – there’s enough here for the whole winter,’ I said, taken aback. Each shelf was stuffed with packets, fruit, vegetables and jars. She shrugged, giving a clipped laugh.

We retreated to the comfort of the dancing fire again. The last of the daylight had been snuffed out and Karen switched on a lamp by the bookshelf. I couldn’t help thinking, with its distinct lack of modern appliances or home comforts, it bore rather too much of a resemblance to where I lived in Wandsworth. Palace Gardens – it sounded posh, but it wasn’t. It was a row of rundown terraced properties running alongside the grimy railway line.

I was twenty-seven and still lived with my parents. Dad worked as an undertaker and mum spent most mornings serving in a book shop. She was involved in local volunteer groups too, alternately fundraising for neglected animals, wild birds and humanitarian crises overseas.