Tilda feels herself blush. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she blurts out, more crossly than she intended.
‘Look, I’m just saying…’
‘It’s your car.’
‘And it usually starts,’ he says. ‘Just like my boat usually starts. And my uncle’s clock usually works. Usually.’
Oh God.
For a full minute neither of them speaks. They simply sit there, the huge unspoken meaning behind his words squashed between them. Tilda wants to jump out of the car, run back to the house, and shut herself inside. She doesn’t want to go anywhere in any car. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain the inexplicable to this … man. She doesn’t want to have to try to explain it to herself.
But if I run now, if I hide now, if I give up now, then what?
She knows things have to change. She knows she has to do something. She closes her eyes, forcing herself to find a kernel of courage.
I do want this bloody car to start. I do!
She steadies her breathing, waiting for the sense that something has changed. And it comes. A subtle shift in how she feels. In how she … is. She opens her eyes and stares out through the windscreen, not trusting herself to meet Dylan’s eyes.
‘Try it again,’ she says.
Slowly, he takes hold of the key and turns it. And the engine bursts into life, belching exhaust fumes, juddering the ancient frame of the vehicle, setting up a cacophony of squeaks and rattles, but it works. And it goes on working. Only now does Tilda dare look at Dylan. He smiles at her, not his usual chipper grin, but a softer, reassuring sort of smile.
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Bricks, then.’
‘Bricks,’ she agrees.
Clearly sensitive to her nervousness, Dylan drives slowly and steadily, so that Tilda finds she is actually able to enjoy looking at the beautiful countryside they pass through. She has spent so many weeks at the cottage that discovering what lies beyond the horizon is an exciting event. The road climbs through the high rocky pass in the village of Bwlch and then dips down to follow the River Usk on to the Brecon Beacons, with their sharp, dark peaks and steep escarpments dotted with tough Welsh mountain sheep. The realization that she is able to even notice the scenery, instead of being in her more common, white-knuckled state, is an immense relief to Tilda. Dylan is an excellent local guide, keeping up a light chatter, telling her about points of interest along the route. By the time they reach the small market town of Brecon, Tilda is smiling properly for the first time in an age.
The first time since Mat died? Can it be? Even now, in a car?
The builder’s yard is well stocked with a bewildering selection of materials. Dylan admits to being no fan of DIY, but he is practical, and has helped his uncle maintain his old house over the years. Clutching the book as a reference, Tilda asks for a long list of items, anxious not to forget some vital piece of equipment or raw material. In half an hour the goods are paid for and snugly loaded into the back of the Landrover. It is a rare treat to have the company of such an easy friend. Tilda is aware she has let most of her friendships slide since moving to the area, and had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of a task shared with a willing helper.
As they set off for home along the short stretch of dual carriageway Tilda allows herself to compare this journey to the fateful one on the way home from her honeymoon. Anxiety begins to tug at the corners of her consciousness as she recalls the heavy rain on the motorway that day, in contrast to the clear skies and sunshine today. And she hadn’t been driving fast. Not as fast, in fact, as Dylan is driving now. Perhaps he has forgotten how reluctant his passenger was to set foot in his vehicle, or maybe he, too, is buoyed up by the lighthearted mood of the day. Either way, the battered Landrover is traveling considerably faster than it had done on the outward journey. Tilda experiences a dizzying wave of panic as the road rushes past her. She begins to sweat, and finds her breath catching in her throat. She focuses on the low hill in the middle distance.
Just a few more miles. The lake is on the other side of that hill, and then just a few more minutes to the cottage. Keep steady.
‘Tilda?’ Dylan has noticed something is wrong. ‘Are you okay?’
She nods, searching for her voice. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit … it’s nothing.’
‘You sure? Do you want some air? You have to slide the window open. Here, let me help you.’ Keeping his eye on the road, he reaches across her and undoes the fastener on the elderly passenger window before pushing at it to gain an inch or two of air.
As he leans toward her, in that instant, Tilda experiences a confusing muddle of emotions. The sense of such closeness to this strong, attractive young man, who at least in those ways cannot help but bring back memories of Mat, the giddiness brought on by the unfamiliar motion and speed of the car, and her own heightened levels of anxiety, all combine to make her feel light-headed, disoriented, strangely unreal, as if she is floating away from the moment. Or away from herself.