Sands of Time

Lilac Cottage was tiny. A living room, pink-washed between the heavy oak beams, with a large fireplace filled with dried flowers took up most of the ground floor with behind it a kitchen furnished in old colour-washed pine. Behind that a small modern bathroom had been slotted somehow into what must have once been a lean-to shed. Upstairs there were two rooms each with two single beds covered in brightly coloured eastern throws, the curtains flame cotton, the old boards covered in rag rugs.

Charlotte surveyed the beds quickly. Hardly ideal for patching a marriage. Four beds. Two rooms. They would not be thrust into one another’s arms. She glanced at Rob ruefully but he was staring out of the window.

‘Look at the garden. It’s gorgeous.’

The riot of colour echoed that of the bedrooms. Scarlet and russet and violet and blue and pink and orange jostled and quarrelled in the beds outside. The result was exuberant and vividly cheerful.

‘Food?’ Charlotte grinned at him. That at least was an uncontentious suggestion. It would put off the allocation of beds.

He gave her a smile in return. ‘Sounds good to me.’

They clattered down the narrow wooden staircase. The living room was full of sunshine now. Charlotte stopped, entranced.

Rob was immediately behind her. ‘What’s wrong?’ He passed her and picked up a box of food. ‘Come on. Last one in the kitchen does the washing up.’

Alone in the middle of the floor she glanced round. She could hear a blackbird singing in the garden, hear Rob cheerfully crashing round in the kitchen. For a moment she didn’t move. Then she followed him.

‘Drink?’ He had found the corkscrew and the glasses. ‘I’m afraid the wine is a bit warm.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ She took the glass from him and raised it. ‘Here’s to us.’ He was still very handsome, her Rob. His square, regular features set off by his startlingly blue eyes and dark hair, his figure kept trim by games of squash and sessions at the gym.

‘To us.’ Rob smiled and leaning forward, almost shyly, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Pax,’ he said quietly. ‘No more fighting.’

‘Pax.’ She nodded.

They unpacked the food and laid out a cold meal on the kitchen table. Rob heated some soup whilst Charlotte searched the drawers for cutlery. The crash in the next room made them both look up.

‘What was that?’

‘Only the door. We left it open, remember?’ Rob turned down the hot plate and went to look.

Following him, she saw Rob staring round. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ She was nervous about the room. It felt, she realised suddenly, as though there was someone there, watching them.

‘The door is still open. I wedged it.’ He gave her a sheepish smile. ‘We mustn’t let ourselves get spooked.’

‘Who is spooked?’ She sounded defiant. ‘This is the country. It was probably a sheep or something.’

‘A sheep!’ He let out a yell of laughter. ‘Oh, Carla, my love, there are no sheep for miles.’

She liked the laughter. She hadn’t heard it for a long time. Not since she had told him she knew about the firm’s problems. And Serena.

It was over, he said. Long over. Over before it had begun. Only the stress of the take-over and the threat of redundancy had pushed him into it. Mutual comfort. Shared problems. Being thrust into each other’s company long day after long day. He couldn’t help himself. Sanity had returned. Serena had gone and he had come back to Charlotte.

But not totally. Something was still missing; some vital, central warmth had gone from their relationship and Charlotte still felt lost and miserable.

The holiday was his idea. Leave the broiling London streets, the car fumes, the hothouse claustrophobia of the city, and in the scented greenness of the country learn to trust each other again. She hadn’t asked him what she had done to lose his trust – the betrayal, after all, had been his alone. But deep down she knew. It was because she had found out. Never again could he trust her to look at him with the same innocence. The same certainty.

That was his loss.

They walked out into the lush twilight of the overgrown garden, and turned as bats swooped round them, to look at the cottage.

‘It’s still warmer out here than inside.’ Rob sipped his wine.

‘You noticed?’ Charlotte glanced at him. ‘It’s worst in the sitting room.’

‘Damp, I expect. It’s probably been empty all winter.’

‘And all spring? And all early summer?’ She shrugged.

Behind them an old apple tree was silhouetted against the green afterglow of the sky. Rob put up a hand to the bough rough with papery lichen. ‘I love these old trees. These days fruit trees are about two feet high. You couldn’t climb in them. Or swing.’ His fingers had found the old chains, bitten deep into the bark. They had been cut off a few inches below the branch. Rust and cobwebs and old leaves had all but hidden them.

‘This must have been an idyllic place to live as a child.’ Charlotte leaned against the branch. She could feel the coldness of the dew on her sandals.

‘Only in fairy tales.’ Rob began to walk back towards the house. ‘No sanitation. Disease. Poverty – ’

‘Don’t spoil it, Rob.’

They moved the dried flowers and piled the hearth with logs. Charlotte cut roses from the pergola and they found a concert on Classic FM.

It was after eleven before they stirred and, seeing the fire a bed of ash, thought about going upstairs.

Charlotte went first, noticing that Rob had left both their cases on the landing. She sighed. ‘Where are we going to sleep?’ she called.

‘Don’t mind. You choose.’

She picked up her case and walked into the left hand room. It was the larger of the two and faced, like the other, across the garden.

‘This one.’ She put the case down on one of the beds.

‘It’s good there are two rooms. We can spread ourselves.’ He had come upstairs behind her. He lugged his own case into the other room.

Charlotte stared after him. This was supposed to be a reconciliation; a new beginning. She had imagined him bringing small gifts, wooing her afresh, reassuring her and above all making love.

Biting her lip she sat down on the bed. For a moment she was afraid she was going to cry. After a while she lay down, her arm across her eyes.

Mat? Where are you, Mat?

The voice outside her door was young; very clear.

She sat up and stared across the room in astonishment. ‘Rob? Is that you? Who’s there?’

The cottage was silent.

‘Rob?’ She realised suddenly that she was scared. ‘Rob? Where are you?’

It was as though someone were listening outside the door. Mustering every bit of courage she could find Charlotte tiptoed towards it and pushed it open. The landing was deserted.

‘Rob?’ She nudged open the other door with her finger tip. ‘Rob, are you there?’

Rob’s case stood in the middle of the floor. The room was empty.

Running downstairs Charlotte called again. There was no sign of him in the house, or again when she searched the dark garden. Standing on the lawn she gazed round puzzled.

And suddenly he was there behind her in the kitchen doorway, mug in hand. ‘Tea?’ he called.

‘Where were you?’ She stared at him, disorientated.

‘In the kitchen.’

‘No, just now. When I came downstairs.’

‘I was in the kitchen.’ She saw impatience flicker across his features. ‘You walked right past me.’

‘I didn’t.’ She tried to make it a joke.

He shook his head. ‘Never mind. Forget it. Have a cup of tea.’

He had washed the dishes, she discovered, and tidied everything away. He had put new logs on the fire and it was smouldering gently again.

Throwing herself down on the sofa, Charlotte sipped her tea. She watched him.