Finn is ahead of us on his quad bike, Thomas on the back of it, clinging to him. Maddie is pulling one sledge and I’m pulling the other. They’re old, handmade out of wood, sturdy.
‘Almost there,’ calls Finn, over his shoulder, as we make our way past the ruins, his words muffled by the wind.
Drummondale House looks like a scene from a Dickens novel, snow lying inches thick on every crumbling window-ledge, every decaying doorway – and my stomach knots, and grief floods my veins. What am I thinking being out here, about to sled down a hill in abandonment?
It’s getting difficult to walk, my boots sinking deeper and deeper with every step I make. I can barely see in front of me for the falling snow. I glance back, but the view is no clearer. I’m glad we’re with Finn – he knows this place so well.
‘We’re here,’ he calls, cutting the power on his bike, and climbing off. He lifts Thomas off, and lowers him onto the snow.
‘Cool,’ Thomas says, flopping backwards, making the wings of a snow-angel with his arms. And for the first time in a long time, I urge his legs to work. I stare at him for a moment, and it’s as he pulls himself to a sitting position I think I see his foot move. I look straight at his face, but his eyes are on Maddie who is jumping up and down as though trying to warm her feet, her scarf blowing in the wind.
‘Thomas,’ I say, and he turns to look at me with enquiring eyes.
‘What’s up, sis?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I go on; deciding the movement must have been my imagination – wishful thinking.
Vine Hill is steep. I work out it heads in the opposite direction to the sea, and the foot of the slope is in walking distance of the estate owner Michael Collis’s farmhouse.
Finn stomps his feet. ‘So, who wants to go first? Amelia?’
‘No, let Thomas and Maddie go down first,’ I say. Then it occurs to me. ‘Wait though, how the hell is Thomas going to get back up?’
‘I’ll take the bike the long way, and meet you at the bottom,’ Finn obliges. ‘No worries.’
‘I’m still not sure you should go down, Thomas,’ I say.
‘Hey, stop that,’ Thomas says, his cheeks glowing. ‘I’m going down. I’m all psyched up.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘On your head be it.’
‘You get on the sled first, Maddie,’ Finn says.
She looks into his eyes and grimaces, and he puts his arm around her shoulder. ‘You can trust me, Maddie,’ he says. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
She smiles up at him – is that adoration on her face? – and lowers herself onto the sledge.
‘Right!’ Finn continues, lifting Thomas onto the sledge in front of Maddie, and she grabs him round the waist, rests her face against his back.
Within seconds, Finn pushes the sledge and it hurtles down the hill, and Thomas and Maddie squeal with excitement as they zigzag through the snow, until I can’t see them anymore.
‘Your turn,’ Finn says, smiling my way.
‘Oh, I don’t know anymore. Maybe I’ll stay right here.’
‘You need a bit of fun in your life, Amelia,’ he says. ‘You’ve been through hell. Get on the sledge.’
‘Fine,’ I say, sitting down and grabbing the rough rope with my gloved hands. Suddenly I’m whizzing down the slope, snow bombarding my face. Halfway down, tears spill from my eyes, but they are not happy tears, they are desperate tears, and I wonder, as the sled hits the bottom and I fall out into deep snow, whether I’ll ever be truly happy again.
Chapter 11
A Year Ago
Ruth
Ruth liked this bit. The bit when her guests gathered for the first time in her conservatory to eat her delicious home-cooked meals. It was now she found out more about them – their history, their likes and dislikes, what made them tick.
She peered through the thick net curtain at her bedroom window to see the party of three – Jackson dressed in narrow black trousers and a white shirt, Caroline holding on to his arm, and the girl in black – leave Bluebell Cottage. They made their way through the darkness, Jackson brandishing a torch, leading the way like he was the Pied Piper of Hamelin. They would soon sit around Ruth’s rustic pine table. She would play Mum.
The aroma of roast pork cooking floated up the stairs from the kitchen. She sniffed, satisfied. Her guests loved her cooking – her creamy mash, her buttered carrots, her tender green beans. She was old-fashioned in some ways, she supposed. Women didn’t always cook from scratch anymore, but Ruth’s mother had taught her from an early age, and she loved being in the kitchen – it helped give her life meaning.
She dashed down the stairs, kicked off her fur-rimmed slippers, and pushed her feet into flat black shoes, before entering the conservatory, where she moulded her face into her usual welcoming smile ready for her first arrivals.
The side door opened, and Ruth tucked a straying tendril of hair, which had escaped from her ponytail, behind her ear.
Jackson entered first, followed by Caroline.
‘It’s still quite warm out there,’ Caroline said to Ruth. ‘Can’t believe it’s November.’
Ruth was sick of talking about the weather, but knew it went with the territory. ‘Yes, so strange for the time of year.’
‘I blame global warming,’ Jackson said, as Ruth gestured to the table laid out for her seven visitors. Finn had put out two jugs of water, the blue-and-white-checked napkins, and a beautiful vase of fresh flowers in the centre.
‘Please take a seat, anywhere you like.’
‘Where’s Lark?’ Caroline said, her forehead furrowing as she looked back towards the door. ‘I thought she was right behind us.’
‘She’ll be along in a minute, darling.’ Jackson took hold of her hand and led her to the table. ‘Try not to stress.’
‘Is she OK, do you think?’ Caroline said, sitting down. ‘I hope this isn’t
