‘Breakfast in bed for my love.’ Cal walked into the bedroom carrying two plates and wearing nothing but his underwear despite the cool start to the morning. The sunlight flooded in through the little window as Ida pulled back the curtains beside her bed, highlighting his toned chest and the coarse blond hairs which grew there.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ she said, then, seeing Cal’s expression drop, she immediately regretted it. ‘Thank you, it looks delicious.’ She forced more cheeriness into her voice than she really felt, wanting their last morning together to be one he could remember fondly.

  He’d brought her some eggs from the chickens they had at the military camp; he’d scrambled them and served them with some tinned plum tomatoes and a sprinkle of pepper. Ida’s mouth watered, she hadn’t had eggs in a long time. They’d tried keeping chickens to begin with but twice the foxes had got to them – the second time it hadn’t even taken them all; she’d woke to two dead carcasses by the wood store, a trail of blood encircling them. She’d sat and cried when she found them, then she’d buried them at the back of the house.

  She’d made the mistake of growing quite fond of the chickens. They were friendlier than she’d imagined – often they would follow her around the gardens and hop onto her lap when she sat down – she’d grown to think of them as her pets rather than a source of food, and the responsibility and accountability she’d felt for them had haunted her as she dug their graves. Blameless or not, she’d felt the searing guilt as though she’d killed them herself.

  When Cal offered to bring her some more, Ida quickly refused. She knew death was occurring on a huge scale in the rest of the world but she didn’t need it to happen right outside her house. Perhaps they’d try again at some point, when Cal had the time to build something sturdier to keep them in, but for now she was happy to just enjoy what was in front of her – scrambled eggs without the responsibility and eventual blame. She noticed Cal hadn’t put any on his own plate – it looked bare, just a few tomatoes and a couple of crackers.

  ‘Why haven’t you got any eggs?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re for you, baby,’ he said simply, shrugging.

  She smiled and scooped up another spoonful. ‘They’re so good.’ She realised she was talking with her mouth full of food but she didn’t care, in that moment she wanted to both talk and eat and she knew there wasn’t much time left, certainly not enough to care about manners or etiquette. At the back of her mind she recognised the familiar thoughts, the ones that always came when time was running out, telling her to keep him busy, to love him harder than ever and distract him from reality – maybe then he would lose track of time.

  ‘I need to leave today, Ida. I don’t want to, but I can’t stay any longer.’

  Ida felt as though he’d read her mind and she scolded herself for thinking about him leaving; she’d never been very good at hiding her feelings, she wore them on her face and in her eyes even when she didn’t speak them. ‘I know,’ she said. She stared down at her empty plate, determined not to let him see her cry. She wanted his memories of her to be happy ones that would help him through the months ahead and lift him up when he was feeling down; she didn’t want him to have to worry about her. She didn’t want to be a burden.

  ‘I’m going to walk to the forest and help you stock up on wood…’

  Ida interrupted. ‘It’s spring, Cal. I don’t need the wood until autumn.’

  ‘It needs to dry in the wood store. It’s always better to be proactive rather than reactive.’ Cal got up from the bed and pulled on his T-shirt and shorts. ‘What if there’s an uncharacteristically bad summer? What if you need it early on in the autumn and it’s still wet? What if the generator packs up?’

  Ida sighed, knowing that this wasn’t an argument she could win. She didn’t want to spend their last hours together going back and forth to the forest, picking through the wood, chopping fallen trees and stacking it all up by the house. She wanted to keep him beside her in bed, their bodies entwined as they had been all night.

  Cal took Ida’s empty plate from her and carried the pots back into the kitchen. ‘I’m going to make us a coffee,’ he shouted through to the bedroom. ‘Then we’ll get to work.’

  They’d done this routine many times before: Cal wanting to fill their remaining hours with movement and purpose while Ida wanted to fill them with stillness and silence, just appreciating his presence in her space, knowing she could reach out and touch him or ask him a question if she wanted to. She liked to hear the gentle rhythm of his breathing; sometimes at night, she would lie awake just listening to the rise and fall of his chest, watching the occasional flicker of his eyes. Sometimes she would rest her head on him and listen to his heart while putting a hand on her own, wondering whether they were in sync. This was the hardest part, Ida thought, waiting for him to go. It felt somehow crueller than waiting for him to arrive, but she knew she would probably change her mind about that after he’d gone.

  On one of his visits, Cal had left in the early hours before Ida had woke. A couple of days before, she’d told him how difficult she found their goodbyes, so he’d decided to take it upon himself to make it easier for her. He’d written her a note, scribbled in the margins of one of her sudoku puzzles, and left it in the empty space he’d left behind, tucked under Ida’s arm.

  This is not a goodbye note, it’s a good morning one. Cal x

  Two months later, during a summer shower, he’d emerged from the north carrying the usual supplies, a questioning look on his face as though he’d been wondering for all the time he’d been gone whether he’d done the right thing. Ida had told him never to do it again; as hard as she found the goodbyes, she also needed them. They anchored her – the end to their hellos. Cal had made her a promise, drenched by the rain and with his hand on his heart. ‘I promise I will always say goodbye.’

  They spent several hours walking back and forth to the forest, up and down the dip and across the river. Each time they walked down the slope together she remembered her accident and thought of the man from the hut and the secret she was keeping from Cal. She wondered if she would ever tell him how he’d helped her – perhaps once this was all over and they were back in their little house in Surrey, tucked up in bed on a lazy Sunday morning. Maybe then she’d tell him, confident that it wouldn’t affect him in their comfortable life on the other side. He’d laugh about it, probably, and tell her he always knew she was clumsy. Or he’d be horrified that she’d had to deal with it alone, unable to burden him with the enormity of what it meant – that someone else had had to help her because Cal wasn’t there.

  After Cal was sufficiently satisfied with the pile of wood they’d accumulated, all stacked neatly in the wood store to dry, he went back and forth to the river with the watering can and a bucket, topping up the rainwater tank which now stood empty.

  Ida sat and watched him work, knowing that she would do it differently but not wanting to interfere – two buckets worked better, she’d found. They carried more water and, although there was a greater risk of spilling the contents if you slipped, she found the equal weight helped balance her. Cal didn’t seem to be having any issues though. He navigated the uneven terrain with ease, barely stopping to take a break. She sat at the top of the hill and watched him work, her eyes never leaving him as he made trip after trip, smiling at her as he passed. At times, she could see he was lost in thought, his mind already moving back beyond the hills, his priorities shifting over to his work. She wanted to pull him back, to hold his focus here with her for longer, but she knew it was futile – she’d tried fighting it many times before and failed.

  ‘You’re slacking!’ she joked, trying to lighten the mood. An atmosphere had settled between them, charged with dread and uncertainty. It made the air tighter somehow, less easy to breathe.

  Cal laughed but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘This should do it,’ he said, the watering can and the old grey bucket slopping water as he put them down at the peak of the hill. ‘It’ll be full after these two. Try to keep it topped up, just in case.’

  ‘I will,’ she said, knowing that she probably wouldn’t, especially since the accident. She took her time walking down to the river now – less nimble, more cautious – watching her step as memories flooded her mind; it made keeping on top of the water supply all the more difficult so she’d begun to let it slide, fetching only what she needed each day. She stretched her bare legs out in front of her. She was wearing her shorts, the spring sunshine full of warmth. Cal stood looking at the house, his chest glistening with sweat. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand then turned to look at Ida.

  ‘Your go-bag packed?’ he asked, his tone suddenly serious.

  Ida nodded.

  ‘In the compost bin?’

  ‘Same place as always.’

  It was the same conversation every time – a quick run-through of what she would do if trouble came looking for her. Ida knew what she’d do, and Cal knew Ida knew, but it made him feel better to go over it before he left. So Ida let him go through the motions, nodding in all the right places and reassuring him that she knew the plan.

  ‘The guy with the dog…’ Cal said, scratching at his beard. ‘If he comes, treat him just like anyone else, okay? Just because he’s living in solitary doesn’t mean he’s safe.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You take the go-bag and head to the forest. Camp in the spot we found, okay?’ Ida nodded again. ‘Watch the house for a few days, make sure he’s gone before you come back.’

  ‘You think he’ll come looking for supplies?’

  Cal shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but it’s best to be prepared.’

  Ida stood up and moved closer to him, putting her hands on his shoulders and resting her head on his chest. She was waiting for him to leave her, and he was waiting for her to say she was ready. Sometimes one came before the other; sometimes they both came at the same time.

  Cal kissed the top of Ida’s head, firm and unhurried – this was it, this was the goodbye she’d been dreading. ‘I have to go, baby,’ he whispered.

  Ida looked up into his eyes, her own damp with the tears she was clinging on to. She cursed herself for not being the one to tell him to go. She felt conflicted: she knew that Cal leaving represented nothing to do with their relationship – it didn’t mean he loved her any less or wanted to be anywhere else but with her – yet sometimes she couldn’t help but feel that it did. Before they moved to this place, fleeing the catastrophe that was unfolding back home, being continuously left alone by the man that she loved would have rung alarm bells. Sometimes it was as though Ida’s emotions hadn’t caught up with the new world and her internal alarm still rang every time he left her; it was in those moments that she craved some control. Next time, she thought, I will be the one to let go first.

  She took a deep breath. ‘I know.’ She reached up and took his face in her hands, kissing him hard on the lips. Then, before her strength crumbled, she took a step back and put her hands in her pockets. ‘Go,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll miss you every day.’

  She didn’t respond. She wanted Cal to have the last word, to not taint her memory of his voice with the sound of her own. She watched him walk towards the house where his rucksack was waiting by the door, packed and ready to go; she watched him pull his T-shirt over his head and then the locket with the picture of her nestled inside. He slipped his bag onto his back and looked at her. ‘Bye, baby.’

  Ida wouldn’t watch him walk away. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned towards the river and watched the water trickling through the valley; one lifeline in front of her while her other moved further and further away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ida lay on the crest of the hill, her back flat against the grass. She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there for, listening to the water rushing past and the birds singing, watching the sky and refusing to acknowledge the beginning of a new period of solitude. Overhead, she saw the distant contrails of an aeroplane. She wondered how high it was flying – thirty thousand feet, maybe, or thirty-five? She liked watching them, it was like a window into the past, a tiny piece of normality. She would lie on her back during the summer months and try to spot the planes as they cruised over on their way to wherever it was they were going. In her mind, she made up stories about them – the people on board or the tropical islands they were visiting. All that adventure and excitement, fictional but comforting.

  In reality, they were all ghost flights – containing either no passengers at all or running at ten per cent capacity or less. Cal had told her about them; repatriation flights, sometimes, but mostly political or military. Ida didn’t want to hear that the planes she fantasised about actually contained military personnel or politicians on their way to futile talks with other politicians in some faraway location. She wondered how it was possible – or fair – that even in such catastrophic circumstances, the politicians still found a way to survive.

  She sat up and arched her back, twisting and bending until she heard it crack; it bothered her more since her fall, the tightness and the stiffness sometimes driving her to take painkillers. She didn’t like to use them unless she was desperate, she only had a limited supply and the thought of them tucked away inside her wardrobe made her feel as though she had a safety net.

  She looked over at the house, the stone walls and the brick chimney. It couldn’t be more than 150 square feet in total, tiny in comparison to the home she’d had before, yet it felt far too big for her every time he left. She didn’t look forward to going back inside but she had to, she had a ritual to complete, one she completed every time he left: she would go through the cupboards and take out everything he’d brought, examining each tin or bag or packet in a way she had no interest in while Cal was there. Then she’d put everything back in order – not alphabetically or according to expiration date – if there was one – but an order that made sense to her: The things she wasn’t bothered about stayed at the front to be consumed first. The things that would give her something to look forward to were placed at the back. Everything else went in between.

  There was also a duplicate bag of food which had gone straight into storage in the little bathroom they’d never really used; the tiny square room with a shower, sink and toilet. There was no running water in the house – there hadn’t been for years according to Cal – and the compostable toilet which they’d utilised initially hadn’t been used in a long time, the resources and energy it took proving too much. She stored food and an emergency supply of water in there, along with a few other essentials – basic first aid and hygiene supplies. It’s also where she kept her backup heater and the matches and firelighters. It was cramped now but it was surprising how quickly the contents could dwindle.

  Storage was an ongoing issue in the house. It wasn’t that she needed a lot day to day, but once Cal had brought fresh supplies the place seemed crowded, the cupboards overflowing and the shelves crammed. She’d grown used to minimalist living, so a sudden influx of things to store made her feel suffocated. Ida had come to see it as a physical manifestation of Cal’s absence; it was only when the cupboards were bare that Cal would reappear.

  The temperature was lower inside than it was out on a day like today, the coolness from the night clinging to the stone walls the way that it always did. She grabbed her jumper off the back of the chair and pulled it on, stretching her back and sitting down on the wooden floor. She opened the cupboard; the contents were stacked haphazardly, put away in a rush and left for Ida to organise once Cal had gone.

  When she’d first been left alone she’d wondered how she would ever fill the time. She’d imagined long periods of solitude spent staring at the walls and days and nights becoming blurred, her internal clock no longer in tune with a life she couldn’t fill. But that hadn’t happened. She missed Cal so much that sometimes the physical ache of longing consumed her; out in the meadows, surrounded by empty space, she would fall to her knees and sob, the wind drying her tears until she felt the release she’d been looking for. She never did this in the house; her cries would become trapped there, confined to the four walls and ready to taint the days ahead. But other than those moments of torment and the constant dull ache of missing someone she loved, she got on with things, going about her day and using the coping mechanisms she’d put in place early on.

  She spent the better months outdoors in the fresh air, gardening and tending to the land, watching the wildlife and appreciating nature in a way she’d never had time to before. She walked the perimeter to get her exercise or sometimes explored beyond, her bag packed and her mind free. She planted seeds and paddled in the river; she picked wildflowers and arranged them in an empty jam jar on the wooden mantelpiece; she stargazed and listened to the familiar sounds of the animals.

  In the colder months she found it harder, but she’d adapted. She spent her time completing jigsaws and doing sudoku puzzles and word searches to keep her brain sharp. She read and reread the books she had stacked on her shelf, curled up in front of the fire. Every evening before bed she tried to solve a Rubik’s cube Cal had brought her a couple of years before. She’d grown frustratingly close on a few occasions but, the truth was, she was glad she hadn’t completed it – she wasn’t ready yet. Like with most things in her life now, she was in no rush. She took her time with things, and the result was that her mind had slowed down along with the new pace of her life. Her body clock adapted to the seasons, waking and sleeping to her own schedule, governed by nature and biology rather than her plans.

  She set the food out across the small space between the kitchen cupboards and the little table by the wall. There was a lot; she’d had to stack it and keep moving everything further back. There was a large Tupperware box labelled ‘instant mashed potato’. She’d had one of these before. She’d made it up using boiling water in a pan. It was grainy and bland so she decided to put it to one side with a tin of sweetcorn – she would eat those this evening and save half for tomorrow.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21