A Village Affair

A few weeks later she’d learned to adjust to this new normal—elevenses alone and a certain aloofness from Peter—when she came into his study late one afternoon to tell him she was leaving, only to find the curtains drawn against the summer sunshine as he sat in his chair, his head bowed.

“Peter—” she began, cautiously.

“It’s a year ago today,” he said, his voice choked, and when he lifted his head his eyes were full of anguish. “A year ago today that Rachel died.”

“Oh, Peter.” Sarah didn’t think about what she was doing, or how it would seem. She simply dropped to her knees in front of him and brought his head to her shoulder. He pressed his face against her t-shirt as he took several deep breaths, holding back the tears. After a few long moments she eased back and gave her a watery smile.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

The reserve between them cracked right open then, and Sarah was glad. Neither of them had to say anything; it simply was. Peter began to take his morning tea out in the conservatory again, and he asked Sarah if she would help with his research once more. They fell back into familiar patterns, beloved patterns, and Sarah didn’t realize just how bereft she had been until she had him back. Her life and home back.

One afternoon in June Peter asked her to show him what she’d done in the garden, and so shyly, with a hesitant pride, she pointed out the weeded beds, the new strawberries, the pruned roses.

“But this is all so marvelous,” he said as they stood in the center of the garden, under the weeping willow that Sarah loved. “So wonderful. You’ve brought the garden back to life again, Sarah.”

“I’m happy to do it—”

Peter looked serious all of a sudden, his gaze intent, his eyes seeming very blue. Sarah felt a sudden leap of anticipation mingled with alarm; she had a feeling he was going to say something important, something that might change the fragile life she’d constructed for herself here—and she did not know if she wanted him to say it.

In any case, he didn’t say anything. He just smiled and shook his head, and as they started inside, the neighbor of the angular frame and the Greyhounds appeared over the fence, her unfriendly face stretched into a smile.

“Peter.” Her voice held more warmth than Sarah had ever heard, and yet it still sounded false. “I haven’t seen you in ages. We must have you over one of these days.” She kept her gaze firmly on Peter, and even though Sarah knew she shouldn’t feel slighted, she did.

“That would be lovely,” Peter said, and then reached over and put a hand on Sarah’s elbow. “Have you met my new housekeeper, Sarah? Although I can’t really call her a housekeeper now. She’s become so much more than that.”

Sarah felt herself flush. There was absolutely no innuendo in Peter’s voice, but Sarah knew the neighbor heard it. She heard it, felt it, and she hated that she did.

The woman flicked her gaze towards Sarah. “Hello,” she said, and her gaze had already moved back to Peter.

“Marian has never been the warmest person,” Peter said with a sigh when they were back indoors. “Frankly, I can’t imagine anything worse than going over there for dinner. All she talks about are her wretched dogs, and her husband could bore for Britain about the stock market.” He let out a little, embarrassed laugh. “Good Lord, I sound awful.”

“She didn’t strike me as a particularly pleasant person,” Sarah said lightly, and moved past him into the kitchen.

A few weeks later Peter came and found her in one of the flowerbeds at the bottom of the garden, hot and sweaty as she dug it over, and asked her to accompany him to an outdoor concern at a nearby National Trust property.

“Rachel and I used to go every year,” he said with a small, sad smile. “I didn’t go last year. Everything was still a blur. But I’d like to go again now.”

“I can understand that,” Sarah said cautiously. She wanted to go—of course she wanted to go—but she was also wary and even afraid. What would people think?

“So you’ll come with me?” Peter said happily, as if it were a foregone conclusion, and perhaps it was. In the light of his simple happiness, Sarah knew she didn’t have the strength to say no. And why should she? Why should she let the spiteful cats of Highton run and even ruin her life?

“Yes, I will,” she said, and Peter beamed.

They took a blanket and picnic and spread out on the great, rolling lawn, eating prawn salad sandwiches as the orchestra played Debussy. Peter produced a bottle of champagne and two plastic flutes from the old-fashioned picnic basket he’d dragged down from the loft, and when Sarah protested he just shook his head and said it was actually a rule that you had to drink champagne at a time like this.

“That is, if you like it?” he asked, suddenly anxious. “Some people don’t like how the bubbles get up your nose.”

“I don’t mind that,” Sarah said. “I love champagne.” She hadn’t had it that often, but she enjoyed sipping it now, feeling the crispness of it on her tongue, as she sat on the blanket with her legs stretched out in front of her and the sun setting behind them as the orchestra played.

They chatted throughout the concert, the music a lovely wash of sound that seemed to highlight their conversation. A confidence took on a sudden, emotional intensity when accompanied by swelling violins; a joke followed by quiet laughter become strangely intimate.

By the time the concert finished, it was dark and Sarah had drunk quite a lot of champagne. She slid into the comforting darkness of Peter’s old Volvo as he slung their blanket and basket in the back. Leaning her head back against the seat she closed her eyes, humming a little under her breath one of the pieces from the concert.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed herself so much. Had she ever? The lack in her life didn’t depress or shame her now; she felt too happy for that.

Peter slid into the driver’s seat with a tired smile. “A lovely evening,” he said, the words ending on a happy sigh, and Sarah smiled back.

“Yes, lovely,” she said quietly, meaning it utterly and yet not knowing how to convey, or if she should, just how wonderful she had found it.

They rode in silence all the way into town, but it wasn’t awkward. It was a silence of companionship and simplicity, broken only when Sarah gave directions to the rundown terraced house where she rented a room.

He peered out at the house made even more dilapidated under the anemic, orange wash of the streetlights, frowning as his gaze swept over it. “You live here?”

“I just rent a room,” Sarah said, and realized that sounded even worse. She fumbled for her bag, embarrassed and eager now to leave when she’d been so sleepily contented only moments before.

“But it’s…” Peter trailed off, then seeming to collect himself, shook his head. “I guess this is what young people do these days. It’s a bit like living in halls, isn’t it? Parties all the time?”

He spoke hopefully, and Sarah knew what he wanted. He wanted to make sure she was all right, that she had friends and fun and all the normal things a twenty-three year old woman should have.

She nodded, slipping her bag onto her shoulder. “Absolutely.”

The truth was, she only saw her neighbor on the stairs, or in the awful kitchen with the peeling lino and leaky taps, when they were taking turns with the toaster.

“Well. I really did have a lovely evening,” Peter said. “Thank you for humoring an old man.” To her surprise he leaned across the seat and kissed her cheek; his lips felt both dry and soft.

“It was a pleasure,” Sarah managed, half-mumbling, and then she slipped out of the car and hurried inside.