Dead Lovely by Helen Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online Page A

the grass, he felt the same way he had when the 2.40 to London had pulled away from Glasgow Central twenty-seven years earlier. He was excited, but nervous as he looked at the South Ayrshire countryside around him – the rolling green hills which meandered towards the coastline. Moving his deckchair to face the sun, he sat down on the chair, which was poised smack-bang in the middle of a fenced plot of land in the middle of nowhere. This was Mike’s dream – to be totally and wonderfully alone, away from the gossipy commuter town where he had lived for years, away from the cutthroat world of filmmaking. Away from temptation.

    Mike Tetherton looked younger than his fifty-nine years – he could probably pass for forty-five – and his features were smooth and cheerful, the mouth turned up slightly, the eyes smiling.
    After taking another sip of his milky drink, he closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. As his lids opened, he soaked in the empty, warm Scottish countryside. This was to be his new life, his fresh start.
    But first he had a decision to make. He had paid the deposit on the plot months earlier, and wanted to build a minimalist German kit house made mostly of glass. But he could not decide where to place it. Which direction should the living room face? What would he see from the French doors in his bedroom? Should the sun set over the decking or over the forest? Would the trickling of the stream in the valley be more soothing in the bedroom or in the eat-in kitchen?
    Following the advice of a home show host, he’d brought a chair with him the first Sunday after buying the land. He’d sat on the chair for a few minutes so he could begin to imagine where the house should go. After the initial embarrassment of sitting still and alone, Mike had settled into it and found the experience illuminating. He drove home that night knowing exactly where his house should be positioned – diagonally, one-third of the remaining land at the front, two-thirds at the back, the kitchen facing south-west.

    But when he came back the following week, he sat down for a cup of hot chocolate in a different position. He was straight on, directly in the middle of the land, the kitchen facing due south. As he watched the sun move into the evening he felt confused. This position also had its merits.
    The weekend after, Mike tried a few other spots, and sat at each for a bit longer.
    After three months, he was still sitting on his chair for several hours at a time, staring at views that might possibly be the views of his future.
    *
    Mike was ‘in-between jobs’, and he busied himself during the week with community projects. Everywhere he went people gravitated towards him. His smile, his dog and his willingness to help, seemed irresistible. It was tiring, being so nice, and as Mike folded his chair yet again and placed it and the thermos in his twenty-year-old Mercedes, he sighed, no closer to a decision about his escape, and headed back towards his hectic, helpful life in Drymlee.
    And sure enough, there were three messages on the answer phone and one neighbour at the door before he could even unpack. ‘Mike! Good news,’ said his elderly neighbour Netty. ‘The Pirates have won!’
    This was good news. It meant the community had beaten the developers, and that the green patchacross the way, Greensleaves, would not be littered with luxury two-bed apartments but with swings and slides for the local children. Mike and Netty had campaigned hard for this, planning the site, getting quotes, organising workmen, standing at the council’s buildings with placards held by several kids. Mike had been interviewed by the local radio station and spoken impressively about the need to provide communities with facilities to glue them together. For decades the acre of green had provided kids and dogs with space to express themselves, said Mike, and this should not be taken away.
    So the Pirates had won, which meant Mike had a hard week of physical