The Telling by Jo Baker Read Free Book Online

Mark’s attention, and we spoke uselessly, it was impossible to talk. I said goodbye; he hesitated.
    “Do you think you’ll—you don’t really seem—”
    “It’s slow going.”
    “Of course it is. It’s a lot for anyone to face.”
    There was just a shade too much emphasis on
anyone
. We both retreated carefully from the moment and its implications, knowing we had got too close. We talked brightly about nothing for a bit, and then we said goodbye.
    I stood looking at the grey and green of the landscape, the smell of garlic in my mouth, the drizzle cool on my skin, thinking about the tender places that we can’t bear to touch. He used to give me Sunday mornings, when she was still tiny. He would bundle Cate into her snuggle suit, bump her down the front steps in her pushchair, and give me two hours of quiet in the flat. Chill out, he’d say. Have a sleep. Read a book. Do nothing for a while. Footsteps on the floor above, muted voices from downstairs, but otherwise, quiet. Heaps of folded laundry and Mark’s work fileson the dresser. My head throbbing on the pillow, my eyes dry with sleeplessness. The clock ticking away the minutes of Mark pushing Cate through the park, their noses pink, stopping at the café, Mark ordering a coffee for himself and giving Cate her bottle. Me lying rigidly awake. I’d get out of bed. I’d start by putting away the laundry. Then the washing up. Then I’d be cleaning the kitchen surfaces, the table, rubbing fingermarks off the doors, wiping down the skirting boards. They’d come back, and I’d be down on my hands and knees dabbing at milk-spots on the carpet. I got this from my mum, I know. She could never do nothing. She just couldn’t be still.
    I had to get back. I had to get back to the house. I had to get started.
    The rain hung in the air, a thick and saturating mist. My jeans were wet through, the mud walking up the inside of the ankles and wedging into the seams; my jacket was sodden and leaking. I needed waterproofs. I needed, and this is a phrase I never thought I would ever catch myself even thinking, I needed an anorak. I trudged on through the fields, collar turned, head down, miserable.
    Cows stood motionless, trees dripped, grass bent under the weight of water droplets. To my left, a thick hedge and beyond that an expanse of open field; ahead, a steep hill, the river cutting close to its base, and then woodland. But no sign of the village.
    I’d missed a fork in the path. At some point the path had split, and instead of heading back the way I’d come, across the flood-pooled meadow to the bottom of the track, I’d kept straight on, along the riverbank. Useless townie that I was, the first time there wasn’t a garish yellow arrow to point the way, I’d got lost.
    I pushed the wet hair off my face. I turned around and looked back, taking stock.
    Behind me, the flat land seemed to stretch for miles, the footpath trailing off into blank meadow. Drizzle, patches of white-lit sky, heavier clouds bundling up the valley. I could go back and try to find the path; or I could go on, hope that this path would get me somewhere useful. I turned around again, glanced along its snaking line into the woods. How could that be useful?
    My eye caught on something. On the top of the hill, high up, between the leafless branches, I caught sight of a chunk of slated roof, and what looked like a bellcote. The village church, at the end of the village street. From the church, it should be just a brisk walk up the street to the cottage, dry clothes, coffee. And it looked like the path was a back way to the church. I wiped the drizzle off my face and headed on into the woods.
    It was dark under the trees. The ground was thick with that broad-leafed glossy plant; again, the scent of garlic: I began to think it must be a wild variety. At first the path was wide and straight, but it was soon twisting between briars and fallen trees, heading away from the river and up the hill, which suited