Chapter 10 Carrie
The next morning I stand in the middle of the lounge of Ivy’s cottage. I hug my arms around my chest and try very hard not to cry. It dawned on me upon waking in the caravan, the desolate fields stretching on around me, that there’s so much work to do. I have no idea where to start. I’ve never renovated anything before, barely painted a wall or sanded down a surface. How did I think I could renovate a whole cottage? I can’t ask Cora to fix this for me, and I absolutely refuse to phone Dad and ask him to bail me out. Whether I succeed or fail this winter, it’s all on me. And the thought of failing, of not succeeding this winter, leaves me breathless with fear.
I pick up the drill, the useless, bloody drill. I need drill bits. A battery charger. And some clue as to what to do with it. My hand shakes as I set it back down on the floor, next to the pile of items I bought a few days ago. The paint, the paintbrushes. The pile of envelopes containing nails and screws.
“Not a bloody clue,”
I mutter, wanting to kick it all across the room. I swipe at my nose, which is already running. That’s the thing, when I cry, my nose runs first. It’s the warning sign I need to bolt. I release a jagged sigh, crouch down on the floor, and eye the fireplace. All dust and dirt and absence. I swipe at my nose again, frowning at that fireplace. Then I realize I’ve still got Matthieu’s number on the receipt in my jacket pocket.
I stand abruptly, pacing the room. The receipt is slightly smudged, but somehow, impossibly, it’s still legible. I should have written the number down, saved it in my phone. But my mind was on fire, picturing Tom, that little girl. Wondering if Jess knows that I’m here, what she’s doing, and where she works. I’ve spent so long trying to avoid even the thought of them that now I’m here my mind just burns and burns.
Should I call Matthieu?
I picture his inky blue eyes, the way he looked past me, toward the mountains, as though searching for something. I recognized that in him, that need to find something. Whatever it is, whatever has drawn him back for a second winter, I understand it. I reach for my mobile, tracing the bars of signal in the corner. I could call him. It’s either that or give up. I can’t leave, ignoring Ivy’s last request, written in her will in that commanding way. And I can’t ask Cora and let her take control, shaping this winter—my winter—as she likes. This is meant to be my homecoming. On my terms, at my choosing, to find if I truly belong here.
But . . .
I thrust the receipt back into my pocket. Asking for help feels like giving in, like conceding defeat. I sniff, drawing myself back together, and swipe to the notes app on my phone. Blinking down at the list there, I delete the item about not buying wine. I’m buying two bottles later. A red and a white, along with a big bar of chocolate.
I add “wallpaper steam and strip”
to the list, then head out to the car to pick up the box still sitting on the passenger seat. I lug it inside, up the stairs, and within twenty minutes it’s set up and ready to use. Carefully, I coax the wallpaper off the walls, letting it fall in limp swaths before I scrape it off.
“I can manage,”
I mutter to myself, pushing my hair out of my face. It’s only wallpaper stripping.
But after a while, an ominous damp patch spreads across the wall. In fact, when I press a finger into it, expecting to feel the plaster beneath, the wall feels . . . spongy. I step back, place the steamer attachment on the floor, and quickly google. As the internet slowly ticks over and connects, I see the search returns, saying you shouldn’t steam a chipboard surface. I run my hand over the wall, feeling the rough quality of it. It could be chipboard.
That’s when I snap. I release a feral, strangled sort of scream, the kind that rises and rises inside you, building, then catching in your throat. My stomach churns, and I blink furiously, eyes heavy with tears I refuse to shed. I place a hand against the wall, leaning into it and close my eyes. Suddenly I’m exhausted. Tired of running from this place, tired of forever returning to it in my dreams. Tired more than anything of fighting. I turn and walk carefully down the stairs to the kitchen at the back of the house. I make a big mug of coffee, stirring in twice the number of sugars I usually allow myself, and try very hard not to scream again.
I can’t phone Cora and Howard. I can’t call anyone I know from before and admit I’m in way over my head. But . . . I also can’t walk away from this. A drawer I haven’t gone through yet is slightly ajar, and I jerk it open, my mind a muddle of tired exasperation. And here I find a scatter of old photographs. The kind that are overexposed, taken on a disposable camera, then carried to the local chemist to get developed. The kind you used to pick up a few days later, and thumb through quickly, hoping that at least some of them weren’t fuzzy or just blank. I sift through the pile, seeing some of Ivy’s garden, one of her holding me on her knee when I was a toddler, face smeared with blackberry jam.
And then I find one of me, Tom, and Jess. My breath stutters as I pull it from the drawer. It’s the three of us standing in the field just outside, the mountains behind us. We’re all wearing backpacks and wide grins, arms slung around each other. Happy. I remember that day. I remember going on a hike with them, following an old trapper map of Tom’s, eating our lunch in a clearing with mosquitos buzzing in our ears. I smooth my finger over us, each of our smiles, our sunburned noses. The summer before I left.
The summer before everything changed.
I can’t give up now. I just can’t.
I reach inside my pocket. Smoothing out the receipt on the old kitchen table, I set my teeth and dial the number scrawled across it in black biro.
It rings and rings, and my shoulders slump. An answerphone kicks in, a generic message from the network provider, and I cancel the call. I’m muttering again, moving around the kitchen, when my phone lights up in my hands.
“Hello?”
“Ivy’s granddaughter,”
he says, his voice a crackle of static and syllables. “You know, you never told me your name.”
I hesitate, wondering what he’s heard about me and all the other Morgan women who have come before. What stories are whispered still to newcomers? What did Ivy herself tell him of the old ways? “Carrie Morgan.”
“Well, Carrie Morgan, what can I help with?”
“The cottage. You said yesterday.”
I close my eyes, then open them to look out the window. At the mountains, at the way they loom up, eclipsing everything. “You said yesterday that you’d done some repairs on the cottage. That you wanted to do more, but Ivy never let you.”
“Yes,”
he says. Then there’s a whoosh, as though he’s adjusting the phone against his ear. “It’s an old place.”
I turn my back on the mountains, pressing the phone a little too hard against my cheek. “Would it be possible for you to come over? Perhaps tomorrow? I think I need some help with a few things, and I’d like a quote.”
For a moment, I think he’s hung up. Then his voice returns, warmer than before. “Sure, Carrie. How’s ten?”
“It’s good. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
The line goes dead, and I pocket my phone. In the ringing silence, I allow myself a moment to cradle my fingers around the warm mug. Maybe this isn’t beyond me. Maybe with a bit of help, with someone to check things with, like what the hell to do with that chipboard, I can make this work. A smile spreads over my face as I drink the coffee. The warmth of it threads through my chest.
No Cora meddling. No running from Ivy’s request. I don’t need to call on anyone from Woodsmoke, from the curling mists of my past. I can do this. I can knock this cottage into shape and find a fresh beginning.