Chapter 13 #2
Checking where she was putting her feet, Gemma paused for a moment to disentangle her sleeve, grappling with the bramble as it snagged and grasped at her, reluctant to be taken away. A sudden shout rang out through the stillness of the day.
‘Gemma!’ shouted Ashley, waving furiously. ‘Gemma!’
She looked up, wondering what on earth had caused such an outburst. At first, she thought Ashley had found something of note, but then she realised that her stance was not excited, but instead panicked.
And even at this distance, Gemma could see how distraught she was.
She extricated herself from the bramble, heart picking up speed.
‘You need to see this,’ said Ashley as Gemma approached, her voice urgent and carrying something else too. Something dark and unwelcome. ‘I don’t know what to say…’ she added, trailing off, her hand over her lips.
She shook her head at the look of enquiry on Gemma’s face and wordlessly led her to the farmhouse. To the room where they kept all their tools. Or what was left of them.
Gemma stared around her in shock, astounded by the utter disarray which greeted her.
The walls which had once held their carefully collected supplies and equipment were almost bare, the shelves on which they had been sitting torn down, the hooks on which they had hung, ripped out.
And the tools themselves… Gemma looked around, anguish rising along with her anger.
At first glance a good many of them seemed to have gone, while others lay bent or broken.
Packets had been spilled and bags split open.
It wasn’t just theft, it was wilful destruction.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said, words strangely unavailable. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Someone sick.’ Ashley practically spat her reply into the debris at their feet.
‘Someone…’ She trailed off, but the look on her face left Gemma in no doubt what she would do to them if she found them.
The same as her, no doubt. ‘The door hasn’t been damaged,’ she added.
‘Although I guess it’s easy to open if you know how. ’
‘It was definitely locked last night,’ said Gemma. ‘I did it myself.’
It was part of the nightly routine – cleaning off the tools just as Rowan had shown her.
To prevent rust, oiling them if necessary, before hanging them back in their designated places.
She had liked it. It was order and routine, but it was also care.
Care because she had time to do it, care because it was important to preserve the things they had.
Care which, ironically, Gemma had never sought to bother about in the past – always too busy, too hasty to finish a job even when she had been doing something she loved.
Whoever had done this though, hadn’t just stolen from them, they hadn’t just broken things, they had shouted loud how little that care had meant, how easily it could be rendered useless. And that hurt.
Ashley was still standing with her hand over her lips, as if she didn’t know what to say, or equally was worried what she might say. She picked up a broken flowerpot, the terracotta edges jagged and sharp, before placing it carefully back down again.
‘What do we do?’ she asked after a moment.
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Gemma. She had an overwhelming urge to fix it, to make it disappear before Willow and Rowan could see it. They were such good people; she couldn’t bear to see their hurt. But she knew that was impossible. ‘We should get the others,’ she said. ‘I’ll go.’
Ashley nodded. ‘I’ll make a start…’ She picked up the pot again, staring at it, unmoving.
Gemma touched her sleeve. ‘Come up to the house,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be done here. Not today anyway.’
Ashley gave a wan smile, as if grateful that she wouldn’t be left to face the chaos alone.
Half an hour later they were all back in kitchen – Rowan, Willow, Gemma and Ashley. Four people for whom the day had inexplicably fractured, leaving them virtually speechless in its wake. Gemma had made everyone a cup of tea, but the mugs still lay on the table, untouched.
‘When did it happen?’ said Willow. ‘How come no one heard it? Damage like that, it…’
But there was no point trying to figure it out. It made no difference. What was done was done, and the simple fact of the matter was that they hadn’t heard it – if they had, the situation might have been very different. Gemma shuddered. It might have been worse…
‘We don’t have the money to replace what we’ve lost,’ said Rowan, staring across the room but seeing nothing. ‘There are groups, though… people like us who offer things they no longer need for free. We might be able to get a few essentials at least, but it’s going to take time.’
‘And once people in the village know what’s happened, I’m sure folks will help out,’ said Gemma. She took in Rowan’s expression. ‘They would, surely?’
‘They might,’ he replied grimly. ‘But there’ll be an element enjoying a good laugh at our expense and… I’m not okay with that. This stays between us. We’ll manage.’
Willow winced. That wasn’t her husband talking, they all knew that. His words were driven by anger but now was not the time to disagree. He was entitled to be angry. And to show it any way he pleased.
For a few more minutes no one said a thing until, gently, Ashley cleared her throat. ‘I don’t want to leave you all like this, but I think I might go home… There’s nothing I can do here, and I’m probably just in the way.’
Gemma was about to protest when Ashley shook her head. ‘You need some time alone, to sort things out.’
‘Thank you for all your help,’ said Willow.
Gemma fished in her pocket for her car keys but Ashley immediately held up her hand. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘I can walk.’
‘You can’t do that, it’s miles.’
‘It’s not so far if you go across country. I can cut across the fields. You end up at the back of the church. Honestly, it’s fine.’ She crossed the kitchen to give Gemma a hug, squeezing Willow’s arm for good measure, too. ‘Let me know when you need me to help. I’ll come back any time…’
And then she was gone, and the kitchen returned to silence. Three shocked faces looking at one another, none of them knowing quite what to do.
‘We should call the police,’ said Gemma eventually. ‘At least try to get the bastards who did this.’
‘And say what?’ replied Rowan. ‘Ask them to fingerprint the place?’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Gemma. ‘Do something, anything.’
Rowan shook his head. ‘Whoever did this was most likely wearing gloves, and the police don’t have time for this kind of thing – what we lost was useless to most people and, as far as I know, there isn’t a black market trade in garden tools. It’s a pointless exercise.’
Gemma could see his reasoning, even if she didn’t want to. Her comment wasn’t about doing anything meaningful, just doing something.
‘Well, whether we call the police or not, we do need to work out what’s missing,’ said Willow. ‘What can be salvaged or mended. We need a place to start from at the very least.’
‘I’ll tell you where we’re starting from,’ said Rowan. ‘Right at the very beginning.’ He snatched up his jacket from the table. ‘I’ll be mending the fencing if anyone needs me.’
Gemma caught Willow’s eye as her husband left, but neither woman said a word.
It was the silence which finally drove Gemma from the house.
She couldn’t bear it – the sour heaviness of unspoken words, the sadness which hung shroudlike, smothering everything beneath it.
Gemma had lived with those feelings for so long before coming to the farm that once she’d arrived she’d felt as if she could breathe for the first time in months.
Now those feelings were back again, and it was too much.
She slipped on her jacket and crept outside.