Chapter 3
THREE
WAITING FOR WISDOM
She wakes up feeling ill and her first thought is that she might have caught a cold.
She did sleep right through (something that’s rare enough to merit celebration) so, microbes aside, she should be feeling tickety-boo.
Perhaps she slept for too long? That can sometimes leave you feeling like a zombie, can’t it?
She pushes one foot out from under the covers and is relieved to discover the cabin is warm. She remembers loading the stove up last night and setting it to its lowest setting, and when she gets downstairs this morning she can see from the glow that it’s still burning.
She pulls on extra clothes and crosses to look out at the view, as spectacular this morning as yesterday.
The sky is a deep blue again and a flock of birds is crossing the skyline, shifting in and out of formation, no doubt preparing to head to warmer climes.
It crosses her mind, in a vague, sleepy way, that she too has migrated for winter.
She stretches and turns to face the room, and as she does so a heaped ashtray and a half-empty wine bottle catch her eye.
There are two empties on the kitchen counter, too.
Of course! She’d called Jill last night on WhatsApp, and they’d spent hours gossiping and getting drunk.
She can’t remember much of what was said, but it had been fun, that’s for sure – almost like being down the pub.
She smiles at the memory. She’d needed that. She’d been feeling lonely.
A specific memory tightens her jaw. She suspects she invited Jill to come and visit.
Not having that much life of her own, Jill is always on the lookout for any opportunity to tag along, and with her being so pushy, avoiding inviting her can be hard.
Wendy can’t remember specific dates being discussed, so she’ll probably be OK.
She looks around at the tiny space. No, she definitely can’t have Jill here. That wasn’t the point of this at all.
She makes coffee and spreads slices of already-stale baguette with a thick layer of butter and jam then takes it all outside to a little table placed strategically so she can sit in the sun while enjoying the view.
It’s warmer this morning, almost hot. Maybe the icy temperatures of yesterday were a mere blip.
She sips her coffee and bites into her breakfast. Why does French apricot jam taste so much better?
She wonders what to do with her day. She thinks about all the wine she consumed last night and decides she’ll be healthy and go for a walk. That’s definitely what Harry would suggest.
If only he were here… Don’t let your mind go there, Wendy!
Is a walk enough of an activity for a whole day? It seems a little bit lazy. Maybe a big walk, then – something ambitious and sporty.
Alternatively she could drive down and explore the coast. She could go back to St-Vallier-de-whatever-it’s-called and have a drink in that bar on the green.
But that’s not how she’d imagined her time here, was it?
She’d imagined herself sitting cross-legged staring at a mountain until a bolt of enlightenment zapped her.
Which she knows is more than silly. With the exception of those three yoga lessons she did with her sister-in-law Sue all those years ago (that time she put her knee out) she’s never even tried to sit cross-legged for any amount of time, let alone meditate.
Perhaps walking is a kind of meditation, especially if you’re doing it on your own. She’ll give it a try, anyway. She used to have quite good ideas while walking Whitey, Fiona’s childhood dog.
If all else fails, she could buy a notebook and write things down.
She doesn’t know what she’d write, but maybe if she tries the ideas will come?
She briefly imagines herself writing a novel.
The idea – at least the sitting around holding a pen while sipping tea bit – is appealing, but again rather daft.
She hasn’t written anything longer than a shopping list since school.
What if I go home none the wiser? she wonders, and a sense of dismay pops up from nowhere. What if this all amounts to nothing?
Yes, what if she spends six months and a chunk of her inheritance only to go home without a clue as to how to fix her life? Wouldn’t that be a kick in the teeth?
She showers and pulls on shorts, a T-shirt and trainers, then drives down the track, through the tiny hamlet (there’s a single shop here – a bakery – but she’s not yet seen it open), and then on along the winding road to a place she spotted yesterday on her way back from the supermarket – a gravelly parking area at the roadside next to a vivid green meadow.
Yesterday there had been four cars parked up and she’d seen a woman pulling on walking boots.
Today, she finds herself alone, but that’s OK because the track heading off from the car park leaves no doubt. She locks the car, pockets the keys, and starts off along the trail.
This is a bit mad, she thinks, as the trail starts to rise, winding its way past a series of waist-high grey boulders. Harry would be amused!
She’s always been the reluctant one when it comes to exercise, though if she’s honest, she’s not sure why.
Perhaps it’s simply that you have to have these roles in every couple: a keen walker and a reluctant complainer.
She’s always enjoyed a good walk but rarely admitted it.
But yes, those were their roles – Harry the sporty keen one and Wendy the smoking whinger who Harry had to urge ever onwards.
She’s not sure when she chose to be that person – adolescence perhaps – and she’s surprised, momentarily, that she has never questioned it until now.
The track winds back on itself behind a particularly large group of boulders, and as she turns the corner she discovers a bushy waist-high plant – some sort of weed by the looks of it. The tiny flowers are populated by thousands of frenetic butterflies.
‘Wow,’ she says, crouching down and pulling her phone from her pocket to take a photo.
She notices, in the process, that she has no new messages this morning and yearns momentarily for a bygone era when a camera was only a camera and not a device that linked you to the entirety of your life, or in her case, lack of one.
She snaps a couple of photos and a short video of the excitable butterflies and, resisting the temptation to post it straight onto Instagram, stands and continues along the track.
By the time she reaches the top of the hill she’s sweaty and out of breath but the view from the top – of brackeny Wuthering Heights hills punctuated with spiky protrusions of volcanic rocks – is good enough to make it all feel worthwhile.
In the distance, far away, she sees a huge white sphere perched on stilts.
She decides it must be a telescope or a radar for Nice airport down below.
It’s really quite beautiful, like a modern art sculpture or, in the midst of this strange landscape, an alien spaceship, just landed.
There’s a scrappy Roman path winding across the hillside so she chooses it as today’s destination.
It takes her over an hour to reach the sphere. It’s far bigger, and therefore further, than she had imagined, and by the time she gets there her legs are turning to jelly. She actually feels quite faint.
She should have brought some water, she thinks, plonking herself down on a rock. She’s dehydrated from the walk, but also from last night’s drinking spree. She can almost smell the alcohol leaching out through the pores of her skin.
She should have brought a snack, too. Her trembly legs are almost certainly caused by low blood sugar; still, she’ll be fine if she sits for a moment and lets her body catch up with itself.
The view from beneath the sphere is amazing – in fact, it’s so unlike anything she sees in her daily life that it’s hard to believe it’s not a painted backdrop: a crazy, hazy 180-degree panorama of land, sea and sky stretching to infinity in every direction.
She stands and spins on one foot to take it all in – the bank of wispy cloud out to sea, the blur of a distant ferry, the crinkly outline of the coast… She feels proud and tells herself so, out loud. ‘Wow!’ she says. ‘You made it!’
It crosses her mind that this would be a great spot (and moment) for a revelation.
Come to me, wisdom, she thinks. Come to me now!
But the truth is that her mind is entirely blank – emptier than it’s been in years.
A gentle breeze brings the scent of bracken to her attention.
She sighs and stares out at all that space, trying to spot the line where the sea meets the sky.
It’s impossible, though, today. They’re exactly the same shade of blue.
Space. She thinks about the depth of it, or at least tries to. Infinity. But they’re impossible concepts really, aren’t they? The thought makes her feel small and lonely. But it also makes her wonder if her problems are really that important in the scheme of things.
As she takes a panoramic photo on her phone, there’s a sudden gust of wind. She shivers and her stomach rumbles audibly. My God, she’s hungry!
She turns and, with a final glance over her shoulder at the view, starts her way back down.
By the time she gets home she’s so thirsty, her mouth so dry, that she’s barely able to swallow.
She gulps down three glasses of water and sets about making cheese on toast with half of one of her prematurely stale baguettes. Rock hard within twenty-four hours – who knew?
After lunch she rewards herself with a jumbo glass of Chardonnay and hurls herself onto the sunlit sofa. She’s feeling righteous after her walk – she deserves this.
When she wakes from her afternoon snooze, the sun is already low, illuminating the cabin with a beautiful orange glow.