the house stands still. Wren has spent years cultivating a soothing routine that works for her, one that fits with the rhythms of the seasons, for the motions of her mind. But now this – this hideous intrusion, this rupture that threatens to break her peace apart… On this clear, cold night Wren can see far out across the water, out to where the night fishing boats bob and blink, to where the seals bask, as dolphins slice through the icy waters. This is her whole world, and today it has been blown asunder. For the first time in all these years, Wren pulls the blinds to the kitchen windows, and shuts out the sea.
During her afternoon walk, Wren is met on the coastal path by a young man wearing ridiculous shoes. His pointed toes shine brightly in the autumn light, below too-narrowtrousers and a cliché of a business coat. He must be all of twenty-two, a polished boy in the guise of a man.
‘Wren Irving?’ he asks, as he approaches. He smiles broadly, displaying straight white teeth and a trusting face.
Wren gives Badger’s lead a little tug, a signal for him to growl at the stranger. ‘No,’ she replies, and she continues walking, with Badger casting warning snarls back along the path. She studies the light of the sky – it must be an hour later than her usual time. How could anyone know she’s here? It’s been so long, and she covered her trail so well; no one could know she was here.
‘Mrs Irving? Listen, I know you didn’t want your Lottery win advertised, but now it’s out there – you might as well share your side of the story. You’re one of the original seven – it’s something to be celebrated!’
She halts, her back resolutely against him. ‘Who are you?’ she shouts into the breeze, her voice emerging harsh, and older than she remembers.
‘Mike Woods, freelance journalist.’ Wren looks back to see him reach inside his jacket pocket and wave a business card in the air, as if that solves everything. ‘I’m just interested in giving your version of events – there’s bound to be public interest.’
Wren lowers her head and walks on, her heart pounding, willing the journalist to vanish with every watched step she takes. At the car park, Arthur’s wave turns into a beckoning motion as she sets course to bypass him, and he calls her over, whistling for the dogs, not taking the cue from her studied stance of avoidance. Badger and Willow decide for her, bounding ahead, and with heavy feet she turns about, following in the kicked-up trail of the dogs to join them at the kiosk.
‘You look terrible,’ he says, as he pours her a tea. The dogs paw at the side of Arthur’s counter, demanding their treats.
‘I didn’t sleep too well.’
Arthur snaps a lid on the cardboard cup and hands it to her. ‘So what did the city boy want?’ He tips his head towards the journalist, who now stands watching from the brow of the path, his ugly shoes obscured by billowing sea grass.
Wren sighs, feeling her breath shudder as she exhales. ‘My story .’
‘And is that something you want to tell?’ Arthur hugs himself, patting his upper arms with gloved hands, his breath white in the crisp air.
She pulls her collar up around her neck, tugs her hat lower, and looks out across the water to where the gulls dip and dive. The tears spring to her eyes before she can stop them, and she holds her gaze on the shore, clicking her fingers for the dogs to come. ‘I can’t, Arthur. It’s not my story to give. The picture of me in the paper yesterday – I don’t even know that woman any more.’
Wren was always the sensible one, level-headed in a crisis, reliable and focused where others around her would crumble. From the very first time they met, Laura’s fierce feminism enlivened her, as she’d sit and listen to her peppering the air with a whole new language, waving her cigarette smoke in theatrical whirls and challenging Wren’s adolescent viewpoint with her own developing ideologies. At home,
During her afternoon walk, Wren is met on the coastal path by a young man wearing ridiculous shoes. His pointed toes shine brightly in the autumn light, below too-narrowtrousers and a cliché of a business coat. He must be all of twenty-two, a polished boy in the guise of a man.
‘Wren Irving?’ he asks, as he approaches. He smiles broadly, displaying straight white teeth and a trusting face.
Wren gives Badger’s lead a little tug, a signal for him to growl at the stranger. ‘No,’ she replies, and she continues walking, with Badger casting warning snarls back along the path. She studies the light of the sky – it must be an hour later than her usual time. How could anyone know she’s here? It’s been so long, and she covered her trail so well; no one could know she was here.
‘Mrs Irving? Listen, I know you didn’t want your Lottery win advertised, but now it’s out there – you might as well share your side of the story. You’re one of the original seven – it’s something to be celebrated!’
She halts, her back resolutely against him. ‘Who are you?’ she shouts into the breeze, her voice emerging harsh, and older than she remembers.
‘Mike Woods, freelance journalist.’ Wren looks back to see him reach inside his jacket pocket and wave a business card in the air, as if that solves everything. ‘I’m just interested in giving your version of events – there’s bound to be public interest.’
Wren lowers her head and walks on, her heart pounding, willing the journalist to vanish with every watched step she takes. At the car park, Arthur’s wave turns into a beckoning motion as she sets course to bypass him, and he calls her over, whistling for the dogs, not taking the cue from her studied stance of avoidance. Badger and Willow decide for her, bounding ahead, and with heavy feet she turns about, following in the kicked-up trail of the dogs to join them at the kiosk.
‘You look terrible,’ he says, as he pours her a tea. The dogs paw at the side of Arthur’s counter, demanding their treats.
‘I didn’t sleep too well.’
Arthur snaps a lid on the cardboard cup and hands it to her. ‘So what did the city boy want?’ He tips his head towards the journalist, who now stands watching from the brow of the path, his ugly shoes obscured by billowing sea grass.
Wren sighs, feeling her breath shudder as she exhales. ‘My story .’
‘And is that something you want to tell?’ Arthur hugs himself, patting his upper arms with gloved hands, his breath white in the crisp air.
She pulls her collar up around her neck, tugs her hat lower, and looks out across the water to where the gulls dip and dive. The tears spring to her eyes before she can stop them, and she holds her gaze on the shore, clicking her fingers for the dogs to come. ‘I can’t, Arthur. It’s not my story to give. The picture of me in the paper yesterday – I don’t even know that woman any more.’
Wren was always the sensible one, level-headed in a crisis, reliable and focused where others around her would crumble. From the very first time they met, Laura’s fierce feminism enlivened her, as she’d sit and listen to her peppering the air with a whole new language, waving her cigarette smoke in theatrical whirls and challenging Wren’s adolescent viewpoint with her own developing ideologies. At home,
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