Elaine Dimbylow
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(Louisa is twenty-four. She has been away from Chaffscombe for four years. There has been a terrible tragedy in her life – as yet undisclosed – and we know she blames Susan for what happened. Lyndon was her childhood sweetheart.)
An extract from Fern Hollow
Chapter 17 – Homecoming
“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Louisa? If you wait until later Bill or Jim will go with you.” Nancy Kerswell is standing at the front door.
“I’ll be fine. I need to do this on my own.” Louisa kisses her dry cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
She waves and sets off down the lane. It is Saturday, still early, but Bill and Jim are already out working somewhere. Louisa wonders how they manage. They have the extra fields from Fern Hollow plus the sheep to look after now, in addition to their own arable land, and Bill is well over seventy. Poor Jim does the work of two men. Louisa pictures him, recalling his broad smile at breakfast, and thinks that, beneath the cheery face he presents to the world, he is lonely. Perhaps he never really got over Susan.
Susan . . . Zipping up her anorak she begins to walk faster, the cold wind in her face.
The air is bracing, spiced with the scents of autumn and the sharp, fresh tang of the sea. Her footsteps ring out on the tarmac. She feels more alive here. There is no-one else about and, in spite of the task ahead, her spirits lift a little. Until she reaches the church.
The low stone wall bordering the road casts a faint shadow. Her pace slows. All the strength seems to seep from her body. She wants to keep on walking but she cannot go past. It has been four years and two months. She pushes open the gate and makes her way slowly round the side of the church, her shoes crunching on loose gravel. She dreads what she will find – the grave overgrown, neglected. And she has brought no flowers.
Her eyes scan the churchyard. Nothing has changed. She moves uncertainly across the wet grass between the gravestones. Then she sees it. The engraving is still clear and new, as if each letter has been scrubbed, and there are flowers in the vase, bold yellow chrysanthemums and white penstemon. Someone has remembered while she has been absent. Her eyes fill with tears. Kneeling down she traces her fingers over their names. Philip Alan Rawlings. Vivien Frances Rawlings.
Only when the clock strikes does she become aware of her surroundings. She is icy cold. Her hands have a bluish tinge. She stands up stiffly and follows the path back to the road. Even the glimpses of the sea and the familiar green valley no longer offer any comfort.
The keys weigh heavy in the pocket of her jeans. The keys she has kept hidden at the bottom of her jewellery box ever since she left. Her fingers touch them and the fear is alive within her again.
A half-mile more and she arrives at the turning to Fern Hollow. It is exactly as she remembers. A single gate-post, leaning to the left, with a patch of nettles growing at its base. A white board nailed to it, on which her father painted Fern Hollow in black and drew a black arrow beneath to point the way.