The Quarry

Wednesday, 5th January,

Winter has painted the early January sky a yellow, bruised tone. There’ll be more snow at some point tonight. It’s dusk by the time Shannon turns the car into the narrow track, which leads to Hawthorn Cottage. The front wheels spin on a patch of mud and ice. Then, suddenly gaining traction, the car lurches forward. She gasps, grips the steering wheel tightly, snatching her foot off the accelerator. A fractional loss of control. Her heart thumps. “Stupid.” She mutters.

She wants to turn to her husband and ask him the question she has been asking herself since buying her old family home was suggested; is this the right thing to be doing? Rob’s asleep though, his face turned away from her. She sighs. It’d be silly to wake him, although she is sorely tempted. She reaches for him, but stops, her hand hovering above his shoulder, repeats the rebuke; “Stupid,” and instead shoves the gearstick into first, revving the car back into obedient momentum.

“We’d better keep going Spud, the removal lorry will be just behind us.” Checking the rear-view mirror, she smiles at the reflection of the other occupant of the car, on the back seat – a small, rough-haired terrier dog who also sleeps on, oblivious to her apprehension.

The track up to Hawthorn Cottage begins with a concealed slice into a high hedge, a wooded gap at the side of the main road, punctuated by two thick square posts of oak, long silvered with age, their vertical lines smudged with moss and lichen. Ambitious brambles stretch hopeful whips into the entrance. The lane’s gate has fallen off one of its hinges and leans drunkenly, long since overtaken in the wash of unruly hedgerow. She remembers bruising her shins climbing that gate as a child, performing a precarious perch on its chamfered top-bar, waiting for their father to come home from work, scanning each of the passing cars on the road for the blue of his.

Beyond the cottage, which sits about fifty yards further down, the track continues onwards to arable fields which stretch on for long miles.

The car’s tyres bump across the farmer’s latest attempt to fill the persistent pot-holes – splashing muddy water across the windscreen. There’s long scrubby grass running in a central line, untouched by the grind of wheels, pushed forward into scratchy submission by the car’s undercarriage. Shannon thinks she can smell it burning on the heat of the exhaust pipe and considers again how the ten-year-old hatchback will probably need to be traded in for something that can cope with the distinct lack of smooth tarmac. More money. She gives her forehead an agitated scratch – where’s that going to come from?

Outside Shannon’s window runs another line of high, scrambling hedgerow. At this time, when day is merging into night, it appears as a cliff of darkness. The woodland behind it extends for a mile or so, running parallel with the direction of the main road. There are no points of light in the dimming dusk, no signs of humanity, no other houses.

To her left, over Rob’s shoulder, is a field, delineated from the track by a small ditch. No obvious crop has been planted. The vegetation, such that she can discern through the light dusting of snow, is neither uniform in size nor serried neatly. She can just make out darting movements of unknown wildlife in the gathering gloom. Spud has woken and noticed these too. He stands up on the back seat, his paws upon the ledge of the car-door, pressing his nose to the glass and gives a high-pitched whine; he’s impatient to get out, investigate this new place.

“I know Spud-kin, we’re nearly there.”

The car’s rolling slowly; she wants to take her time, get a good view of the place after all these years. With a slight turn of the track to the right, the cottage is set in a small decline of the land. Tall poplar trees parade away from its gable end on the left. There’s enough light left in the west, behind the house, to highlight the red brick chimneys, one at each gable end. The front of the house, the east side, is in shadow, but the snow on the front field is reflected in the glass of the windows; three on the upper storey, two on the ground floor. It is too shadowed to see, but Shannon knows well the heavy, dark oak of the front door. The roof, under the light spray of snow, is a sweep of grey above the cream of the painted shiplap cladding. A few degrees warmer, it will be a midnight-coloured expanse of slate.

“Here we are.” It’s a statement to herself, spoken in whispered tones as if it needs to be kept a secret, lest things be stirred up, woken. She nudges at the accelerator, speeding up over the last few metres, forcing the future to travel towards her at a faster rate.

*

Suddenly, I am.

Suddenly present, with the thought that previously, a second ago maybe, I had not been.

There is light; sky and earth, where there had just been darkness. This place is familiar but it is a struggle to order my thoughts, to think. I’m consumed with anxiety, a desperation to remember. No matter how hard I try, I cannot. So, I try to calm myself, see what is around me. I watch the car approach.

Down the track it comes, into the small patch of frozen mud that counts as the cottage’s frontage and driveway. I can see the driver is a young woman, her dark mid-length hair pulled back into a practical ponytail. She has strong eyebrows and dark eyes and I can see hesitation paints her upturned face as she peers out of the car’s steamed window. I notice a small dog on the back seat and immediately I feel a pang of jealousy for the love this creature receives from her. There’s a man, slumbering, hunched clumsily, in the front passenger seat and I watch her turn to him, wake him, smile and relax a little as he comes to the present moment. I see how the young woman’s nerves turn into careful excitement, now that he is awake. I wait as they get themselves, the dog and their suitcases out of the vehicle, stretching discomfort out of their muscles, shaking away the fatigue of the journey, nodding at each other, smiling – again, hesitantly, nervously.

I note how they turn their faces to stare up at the cottage, yet appear unwilling to move towards it. Reticent to break a spell, perhaps? It’s the dog that makes the move; a sharp bark sends roosting crows into a clamour of alarm. I see them both smile, then give each other rueful smirks, acknowledging their joint hesitation, before frowning, silent in their confusion as to why. I can feel how both of them are faintly irked, with thoughts that they ought to get back in the car, reverse, leave. The dog whines again, insisting upon movement – anything but this eerie stillness. Now I watch the woman fumble in her coat pocket and pull forth the keys to this place. There’s a mock triumphant dance quality to her movement. A ‘ta-dah’ falseness. I thought there might be.

*

Rob smiles at Shannon’s goofy reveal of the housekeys, “Come on, you loon. I’ll grab the mugs; you get the kettle from the box in the boot. Let’s have it boiled and tea ready for when the removal guys arrive. Got to keep the workmen happy.”

Rob is playing his role. He’s seen hesitancy shadow her eyes, has caught the faint whisper of her uncertainty. He wonders again, what it is about this move that bothers her? It makes such good sense – the hard-worked-for promotion to her dream job of quarry manager, the role being at the quarry within walking distance of her old family home, happening at the same time as her parents were considering moving to a bungalow, because of her father’s prognosis. It was kind of perfect.

Too perfect? Is that it? He wonders, taking in the vague shabbiness of the place, the patches of peeling paint on the shiplap; general maintenance which hasn’t been done as her father’s health has deteriorated over the five-years since he and Shannon got together. He shrugs; they couldn’t have afforded this place if it was pristine. I’ve got time to get the work done, whilst I’m looking for a new job and Shannon’s getting settled into hers. It’s a good plan.

So, he gives his wife a hug and doesn’t mention his instinct. He smiles, a forced beam of confidence. She gives a small nod and a flicker of a smile, before turning the key in the door.

Sunday, 9th January, 1:15pm

“You ready?” Rob calls up the stairs, leaning across the bulk of a removal box, peering upwards. On the landing there are more stacked, unpacked cases. It’s Sunday; four days since they moved in and there’s still a lot to sort out. A groan escapes – he’s already a little tired of the un-packing mess, knows the place is going to get much worse before it gets better. He gives the curling loose edge of the wallpaper a tug, it peels compliantly away from the plaster beneath. “Sheesh.” He exclaims through closed teeth. So much to get done.

“Shannon!” He raises his voice, thinking maybe she didn’t hear him the first time. Spud whines, sitting at Rob’s feet, squeezed between the box and the wall, clearly wondering why, despite wearing his lead, he is still inside.

“I know, mate,” Rob sympathises. “Women do this thing.” A conspiratorial tone, between the boys. Spud whines again, still impatient. He crouches to give him a pat of encouragement and the dog reacts with a happy full body wag, his back paw slipping on a small square piece of paper, half of it stuck in the gap between the floorboards and skirting. “Hey, what’s that you’re treading on?” Picking up the paper, Rob corrects himself; it’s a photo. The original gloss face is dusty and a bit scratched in places but the subjects are clear enough; two dark-haired girls, twins, sitting upon a bench outside maybe a pub or tea shop, a red can of cola held between them, matching the summer dresses they wear. One girl has her head low, drinking with a straw, the other stares at the photographer. Rob thinks it is a strangely imperious look, odd for the age of them at, what, maybe seven-years-old?

“Shannon?” Another shout, this time his curiosity giving it urgency.

“All right. For god’s sake stop hollering!” She appears at the top of the stairs, a frown creasing her forehead, her voice sharp.

“Sorry, I wasn’t shouting at you. I was shouting for you.”

“Yes. I’m here now.” She begins clumping down the stairs, her boots sounding like hammers on the bare wood of the treads.

“Are you okay?” He stands back from the staircase, moving into the hallway to allow her passage.

“Yes.” She doesn’t smile or meet his eyes.

“Sorry, love. Hey, look at what Spud found, stuffed under the skirting.” He holds the photo out to her. “Who are they?”

Does he notice her hesitation? The stiff reach of her fingers to take the photo from him? “I dunno. I don’t know who they were.” It’s not a complete lie. She drops the photo into the packing box. “Can we get going? We said we’d be there fifteen minutes ago…” She turns and grabs her coat from the hooks on the wall. The yank of it pulls the fixing a little further out and a cloud of plaster dust falls slowly to the floor. It sprinkles the bare floorboards in similar fashion as the snow outside.

Right, Rob thinks. Less said the better, I guess. This was always going to be a difficult visit… He shrugs his confusion at the dog. “Come on Spud, let’s go see Grandma and Grandpa.” He begins to move towards Shannon and the front door. But she’s stopped, is turning around with that look upon her face.

“Why do you have to do that?”

“What?” He’s confused.

“Don’t play dumb, Rob. Don’t call them that.”

“What?” He knows he’s in trouble. Clearly, he’s in trouble. He sighs. “I didn’t mean anything. Just, well – they’ve known about Spud longer than they have about me—”

“They still haven’t met him though. Just like you.” Her tone is softening.

“Yeah.” Rob gives the packing box a gentle kick. “I guess this is it then. We’ll find out if your mum and dad are going to like me in the flesh.”

“Yeah.” She gives him a weak smile, guilt pricking its familiar tracks, forcing her to remember her insistence of no family at the registry office wedding – her lie to them both that it was more romantic, groovy and cool to just get married and tell the folks afterwards. Another part lie at least. Cruel? Dad’s only remaining chance to walk a daughter down an aisle. I regret that… “Look Rob, I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He agrees quickly and then with a curling smile, “What are you sorry for?”

“I don’t mean to be sharp. It’s just… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them.”

“Yeah, at least five-years. All the time I’ve known you. To be honest, I don’t know how you’ve kept them at bay. My folks are on the phone leaving me nagging messages after just a week if I’m not in touch!”

She presses her lips together and nods. They’ve had this conversation or variations on its theme many times over the years, she begins her usual response, “Yes, but your parents, your mum is normal. Not like—”

“Not like yours. Yeah.” He’s smiling.

She shrugs, tired of failing in her explanations. It didn’t matter so much whilst she stayed away. But then the company had given her the ultimatum – there were no other quarry manager roles available, none likely to open up for a while. If she wanted to accept the promotion she had been tirelessly working towards, she would have to work at this quarry.

“You’ll understand when you meet her.” She gives another loose-armed shrug. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to be sharp. I’m just feeling edgy, what with taking over this place, starting the new job Monday. You taking a break from your work. You know.” She shrugs.

“Hey, Shannon, love.” He’s closing the distance between them, there’s the sound of Spud’s nails clicking across the floorboards as he follows obediently, his lead trailing.

“I don’t know…” It’s all she can think to say, but anything else isn’t necessary. He gathers her into a hug. The feel of him; she thinks again of how much more present within her own body she feels when she is right up next to him like this – like it is proof she does actually exist.

“Sweetheart, it’ll be okay. I’m a software developer, I’m always going to be in demand, even in this back of beyond place. We’ve gone over the finances; how much we’ll save if I do the decorating work on the place. It’ll be tight for a while, but we’ll be okay.” He gives her another squeeze of reassurance. “Your parents, well they’ve had, what? A year and a half to get used to the idea of me being your husband and, well, it was their suggestion we buy this place and they move into the bungalow – I mean, they wouldn’t have done that if they were still annoyed. Would they?” She’s heard this conversation multiple times before too. She nods, her face moving up and down against his chest. “Yes, it’s just that this… Well, now that we’re here, it seems so quick. Rushed. All of a sudden, I’m back here…”

“Come on now. Let’s get this boil lanced—”

“Err, yuck!”

He laughs, “It’ll be fine. They’re going to love me, definitely – surely, yeah?” He gives her back a vigorous rub, a cue for her to jump in. She nods, a weak smile pressing against the cotton of his shirt and intones the required, “Yes Rob, who doesn’t love you?”

“Exactly! So, come on, let’s get over there and get this big moment done, then we can get on with our lives, settle in, get this place back to its former glory and be happy.” He is pleased with himself; his words have reassured his own worries. He releases her and reaches to open the front door, giving Spud’s lead a tug, “Come on.”

Freed from his embrace, Shannon feels her separateness as if it were a cold slap, as if she is unexpectedly cast into a cold sea with all sight of a life raft obstructed, in what she is convinced is the gathering swell of a coming storm.

Sunday, 9th January, 1:30pm

The journey from Hawthorn Cottage to Harry and Pam Thomas’ new home is just fifteen minutes – roughly three drum and bass songs’ length, which Shannon insists are played at high volume. The reverberation of the bass rattles the speakers of the old car, making it sound even more like a derelict tin can. It earns her a raised eyebrow look from Rob, but she’s not paying much attention to him, just looking sideways out of the passenger window, idly picking at the cuticle skin on her thumb.

The music must surely be why, within moments of pulling up on the snow cleared driveway of the brand-new bungalow, the front door is opened and Shannon’s mother stands there in formal welcome. A bit too formal; Rob notices the purse of his mother-in-law’s lips, crossed arms pulling her cardigan tight across her silk bloused chest, clearly not just a reaction to the cold morning.