By the time I am dressed, the evidence of my family consists of a trail of crumbs across the kitchen table, a couple of dirty mugs and an empty box of cereal. I had hoped I might at least have Zac’s company, but he’s left a note saying he’s riding his bike to school. I didn’t even hear him go – it must have been early, and that’s so unlike him it’s a worry. Usually he sleeps like he’s hibernating, and doesn’t surface until someone has yelled at him at least half a dozen times to turn off the snooze button.
I had woken with a burst of adrenalin, determined to get Georgia to talk to me properly today. I’d planned to let both children stay home from school if they wanted to, not expecting they would set off before me without any discussion. I can’t quite believe they are all carrying on as though nothing has happened, but there’s no time to indulge my frustration. There’s little I can do except follow them.
I eat two pieces of toast as fast as I can, and then head out the front door. I climb into the knackered old car parked on the lane, and at first it refuses to start. By the time it chugs into life I am struggling to contain my irritation at the events of the morning so far. I decide that I’d rather walk anyway – my family might be good at disregarding me, but I’m damned sure this car isn’t going to get away with doing as it pleases and screwing with my day. Moments later I am striding towards the woodland path. It’s only fifteen minutes to walk to school, and it’ll clear my head.
As soon as I’m surrounded by trees I feel calmer. Unlike Callum, whose family have lived in the area for generations, I cannot claim to have the waters of the Lake District running through my blood. I stayed only because I met Callum and fell in love. Nevertheless, I’m proud to live within this immense landscape of craggy peaks and green valleys, and a stroll through the open countryside is a blessing if my soul is troubled. Often I am so absorbed in my work and my children that I become disconnected from the natural beauty around us. Unlike the tourists who have carved out some free time to meander through the countryside, my life keeps me close to town. However, this morning I choose to relish the solitude while I can – breathing deeply and letting the faint, mingled scents of earth and wood and leaves reach the deepest roots of my being. When I first moved here I would walk the fells on rainy afternoons and feel as though I was lost inside a Turner painting – stumbling through history, being offered a small glimpse of eternity within this enduring piece of earth. It’s remarkably different to the place I grew up: a modest town house in Kensington, which became an inheritance that still pays the kids’ school fees. My parents were retired culture-vultures who needed a trip to the theatre at least once a week to feel sane, and never quite understood why I’d absconded to the countryside. They kept their visits short. Only when my dad passed away from a heart attack did my mother seem to find some solace in staying with us. Perhaps she would have become a more regular visitor, but she was already sick with cancer and it had claimed her within the year. Even though she has been gone for twelve years and the kids barely remember her, I miss her more than ever. I try to imagine, as I often do, what she might say if she were here. If she didn’t have some words of wisdom she always told me to trust my instincts. A conversation with Mum would ground me and bring things back into perspective. Perhaps that’s why, without her, I often feel a little less steady on my feet.
I’m so deep in thought that when the path divides I take the longer route that will lead me to the road first, rather than going directly along the woodland path towards school. I try not to see this as a delaying exercise, but in truth I have never been so apprehensive about work as I am today. It’s understandable, I tell myself, when your child and your niece have been involved in a traumatic incident, and you are the one charged with counselling the kids.