I thought of the name, maybe Lincoln didn’t share the double-barrelled surname. Not being familiar with how they worked, did the husband adopt his wife’s name as well? He could be Nicolson or Carter.
The telephone rang and Dad left the kitchen to answer it. No matter that it was a cordless phone, he still sat at the small telephone table in the hall. I guessed, learning the computer was about enough technological advancement for him to cope with.
I made some tea and handed Dad one as I passed to make my way upstairs. The walk had tired me out. In fact, pretty much everything I did tired me out. An afternoon nap had become routine, one I didn’t want, as it meant I was awake earlier each morning. I sat in the chair facing the window and wondered how it would feel when the barn was done. I’d sit in the same position and look out over the sea. Dad didn’t use his open fire that often, opting for the safer option of a boiler and mains gas. I didn’t want that. I wanted to hear the crackle as logs spat, to have the smell of apple tree wood drifting around the house. I had no doubt my barn wasn’t going to be particularly energy efficient, because I wanted the beams left exposed, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
I picked up my Kindle, hoping to read a little. Nothing had kept my attention long enough and I scrutinised the description, avoiding anything over emotional. I also didn’t want humour. I placed it back on the table beside me, not knowing what I wanted to read.
Instead, I picked up my pad and pen. I didn’t write that day, I drew. I hadn’t drawn since I was a teen, and even then, I was never quite sure if I was particularly good at it. I drew the view from the window. The layers of rock that cut into the cliff were ancient and had always fascinated me. I likened each layer to the rings of a tree trunk, giving age and a story of life. Even on a rainy day, the scenery was beautiful. The cliff face I could see was black, with a rainbow of colour streaking through, wet from the rain and glistening. The grass was a vibrant green, tinged with cream, as the gorse fought for dominance. Scattered around were the wildflowers that had learned to survive the harsh winters. Although not in abundance, they gave a smattering of colour and softening to an otherwise harsh environment.
My pen couldn’t do the scene in front of me justice. I wondered if I should put some art supplies on my list of things to buy. I found sitting there and drawing relaxing, frustrating, but when I was done, I smiled at my efforts. It wasn’t about to grace a wall in a gallery but I’d enjoyed the process.
It was, as predicted, a couple of weeks later that we received the drawings from the architect. That evening Christian decided to visit; he had an update on estate agents for me.
“Hey, Sis, how are you doing?” he asked, as he walked through the front door.
I gave him a smile and a hug. At first it felt awkward, Christian would speak then pause, as if waiting for me to answer. Dad took over and ushered us to the kitchen table. Teas were made and Dad showed Christian the plans for the barn. Ten or so minutes later the conversation flowed. They spoke, I wrote.
“These are the three valuations, they’re all about the same, to be honest, but I think this estate agent might be better for you,” Christian said, sliding a brochure across the table.
That’s fine; will they let you deal with all? I wrote on my pad.
“Yes, although, you’ll have to sign the documents. I’ll call them tomorrow. They all seem to think the house is very desirable, but then I guess, they all say that.” He laughed as he spoke.
Christian was a corporate lawyer in a shit-hot firm in London, as my dad called them. I had no doubt he’d take good care of me. I sat and listened as Dad and Christian spoke. An hour or so later, I interrupted them.
How’s Alistair, have you any pics?
In the time that Christian had been there, he hadn’t mentioned Alistair once.
“Erm, yes, he’s doing great.” I could see that he was holding back the grin as he thought of his son.
When are you bringing him over?
I watched his eyes flick to Dad. “He’s had croup, so Helen didn’t want to let him out of the house, but maybe next week?”
I’ll look forward to it.
Something told me that they didn’t think I was ready for a visit with my nephew and that pissed me off. I hadn’t heard from Helen since the funeral; in fact, I hadn’t heard from anyone. I decided to change the subject.
So we need to find a builder once these are sent to the council, don’t we?
“I think it might be wise to source a builder now, he might look at those plans and have better suggestions or concerns,” Christian said.
I nodded, agreeing with him.
“I’ll ask around for recommendations,” Dad added.
Christian left for his four-hour drive home after dinner. His visit had left me feeling despondent. Why should my grief have caused the distance that had obviously appeared?
“They don’t know how to behave,” Dad said, picking up on my low mood I guessed.
Normal would be good! I wrote.
He sighed as he placed his hand on my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Christian doesn’t remember as well as you do, or doesn’t want to remember, how it was when your mum passed. So, I guess, this is the first time he’s had to deal with loss. We’re all winging it really.”
I’m going to head to bed. Thank you, Dad, for everything.
“Nothing to thank me for, baby.”
I left him locking up the house, turning off the lights, and muttering to his dog.
I took a shower before sliding under the duvet. I’d left the curtains open, and once I’d turned off the bedside lamp, I looked out the window. The moon’s reflection shimmered on the surface of the sea. I thought about Christian and Helen, my dad, and whether the man at the cemetery was Lincoln.
I heard a low voice coming from downstairs, a voice not belonging to my father. I climbed out of bed, and had a quick shower, before throwing on some clothes.
“Morning, Dani, this is Miller. Miller, my daughter, and soon to be owner of the barn, Dani,” Dad said, making the introduction.
I swallowed hard, not expecting to have someone in the house. I held out my hand for a shake and forced a smile.
“Erm, my daughter can’t…”
“Talk? Speech is overrated, Dani. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Miller said with a smile as he shook my hand. “So how about we take a look at the plans and you can show me around the barn?”
His smile was warm, broad. He didn’t appear to be much older than me but had that rugged outdoor look. Dark brown hair flopped over his forehead and I watched as he ran his hands through it, pushing it from his eyes. He wore torn, faded jeans, tucked into sand-coloured work boots. A black t-shirt was taut across his toned body.
Dad had made tea and gestured to a chair at the kitchen table. Miller sat and reached for the rolled up plans.
“So you want to convert the barn?” he said, looking at me. “Amazing spot with a great view, I imagine.”
I looked around the room. Miller leant back in his chair; he grabbed the pad and pen from the countertop.
“You need these?” he asked.
I nodded. My hand shook a little as I wrote. I wasn’t sure what it was that had my anxiety levels increased, other than the embarrassment of meeting a stranger and having to write instead of speak. I blinked back the tears I knew were starting to form in my eyes, while inwardly cursing myself for being so daft.
This is what the architect came up with, I wrote.
He nodded as he read. “But is it what you want?”
I shrugged my shoulders; I guess so.
He smiled at me while Dad took a seat beside me.