The Telling

just across the street, a little further down the hill: low sleepy-looking windows and an ancient front door, a flagged front path with daffodils growing in the borders. There was something weird about the light: the daffodils’ colour seemed almost phosphorescent. To the right of the cottage there was a gate; a track of bare stones and mud was worn into the grass beyond. A yellow arrow glowed on the gatepost , pointing upwards and away across the field: a footpath, a direction to follow. Somewhere to go.
    The gate had fallen off its hinges and been tied in place with wire and twine. I dragged it open far enough to slip past, and then I was out in this great green field, the track sloping away in front of me, the valley opening out ahead; copses, hedges, grass, the woods and hills rising up beyond, and on one of them, a solitary cottage silhouetted against the pale sky. I made my way down the track. To my left there was an ancient hedge, half dead, half wildly sprouting, patched with wire. The leaves weren’t out yet, but everything was green: green algae on tree trunks, slim green saplings, green reeds in the ditch, rich green moss in mounds on the bank. It felt like my eyes were being bathed, as if they were being re-educated in colour. After a lifetime of London’s yellow-brick and red-brick, tarmac and concrete, its odd pool and splash of green, my eyes were now learning to work in negative.
    At the bottom of the hill there was a small wood. I could hear the sound of running water. The path forked in front of me. To the right it passed a tumbledown building and climbed an open field; at the top of the hill I could see trees, and the tower of Storrs Hall. Straight ahead, there was a stile, another yellow arrow hammered to the post, pointing diagonally across the wide meadow beyond. I followed the arrow. It felt better, having my route decided for me.
    In the meadow, the ground was sodden underfoot. Pools of standing water reflected back the slaty sky. The air was cool and damp and there was a smell of cow dung, and grass, and something peppery that I couldn’t identify. The next field was thick with thistle, nettle and dock; a narrow path traced its way through the waist-high weeds. I lifted my hands and rested them on my head to avoid the stings. I came to the riverbank and stood looking down at the tumbling water. It was thick and full, the colour of black tea. I could see rounded pebbles on the riverbed. My boots were soaking; there was mud on the hems of my jeans; nettle-stings had penetrated the denim and left a trace of bitter heat behind a knee. A bird flapped overhead, I looked up to watch its flight. It was so large and slow that I couldn’t quite believe it. It settled under the far bank, at the river’s edge, and stared down into the water. A heron, I think.
    I don’t know if it was the blank whiteness of the sky, or the intensity of the space, or the emptiness, but by the time I came to the woodland, I felt so choked and miserable that I knew I had to talk to Mark. I’d have to be cheery with him, and it might just stick, and last beyond the ending of the call. I was climbing a steep wooded slope, through this low-growing broad-leafed plant, the whole place reeking incongruously of garlic. The air was still, the signal strong; it was as if he were standing right beside me.
    ‘What’s up? You all right?’
    ‘Fine. A bit breathless. Out for a walk. Is everything okay your end?’
    ‘Everything is okay, and was okay, and will be okay. Car seat correctly fitted and used. Mum insists no chocolate buttons were administered. How are you getting on?’
    I came to the top of the hill, the edge of the woods. I looked out across the valley, at the motionless livestock and good grazing, at a curve of river and a bridge, at the wooded hills and moors rising beyond. It had started to rain while I was under the trees, the white sky settling into grey, and everything was becoming muffled with drizzle, and seemed empty, really empty.
    ‘I miss you,’ I risked.
    ‘I miss you too, and Cate misses you; she’s right here, do you want to talk to her?’
    He was at home: I hadn’t realized. I’d imagined him at his desk, paper cups and Post-it notes, the glow of a computer screen and the smell of printing and the line that lingers between his eyebrows. Suddenly it was briefcase in the hall, rolled shirtsleeves and the faint hair on the back of his arms, and the end-of-day lines at the corners of his eyes