I went to church. I really didn’t think I would, not without Aidan there to chivvy me. But I found myself, nonetheless, walking in a stiff wind, skirt flapping round my legs like a flag.
Maura was there, looking pale and drained. Next to her was an unhealthy-looking man: bow-chested, long lank fair hair pulled back into a ponytail. Long black coat so I couldn’t see the infamous hips. He spent the entire service tapping on his mobile.
Camilla was there too, also with her (I assume) husband. A tall man in a smart tweed jacket and pressed cords. Good-looking, without a shadow of a doubt, but with thin lips that curled occasionally into a sardonic hint of a smile, as if he were thinking of something amusing, some wry joke. Occasionally he’d let his eyes rove over the congregation, as if looking for distraction, amusement. He caught my eye and held it a moment too long. Then raised his eyebrow ever so slightly and that curl of the lip again. One of those then. Poor Camilla.
I had realised, as I walked briskly along the lane, that I was coming to church to pray. Or to try to. I’m not a religious person but many people seem to find comfort in God, from joining others in a church, so I thought I would at least give it a try. But there was no solace there for me. I felt painfully aware of my body, not my soul. I felt the harsh itchy wool of the hassock as we knelt; I felt the chill of the old building not remotely touched by the calor gas heaters squatting in the aisles. My nose sniffed the habitual musty damp mingled with incense and the sweet sickly scent of lilies – tradition had obviously won out.
It was, if I’m not mistaken, Palm Sunday. But there were no processions of small children waving palms or other greenery.

When the service ended I dodged away, head firmly down, escaping from the mindless chit-chat; ignoring hands raised, my name being called. I trotted as fast as I could down the lane, slipping through a fence and cutting across the fields (wrecking my boots) rather than run the risk of being overtaken, offered a lift.

Back home, the house closed in on me like a shroud. I gave Rommel his food and wondered how to spend the afternoon. I tried calling some of my London friends, but it all seemed a bit pointless. I didn’t want to talk about the baby business and I didn’t really want to hear about their latest deals or wild parties or successes. I could hear, in their voices, the almost pity of those ‘in the know’, in the swim of things, when talking to one who has fallen out of the loop. If I didn’t return to London soon, I would have to start my life there almost from the start. It depressed me even more.

I was just contemplating whether to eat baked beans or scrambled eggs on toast for Sunday lunch when there was a knock on the door. Rommel behaved weirdly – instead of either hurling himself at the door in a kind of ‘let me at ‘em’ way or wagging his tail furiously, he slunk back, ears flat against his head. Not scared exactly, but cautious. Who on earth was it?
I opened the door warily, already making up excuses for why I couldn’t do this or join that. But no need. It was Eden, the strange jackdaw of a woman from the hut in the forest.
‘Oh, hello.’
She just looked appraisingly.
‘Would you like to come in?’ Well, what else could I say?
‘No, thank you. I can’t trespass in Epiphany. It is not my place.’
There was a dog at her heel: slim, sandy-coloured with pricked up ears. It stared at me as if it were reading my soul. I had to drop my ears from its gaze, very disconcerting.
‘I thought you would come to see me. I’ve been waiting.’ Her voice was low.
I almost blurted out that I had, indeed, been to see her house. But kept quiet. She gave a twisted smile, as she knew exactly what I had and hadn’t done.
‘My house is safe.’
‘What do you mean, ‘safe’?’
She shrugged.
‘Walls listen. Walls watch.’
‘I beg your pardon? There’s nobody here.’ I paused. ‘Except the rats of course.’
‘Rats?’
‘Rats. They keep me awake half the night.’
‘There are no rats at Epiphany. Your dog would have sorted that.’
‘Well, whatever. Look, you said there was something you had to talk to me about, that day in the village hall. What was it?’
She looked around her, as if waiting for something to pounce on her from the shadows. The dog watched too, as if guarding her back. They gave me the creeps.
‘We can’t talk here. Come to my house. It’s….’
‘Safe. Yes, I know. But I can’t. I’ve….’ I paused… ‘got lunch cooking.’
She tilted her head, as if sniffing the air.
‘Well, we’ll walk a little then.’
I should have told her to get lost but I was intrigued, so I pulled on a jacket and boots and followed her. She wore misery like a cloak; an aura of doom and darkness that swished around her as she walked. For some time we walked in silence. I wasn’t going to make small talk; wasn’t going to make it easy for her.
Eventually we reached the river bank and she stopped. Bent down and picked up a piece of wild garlic. Chewed it. Then bent again and picked a bunch, tucking it carefully into a small canvas bag slung across her rake thin body.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say that this was my river, my wild garlic, but I knew just what she’d say – that it was its own, belonging to no-one, and I suppose she would have a point. Hazel had been getting to me with her green ideas – about how we borrow the earth, how we should learn to live in harmony with the wild. Quite the little eco-warrior, our Hazel.
She stood, staring at the river and spoke swiftly, in a low deep voice.
‘This is not a good place to have children. You should know that. I sense you want children. I sense things.’
I took a step back. Anger flushed my face red. I fought to control my words.
‘Er, it’s none of your business whether I want children or whether I have children or whether I don’t.’
‘This place is my business. Children are my business.’
How dare she? After what she’d done with Maura. I was so angry I could barely spit the words out.
‘Look, if it makes you happy, there won’t be any bloody children. OK?’
She looked at me sharply. Clearly she hadn’t expected that response. In some small faraway part of myself I felt pleased, as if I’d scored a point.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean what I say. There won’t be any children. I can’t have children. Happy?’
I willed the tears to stay away; focused on the anger to keep me strong, glaring at her. I saw all manner of emotions flit across her face, or so it seemed: surprise, shock, puzzlement, pity, relief?
‘I’m sorry. I truly am. But are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘I’m surprised. But, my dear, it is for the best, truly it is. I was going to warn you to leave. But,’ she shrugged again, her shoulders sticking up through the thin fabric of her coat, ‘Maybe it’s not necessary. Maybe it will pass over this time.’
‘What will pass over? What are you talking about?’
‘The curse. Maybe this time it doesn’t need to happen.’
And, without any farewells, any more conversation, she pulled her coat around her like a pantomime villain and stalked off into the woods.