His eyes look dark and drawn in and he’s clutching a McDonald’s bag to his chest.
“Ah, OK.” He looks disappointed. “Look, Harri, can we talk about this?” The smell of whiskey from his breath fills the space.
My shoulders drop. As much as I want to hate him, I still love him. A little. When it was just us, Greg was different. He would be fun and kind and the things I needed. But like my mother, he is just too wrapped up in people’s beliefs of him. As was I at one point.
“I can’t, Greg. I need some time. I’m going to go stay—” I stop myself. I hate lying but if I start spilling family secrets my mother will have an aneurysm. “I’m going to do some travelling. I need to have some space, Greg, to figure out what I want. We’renot together, remember? So maybe you need to take the time to think about what you want too.”
He nods and makes room for me to pass. I can feel the lump in my throat but I’m not crying anymore over this. Time to breathe, move on and see what the Chattoxes have to offer.
By the time I get back to my parents’ Aradia is packing her incredibly old yellow Beetle.
“Almost ready to head off, Harri?” She grins.
I transfer my suitcase from the Uber to my aunt’s rusty car. The boot space is almost non-existent, so I have to wedge it in the back seats.
“I just need to grab my overnight,” I say as I head up the steps of my parents’ house.
“Are you bringing the kitchen sink as well?” She laughs.
I shrug and smile. “Sorry, I just didn’t know what I’ll need.”
“It’s fine, lovey, you bring what makes you feel comfortable.” She continues to stuff Harrods bags into the car.
I run inside and grab the bag I packed this morning. My mother is stood near the door as I come back down.
“Well, have fun.” My mother looks completely irritated.
“Where’s Daddy?” I ask.
“It’s best your father is left out of this silly little escapade,” she says dismissively.
“You know, you don’t have to lie to everyone, Mother.”
She stares at me with anger before it fades into disappointment.
“Harriet…” She sighs. She was probably about to give me a spiel on why I’m wrong, but she’s given up. I can see it in her face. “Have a nice holiday.” She shakes her head in judgement of my choice.
“Thanks.” I pick up my bag and head down the stone steps to where my aunt is stood. She grabs my bag off me and throws it in the front boot.
“Let’s get out of the moody manor, shall we?” She giggles.
I climb in the passenger seat of her car. My legs can barely get in with the number of bits and bobs in the footwell. Aradia notices my struggle.
“Sorry, I’m not the most organised person. And I just love things. Just shove stuff in the back.”
I grab a handful of scarves, gloves, magazines, Harrods bags full of biscuits, and a book or two and plop them behind me in the footwell of the back seat. Which also has a stack of wicker baskets and blankets. The car has a distinct smell of cinnamon and sage. It’s calming and cosy. With a clunk and splutter of the engine, the car starts and we leave London Town.
On the journey Aradia doesn’t stop talking. She talks about everything from holidays with my mother when they were young, to her travels around India, China and America. She has done it all. The life she has lived makes me envious. From sleeping under the stars on the Great Wall of China to exploring and living in the Appalachian Mountains for a year. She has met many famous people as well. She speaks about studying yoga in India and how her practice was perfected under the guidance of a guru. I am besotted with her stories of life. She has no fear of the world and isn’t enamoured with money and things. Just experiences.
As we come off the motorway after what seems like a long journey, the greenery becomes vast and deep. We drive down small country roads for a while longer, under a blanket of tree branches that sprawl over the top of the road to reach each other. Houses are far and few between giving the idea that this place is isolated and secluded.
We turn down another small road which leads us to a small village.
“This is Brindlewood.” She smiles proudly.
It looks like a village straight out of an Enid Blyton book.Charming cobbled and whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs line the small road that runs through the village. Flower borders are kept beautifully, and you can see the village is well cared for by its residents. A village green sits in the middle which seems to be the centre of the village. The post office, butcher’s, cafe and grocer’s all lead on to the green. A few bistro sets are set outside of the cafe. In the middle of the green is a signpost with Brindlewood at the top. Three little boys are playing football while their mothers are sat at the cafe drinking tea and chatting.
Beside the road runs a small stream which weaves to the other side, so we pass over a little cobbled bridge. It runs alongside the last few cottages of the village which each have their own tiny bridge to get to the front door. There only seems to be fifteen houses max in the village. Aradia informs me there is also a farm just the other side from Brindlewood and a few cottages on the outskirts but less than forty people live here.
