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Chapter 40
Wednesday 31st March
I think I now have some small inkling of what it must feel like to be a prisoner on Death Row, counting down the hours to execution. It’s just after eleven in the morning, just under thirteen hours until the 1st of April officially begins, and I suddenly feel as if I want to make a bucket list; to spend the next thirteen hours doing all the things I love to do, just in case.
‘I should have done it sooner! I should have been doing this forweeks. Why didn’t I do that? What’s wrong with me?’ I say to Pete, and he rolls his eyes.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t need a bucket list. You’renotgoing to die tomorrow, OK? But if it makes you feel better, let’s do something nice this afternoon. We’re going to be cooped up here for long enough over the next day or so. So come on, what’s on your silly list?’
‘Erm, well, I don’t really have one,’ I say, feeling a little foolish. ‘I was just wishing that Ihadmade one, ages ago …’
Pete looks at me with an exasperated expression.
‘Right. Well, you always love going to the Farm Park. So, come on. We’ll go there for the afternoon, get some fresh air and have tea and cake in the café. And then lockdown. Sound like a plan?’
I nod.
‘It does. It sounds like theperfectplan. Thanks, Pete. I’ll just run up and get my jacket.’
I take the stairs two at a time, suddenly desperate to get out of the house. I’m still experiencing waves of dread about what’s to come, but I’m trying to take today hour by hour, minute by minute, savouring every moment of the time we have left before midnight strikes.
I’m like Cinderella’s twisted sister, I think, as I put my phone, some cash, and a lip balm into my favourite tan leather handbag and pull a lightly padded navy jacket from its hanger. It’s a dry, sunny spring day but there’s a chill in the air, winter still nipping at April’s heels.
Cinderella’s carriage turns into a pumpkin and her ballgown to rags at midnight. I become a potential murder victim, and risk having to reveal that my entire identity, my whole life, is a lie.
I shiver, and pull my jacket on, turning the collar up and fastening the buttons, trying to focus on having a nice afternoon with Pete. We still haven’t really talked about him and Megan, and how yesterday went.
‘You got back late last night,’ I said casually, as we drank coffee together in the kitchen earlier, me still in my dressing gown, hair in a messy bun, him in his running gear, saying he needed a caffeine injection before his daily ten kilometres.
‘How did it go? How did she take it?’
He sighed, forefinger rubbing at a little mark on the countertop.
‘Not well,’ he said, frowning at the mark. ‘It took … it took longer than I thought it would. Lots ofdiscussion. But it’s over. For good. Time for a new start.’
He looked up and his lovely eyes met mine, and for a few moments we just sat there, staring at each other. Then he said, ‘Can we talk about it another time? Let’s get the next twenty-four hours out of the way first. I’m going for my run. I’ll see you later.’
He glugged down the last of his coffee, leapt from his seat and left, leaving me to wonder how Megan had managed to make discussions about Pete wanting to split up with her last for …how long was he gone? Eight, nine hours?
I hope she’s OK though, I think now, as I run back downstairs, ready for our afternoon out. It’s never nice, going through a break-up, and she did seem to be very fond of Pete. But he’s right; we just need to get through tonight, and tomorrow. There’ll be plenty of time for worrying about everything else later, and right now he’s waiting for me in the hall, car keys dangling from a finger.
‘I’ll drive,’ he says.
We have, almost to my surprise considering how much we both have on our minds, a very pleasant afternoon. The Farm Park is an easy fifteen-mile drive from Cheltenham, and it’s quiet on this Wednesday afternoon in term time, so when we’ve parked and bought our tickets we find just a handful of people wandering the paths between the paddocks. We do a circuit of the rare-breeds trail, smiling at the antics of the Golden Guernsey goats and admiring the ball-shaped hats of feathers atop the heads of the Crested Ducks. We buy cow-shaped handmade chocolates in the gift shop, and sit by the window in the café, drinking Earl Grey tea and eating lemon drizzle cake, and watching Herdwick lambs running around under the watchful eyes of their mothers, their black, teddy-bear-like faces almost smiling. At four, we finally decide we should call it a day, and we drive home in silence, both of us lost in thought.
Minutes after we get back, Jess is at the front door, carrying a large cardboard box which she thrusts towards me.
‘We know it’s going to be a long night, and a long day tomorrow too, potentially,’ she says. ‘So we thought this lot might come in handy. Call it a little thank you from the team for what you’re about to do, Mary.’
‘Gosh. Thank you. What is it?’
I put the box down on the floor of the hall and crouch to open it, Pete peering curiously over my shoulder.
‘Wow!’ he exclaims. ‘Is that Stinking Bishop? I can smell it from here! That’s my favourite cheese in the whole world. How did you know?’
I wrinkle my nose. The box is packed with delicious-looking food: a bag of saltine crackers, a little tray of cured meats, a jar of blackberry and apple chutney and another of almond-stuffed olives, a box of stem ginger biscuits, a truckle of Isle of Mull cheddar, and, yes, definitely Stinking Bishop. It’s a local cheese, named after the pear variety used to make the perry that the cheese is washed in. Its flavour is actually reported to be surprisingly creamy and delicate, but it has such a pungent odour that I’ve never been able to get close enough to try it. Pete, on the other hand, is obsessed, gleeful every time he comes across it for sale at a farmers’ market or spots it on a restaurant menu.
‘Iflipping told her how much you love it a few weeks ago,’ I say, standing up again. ‘We were chatting about picnics for some reason, and you asked me what my favourite snacks were, didn’t you Jess? I mentioned it then, as one of myleastfavourite things, but I said how much you loved the smelly old stuff. Very sneaky, Jess. Very sneaky indeed. But thank you so much. This is far too much.’
