The Undomestic Goddess
Page 51
I feel like a child discovering a new toy. I’ve hardly ever been to the English countryside, I suddenly realize. We always stayed in London or went abroad. I’ve been to Tuscany more times than I can remember, and I once spent six months in New York when Mum was working there. But I’ve never been to the Cotswolds in my life.
We walk over the river on an old arched stone bridge. At the top I stop to look at the ducks and swans.
“It’s just … gorgeous.” I exhale. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“Didn’t you see any of this as you arrived?” Nathaniel looks amused. “Did you just appear in a bubble?”
I think back to that panicked, dazed, desperate journey.
“Kind of,” I say at last. “I didn’t really notice where I was going.”
We both watch as a pair of swans sail regally under the little bridge. Then I glance at my watch. It’s already five past ten.
“We should get going,” I say with a little start. “Your mother will be waiting.”
“There’s no rush,” Nathaniel calls as I hasten down the other side of the bridge. “We’ve got all day.” He lopes down the bridge. “It’s OK. You can slow down.”
I try to match his relaxed pace. But I’m not used to this easy rhythm. I’m used to striding along crowded pavements, fighting my way, pushing and elbowing.
“So, did you grow up here?” I ask.
“Yup.” He swings into a little cobbled lane. “I came back when my dad got ill. Then he died and I had to sort things out. Take care of Mum. It’s been tough on her. The finances were in a mess—everything was in a mess.”
“I’m … sorry,” I say awkwardly. “Do you have any other family?”
“My brother, Jake. He came back for a week.” Nathaniel hesitates. “He runs his own computer business. Very successful.”
“Didn’t you mind?” I say. “That he only stayed a week?”
“Jake’s a busy man. He has other priorities.”
Nathaniel’s voice is as easy as ever, but I can detect a thread of … something. Maybe I won’t ask any more about his family.
“Well, I’d live here,” I say with enthusiasm.
“You do live here,” he reminds me.
I feel a tweak of surprise. I suppose he’s right. Technically, I do.
I try to process this new thought. I’ve never lived anywhere except London before, apart from my three years at Cambridge and those six months in New York when I was eight. I’m a city person. That’s who I am. That’s who I … was.
But already the old me is feeling more distant. When I think back to myself even last week, it’s as if I’m seeing myself through tracing paper. Everything I once prized has been destroyed. I’m still feeling sore and bruised. But at the same time … my rib cage expands widely as I breathe in the country air, and I suddenly feel a wave of optimism. On impulse, I stop by a huge tree and gaze up into the green-laden branches. As I do so, a memory from English A Level suddenly comes into my mind.
“There’s a wonderful Walt Whitman poem about an oak tree.” I lift a hand and tenderly stroke the cool, rough bark. “I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing. All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches.”
I glance over at Nathaniel, half-expecting him to look impressed.
“That’s a beech,” he says, nodding at the tree.
Oh. Right.
I don’t know any poems about beeches.
“Here we are.” Nathaniel pushes open an old iron gate and gestures me to go up a stone path toward a little cottage with blue flowered curtains at the windows. “Come and meet your cooking teacher.”
Nathaniel’s mother is nothing like I expected. I was picturing some cozy Mrs. Tiggywinkle character with gray hair in a bun and half-moon spectacles. Instead, I’m looking at a wiry woman with a vivid, pretty face. Her eyes are bright blue, and her graying hair is in plaits on either side of her face. She’s wearing an apron over jeans, T-shirt, and espadrilles, and is vigorously kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen table.
“Mum.” Nathaniel grins and pushes me forward into the kitchen. “Here she is. This is Samantha. Samantha—my mum. Iris.”
“Samantha. Welcome.” Iris looks up, and I can see her taking me in, head to foot. “Just let me finish this.”
Nathaniel gestures to me to sit down, and I cautiously take a seat on a wooden chair. The kitchen is at the back of the house and is filled with light and sun. Flowers in earthenware jugs are everywhere. There’s an old-fashioned range and a scrubbed wooden table and a stable door open to the outside. As I’m wondering whether I should be making conversation, a chicken wanders in and starts scratching at the ground.
We walk over the river on an old arched stone bridge. At the top I stop to look at the ducks and swans.
“It’s just … gorgeous.” I exhale. “Absolutely beautiful.”
“Didn’t you see any of this as you arrived?” Nathaniel looks amused. “Did you just appear in a bubble?”
I think back to that panicked, dazed, desperate journey.
“Kind of,” I say at last. “I didn’t really notice where I was going.”
We both watch as a pair of swans sail regally under the little bridge. Then I glance at my watch. It’s already five past ten.
“We should get going,” I say with a little start. “Your mother will be waiting.”
“There’s no rush,” Nathaniel calls as I hasten down the other side of the bridge. “We’ve got all day.” He lopes down the bridge. “It’s OK. You can slow down.”
I try to match his relaxed pace. But I’m not used to this easy rhythm. I’m used to striding along crowded pavements, fighting my way, pushing and elbowing.
“So, did you grow up here?” I ask.
“Yup.” He swings into a little cobbled lane. “I came back when my dad got ill. Then he died and I had to sort things out. Take care of Mum. It’s been tough on her. The finances were in a mess—everything was in a mess.”
“I’m … sorry,” I say awkwardly. “Do you have any other family?”
“My brother, Jake. He came back for a week.” Nathaniel hesitates. “He runs his own computer business. Very successful.”
“Didn’t you mind?” I say. “That he only stayed a week?”
“Jake’s a busy man. He has other priorities.”
Nathaniel’s voice is as easy as ever, but I can detect a thread of … something. Maybe I won’t ask any more about his family.
“Well, I’d live here,” I say with enthusiasm.
“You do live here,” he reminds me.
I feel a tweak of surprise. I suppose he’s right. Technically, I do.
I try to process this new thought. I’ve never lived anywhere except London before, apart from my three years at Cambridge and those six months in New York when I was eight. I’m a city person. That’s who I am. That’s who I … was.
But already the old me is feeling more distant. When I think back to myself even last week, it’s as if I’m seeing myself through tracing paper. Everything I once prized has been destroyed. I’m still feeling sore and bruised. But at the same time … my rib cage expands widely as I breathe in the country air, and I suddenly feel a wave of optimism. On impulse, I stop by a huge tree and gaze up into the green-laden branches. As I do so, a memory from English A Level suddenly comes into my mind.
“There’s a wonderful Walt Whitman poem about an oak tree.” I lift a hand and tenderly stroke the cool, rough bark. “I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing. All alone stood it, and the moss hung down from the branches.”
I glance over at Nathaniel, half-expecting him to look impressed.
“That’s a beech,” he says, nodding at the tree.
Oh. Right.
I don’t know any poems about beeches.
“Here we are.” Nathaniel pushes open an old iron gate and gestures me to go up a stone path toward a little cottage with blue flowered curtains at the windows. “Come and meet your cooking teacher.”
Nathaniel’s mother is nothing like I expected. I was picturing some cozy Mrs. Tiggywinkle character with gray hair in a bun and half-moon spectacles. Instead, I’m looking at a wiry woman with a vivid, pretty face. Her eyes are bright blue, and her graying hair is in plaits on either side of her face. She’s wearing an apron over jeans, T-shirt, and espadrilles, and is vigorously kneading some kind of dough on the kitchen table.
“Mum.” Nathaniel grins and pushes me forward into the kitchen. “Here she is. This is Samantha. Samantha—my mum. Iris.”
“Samantha. Welcome.” Iris looks up, and I can see her taking me in, head to foot. “Just let me finish this.”
Nathaniel gestures to me to sit down, and I cautiously take a seat on a wooden chair. The kitchen is at the back of the house and is filled with light and sun. Flowers in earthenware jugs are everywhere. There’s an old-fashioned range and a scrubbed wooden table and a stable door open to the outside. As I’m wondering whether I should be making conversation, a chicken wanders in and starts scratching at the ground.
