Storm Cottage.
As she climbed out of the truck, without speaking or acknowledging Ted, Rose looked up at the cottage, a dim, squat, toad-like silhouette against the thunderous late summer afternoon, hunched against the inclement border weather. Ramshackle and unkempt, it embodied its name – or perhaps that was just Rose, turning the building into an imagined image of her father. The strangeness of the situation did not escape her. Here she was , finally standing outside her father’s house, willing if perhaps not ready to face him again. And, stranger still, he was somewhere in that small building utterly unaware that she was here. Rose was about to change his life, one way or the other.
Taking a breath of warm wet air, just as the fat slow drops of rain finally began to spatter down from the threatening clouds, Rose sheltered under a rotting and leaking wooden porch. The house looked dark and utterly silent, and belatedly Rose realised that she might have psyched herself up only to discover that there was no one in. Of all the things she had imagined about this moment, none of them had been to turn round and go back into Millthwaite without having seen him. If she left now, if she just went, then he would never know that she had been here, and there was a large part of that idea that appealed to her. What was his life like now, she wondered as she stared at the stout little house. Would he be behind that door with a gaggle of children round his feet – grandchildren, maybe – Tilda, lolling on the sofa, laughing at the perfect bliss of the life they had made together? And yet the dark little house didn’t look like one that harboured the warmth of a family. It looked lonely and neglected.
‘Knock, be brave,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t take no for an answer. This is your dad, your dad, remember. Maybe he’ll just open his arms and make everything all right.’
There was no bell, so she hammered on the wet rough wood with her fist, waiting a few moments and then hammering again. The rain seemed to be coming at her horizontally, whipped into needles by the merciless wind. Gasping in a breath of warm air, Rose glanced back at Ted, watching her from his truck, and wondered about going back to the B & B with nothing changed, no grand reunion, no lost love restored. Something had to happen, she knew that. Richard was coming, either to claw her back into her old life, or … or God only knew what else. Whatever happened it had to be something; she couldn’t just sit here and wait for her husband to find her.
Still there was no reply and, deciding she had no option, Rose prepared to leave the meagre shelter of the porch, but before she could take a step the door opened at last, an elongated rectangle of electric light snapped on, slicing through the rain.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ an angry male voice said behind her. Rose steadied herself and turned round, lifting her chin to look the old man in the eye. He was barely recognisable as her father, and yet she knew instantly that it was him. He’d aged, of course. He was smaller, almost withered; the huge life force of a man that she always envisioned when she thought of him looked shrunken and diminished. The strong, tall, dark-haired man she remembered so well was thin, his face gaunt and etched with deep lines. His hair was grey, but he still wore it long, over his collar. Rose observed him for a moment longer, unable to tear her eyes away from the face that she used to adore. And then she realised he was scrutinising her in exactly the same way. Dropping her chin abruptly, she hid her face from him, not wanting him to see the same passing of time in her that she did in him, aware of what a foolish impulse that was. She had been just a little girl that last time he had seen her.
‘This is private property,’ he said, his anger suddenly muffled and muted by shock.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ she asked him, searching his face for any
As she climbed out of the truck, without speaking or acknowledging Ted, Rose looked up at the cottage, a dim, squat, toad-like silhouette against the thunderous late summer afternoon, hunched against the inclement border weather. Ramshackle and unkempt, it embodied its name – or perhaps that was just Rose, turning the building into an imagined image of her father. The strangeness of the situation did not escape her. Here she was , finally standing outside her father’s house, willing if perhaps not ready to face him again. And, stranger still, he was somewhere in that small building utterly unaware that she was here. Rose was about to change his life, one way or the other.
Taking a breath of warm wet air, just as the fat slow drops of rain finally began to spatter down from the threatening clouds, Rose sheltered under a rotting and leaking wooden porch. The house looked dark and utterly silent, and belatedly Rose realised that she might have psyched herself up only to discover that there was no one in. Of all the things she had imagined about this moment, none of them had been to turn round and go back into Millthwaite without having seen him. If she left now, if she just went, then he would never know that she had been here, and there was a large part of that idea that appealed to her. What was his life like now, she wondered as she stared at the stout little house. Would he be behind that door with a gaggle of children round his feet – grandchildren, maybe – Tilda, lolling on the sofa, laughing at the perfect bliss of the life they had made together? And yet the dark little house didn’t look like one that harboured the warmth of a family. It looked lonely and neglected.
‘Knock, be brave,’ she told herself. ‘Don’t take no for an answer. This is your dad, your dad, remember. Maybe he’ll just open his arms and make everything all right.’
There was no bell, so she hammered on the wet rough wood with her fist, waiting a few moments and then hammering again. The rain seemed to be coming at her horizontally, whipped into needles by the merciless wind. Gasping in a breath of warm air, Rose glanced back at Ted, watching her from his truck, and wondered about going back to the B & B with nothing changed, no grand reunion, no lost love restored. Something had to happen, she knew that. Richard was coming, either to claw her back into her old life, or … or God only knew what else. Whatever happened it had to be something; she couldn’t just sit here and wait for her husband to find her.
Still there was no reply and, deciding she had no option, Rose prepared to leave the meagre shelter of the porch, but before she could take a step the door opened at last, an elongated rectangle of electric light snapped on, slicing through the rain.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ an angry male voice said behind her. Rose steadied herself and turned round, lifting her chin to look the old man in the eye. He was barely recognisable as her father, and yet she knew instantly that it was him. He’d aged, of course. He was smaller, almost withered; the huge life force of a man that she always envisioned when she thought of him looked shrunken and diminished. The strong, tall, dark-haired man she remembered so well was thin, his face gaunt and etched with deep lines. His hair was grey, but he still wore it long, over his collar. Rose observed him for a moment longer, unable to tear her eyes away from the face that she used to adore. And then she realised he was scrutinising her in exactly the same way. Dropping her chin abruptly, she hid her face from him, not wanting him to see the same passing of time in her that she did in him, aware of what a foolish impulse that was. She had been just a little girl that last time he had seen her.
‘This is private property,’ he said, his anger suddenly muffled and muted by shock.
‘Don’t you recognise me?’ she asked him, searching his face for any
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