Page 14 of Hope and Happiness in Bluebell Wood
‘Evelyn is an important and respected member of our church. It’s our pleasure to look after you while you stay in her home. Please don’t worry.’
‘Okay. Well, thanks again.’
‘My pleasure. Good day to you, Ava.’
‘Good day,’ I find myself repeating as I end the call.
‘Well, that was easier that I thought it might be,’ I say to Merlin, who’s still waiting by my feet. ‘Right, now we can go for that walk at last.’
We walk along the road to the wood again.
I don’t feel the need to try to find other routes for us to take just yet. Merlin likes the wood because he can have a good run off his lead, and I like it because it’s quiet and we rarely see anyone. The wood is calm and tranquil, and just like the first time we visited, I feel an enormous sense of peace when I’m nestled within its comforting embrace, something I haven’t felt for a very long time.
I feel stronger, too. I’m not sure if the trees are passing their wisdom and strength down to me as I walk, or whether I’m subconsciously drawing it from their solid trunks, deeply buried roots and far-reaching branches. All I know is I never feel better than when I’m walking under their protective canopy.
We spend longer in the wood than I’d anticipated. The fresh cool woodland air, the sounds of some early spring leaves blowing gently in the breeze and the birds singing happily above us do more for my state of mind than any of the expensive sessions I’ve had with my therapist.
When we return to the cottage about an hour later, I’ve justunclipped Merlin from his lead when his ears prick up, and the hackles on his neck begin to rise.
‘What’s up?’ I ask, looking at him in dismay. ‘What’s wrong, Merlin?’
Then I hear a sound coming from the kitchen. I stiffen, just like the dog at my feet. Someone is in there.
I stand there for a moment, paralysed with fear.There’s an intruder,I hear a voice say in my head.An intruder in your cottage. It’s like I’m under water and the voice in my head is above the surface. It’s muffled and slow and difficult to understand.Someone has broken into your bolt-hole. Your safe place. Your home. Danger. Danger. Danger!
Merlin growling at the door that leads into the kitchen jolts me from my inner trauma.
Whereas his natural instinct is clearly to approach the danger head-on, mine is the opposite.
‘Shush,’ I whisper, trying to back out of the hall towards the front door. ‘Merlin!’ I urge in a low voice. ‘Come here!’
But Merlin, usually so obedient, is clearly not happy that a stranger has invaded our home, and stays rooted to the spot.
I’m torn: torn between my fear of what is on the other side of the kitchen door and my loyalty to the little dog that has become my friend.
‘Merlin!’ I try one more time. ‘Come here . . .please!’
Merlin ignores me and begins scratching at the door. I hurry over to him with the intention of scooping him up and carrying away from the danger, but his scratching has nudged the door ajar – just a crack, but a crack big enough for a little dog to squeeze through.
‘Merlin!’ I cry as he scampers into the kitchen at full speed. I don’t think this time, I immediately chase after him.
I don’t know what I expect to find as we both dash into the kitchen, but it’s certainly not a pair of legs protruding from underneath the sink. The legs are wearing khaki combat trousers, and the feet at the end of the legs are clad in tan Timberland boots.
Merlin stands by the side of the legs, barking and growling.
‘Merlin!’ I call. ‘Stop it.’
‘Won’t be a mo!’ a male voice calls from under the sink. ‘Does he bite? It sounds like he might, and I’m feeling pretty exposed here.’
‘Er . . . no. I don’t think so,’ I say, somewhat confused by the man’s jovial tone. I’d been expecting a knife-wielding attacker, or at the very least some sort of burglar looking for valuables. Instead, I find a man apparently fixing my sink.
I notice my heart, which had been racing so fast I could barely feel it before Merlin had burst into the kitchen, has calmed slightly, and is now only beating at a rate comparable with a hundred-metre sprint.
‘I met a little dog called Merlin the other day,’ the voice says, as a body wearing a tight white T-shirt slides out from under the sink. ‘It can’t be the same . . . Oh, it is the same one. Hello, fella,’ he says. Merlin visibly calms but still retains an aggressive stance.
‘Good guard dog,’ he says to me, as a set of perfect teeth form a smile. ‘And hello; we meet again.’
‘H-hi,’ I say, as I suddenly recognise the jogger we’d met in the wood on our first night here. Now he’s without a hood, I can see that his short black hair is peppered with the occasional grey like his stubble had been. He has a few more laughter lines around his blue eyes, and furrows in his brow that I hadn’t noticed in the dim light of the wood, and unlike the otherday when I’d thought he must be younger, now I decide he’s probably in his early forties. ‘Are . . . are you fixing my sink?’
