The Path

Chapter Six

October 6th 2012

Today is my two- month anniversary of coming to live in Cheltwell.  All thoughts of leaving here went by the end of the first week.  It’s odd because although I’ve no family left here or made many friends or even found a job yet, I feel that I belong.  It’s an odd, unfamiliar feeling and one I have been unable to ignore.  The house has started to feel like mine and I’ve spent a little money redecorating, which I did all by myself.  My new sofa and double bed arrived two days ago and the windows and doors were replaced last month. I kept some of Dorothy’s jewellery, a couple of vintage dresses, a few sticks of furniture and some ornaments, but donated the rest to a local charity.  Her letters and diaries are currently being stored in a box under the stairs to be looked at another day. The garden continues to be a challenge, but one I am slowly winning.  Finally I have a home.

In between house-stuff, I have taken up painting again.  It was something I used to love doing as a teenager and I would spend hours escaping into a canvass, blocking out my reality with a palette of colour.  The landscape and skies are so huge here and have such an effect on me it’s almost as if they demand to be painted.  Mr Piper, who I visit regularly, has been very complimentary about my painting abilities. I don’t know who told him that I liked to paint, he probably saw me sketching out by the pond near the village one day.  He has actually asked me to do a painting of an area of woodland nearby that he was once quite fond of and that’s where I’m off to later this morning.  He has asked that I take Jet with me for a walk.  Mr Piper hasn’t been feeling so well of late, so I take Jet out most days.  I have grown very fond of Mr Piper; he is perhaps my only friend here.  Tommy, thankfully, has avoided me since that night and Muriel blows hot and cold.  She is always quick to ask nosey questions about me and my non- existent love life, but somehow doesn’t like to answer my questions, especially those about my Aunt.  To be honest I’m content being by myself, although I occasionally long for a night out with the girls. Not that I have ever really done that, but it looks kind of fun on the TV.

I promised Mr Piper that I would collect Jet at midday, so I grab my camera, sketch book and a flask of tea and throw them into my rucksack.  After a glorious summer, autumn with its dark evenings and dank air is quite the contrast.  Fortunately it is a cold, dry morning, with only a little cloud, making the light just right for sketching.  It’s almost unimaginable that the Met Office has forecast storms for tonight. 

At Mr Piper’s, two quick knocks and I let myself in, the door left unlocked for me.  Jet really is useless as a guard dog as he appears in the doorway, his lead hanging from his mouth, his tale banging against the frame.

“Morning, old boy.”  He comes up to me and nuzzles at my coat pocket.

“Get out of there,” I say, pushing away his wet nose. “You can have a treat later on.”

“In here, Alice.”

Following his voice to the sitting room, he smiles and waves me over to the writing desk he is sat at in the corner of the room. 

“Good morning.”

“Indeed it is a lovely morning, Alice.  Come sit for a while, I have something I need to talk to you about.”

We have had many chats over the last two months, although mostly about me.  I found it awkward at first, opening up to someone about my past, but he makes it so easy.  He doesn’t give advice or lectures me about the wrong decisions I have made, he just quietly listens, offering tissues and cups of tea when needed.  There are some things I will never tell him, but the less dark stuff seems to pour out of me and I swear I feel lighter because of it.  There is nearly sixty years between us and yet I seem to forget that when we talk.  He is much younger than his age and I know I am older than mine.  So we seem to meet somewhere in the middle, not a grandfather-granddaughter kind of relationship, but more a cosy friendship.  Although, I can’t bring myself to call him anything other than Mr Piper, even though I have heard others call him Bertie.  He has never asked or told, so Mr Piper it is.