The Quiet Space Between Us Read online

  THE QUIET SPACE BETWEEN US

  N.A. COOPER

  Copyright © 2023 N.A. Cooper

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  The right of N.A. Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.

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  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8343-0

  CONTENTS

  Love best-selling fiction?

  Also by N.A. Cooper

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

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  A note from the publisher

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  ALSO BY N.A. COOPER

  Ripple Effect

  Unravelling Alice

  For my husband

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was early morning – too early for the birdsong she usually woke to. The silence blew towards her off the land, coming from places she couldn’t recall. She could see her breath turn to mist in front of her, suspended in the cool air that surrounded the meadows. She stretched her back and yawned, twisting to one side and then the other until she heard the gentle crack she’d been searching for.

  She’d woke early to see the Pink Moon – the full moon for April – which sat bright and low in the sky, almost touching the horizon. It was named after the moss-pink phlox which indicated the beginning of spring, but this morning it was the simple milky white she was used to and she couldn’t help but feel cheated. It anchored her, the moon, to the month and the passing of time. It hadn’t always been that way, but there was so little left for her to cling on to now.

  She sat cradling a mug of camomile tea on the uneven doorstep of the house, looking out across the fields. There was a light dusting of frost clinging to the grass which, when illuminated by the watery moonlight, looked quite beautiful but not at all like spring. She was aching for the long winter to pass; the cold somehow accentuated her loneliness, especially in a place like this. It made the empty spaces feel even emptier, harsher, bereft of any comfort or warmth to ease her pain.

  She pulled her robe closed tighter across her chest and brought her mug to her lips, enjoying the warmth of the steam on her face before she drank. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a long, shrill screaming sound – far away at first then growing steadily closer until it was directly above her. A barn owl looking for prey, its wings spread wide, gliding on a light breeze.

  Ida remembered the first time she’d heard the high-pitched screeching sound – she’d panicked, thinking someone was coming. As far as she was concerned, owls hooted and people screamed. She’d stood on the little stoop with a pair of binoculars in the hazy light of the dawn, pointing them first across the fields and then up into the trees which stood on the other side of the dip. It had sat in one of the sycamores for quite some time, allowing her to get a good look at it until, spotting something Ida wasn’t able to see, it dived to catch its dinner.

  It had taken her heart a while to calm and she’d swiftly added it to the list of sounds she kept in a notebook by her bed, joining the howling noise of the wind when it blew through the hills, the barks and howls of the foxes and the bleats and grunts of the wild deer – to name a few. When she heard something that panicked her and her brain refused to think logically, she would find comfort in her list because the sounds she heard were almost always on there. The edges of the paper were curled now and some of the writing was disturbed by creases, but it was still there – comforting in black and white. It had been a while since she’d added anything new.

  There were few surprises after so many years, but one thing that continued to amaze her was the power of her imagination – in the worst imaginable way. It’s a cruel and brutal thing to experience, being unable to trust yourself and your judgement. Sometimes, even when she knew something to be true, even when faced with indisputable evidence that it was just a bat or a rabbit, a fox or a rat, she managed to catastrophise and spiral until she could no longer be sure about anything. She didn’t trust herself, that was the simple truth of it, and the one person she did trust was hardly ever here – not that she could blame him for that.

  It had always seemed remarkably unfair to Ida that she was forced to spend so much time by herself – her own worst critic. Her mind was her keeper, it had stopped her from doing so many things while forcing her to do others. She didn’t fight it anymore, there was no point, she just accepted that it would always be that way. But that didn’t stop her from yearning for company while simultaneously hoping it never arrived.

  She looked out over the fields of green in front of her – wild and untamed – which led to the rolling hills miles to the north. To the left of her was the river which ran through the dip in the land and, beyond that, the edge of the forest, so thick and dense she could barely see through the treeline. She wasn’t a prisoner here, she told herself; how could she ever think that when there were lakes in her back garden and mountains on her doorstep. The clean air of the Welsh countryside was a privilege; she breathed it in, the earthy scents so familiar but never taken for granted.

  The shrill cries of the owl disappeared as the moon sunk below the horizon, pulling the light of the sun which steadily transformed the landscape, edging closer and closer until it bathed Ida’s face in a warmth that had long since left her tea. She watched as her shadow appeared at an angle beside her, short and skewed, and as the frost melted away from the meadows revealing new life underneath, a chaotic mix of wilderness grappling for a taste of spring.

  Still Ida sat there, watching as the night turned to day and trying to identify the exact moment it happened. Of course, she couldn’t see the precise second the change occurred, as with many things it was more of a process than something sudden and instantaneous; much like how she ended up here alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She planned to start sowing her seeds today – one variety every couple of days. She liked to take her time with things she considered important; to savour the feeling she wasn’t often privy to anymore. She didn’t like having responsibility before she moved here; she couldn’t handle the fact that the things she did might affect others in some inconceivable way that was completely out of her control. Her world had changed a while before everybody else’s, and it had taken its toll.

  Now here she was surrounded by nothing but the land, and while the harsh and unforgiving nature of it couldn’t guarantee her safety, it could guarantee her anonymity; it would never rescue her, but it would never judge her, either. Here, she was free to assert herself, she was free to plant the seeds she’d harvested from last year’s crops and do it in the way she thought best, sticking to her own schedule or, sometimes, no schedule at all. And if the crops didn’t grow for whatever reason, there was no one else to feel the effect but her. There was no one to blame her. She could relinquish control to the land.

  She took off her robe and pulled on her grey fleece. It smelled damp and stale – she’d been caught in a sudden downpour early last week that had soaked through her clothes before she made it back. She’d been collecting wood when the clouds had changed so rapidly that she hadn’t even realised until she heard the soft drops against the forest floor, sporadic at first as they found their way through the canopy. Then she’d felt it, right on the tip of her nose as she looked up at the fractured pieces of darkening sky between the treetops.

  She’d abandoned the wood in a pile to return to the following day and she’d ran as quickly as she could back down the hill to the edge of the river, through the cool waters that ran over rocks and stones, and back up the rutted bank on the other side. She ought to have pegged the fleece up to dry on the little wire that hung across the living room, but she’d been so cold
, she could feel it in her bones. She’d shivered violently as she undressed and tried to light the fire, her fingers numb as she grappled with holding a match. Amidst all the chaos of the cruel nature of the wilderness, she’d tossed the fleece to one side and forgotten all about it until it was too late. Carelessness gets you killed in the wild, that’s what Cal said. She sniffed at the sleeve – she would wash it in the river this afternoon then hang it out to dry in the sun.

  There was still some water left over in the pan, cool now but clean; she carefully poured it into her chipped china mug and left it on the side to save for later. Her petrol supply was getting low, she couldn’t afford to keep using the generator to boil water so she’d tried to limit herself to twice a day – half a pan in the morning and half a pan in the afternoon, unless it was wash day, then she would allow herself a full pan if she couldn’t face the river.

  It had been a particularly harsh January, relentlessly cold with bursts of heavy snow that had caught her by surprise – she’d used up a month’s worth of her fuel supply in just two weeks. She couldn’t go out and there was so little light, the clouds grey and heavy, full of the snow that kept on falling. She missed the days of the weather forecasts, she hadn’t realised how much she’d relied on them until they were no longer there. She’d tried to read the skies and be at one with the land, to predict what was coming in a way she thought she’d learn, but then the snow came and she understood: she was at the mercy of Mother Nature, and she was unpredictable.

  Ida pulled on her leggings, her socks and the old walking boots that had a hole in one side – the ones she saved for gardening or pottering around close to the house. She had another pair that Cal had found for her last year – she didn’t ask where. They were brown with a pink trim and, more importantly, they were waterproof, so she saved them for when she had to wander further afield for wood or when she’d planned a long walk to clear her head and remind herself of the vastness of the world.

  She stepped outside and used her binoculars to scan the front and the sides of the property, the way Cal had taught her. Then she walked round, past the wood store and the generator, and did the same at the back of the house, scanning the hills that ruled to the south. Ida didn’t often walk in that direction, she didn’t like the idea of coming to the peak and finding something on the other side, unexpectedly close and potentially deadly. The west felt safer, sheltered from what lay beyond by the thick forest and the dip in the land that led down to the river. The forest may hide things, but it also hid her, and she found a certain kind of solace in that. She explored the north and the east, too – miles of uninterrupted fields, leading to a distant horizon with nothing to speak of but more hills, but she never strayed too far.

  She stood beside a large summer lilac, turning slowly from left to right, the heavy binoculars held with both hands. There was nothing to see – there never was – but that was no reason to lose focus; she needed to see properly, unhindered by her expectations. When she’d done one full sweep she turned slowly back to the left, checking one last time. Nothing. She took in the lilac next to her, yet to bloom. It was nicknamed the butterfly bush owing to its appeal to the insects; Ida spent many long, hot summer days just watching them arrive. The butterflies and the bees and everything in between. They were fascinating.

  It had started off as a plant a few years ago, but it had quickly developed into a mass of shrubbery, thick branches reaching out, growing bigger each year. She’d cut it back last spring using the instructions in one of her gardening books and as she looked at it again now, she thought she might need to do the same. She didn’t want her view from the bedroom at the back of her house to be obstructed by it, no matter how beautiful it looked in the summer. She felt one of the leaves between her thumb and forefinger, stroking the smooth surface. It reminded her of Cal; he’d turned up with a cutting in a bucket one summer afternoon, the first summer she’d been here. He said he’d found it during his travels and it had reminded him of her – bright and beautiful. Over the years, she’d also found it to be quite resilient and strong, but Cal had never commented on those attributes.

  She took the binoculars back into the house and placed them on the little wooden table. In one of the kitchen cupboards she found the old tin where she kept her seeds, a picture of a West Highland terrier on the front and the words ‘All Butter Shortbread’ written in red. She tried not to look at the little picture of the crumbly biscuits but her mouth still watered at the memory of what they tasted like.

  Inside, the seeds were neatly organised into little packets she’d saved from when they first arrived – tomatoes, lettuce and carrots. The packets were shop bought originally but the contents were now the result of hard work and dedication. She’d harvested every single one of them herself, year after year. She reached back into the cupboard and pulled out a canvas bag which she’d tied using the handles at the top. Inside were the potatoes she’d salvaged from last year’s crop, twelve in total, all sprouting at odd angles. She took her time deciding which to plant first, considering her options.

  Her gardening book advised planting the lettuce or the carrots first, but Ida had been aching for potatoes and was tempted to ignore the advice of the kind-looking man on the front of the book. She held one in her hand – the wrinkled potato the size of an egg. She imagined eating one of the new ones it would produce; a generous helping of melted butter on the top, a lush salad with coleslaw to the side and maybe some egg and cheese. Then she readjusted her cravings, making allowances for her circumstances – new potatoes, plain with a sprinkle of seasoning and perhaps a tin of mixed bean salad; she had two tins left in the kitchen cupboard below the sink. She’d never got this low before.

  Aside from the mixed beans she had a large bag of pasta, two bags of rice, the odd tin of baked beans, soup and rice pudding, and a box of porridge oats. But the cupboards still looked sparse, much more so than they had ever looked before. If she was honest with herself, she was worried. He’d never been gone this long.

  She held the little packets of seeds in her hands – lettuce in one, carrots in the other. She’d decided to take the book’s advice and narrowed it down to the two recommendations. She would plant one today and one in a couple of days’ time. She tried to recall the taste of freshly grown vegetables, the crispness of lettuce leaves or the sweetness of the carrots. She hadn’t had anything fresh since blackberries last September. They’d grown in abundance in several of the bushes around the house and even more further afield. She’d added them to her porridge and used them to flavour her water; they’d stained her fingers and left their gritty seeds in her teeth. By the time they’d all shrivelled up she felt quite sure she would never long for another blackberry again. But she was wrong. As with most things in life, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  It had been almost four months since he’d visited – Christmastime – and even then he’d only stayed for a few days. He’d brought gifts wrapped in cloths – a couple of new books, a bottle of wine and a jigsaw. She wondered where he’d found them but didn’t want to ask. There was a light dusting of snow on the ground and it crunched under their feet as they walked backwards and forwards to Cal’s truck. He’d parked in the same place as usual, on a narrow dirt path over a mile away. You couldn’t get any closer to the house than that, and it was still another three miles to the nearest road. The walk had felt longer, the crispness of the air stinging Ida’s cheeks and the dampness of the grass clinging to her leggings.