Chapter Text
Audrey Hall stared at her reflection like she was looking at a stranger. Two months and three hair-dressers later, she no longer recognised the woman who stared wanly back, cheeks gaunt, rings beneath her eyes. Worst of all was the vacancy behind them, the dull ache that betrayed no ache at all, no movement, only mechanics. Air in, air out. Step one, step two. Finally, her steps seemed to have run out. She could not do this forever. She was not built to tramp about, calling no one by name and no place ‘home’. It went against the very essence of her being to be a wanderer. Only here, in this small, square window with its dark blue frame did she realise that the change had happened long before she had walked out of the house in Croydon. She had been wandering far longer than she knew.
There was nothing about the window that ought to have caught her attention. It was one of many, a minor part of a checkerboard of other frames that made up the small bay of a wider shopfront—and yet, she knew that it was meant for her. Looking past her reflection, she saw the dust gathering on the abandoned counter beyond, a box or two could be spied behind it, equally forlorn. The floor was thick with dirt, a few pieces of a plaster betraying that the ceiling was in worse condition. It must have been loved once, the window cherished and painted that cool, ordered blue. The countertop still betrayed its deep-wooded integrity, beneath the grime. The shelves, too, cried out that once, once they had been grand enough even for this village square. A door behind the counter clearly made way for another room beyond, but the narrow row of shops to the right and left suggested that it could hardly be a big one. Then, it might be enough… yes, after everything, it just might be enough.
Audrey’s eyes canted left and, for the first time in eight years, she felt her heart beat.
To Let.
She blinked, swallowed the discomfort of breathing.
She could see herself, young and hopeful, daring even, could all but catch the smell of piecrust. It was hard to imagine the dreams that had once lived in that head, as certain then as the air she had been breathing. Whatever happened to that girl? She had vanished in pieces, Audrey thought, questioning glance by questioning glance, one indulgent condescension at a time. ‘No,’ protested the little window, corporeal and much more present than the wraith that peered into it. Once more, Audrey’s reflection came into focus, a screaming something sparking right in the center of the dull ache. She was here. She was still here. If she could just look into that window for long enough, believe for long enough… Could she really be recovered from beneath the moulding debris?
“D’you know, I’ve heard that if you stare at it long enough, you can get it to come to life at midnight.”
Audrey jumped, still skittish, and the young woman who had uttered the quip leant back in surprise. She was shorter than Audrey be some way, with thick, dark hair turned up into practical braiding. “Sorry!” She apologised immediately, raising her hands as though calming a horse who looked set to shy. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve jus’ never seen anyone stop at this window fer anythin’ more than to wince at what’s become of it.” She smiled, still hoping to carry the joke.
Audrey’s voice had stuck in her throat, and her instinctual desire to smooth things over got lost somewhere between her hitched shoulders. The moment stalled and the young woman’s smile faded. Audrey expected her to do what so many had done in the last two months, drop her glance and shuffle awkwardly away. Instead, brown eyes intensified into a steady frown. She gently reached out a hand and took a light hold of Audrey’s forearm.
“Are you all righ’?”
Audrey looked down at where that hand held her and felt tears prickle behind her eyes. Two months she had been moving. Two months she had been allowed little more than the graze of a hand taking her money, the distracted glance of the bus driver as he nodded. In London she might have been afforded the misplaced brush of a shoulder, but here, in the country, people were so few and far between that even that could not be contrived in her favour. Her lingering silence was enough to seal her fate.
“That’s it,” the young woman suddenly burst into action. “You’re coming with me.”
“What? Where?” Audrey started, eyes flashing a sudden living grey and her feet digging into the ground of the one place she had felt connected to in years.
“It speaks! The pub, it’s jus’ across the square, and you look like you haven’t had a good meal since Christmas.”
“It’s October.”
“Exactly.”
It was a short walk from there to the warm interior of The Drover’s Arms, the very quintessence of Yorkshire comfort with its dark mahoganies and the smell of tobacco clinging to the stone walls. Audrey barely had time to protest as she was dragged off in some miraculous combination of motherly autocracy. She almost stumbled across the threshold, her arm still in the young woman’s grip.
“Ey up, Maggie! What’s on special today?”
“Funny,” called the blonde from behind the bar. “We’ve had the same specials on since about 1936, as you well know, Helen. So, it’s lamb pie or lamb pie—unless you’ve got a hankerin’ for— hello, who’s this?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Helen grinned, “I just picked her up outside the old ‘aberdashery looking more lost than I usually do. If you manhandle her she may protest, but only mildly.”
Audrey finally huffed a little laugh, more of bewilderment than real mirth, but Helen caught on to it like a prize salmon, grinning all the wider. “I knew the fire’d do you good. Sit.”
Audrey blinked, but obeyed, taking up a stool at the bar front. Maggie poured Helen a pint without asking. She poured one for Audrey, too—also without asking.
“Buying buttons were you?”
“Not likely, what with Siegfried Farnon’s talent for housekeeping.”
“Farnon?” Audrey asked, her voice firm for the first time. Helen turned back to her with a narrow glance.
“Know him?”
It was obvious that she did not. Two seconds had likely given her away as a Londoner. “No, I was just—”
Maggie watched her carefully, taking in the turn of her shoulders and the apologetic way she seemed to exist.
“I’m Audrey…” she tried again, turning to the barmaid, though she owed Helen the introduction too. “I’m just visiting the Dales, and I stopped to, um…” it was a suddenly private thought, and though the fire might have warmed the frozen fear in her shoulders, it had yet to undo years of caution and she breathed in instead of finishing the thought. “It’s just such a charming old square, exactly the sort of thing I used to love.”
“Used to?” Maggie asked, much quieter than Helen.
“I spent a lot of time in Yorkshire as a girl.” She could not remember the last time she had told someone that fact. “My mum was from Yorkshire. She taught me how to bake.” It had been so long since she had held a conversation for more than three sentences, perhaps she had lost her ability to filter her thoughts. She shut her mouth instead and blushed for good measure.
“You’re a baker!” Maggie enthused.
Audrey did not correct her.
“I love to bake,” Maggie went on. “Though I don’t have much time for it now that it’s just me and Ma.”
“Me mum steered me clear of the kitchen just as soon as I could take the hint,” Helen chuckled ruefully. “Probably for the best. I’m good with t’ cows, at least. Keeps Dad happy.”
It was so warm, so intimately inviting, that Audrey found herself wondering just how she had come to be in the situation. Of course, she had always found the world friendly enough, but she had grown so far from it that the moment felt like a play being carried on in front of her.
“We’re just up at Heston Grange,” Helen explained.
To Audrey, it might as well have been the setting of something by the Brontë sisters. Alarms began to sound in her head as the conversation came back round to her. She had already stayed too long, already said too much.
Then, when did it end? All this running? Hiding?
She remembered the shop window with the blue frame and stayed on her barstool. “Farnon, you said? Was the owner of the shop that’s being let?”
“The old ‘aberdasher’s,” Helen nodded. “Though I’d be surprised if he even remembered. It was his wife’s project, y’ see, before she died—she was trying to save the square from the tourism board. They wanted to turn it into one of these popular ‘country’ squares with ‘authentic’ shops to boost local traffic, even though the chains were all from London and the revenue went up to Leeds or some corporate monstrosity further south. Nowt ‘authentic’ about it. So, Evelyn bought the ‘aberdasher’s and wrangled a bunch of others into buying up the remaining property before the board could do it. I like to think their going under after COVID were ‘er doin’, after everything they did to ‘urt local business, ‘specially the farms.”
“‘Welcome to Yorkshire,’” Maggie offered a feigned grin alongside what was clearly a slogan.
“Don’t know why they thought people wanted to come to Yorkshire in order to feel like they were in London,” Helen griped again. Audrey had no idea what they were talking about. “I mean, I know it’s all helpful for the Dales,” Helen went on, “but sometimes it feels like we’re being packaged for sale. You know, ‘Genuine Yorkshire Countryside’. Evelyn hated it. She thought everything ought to grow up from its roots, organic. None of this commercial nonsense. She desperately hoped some enterprising young thing might snatch it up and make something of it. Something real.”
Audrey blinked at her. She didn’t know about either young or particularly enterprising, but the same clear voice that had spoken from somewhere within her own reflection returned to make itself heard.
Something real.
It burned in her chest.
“And where might one find Mr Farnon?”
“It’s Dr Farnon, actually,” Maggie chuckled. “At least since 2015.”
“Did he graduate?”
Helen coughed into her pint. “No, it’s just that the RCVS finally let them call themselves that…”
“I see.” Audrey did not see.
“… though he will clarify that it’s technically supposed to be followed by ‘Veterinary Surgeon’ to avoid confusion.”
“Oh!” It finally fell into place. “He’s a vet.” The others smiled at her. “And is his practice nearby?”
“I should say,” Maggie chimed. “It’s just on the other side of our authentic country square.”
“You could throw a rock at it from here,” Helen added. “Actually, I’m not sure it ‘asn’t been tried.”
“Oh. Is he—?”
“Bloody imposs—.”
“Complex,” Maggie interjected in time.
“Maggie’s had a soft spot for ‘im ever since she dated ‘is brother. She uses words like ‘complex’, the rest of us are jus’ fine with—”
“Why?” Maggie asked.
Audrey balked at the direct question, though her behaviour must, of course, be curious. Looking up at Maggie’s kind face, however, and Helen’s boisterous energy, she felt a kick she hadn’t in some time. “Well—I think I might be able to make him an offer on it.” It was absurd. She knew it was absurd the moment she had said it, and yet something weighty rested in her tone.
Something real.
Helen frowned. “An offer on the 'aberdashery?”
Audrey nodded.
“I hope you like a good duster,” Maggie quipped.
“You’ll need mor’an a duster in there—I hope you’re ‘andy with a bloody digger! I’ll have to have Dad bring down the JCB.”
Audrey laughed. “All it needs is a little love and attention.” The statement seemed to flow backwards from her mouth and into her veins, an adrenalin shot of practical possibilities. She had made a myriad of such definitive statements in her younger years, and the use of one had a slight inebriating effect. “And a vision,” she said, more to herself, now, than to the others.
Maggie and Helen exchanged a look.
Audrey looked up, and suddenly it was impossible to sit there and talk about it. She had to move before she lost her nerve. “Across the square did you say?”
“Yes—”
Audrey stood.
“Hang on!” Helen grabbed at her wrist as soon as it was clear she was about to march right over there. “He’s out on farm calls for the minute—I think he was headed up Dinsdale’s way earlier. The surgery’ll be open tomorrow, and he’s much more likely to hear… whatever this is,” she gestured vaguely at Audrey, “when he’s not dashing about the Dales. Besides, I’m not letting you past the door until I’ve seen you eat at least a mouthful.”
Her hopes dashed, Audrey sat awkwardly back on her stool. A piece of lamb pie was placed determinedly in front of her, and she remembered for the first time in weeks of anxiety what it felt like to be famished.
*~*~*