Time since last phone usage: 24 hours, 8 minutes and 19 seconds
I’m definitely going to have to be more careful what I wish for. First, I wished for sleep and I ended up losing my job, and then I wished for direction in my life and my sister presented me with a DIY project that would have Nick Knowles running for the hills.
‘And with a separating wall here,’ she says, flinging her arms out wide down the centre of the barn, ‘we could turn these two into self-contained lets.’
Since my sister told me the truth about her homestead she’s been animated in a way that I haven’t seen for years. Probably not since she was in her early teens. The sparkle that used to dance in her eyes has taken up residence once again, and she’s positively glowing.
‘But,’ she says shrugging, ‘we need to get the main house done first. I can rent that out and then do this up in the background.’
I follow her back out into the courtyard, turning my back on the well. It’s too painful to think about what lurks at the bottom of it.
It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I last logged on, and while I haven’t spontaneously combusted, I have felt like I’ve had a limb cut off. I’ve even experienced the phantom-limb effect by imagining my phone vibrating and making noises all day, and most of the time it has nothing to do with the mice.
‘How are you doing?’ asks Rosie, sensing that I’m floundering.
‘OK, I think. I just feel a bit lost. Like now, if I had my phone, I’d be snapping away, taking photos of your project and posting them on Instagram. I really miss taking photos. Not to mention I’ve never gone this long without speaking to Erica before. It’s not right.’
‘Well, why don’t you write her a letter, or a postcard?’
I look at my sister as if she’s really lost the plot this time.
‘A postcard? Are we on holiday in 1985? It’ll take ages to get to her.’
‘We’re in Cumbria, not darkest Peru. If you post it today, she’ll probably get it tomorrow, or Monday at the latest.’
I yelp. I find it bad enough when I have to wait a minute for a WhatsApp reply from her.
‘Why don’t we go to the post office now? I’m sure they’ll sell postcards.’
‘Really? You’ll let me leave the farm?’ I say, as if we’re headed to some vast metropolis and not the sleepy village of Lullamby.
‘Uh-huh. I double checked with the pub earlier and they don’t have WiFi, so there’s nowhere you can sneak off to for your fix.’
My shoulders sink; she knows me better than I thought.
‘At least we’re going out,’ I say, as I bound over to the Land Rover like a dog who’s just been told he’s going for walkies.
Rosie follows me to the car, climbs in, and starts the engine. As we bump down the drive, I can’t see why I had such a problem with the terrain; it doesn’t seem that bad or muddy from up here. The drive to the village only takes a few minutes and Rosie pulls up in a small car park behind the pub.
‘Here we are,’ she says as she hops out.
I step out and peer at the buildings as if we really are in some far and exotic land. The main street is lined with terraced houses, all made up of the same type of brown and grey bricks. It looks completely different under today’s inky sky to how it looked when we drove through yesterday, when the stone looked yellower.
The post office sticks out from the other houses quite literally, with a bright green, latticed bay window poking out into the street, causing the narrow pavement to get even tighter. We push open the door and the bell over the top of it jangles noisily.
I expect to cross the threshold and step back in time, but the inside is surprisingly modern and fresh. There’s a small post-office partition on the left-hand side, and the rest of the space is given over to the shop. Amongst the usual corner-shop staples of tinned goods, bread and magazines, is a large stand selling local produce of delicious-looking cakes and handmade pots of jam and chutney. Behind the counter is an eclectic mix of everything else from warm woolly hats to needles and thread. This really is a general store.
The three people in the shop stop talking as we walk in. They give us a look confirming what we already know –we’re strangers in the village. One of the women, who clearly works there, starts to tidy the display in front of her. Yet, she continues to eye us suspiciously as she does so.
‘This is a bit awkward,’ I hiss at Rosie.
‘Well, you wanted to get out. Afternoon,’ says my sister to the shop women with a jolly lilt to her voice.
‘Afternoon,’ echoes the woman standing behind the counter, and the three of them go back to their conversation, albeit in more hushed tones than before.
‘Ah, there you go,’ says Rosie, locating a swivelling rack of postcards that all essentially offer the same scene – a sheep or a cow in front of a big hill. She pushes me in that direction before she heads over to look at the cakes.
I pick a few postcards at random before spotting writing stationery. If Rosie is really serious about me digitally detoxing, then maybe I could go proper old-school and write Erica a letter too. Although, what I’d fill a whole piece of paper with I don’t know.
I find a pretty writing pad with matching envelopes, and some gel pens. I reconvene with Rosie at the counter, who, much to my delight, has selected a big fat chocolate cake, some cookies, and some lovely bright pink raspberry jam.
The other customer, who had clearly come in as much for a gossip as the loaf of bread tucked under her arm, says her goodbyes and leaves as Rosie and I spread our goods onto the counter.
‘Did you have a good ratch about at the back?’ asks the women as she rings the items through the till. ‘We’re just in the middle of a sort out.’
‘Um . . .’ I say, unsure.
‘Yes, we found everything,’ says Rosie.
Get her, knowing the lingo. She’s practically one of the locals already.
‘That’s good. Got quite the correspondence planned, have you? Got a man to write some love letters to?’
I blush as my shopping is perused.
‘No, just a friend,’ I say, suddenly wishing for the anonymity of Tesco.
‘Oh, but lovely paper all the same. Terribly popular. Although, not that many people write these days. Awful shame that is. But, luckily for Gerry here, everyone’s selling things on eBay and sending back stuff they’ve bought on the Internet. Keeps her in a job,’ the woman says laughing.
‘Last post goes at four,’ says Gerry, chipping in and pointing sternly at the clock, which says that it’s ten to. I nod, thinking I’d better get scribbling.
‘Now, this is a good choice in jam,’ continues the woman as she picks it up. ‘Goes best with those crumpets from Mill House farm. Those ones there on the end of the shelf,’ she says pointing.
Rosie hesitates for a second before she goes over and picks up a packet, as if that was what was being asked of her.
‘That’s better. Proper supper that is. So you two up for a holiday, then?’
‘Actually, my sister’s bought a place up here,’ I say quickly, catching a look of annoyance on Rosie’s face. Perhaps she was trying to keep that quiet.
‘Oh, have you? What place have you bought? Where’s been for sale, Gerry?’
‘I don’t know, Liz. Mr Tompkins’s place was sold, but that couple from Lazonby bought that. What about the Smiths’ house?’
‘No, they took it back off the market in the end. I think he was threatened with redundancy and thought better of it.’
‘His job at the garage?’ asks Gerry, carrying on as if we’re not even there. You wouldn’t get this kind of conversation in the M&S Food Hall in Dulwich.
‘That’s right. Got taken over by some big firm. Where did you say the house was?’
‘It’s Upper Gables Farm, off the old road,’ says Rosie.
‘Oh,’ say the women together. They’re silent for a moment as they consider it.
‘You never bought that wreck, love? How much did you pay for it?’
My sister stutters for a second, too shocked at the bluntness to reply.
‘She got a good deal at auction,’ I say, filling in the blanks.
‘You’d need to have done,’ says Gerry. ‘That’s a big old farm. What do you plan to do with it?’
‘I was thinking of doing holiday lets,’ she says wincing.
‘Oh, more holiday lets,’ says Liz. ‘But, it’s better than nought for the community. It’s worse when they’re left a crumbling wreck on the landscape.’
‘And the tourists always spend well in the village,’ says Gerry.
‘That they do. And your husband’s helping, is he?’ says Liz, pointing at Rosie’s wedding ring.
‘Um, he will when he can. We live in Manchester and he works during the week,’ she starts muttering under her breath about weekends and I know that she’s desperate to change the subject.
‘So there are a few holiday lets in the area, then, are there?’ I say, taking the focus off Rosie and Rupert.
‘Oh aye,’ says Gerry. ‘People want to come here mainly for the walking, it’s ideal with the Lakes and the Pennines so close. There’s all sorts of accommodation here already; Lodges, B&Bs. You name it, we’ve got it.’
I nod. In all the talking with Rosie about her vision she hadn’t mentioned her target market – who she wants to attract. Looks like we’ll have to suss out the competition too. This project is getting bigger by the second.
‘Have you seen much of Jack up at Lower Gables?’
‘No, not yet,’ says Rosie. ‘We did run into someone with a cocker spaniel yesterday, though, who had a big hairy beard.’
I think back to his rudeness with me this morning and I feel a wave of anger.
‘That would be him,’ says Liz, her eyes lighting up. ‘On his own, was he?’
‘Just him and his dog,’ I say, thinking we already said that.
‘Bet he won’t be happy, Liz, with the tourists,’ says Gerry.
Liz nods wisely. To be honest, I get the impression that he wouldn’t be happy with anyone.
I see Gerry’s eyebrow hovering, as if she’s waiting for us to say something more, but instead Rosie sees the silence as our bid to escape.
‘So, how much do we owe you, then?’
‘Oh, let’s see,’ says Liz, pressing a button on the till. ‘Twenty-seven pounds seventy-five, then, please.’
‘Can I have a stamp as well, for the postcard? Do I have to buy that over there?’ I ask, pointing at the post-office counter.
‘I’ll run and get you one,’ says Gerry. ‘Liz will ring it through her till.’
Liz adjusts the balance and Rosie pays.
‘I’ll just quickly write this,’ I say, getting one of my pens out of the packet.
Yo Erica,
Check this out – written by my own fair hand and everything. So Rosie and I are in Cumbria. Turns out that she conned me into coming to this old farmhouse that’s riddled with mice and is falling down around us, as she’s gone and bought the bloody place.
I do my best to draw a shocked face.
I’m coping like a trooper without the Internet. I’ve not missed it in the slightest *lying heavily*.
Hope all is well with you and Chris and now that I have departed there has been much –
I start to draw an aubergine but it looks way too rude to leave on a postcard. I’m not sure if Royal Mail have censors for decency, but, either way, I scribble it out and decide to write it instead.
– ‘Aubergine’ – wink. Righto. Miss you lots. Will update you soon.
Not entirely sure of our address, but I’m sure if you write ‘Upper Gables Farm, Lullamby’ it’ll find us. The postwomen seem very helpful.
Love ya
Daisy xx
I stick the stamp on and hand it over, knowing full well that it’s going to be read by Liz and Gerry, but I need it to catch the post. We say our goodbyes to our new friends in the village shop.
‘See you again,’ calls Liz over the bell.
‘Ooh riddled with mice,’ I hear Gerry say.
Blimey, she could at least have waited for me to leave before she read it!
‘Talk about the Spanish inquisition,’ I say as we reach the car.
‘Don’t forget you’re used to being down South. Everyone’s much friendlier up here.’
‘Are you sure that it’s not more about the gossip than being friendly?’
Rosie shrugs her shoulders. ‘Same, same.’
She opens up the boot and puts in the bag of shopping before we climb back in.
The clouds that before were drab and grey seem to have become darker, as if rain is threatening, so we hurry back to the house.
I’m starting to wish I’d brought warmer clothes with me. I’m eyeing up Rosie’s North Face fleece like it’s a Stella McCartney sweatshirt. Hopefully, she was serious about sorting out my wardrobe issues as, despite the clean clothes, I don’t have much that is suited to the conditions.
By the time we make it down the bumpy track back to the farm, it’s started to drizzle, and as we’re heading to the front door, shopping in hand, Rosie stops mid-stride.
‘I can’t have closed the barn door,’ she says as she walks over and slides across the bolt. ‘Don’t want any more pigeons setting up home in there.’
I walk over to the farmhouse and wait for Rosie to unlock it with the old key. She pushes the door open like a pro and unpacks the shopping, leaving the cookies on the table and I can’t resist helping myself to one.
‘Oh, these are really good,’ I say, spilling crumbs out of my mouth.
Rosie picks one up as well. ‘Mmm,’ she agrees.
‘Do you think we should get started on dinner? I say, prodding at the worktop. ‘Do you think it’s safe to prepare food on here?’
‘I bought a couple of pizzas we can put in the oven tonight as that’s clean enough. I don’t think it was ever used. But you’re right about the rest of it, it could do with a deep clean and then it’ll be fine.’
I don’t share her optimism that a little elbow grease is all that’s needed, but at the very least it might stop us from getting E.coli.
Suddenly, there’s a large bang from outside and both of us jump.
‘What was that?’ I ask, peering nervously out of the window. The rain is really coming down now and the clouds are almost shrouding the big hills in the distance in mist.
‘Probably the wind catching something,’ says Rosie, opening the fridge to hunt for the pizza.
We hear a banging and this time it’s more rhythmic.
‘That doesn’t sound like the wind, that sounds like something’s trapped in the barn,’ I say, gulping. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t you who left the door open.’
We open the kitchen door and can hear shouting too. Rosie and I look nervously at each other.
‘Looks like you’ve caught more than a pigeon. What do we do?’ I say, my heart racing.
‘I don’t know,’ says Rosie, shaking her head.
Again I curse the fact that we’re alone here without our phones. We could have totally skyped someone as we went to investigate, safe in the knowledge that someone could have at least called the police for us if it turned out to be a crazy axe murderer. Whereas now, no one, except maybe Liz and Gerry and perhaps, at a push, the grumpy Big Foot Jack, would know where we were, and even then none of them would know we’d gone missing.
‘Perhaps we should go back to the village and get reinforcements?’ I say, wondering if there’s a village bobby as well as a pub.
‘No,’ says Rosie, ‘if we’re going to stay here, we’re going to have to deal with things like this. It’s probably just a neighbour with some scones or something.’
Listening to the thumping it doesn’t sound like they’re likely to have baked goods on their person.
Rosie takes a deep breath before jogging towards the noise. Being the supportive sister or, more accurately, the scaredy cat one who doesn’t want to be left on her own, I follow her over.
She looks at me as she takes a deep breath and slides the door across.
A man with his arms outstretched flies at us.
I scream and cling onto Rosie, using her as a human shield. If I’m going down, then at least she’s going first; after all, she’s the one who got us into this mess.