He’d have maybe an hour of this quiet before Allie would wake up. He would hear her pad down the creaky stairs, stop and look for him in the kitchen, and then come outside. She would bring her cup with her and pour the last tea out of the pot. She liked it sticky sweet, and would spread gobs of butter and jam on the toast he’d make for her.
They spoke little on these early mornings. Sometimes she would tell him about her dreams from the night before, but mostly they just sat and listened to the morning. Sometimes she would fall asleep in her chair for a few minutes, and he would know that her dreams had been bad and her sleep shaky. Other mornings, she would light one of her few remaining cigarettes and smoke it slowly with deep, long drags. She’d sit far back in her chair and stare at the sky, and Neal didn’t have to ask or wonder about what she was thinking.
It was always Allie who broke their reverie, suddenly standing up and carrying the teapot and cups back into the cottage. She’d come back a few minutes later, dressed and her hair brushed, and gently kick the leg of his chair, where he would be taking a catnap. He would get up and they would walk over the top of the hill. The first time they did this, three days into her withdrawal, they made slow progress, and she leaned on his arm for the few minutes that they walked. He knew it embarrassed her. He watched her determination take over as their morning walk became a symbol of her independence, her shift from passive victim to active participant, and he always let her set the pace. She was recovering quickly.
The crest of the hill was a revelation, as it sloped steeply on the other side to a deeply wooded valley, which lay in stark contrast to the bleak beauty of the moor. The first few times that they climbed to the crest, they were content to stay there and enjoy the view: the short tufts of stubby grass and heather giving way to the lush green meadow, a brook, and then the wood. But on the third morning, Allie wordlessly set off down the slope, leaving him to follow or not. He did, staying well behind her, letting her lead them to the side of the brook. He sat down beside her on a fallen log. She was puffing, fighting for air, and her face was flushed with the effort. She was smiling. They sat for a long time until she could catch her breath, and the climb back up to the cottage was hard for them both.
“You’re going to owe me sixteen thousand dollars, mister,” she said between gasps, “and I’ll have earned every penny.”
After that, they pushed their walk a little farther every day. They found some stones on which they could cross the brook without getting wet, and it led to a natural footpath through the thick green wood. It was cool in there, cool and dark. Birds they didn’t recognize fled in short hops in front of them, scolding them for their intrusion. Sometimes Neal and Allie would sit in the dark of the wood and listen to the birds. Other times, they would walk straight through and come out the other side to a meadow bordered by a rail fence. The meadow was oval-shaped and at the far end was a narrow gate that opened onto a trail leading back up the slope to the open moor. Some mornings, they arrived to find the shepherd there. The old man would lean on the rails of the fence, smoking a pipe, a shotgun cradled in his arm as he directed the efforts of his dog.
The frenetic Border Collie would gather the sheep into a rough circle, and then the shepherd would shout, “Gate!” and the dog would drive the sheep headlong through the gate and up the trail, barking and nipping at recalcitrant heels. Other times, the shepherd would walk well ahead, his mind on foxes and stouts, and Neal and Allie would hear his shout from a distance. The dog didn’t care; he knew his job. The voice was good enough. This ritual became a favorite part of their day, and they tried to time the walk to the rhythms of the dog and the shepherd.
As Allie got stronger, she would push herself farther, leading them out of the meadow and up the hill on the other side. Much to their surprise and delight, they found a small, deep pond over the opposite hill and decided that one afternoon they would go back and swim.
The return walk was usually slow and leisurely, but they rarely spoke. It was as if they feared words would bring the real world back, and the real world was too full of memories, and pain, and problems.
And heroin. And Colin. And heroin.
The walk always made them hungry. After the first week Neal trusted her enough to leave her at the cottage while he hiked down into the village to replenish their stores. He didn’t want to attract any more attention than he had to by bringing the Keble, London plates and all, into the tiny village.
For lunch, they would have bread, cheese, and fruit. Canned soup on colder days. Sometimes thick slices of ham with mustard. Allie’s appetite improved by the day, and Neal always ate like a pregnant horse anyway, so lunch was a big occasion. They ate outside when the weather let them, on a table they had made from an old door and two sawhorses. They drank cold tea, syrupy lemonade, or plain water. Neal would have loved a beer, warm or no, but was afraid to let Allie have any, and equally reluctant to be selfish by drinking in front of her.
They napped after lunch. She would fall exhausted into her own bed in the large bedroom, while Neal would settle into his own bed in a guest room. At first, he didn’t sleep-suspicious that this nap bit was a dodge for her to sneak off. But she was truly tired, especially if it had been a rough night, and the exercise and fresh air did her in. Him, too. He’d try to read but would fall asleep after a few minutes. One of those deep, heavy sleeps. One afternoon, they climbed the stairs together, arriving at their respective doors at the same time. They stood in the hall for a long moment before Neal turned and went into his room. He shut the door behind him and realized that he had never done that before. He opened it quickly, to see her standing there, looking hurt and scared, and they both laughed a nervous laugh. She reached out and took his hand, gave it a quick and gentle squeeze, and went into her room. She left the door open.
He went to his own bed and flopped down on it. Jesus, Neal, he thought. Just Jesus, that’s all. He meant to brood on the whole thing for a long time but fell asleep instead. After that afternoon, it became another ritual. They would climb the stairs together, pause in the hallway, she would squeeze his hand, and they would go to their separate beds.
They would sleep for a couple of hours or so, rising in the late afternoon to start the preparations for their supper and her bath. She began to take over the chore of heating her own water, and after a couple of days could easily manage getting in and out of the tub, to Neal’s simultaneous relief and regret. The late afternoons could get heavy, with doubts and fears sneaking in with the approaching dark. She would really start to feel the need again, and get jumpy and edgy-hostile.
It often rained in the late afternoon, the day brooding along with them, the dark sky mocking their darker thoughts: she of dope and parents and lover left behind, he of the reality that was coming fast as summer waned, of those same parents, and Friends of the Family, and nominations to high office, and decisions that could not be put off much longer. They thought about a truth she didn’t want to know and he didn’t want to tell.
So it was a tense silence that colored their late-afternoon teas. Forced inside by the weather, they would sit by the fire and sip their tea, pointedly reading old paperbacks, and the quiet was not something they shared but something that divided them.
They were in the cottage for two weeks when the visitor came. Neal returned from a supply run in the village one afternoon, to find Allie pouring tea for the shepherd. The collie lay by the fire, savoring an oatmeal cookie. The shotgun was in the corner behind the door.
“Pardon the intrusion,” the shepherd said, getting up. “My name is Hardin.”
“I’ve seen you work the sheep,” Neal said, looking at Allie, who gave him a warm, domestic smile.