Читать книгу Under an Amber Sky: A Gripping Emotional Page Turner You Won’t Be Able to Put Down - Rose Alexander - Страница 17

Chapter 7

The hours, days, and weeks went by, melding into one, forming a huge vacuum inside which Sophie flailed and floundered. And then February came, and with it one of the rarest occurrences in coastal Montenegro. Sophie woke early one morning and immediately sensed the quiet stillness that snow brings. Shivering in her cotton pyjamas, she flung open her window and stood, wonderstruck, at the sight she beheld.

The bay was frozen, the water a black plate of ice. On the far side, the roofs of the houses were coated white and behind them rose the dark mountains, grazed by a covering of snow that glimmered in the light of the still-present moon. Sophie felt very far from the sky, as if at the bottom of a volcano’s caldera, enclosed within its steep, insurmountable sides.

Looking down at the street directly below her window, she saw that the snow had been thrown into piles along the roadside by the vehicles that had already passed by, and she discerned the gleam of ice on its compacted surface. She would be apprehensive about driving anywhere in these conditions or even taking the bus; there was no wall along most of the bay front and it would be only too easy to end up skidding and going over the edge.

But such weather might never happen again and she had the urge to go out, to see Kotor in the snow, to wish people good day, to shun the evasion of all contact that had become habitual. She felt like Scrooge, transformed on Christmas morning.

She pulled on her warmest socks and boots and jammed her hat down over her ears. By the time she left the house, children were out all along the road, building snowmen, sliding on the packed ice, screaming with joy, cheeks ruddy and eyes sparkling. A snowball grazed her nose and made her jump, causing shrieks of delight from those assembled on one side of the road and shouts of apology from the other, from whence the errant missile had come. She smiled and waved and almost skipped as she continued her journey.

A fragile frosting of snow lay on the tips of the junipers, oleanders, and figs that lined the bay and, now the sun had come up, Sophie could hear the steady patter of droplets of water falling to the ground below. The ice on the bay was also melting in the rising sun’s rays, the evaporation forming a thin layer of light fog that stretched as far as the eye could see. A boat coming from the open sea towards Kotor seemed to be sailing in upon the clouds.

Sophie thought back to her solitary wanderings of the previous summer, the August that had crawled so painfully and inexorably on. Sometimes, she had wanted to disappear and at others she had simply willed the world to stop, unable to understand the cruelty of a globe that could continue to turn when there was no point to any of it any more. She had gone out, occasionally, but often only got as far as the bus stop before turning back again. Once or twice she had made it to the park and walked by the boating lake.

The summer had been dismal; cold, constant rain, skies perpetually overcast with dull grey clouds. By the lake, flocks of similarly grey Canada geese honked and squawked as she pushed her way through them, the grass covered with their dung, their greedy beaks thrust intrusively forwards in case she was carrying food. She remembered considering taking a rowing boat out but then assessing what was involved – standing in the queue, engaging with the boatman, paying – and it was all too exhausting to even contemplate. She had returned home instead, and cried some more for Matt.

It occurred to her now that she no longer felt the utterly visceral misery of that summer, so though it seemed that nothing had changed this was not in fact the case. It was far too soon to be getting better, but at least she was getting different and that was an improvement on the months of stagnation.

Continuing her walk, her stomach growled in response to the scent of warm bread that wafted towards her from a baker’s shop. She went in. Freshly ground coffee mingled with the delicious, homely aroma of baking and suddenly Sophie was starving, properly hungry for the first time in months. She bought half a baguette to take home and two fat croissants for now, chomping through one of them before she’d covered another fifty paces.

The old town, when she got there, was picture-perfect with a topping of snow adorning the ramparts, and a backdrop of mountains that glistened in the morning sun.

‘Hello.’

She was vaguely aware of hearing the greeting but took no notice. It cannot have been aimed at her; she didn’t know anyone here. But then it came again, another ‘hello’ that was nearer and more insistent and she saw r, with a swift look about her, that there was no one else in the vicinity so she must be the addressee and anyway, why would someone be randomly speaking English if not to her?

She turned around and her mystification intensified as found herself looking up at a tall man with a beanie hat pulled down over his forehead. His identity was further hidden by the dark glasses he was wearing against the glare of the sun refracting off the snow.

‘Mrs Taylor? Sophie?’ The man held out his hand. All of a sudden, Sophie realized who it was. Darko, the translator. She took his gloved hand in hers and shook it. She remembered that she’d liked him, back in the summer, even though their meeting had been brief and entirely focused on the purchase of the house. He’d had an air of quiet competence and authority about him, enhanced by a smile that was kind and genuine. And, she recalled, under the hat were the coal-black curls of Sir Lancelot.

‘Have you time for a coffee?’

Darko’s request, simple, straightforward, interrupted her thoughts and took her by surprise. She had become so accustomed to being alone, these last, solitary weeks. Being alone is a fact, something you either are or are not, whilst loneliness is a feeling. She had experienced both. Now she felt that she had forgotten how to talk, how to interact at all.

‘That – that would be lovely,’ she stuttered, effortfully. ‘Thank you.’

Darko gestured for her to go ahead of him through the gates into the old town. ‘Please – this way,’ he said. ‘Take care as the cobbles are slippery where the ice still lies.’

Sophie smiled at his old-fashioned courtesy and concern for her wellbeing.

‘I’m so pleased to see you here,’ he went on. ‘I expected you to be a summer-only visitor, as most foreign buyers are.’

‘Well, I …’ Sophie couldn’t think of a simple explanation for her out-of-season presence. ‘I like it here,’ she settled on, and left it at that.

Darko was weaving a complicated route through the maze of lanes and alleyways. Sophie had not even begun to get her bearings here, despite her now frequent visits. The place was small enough never to get truly lost and every meandering revealed new squares and streets she’d never seen before, so she had no desire to make a mental map. Serendipity had, on several occasions, brought her to an organic health food shop and a superb bakery, and there was nothing else she had needed so far. The many souvenir shops and boutiques were mostly closed and anyway she had no use for trinkets, fancy clothes, or shoes.

‘I’m taking you to my favourite café,’ said Darko, as if to explain the complicated route and the passing of many seemingly suitable hostelries. ‘It has the best coffee and an open fire, which is a treat on a day like this.’ He paused, a look of concern clouding his face. ‘And the hot chocolate’s really good too. You might prefer that, as you look so cold,’ he added.

Sophie smiled again at his consideration – and as she did so, became conscious of a strange aching in her jaw that she could not at first understand. And then it dawned on her that it was the effort of smiling, of using muscles that had not been worked for so many weeks, that was causing the pain. The vague grins she gave her fisherman did not count; all facial expressions were necessarily underplayed with him as she had no idea if she were listening to a story of a bereavement or a birthday and did not want to insult or offend with the wrong reaction.

She turned to look back over her shoulder at Darko, who was close behind her, watching over her in case she took a tumble on the stones despite his warnings.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’ve warmed me up already.’

As soon as the words were out, she thought how peculiar they must sound. But Darko just flashed her a generous smile. Perhaps Darko, unwittingly, was the one who would rescue her from her exile from the human race.

Over coffee, he told her that he’d learnt his excellent English at school, followed by a summer season working on farms all across Britain. Now, as well as being a translator, he was a lawyer and had a number of British clients who he acted for in property purchases and other matters.

‘A lawyer,’ Sophie repeated after him, stirring her coffee unnecessarily vigorously. ‘Just like Matt.’

Darko raised his eyebrows. He’d taken the beanie off in the warmth of the café, and its absence seemed to accentuate the depth of expression in his black eyes and the luxuriance of his tumbling hair.

‘Who is Matt?’ he asked, casually. ‘Your boyfriend, maybe?’

Sophie let her spoon clatter back onto her saucer. She had forgotten that Darko knew nothing about her; all he had done in the summer was translate legal proceedings and a document. Naturally, he had not been apprised of her personal situation.

‘Matt is – was – my husband, actually,’ she replied slowly.

Darko nodded.

‘But he’s dead.’

The words blurted out before she’d thought about them and immediately she regretted it. She didn’t want to tell anyone, recoiled from talking about Matt. At least, that’s the way she’d thought she felt. But now, in the warm fug of the café, with the sun burning through the black ice outside and glinting against the windowpanes, she suddenly wanted to tell this almost-stranger everything about him.

Darko’s eyes had darkened, if that were possible, with her words. ‘I’m sorry.’ He reached his hand across the table, to where hers lay beside her cup, and patted it briefly, gently.

‘Thank you.’ Sophie sniffed and wrinkled up her nose but it was to no avail. The tears were coming, tears that she couldn’t believe she still had after all the weeping weeks. The kindness of strangers, she found herself thinking, as she fumbled for a tissue. Funny how that could make one dissolve, all stoicism eradicated. In between sobs, she told the story of what had happened to Matt, how she had come to purchase the stone house and what had induced her to move to a country she had only previously spent two weeks in.

Darko didn’t seem surprised by the latter information. ‘Everyone who comes is beguiled,’ he stated, without hubris. ‘But for you – it’s a big step. You are very brave.’

Overcome once more, Sophie couldn’t speak to reply. She shook her head and continued to cry until her face, her scarf, and the tablecloth were soaked through with tears.