Susan Hill - Hunger

Her brain swirled. The clouds parted to show a clear patch of night sky.

She went inside.

‘I think this is it,’ Adrian said the next morning. He had called in sick. ‘After last night I do feel sick, in actual fact.’ He had brought tea and got back into bed. ‘I really think this is it.’

‘What is what?’

‘To begin with, I never realised what the commute would be like. Never imagined it. Which I really should have done. You should look at a thing from all sides.’

Paula sat up. Beyond the window the sky was pearl grey and the air coming through it was fresh.

‘And you’re lonely.’

She looked round at him. ‘I’m not lonely.’

‘Of course you are or you wouldn’t have had those kids round all the time.’

‘I didn’t…’

‘I don’t blame you, Paula. I understand, actually. It’s obvious you’ve been lonely and I should have seen it. I’ve been a bit selfish.’

Her mouth worked, but no words came out. She did not fully understand him.

‘We don’t have to go back to Salisbury Road. We could try a bit further in. There’s that nice new development at Ashtree.’

‘What are you talking about?’

But it was obvious. She looked at him and saw the light of determination in his eyes.

‘I’m happy here,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to live on a new development.’

‘Of course you’re not happy.’

Paula repeated to herself what he had just said. How had she not understood before now? She had simply never realised.

‘And the commute is killing me. Oh, the weekends are great, going for our walks, being surrounded by…’ He waved his hand.

‘Nature.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But how much of it do I get to see otherwise? It’s OK for you.’

‘Yes,’ Paula said. ‘It is.’ Because it was and the walks had nothing to do with it.

‘I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out, but with these kids wrecking the place… We’ll have to be careful about that, by the way – not to mention it.’

‘I thought you were going to phone the police.’

‘Best left, I think. I mean, on reflection. No, I meant not mention it to prospective buyers.’

‘There won’t be any.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there will. This is a dream cottage. That’s why we bought it. Our dream cottage.’

‘It’s still mine.’

‘You’ll be much better off at Ashtree. I’ll check out the website.’

‘No.’

‘They’re bound to have a website.’

‘I mean, no, don’t bother to check it out. Unless you want to go to Ashtree on your own. It would probably suit you.’

‘You ought to stay in bed today. You had a nasty experience. You’re not yourself.’

‘I am, actually. That is exactly what I am – myself. I’m staying here by myself. If I have to.’

‘You’re still in shock.’

‘No,’ Paula said.

Adrian moved out the following week.

‘It isn’t permanent, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s only until you come to your senses.’

He tried to put his arm round her, but she dodged it.

The night after he left she walked round the cottage, then round the garden, then up and down the lane, feeling as if she might take off and float. It was warm again but clear, the moon like a wire. Quiet. She made tea and sat on the grass, trying to remember when Adrian had started to talk about moving to the country, when she had started to take him seriously, when it had become her own want, stronger than his, but for different reasons. He had tried it on to see if it would fit, half-serious, then in panic when he found himself here. She had slipped into it as into the right skin.

The children had not been back. The damage and mess had been a gesture and once made, needn’t be repeated. It had almost certainly not been done by them anyway. They had gone home, crying, talking about policemen and the adults had taken matters into their own hands.

But now that Adrian had gone Paula felt she had permission to worry about them again. When she saw them she would say they could come whenever they liked.

She did not see them and after three days she walked up to the field, carrying a bag of crisps and some apples. If the woman was there, she would try and speak to her and explain. Apologise.

The field was empty. The grass where the caravan had been was pressed down and yellowed and there were muddy grooves, but otherwise no sign that it had been there at all. Paula scuffed the grass back into place here and there with the side of her shoe and for a moment felt as if the space that had contained them and the van in which they lived was still full of them. But it was not.

That night she boiled two eggs and set them on a plate with salad and bread and butter, but when she sat down at the table she felt nauseous and could not eat. In the morning she left her cereal untouched. Her throat constricted when she looked at it.

She drank, tea, coffee, water, ate a few squares of chocolate. Nothing else for days. The cottage was deathly quiet. She walked out sometimes, down the slope between the trees, and saw the ghosts of the children stirring the leaf soup, heard their footsteps on the path as they grabbed the bird nuts and pattered away, their pockets full. It rained, then it was hot again. She stopped working. Her paints dried up in their pots.

Adrian rang.

‘It’s a great house,’ he said. ‘Small, but it’s detached. You wouldn’t be bothered by the neighbours. It’s got a south-facing garden.’

‘Trees?’

‘Well, they’ve put some little ones in, attached to those wooden posts, you know. They’ll soon grow. Quite a few kids.’ He laughed. ‘Look properly fed, of course.’

‘Ah.’

‘How are the little Gypsies?’

‘Fine.’ Paula said. ‘They’re fine.’

‘They been round again?’

‘Oh yes. Certainly. I make them toast and cake. You know.’

‘Paula, I warned you.’

‘Yes. You did.’

‘I think I’ve been very patient.’

‘Yes,’ Paula said. ‘You have.’

‘So when are you moving over here? When are you coming to your senses?’

Paula looked out of the window. It was raining again, a soft veil of rain drifting across the grass.

‘Never,’ she said. ‘No. Probably never.’

It was joyous, dancing in the rain. No one saw her. When she was soaked through she went inside, smiling to herself and made toast. Four slices. Buttered them. Ate them, watching the rain mist the windows of the lean-to. The broken pane was still patched with the plywood Adrian had taped over it.

One day, she would get it properly fixed.

Susan Hill has been a professional writer for over 50 years. Her books have won the Whitbread, and John Llewellyn Prizes, and the W. Somerset Maugham Award and been shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Her novels include Strange Meeting , I’m the King of the Castle and A Kind Man , and she has also published autobiography and collections of short stories. Her ghost story, The Woman in Black , has been running in London’s West End since 1988.

Susan Hill is married with two adult daughters and lives in North Norfolk.