Author's Note: To people who read chapter one - please semi-disregard that chapter. It's getting reworked. Even the character is getting slightly reworked. Please take that into consideration when reading/reviewing this piece. More background to come in the next chapter. Adios!
A big, fat raindrop lands on my cheek, causing me to jerk my head up in surprise, gazing at the darkening grey sky with contempt. I wiped the drop away, just in time for another to splatter against my nose.
I groan, watching in horror as the rain comes down fast and thick. I’m only wearing a coat, and in minutes its saturated through. There’s no use even uearing my hood, which is now filled with water.
I grab my bags, holding a smaller carry case over my head in a futile attempt to remain dry. There’s a huge big oak tree not too far away from the station’s platform, and I make a dash for it.
It’s noticeably drier underneath the tree, and I take a deep breath in. I can handle this. After all, it’s just a little bit of rain, right? A passing shower. Nothing to be worried about.
I just hope nothing in my suitcase is wet, I think to myself, shrugging out of my coat. My wet blonde hair clings to the nape of my neck, making me shiver, but at least it’s dry in here, the thick foliage of the tree only letting a few drops in.
I look across to where I’d been standing a few minutes ago - the very sorry excuse for Norwood-on-Wombly’s train station. Actually, it’s more of a heap of stone set in a rectangular shape. Just one lump of concrete in the middle of nowhere.
My watch tells me it’s almost four thirty in the afternoon. I’ve been waiting for at least twenty minutes for someone to come and pick me up from the station, but I haven’t seen one vehicle yet. Just another train as it roared on past about five minutes ago.
Somebody was supposed to come and collect me. That’s what the email said. Somebody would be at the station, at four o’clock, to pick me up and take me back to Norwood Abbey.
I’m beginning to doubt the whole idea of moving here. Maybe I should have stayed with Louise. Her parents are my godparents, after all. So far it’s been nothing but a giant headache, from the flight delays in Perth to having to lug all my stuff halfway across London, just to catch a train that has taken me to a part of England that looks as if it hasn’t changed since 1940.
Which is kind of true. The road isn’t asphalt, but gravel instead. There’s no power lines or road signs, nothing to suggest it’s 2010, apart from the train tracks.
I wonder how far it is to Norwood-on-Wombly. I’ve got no phone signal, and maybe there’s a public phone. And a coffee shop. Preferably with a fireplace. Or central heating.
The thought of warmth gets me moving, and wrapping my arms around me, I walk out of the shelter of the oak tree and onto the road, past the point of caring about staying dry. The road crosses over the train tracks, and through a grove of trees. In the opposite direction, it was just the road, winding around a corner and out of sight.
I turned back round again, feeling frustrated. Surely there must be a sign somewhere, pointing people in the right direction? A rock carving, anything!
A sound made me whip around, squinting through the rain. A small black car was visible in the distance, the hum of the engine an intruder amongst the natural sounds around me. I watch, standing on the side of the road in the pouring rain, as the small car becomes a large ute.
Well, not exactly a ute, but you get my point. It wasn’t a small car.
I quickly glance at my phone through the opening of the pockets to my jeans, checking the date. The ute - or pick up truck, whatever they call this type of car over here, looks like an exact replica of the one from the Chronicles of Narnia film, and that was set during the War.
The truck gets closer, and soon it’s rumbling to a stop next to where I’m standing. I’m about to go up and ask the person inside for directions, when a tall man jumps out of the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a slick black raincoat and gumboots that are caked in mud. I can’t see his face underneath the hood.
“Lucy Summers?” His voice is thick and husky as he yells over the rain. I nod in reply.
“Where’s your things?” he asks, bringing his head up to look towards the platform. I point towards the oak tree, and in a moment he’s under it, coming back through the leaves with my bags.
“Careful with that!” I yell, making a grab for my small black case that was balanced precariously on his left arm. The panic that had begun to form in my stomach subsided as the man opened the passenger door, loading my bags into the back seat.
We stood for a moment, in the rain, just looking at each other. Well, on his part looking. I still couldn’t see his face.
“Are you coming?” he asked, jerking his head towards the truck. I flinch involuntarily, not realizing how close we were standing to each other. I can hear his voice perfectly.
I gulp, nodding my head and making my way round the to the front passenger seat of the truck.
Inside it’s nice and warm. The interior is a bit out dated, and everything smells like wet leather. The man - who still hasn’t introduced himself yet - starts up the truck, and it roars to life. Making a u-turn, he pulled the truck around, setting off in the same direction that he came from.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye. The hood of his raincoat is off, and to my surprise, he’s a lot younger than I imagined him to be. Brown hair sticks to his head, drenched from the rain. His face is quite angular and chiselled, and he reminds me of one of the characters from I Capture the Castle.
Which means in code, he’s actually quite gorgeous.
“Who are you?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I can feel myself turning red in the face at my abruptness.
A small smile crosses his lips, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the road. The windscreen wipers make a horrible screeching noise across the glass as we peer out into the rainy countryside.
“Tom,” he replies after a while. Was there a slight hesitation in his voice? A fleeting thought crossed my mind. I’ve been picked up by a total stranger. Maybe he’s going to sell me off on the black market, and it’ll just be like Taken, that film I saw with Louise a couple of years ago, except I’ll have no secret agent father to rescue me.
“My father’s the gamekeeper at Norwood. He was supposed to come and collect you, but he got caught out on the moors bringing the sheep in. He asked me to get you,” Tom explains in one sentence. His accent is quite deep and thick, and I find myself only understanding what he has said a little while after he’s finished talking.
“Oh…thank you,” I reply politely. So he’s not a serial killer, he’s the gamekeeper’s son.
The rest of the trip to Norwood Abbey is in silence. We don’t pass through the village at all, so I assume it’s in the other direction. I only see a couple of houses just off the road. Apart from that, it’s all stone walls and sheep. We don’t pass another car either.
I decide that Tom’s not exactly the talkative type. The only other time we speak to each other is when I gave an involuntary shudder, and he turned up the heating. I said, “Thanks.”
He said, “ No problem.”
So I just stare out the window, watching the raindrops race each other, feeling the dampness invade my body.
Before long we’re turning down another gravel road, but this one is small and narrow. An old, faded sign points in the direction of Norwood Abbey. We’re almost there. Trees line the side of the road, and along with the tall and wild hedges, it is impossible to get a glimpse of the Abbey. And then we turn into a curve of the driveway, and there it is.
Norwood Abbey. My new home.
