Ok, milestone passed, now to deal with the parents. (she said with all the self assurance that comes from writing in the future)
I find myself strolling around the beach in no time at all, the journey a wash of pictures I pay no attention to, too absorbed in my own thoughts. I’m now almost certain I love Roger. As I feel the wet sand beneath my feet, and see waves slowly ebbing beside me, I remember when I first came to the island, and how I fell in love with it. But I loved university when I first visited it. I love my parents, and my friends, and I left them... I climb back up to the house, and see light through the frosted windows of the toilet block. Igor and his chicken groupies run towards me, held back by the mesh of their enclosure, before quickly losing interest and running back the other way. I poke my head around the door of the cottage, and find it empty. The camp bed is unmade, but the cottage is otherwise vacant. I stand in the middle of the room, taking in every inch of the building I had worked so hard to make my own. My eyes fall on the beautiful stove, the white walls, my bed, my table... and something on the table. A shoebox with a thick purple ribbon tied around it, and a gaudy gift-shop bow on top. Resting against the box is a piece of paper, folded in half with “Read me, Emma, read me!” written in large biro letters. Curious, I read the paper, and smile.
“Emma.” It reads, “Welcome to Scotland, and you’re welcome to it. Glad to hear you’re not actually dead, and I am very, very sorry for falling out of communication. I will remember to write, as it seems your new, Amish way of life does not support voicemail. I know there’s a lot going on right now but I have to get back to Bath; so far Greg has done about 80% of the wedding preparation and my mother has done about 19. If I’m not careful, I may end up not being in it. However I know you are mid-crisis and I couldn’t leave you stranded, so in the shoe box is something that might help. If not, then it’ll at least provide some anecdotes for small talk. Love, hugs kisses and etc, Vikkie”
I roll my eyes, but smile despite myself. Cautiously, I pull off the ribbon and look inside the shoebox. What I see inside makes me want to laugh and weep simultaneously. Nestled in a tea-towel, its’ shiny black surface dull with smears where it had been wiped clean but not properly dried, is the Magic Eight Ball. I lift it up, smiling as it shone in the sunlight. I walk back outside, and stand by the steps, looking out as the sun glitters on the sea.
“Emma.” My mother walks up behind me, making me jump a little. “We need to talk about this, Emma.” I nod, but say nothing. I look down into the swirling blue liquid inside the ball, my mind oddly clear of the confusion and buzz that it had been filled with.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” Mum’s voice sounds distant, far away...
“Emma!” I jump as she barks at me, the shock overriding the realisation that the Magic Eight Ball had slipped through my fingers. It rolls down the steps, thumping and bouncing as it falls. I start down after it, followed by despairing threats from my mum. It bounces off the rock face and rolls around the outcrop, out of sight. I run after it, but come to an abrupt stop as Arthur rounded the outcrop at the same time, almost bumping into me.
“Let me guess...” he smiles, holding up the magic eight ball. “Yours?”
I flush a little, smiling.
“You better not let my parents see you.”
“Why?” He grins, handing me the ball. “Are they going to take you away? Or are you about to give in and go home?”
I look down at the orb, and under a veil of swirling blue water, I see words that make my eyebrows shoot up.
“All signs point to No.”
No. My Parents weren’t going to take me away.
No. My Parents couldn’t make me change my mind.
No. I wasn’t going anywhere and I certainly wasn’t giving up.
It was cheesy. God knows it was cheesy, but I look up at Arthur, his lopsided smile waiting a response. Grinning, I leap at him, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. After a brief, shocked pause, I can feel his hands on my waist as he kisses back. I pull away from him, before grabbing his hand, and I lead him with determination back up the steps. My mum stands still, glaring at me with suspicion.
“Mother!” I call up to her from the bottom of the steps, my voice straining against the sea wind but filled with ecstasy all the same. “I’m eighteen years old. I’m an adult. I have my own house, I am in charge of my own campsite. I can’t bake bread but I can live on pie. I dropped out of an English literature course but I can read and write as much as I like out here. I’m not spending time in student clubs but I’m in a relationship with a man... a wonderful man, eleven years older than me. You may not like it but this is my life now, and I’m not going back and I’m not changing.” I find myself brimming with pride, a million passions boiling in my chest as my heart knocks against my ribcage. I look up at her, eyes wide and expectant. I meet her gaze and, for a moment, even the wind seems to hold its breath. After an agonising, intense pause, she raises an eyebrow, and draws her lips into a thin line.
“You’re really happy out here?”
“Yes.” I’m oddly breathless, and I quietly grip Arthur’s hand tighter. It sends a tingle through me when he squeezes back.
“Well.” Mum looks around, breathing deeply, and wipes her eyes. “I suppose I can’t ask for anything other than that.” At that point, we both start sniffing and sobbing, and I take the steps two at a time to hug her. We hug forever, almost as if it was a goodbye hug. A hug saying goodbye to my student life, and to all the trappings and problems that came with it. Halfway through the hug, I become aware of Dad standing beside us, having an awkward conversation with Arthur. Sniffing and laughing at the same time, Mum lets go of me, and we both smile as we look out over the sea. In the distance, I see the small boat chugging out to see us, with a small group of people wearing backpacks and with camping equipment. I’m still holding hands with Mum as we look out over the beautiful mid-morning vista. Arthur moves closer beside me, resting one hand on my waist. He bows his head closer to my ear, his dark eyebrows drawn together, and a crooked smile on his face as he watches the little boat chug nearer to the island.
“You did remember to fix the slogan on the website, didn’t you?”
Dun Dun Dun daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. And that’s the end, cheesed up because I’m in the mood for a happy ending to my long long tale of woe.
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Relationshipshape
Ok, it’s awkward.
I mean the whole evening was great, don’t get me wrong. He’d made steak and chips and we ate it in front of the film that I’d picked, “Batman Begins”. (Which as it turned out we both hated, some things just bridge the generation gap nicely). It was quite comfy, sitting on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table next to his, watching him frown at the screen every now and again and catching his eye during a particularly crap part. Afterwards he went through his DVD collection and found one of the older Batman films. We actually didn’t make it through to the end of that one, what started as a chat about which comic adaptation was the best quickly devolved into cushion throwing and movie bashing.
At about eleven he yawned loudly (for over a minute - it was quite impressive) and we both went upstairs. My guest room was at the opposite end of the landing to his and we paused awkwardly in the no-man’s-land between. After a second or two of watching his feet he kissed me lightly, a dry brush of lips. He went to his room, and I went to mine.
It had clearly been shut up for a long time, there were no pictures on the wall and it felt cold and unlived in. But there were clean sheets on the bed and the carpet had clearly been vacuumed recently. I took the sight in without really focusing on it. I felt restless, like there was something I was supposed to be doing, but couldn’t quite set my mind on. I imagine this must be how people in films felt when the people watching them are shouting “Kiss him!” or “He’s got an axe”, vaguely unsettled and indecisive. (hopefully those lines aren’t in the same film....at least not in the same scene)
I stop my train of thought with an effort and yank on my pyjamas. I remember that I put a book in my bag, so I climb into the freshly made up bed and start reading. Twenty minutes later I have failed to take in anything and my ears are straining to hear anything from the rest of the house. Nothing. I decide Arthur must already be asleep. But just as I’m about to turn off the lamp and try to get to sleep, I hear his voice from a room at the other side of the house.
“Go to bloody sleep”
I suppress a smile. “But I’m really bored” I call back petulantly. There’s another slight pause in which I can feel him weighing up the conversation, then he calls out again.
“I’m watching The Sweeny in here”
I get out of bed and pad across the landing. Arthur’s lying in the middle of his bed, still fully dressed, minus socks. I sit down on the creased blue duvet and listen as he patiently explains the show to me. I’m just starting to consider returning to my own room to get some sleep, when my eyes drift shut.
When I wake up, sunlight is filtering through the blue curtains. I start to move, stretching out of my cramped position, then I encounter a warm shape and freeze. Arthur is lying next to me, still asleep, snoring. I’m tucked under his arm with my head resting on his chest. The arm that I’m under rests across my waist and tightens a little as I shift. The television is still on, now showing the news, but it’s muted. “Arthur?” I whisper, gently, if a little awkwardly, resting my hand on his chest. He doesn’t respond, so I let my head rest against him. I’m still in my pyjamas, he’s still as I found him; nothing happened. But I feel so sublimely happy that the thought of anything happening is redundant. I look at my hand, small and dainty against his broad chest, and close my eyes again. It was all a bad dream, all of it. Parents moaning at me, Vikkie being interviewed by a news station because everyone thought I was dead, Daniel and me... Daniel in general... this was the only thing that had ever been real, this was the only thing that mattered. I sigh happily, and wriggle my shoulders as I snuggle into the pillows.
“Don’t start sighing and being all girly. I don’t want you going soft on me.” Arthur mutters without opening his eyes. “Sorry.” I smile, but I can’t help fixing on that word. Girly. I look down at my pyjamas, blue with little white pandas dancing over them. I came here to get away from a life I thought I was too mature for. But now I’m here, and I realise that maturity and experience are two very different things. “What time is it?” Arthur mumbles, his arm flexing around my waist, briefly pulling me closer to him. I look at the clock on the morning news, but it takes a few minutes for me to actually focus on it long enough to answer him. “Nine thirty.” I clear my throat, trying to sound bright and breezy. “I should go and get changed, I have to go back to my parents...” I sit up, but he holds the back of my pyjama top. “But I was comfy.” “Arthur.” I roll my eyes and walk back to my room. I can hear his voice echoing in my head. Girly. Girly? No. I’ve done more in the past few months than some people do in ten years. I’ve set up my own business, I’ve got my own property, I’ve completely renovated my own house... I’ve got a working farm that isn’t necessarily going to survive the winter, I’ve got a huge debt to the student loan company, I’m in a relationship with a guy twice my age, I’ve drunkenly slept with his son, I’m a university drop-out... I drag myself back to my senses as I realise that I’ve been trying to get my head through a sleeve for the past five minutes. Sighing, I throw the offending T-shirt to the floor, and throw myself on the bed. What am I going to do? I struggle into my clothes, and ram my pyjamas back into my bag. The door creaks open a little, accompanied by a brisk knocking.
“Emma?” Arthur clears his throat, sounding awkward. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. No. Yes.” I blather as I cross to the door, catching him off guard as I pull it open. He stumbles a little, before regaining his balance and giving me a stern look.
“I meant to do that.”
“Sure.” I chuckle, but I find myself holding back tears of confusion. It must have been obvious, because he wordlessly opened his arms, hugging me.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Mmf.” I mumble, my face buried in his shoulder.
“I see.” He presses his lips to my forehead, before looking up again. “And how does that make you feel?”
I hit him on the shoulder, but make no attempt to move away from the hug. We stand there, in the middle of the doorway, me still holding my bag, and neither of us speaking. Eventually, he steps back, leaning against the wall.
“Well go on then.”
“What?” I sniff, a little confused.
“Go for a walk, go back to your island. You’ll find a way to figure it out. Be at one with nature, pray to the Pagan gods. Just... get happy.”
“How did you know I pray to Pagan gods?” I smile, only half joking.
“You ran away to Glastonbury and there are pentagrams on the majority of your possessions.” He tapped his nose, with a wry smile. “You can’t fool me, I’ve been watching The Sweeney for twenty odd years.”
Gratefully, I chuckle, and go to walk past him, but stop. I look up at him, and firmly plant a kiss on his lips. He looks down at me, smiling, before rolling his eyes.
“Go on, before I have to throw you out.”
I mean the whole evening was great, don’t get me wrong. He’d made steak and chips and we ate it in front of the film that I’d picked, “Batman Begins”. (Which as it turned out we both hated, some things just bridge the generation gap nicely). It was quite comfy, sitting on the sofa with my feet on the coffee table next to his, watching him frown at the screen every now and again and catching his eye during a particularly crap part. Afterwards he went through his DVD collection and found one of the older Batman films. We actually didn’t make it through to the end of that one, what started as a chat about which comic adaptation was the best quickly devolved into cushion throwing and movie bashing.
At about eleven he yawned loudly (for over a minute - it was quite impressive) and we both went upstairs. My guest room was at the opposite end of the landing to his and we paused awkwardly in the no-man’s-land between. After a second or two of watching his feet he kissed me lightly, a dry brush of lips. He went to his room, and I went to mine.
It had clearly been shut up for a long time, there were no pictures on the wall and it felt cold and unlived in. But there were clean sheets on the bed and the carpet had clearly been vacuumed recently. I took the sight in without really focusing on it. I felt restless, like there was something I was supposed to be doing, but couldn’t quite set my mind on. I imagine this must be how people in films felt when the people watching them are shouting “Kiss him!” or “He’s got an axe”, vaguely unsettled and indecisive. (hopefully those lines aren’t in the same film....at least not in the same scene)
I stop my train of thought with an effort and yank on my pyjamas. I remember that I put a book in my bag, so I climb into the freshly made up bed and start reading. Twenty minutes later I have failed to take in anything and my ears are straining to hear anything from the rest of the house. Nothing. I decide Arthur must already be asleep. But just as I’m about to turn off the lamp and try to get to sleep, I hear his voice from a room at the other side of the house.
“Go to bloody sleep”
I suppress a smile. “But I’m really bored” I call back petulantly. There’s another slight pause in which I can feel him weighing up the conversation, then he calls out again.
“I’m watching The Sweeny in here”
I get out of bed and pad across the landing. Arthur’s lying in the middle of his bed, still fully dressed, minus socks. I sit down on the creased blue duvet and listen as he patiently explains the show to me. I’m just starting to consider returning to my own room to get some sleep, when my eyes drift shut.
When I wake up, sunlight is filtering through the blue curtains. I start to move, stretching out of my cramped position, then I encounter a warm shape and freeze. Arthur is lying next to me, still asleep, snoring. I’m tucked under his arm with my head resting on his chest. The arm that I’m under rests across my waist and tightens a little as I shift. The television is still on, now showing the news, but it’s muted. “Arthur?” I whisper, gently, if a little awkwardly, resting my hand on his chest. He doesn’t respond, so I let my head rest against him. I’m still in my pyjamas, he’s still as I found him; nothing happened. But I feel so sublimely happy that the thought of anything happening is redundant. I look at my hand, small and dainty against his broad chest, and close my eyes again. It was all a bad dream, all of it. Parents moaning at me, Vikkie being interviewed by a news station because everyone thought I was dead, Daniel and me... Daniel in general... this was the only thing that had ever been real, this was the only thing that mattered. I sigh happily, and wriggle my shoulders as I snuggle into the pillows.
“Don’t start sighing and being all girly. I don’t want you going soft on me.” Arthur mutters without opening his eyes. “Sorry.” I smile, but I can’t help fixing on that word. Girly. I look down at my pyjamas, blue with little white pandas dancing over them. I came here to get away from a life I thought I was too mature for. But now I’m here, and I realise that maturity and experience are two very different things. “What time is it?” Arthur mumbles, his arm flexing around my waist, briefly pulling me closer to him. I look at the clock on the morning news, but it takes a few minutes for me to actually focus on it long enough to answer him. “Nine thirty.” I clear my throat, trying to sound bright and breezy. “I should go and get changed, I have to go back to my parents...” I sit up, but he holds the back of my pyjama top. “But I was comfy.” “Arthur.” I roll my eyes and walk back to my room. I can hear his voice echoing in my head. Girly. Girly? No. I’ve done more in the past few months than some people do in ten years. I’ve set up my own business, I’ve got my own property, I’ve completely renovated my own house... I’ve got a working farm that isn’t necessarily going to survive the winter, I’ve got a huge debt to the student loan company, I’m in a relationship with a guy twice my age, I’ve drunkenly slept with his son, I’m a university drop-out... I drag myself back to my senses as I realise that I’ve been trying to get my head through a sleeve for the past five minutes. Sighing, I throw the offending T-shirt to the floor, and throw myself on the bed. What am I going to do? I struggle into my clothes, and ram my pyjamas back into my bag. The door creaks open a little, accompanied by a brisk knocking.
“Emma?” Arthur clears his throat, sounding awkward. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. No. Yes.” I blather as I cross to the door, catching him off guard as I pull it open. He stumbles a little, before regaining his balance and giving me a stern look.
“I meant to do that.”
“Sure.” I chuckle, but I find myself holding back tears of confusion. It must have been obvious, because he wordlessly opened his arms, hugging me.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Mmf.” I mumble, my face buried in his shoulder.
“I see.” He presses his lips to my forehead, before looking up again. “And how does that make you feel?”
I hit him on the shoulder, but make no attempt to move away from the hug. We stand there, in the middle of the doorway, me still holding my bag, and neither of us speaking. Eventually, he steps back, leaning against the wall.
“Well go on then.”
“What?” I sniff, a little confused.
“Go for a walk, go back to your island. You’ll find a way to figure it out. Be at one with nature, pray to the Pagan gods. Just... get happy.”
“How did you know I pray to Pagan gods?” I smile, only half joking.
“You ran away to Glastonbury and there are pentagrams on the majority of your possessions.” He tapped his nose, with a wry smile. “You can’t fool me, I’ve been watching The Sweeney for twenty odd years.”
Gratefully, I chuckle, and go to walk past him, but stop. I look up at him, and firmly plant a kiss on his lips. He looks down at me, smiling, before rolling his eyes.
“Go on, before I have to throw you out.”
Sunday, 1 August 2010
After the Glee...
I’m still going through this really slowly, so apologies, but a lot happened and I have to explain it properly. Also, I kind of like making you suffer, folk of the internets.
As we reach the outskirts of the town and start driving towards the port, my phone rings. I flip it out one handed and press it to my ear.
“Emma?”
“Hi Vikkie. We’re nearly home”
“That’s great….why do you sound weird?”
“Weird?”
“All chirpy and….It’s an Arthur thing isn’t it?”
My smile stretches impossibly wider. “Yup”
“Well soak in the joy now because you are about to walk into the storm. Your parents are here, and they want to talk to you.”
I say goodbye to Arthur outside his house, allowing myself another brief moment to enjoy finally being allowed to hold onto him. Fear builds in me as I walk to my house alone. My parents are inside, sitting together on one side of the small table, like it’s a job interview….or a police interrogation. I am momentarily at a loss, then I cross the room and perch on the end of the bed, waiting for the yelling to begin.
“Emma, just what is it that you think you’re doing?” Mum starts, backed up by some glaring on behalf of Dad. “Dropping out of University” she pauses, dramatically, “Lying to us”.
“Ok, I apologise for lying, I just didn’t know how to deal with telling you the truth.”
“That should have told you something, when you’re ashamed of your decisions you’ve clearly made a mistake.” She fiddles with the empty mug I left on the table before went away.
“I don’t think it was a mistake, it was just difficult….” She cuts me off in disbelief.
“Not a mistake? Emma, you passed all you’re A levels, made it through all the applications without any trouble and your tutors seem to think you were doing really well.”
“You spoke to my tutor?”
“Well, they were concerned when you just dropped out in the middle of a successful term! You have a good future all laid out, you’ve been working for it for years, these last few months are a blip compared to that.”
“It’s not a blip! I chose to do this, I’ve been working really hard on everything, the house, the site….It’s all going really well.”
“But where is it going? Are you still going to be here when you’re fifty? How are you going to meet anyone out here, in the middle of nowhere. I know you probably “don’t care” about meeting someone and getting married…but it’ll sneak on you, one day you’ll be old and lonely and stranded on a rock in the middle of the sea.”
I can’t think of anything to say, She seems so certain that for a moment I’m sure that I have made a mistake. What am I doing here? I’ve given up my future for the sake of an unstable present. One lot of campers at my site, no money coming in, no idea how to run a business and a man whose twice my age…I stop myself. I refuse to get into that again, not when I‘m finally happy, a brief wave of warm emotion thaws my panic stricken mind. There is no such thing as a single, life ruining moment, one decision that if made wrongly with take out your entire life. I realise my Mum is still talking.
“Mum!” I cut her off with a wave of my hand. She stops mid sentence. “Enough, ok?”
She falls silent and my Dad jerks out of his seat, I suspect that she’s just kicked him into action.
“Emma, we’re worried about you, all these changes, so suddenly, could be a bad thing.”
“Really?” despite myself I’m getting angry, angry at them for ruining what should be the best day of my life, and angry at myself for letting them.
“And what would you know about change, the pair of you? All you do is sit around watching other peoples dreams come true on TV and talking about doing it yourself. But you’re still the same house you’ve been in for ten years! Nothing has changed and you’ve just wasted your time!”
There’s a stunned silence and I suddenly feel bad. It seems cruel to tell someone over fifty that they’ve wasted their life, its not like they can do anything about it now.
“Look” I say, placating “You can stay here for a few days and we’ll sort things out, and I’ll tell you everything. But I’m not going back to University, I’m sorry but it’s not what I want to do.”
I pick up the dirty mugs and heap them in the sink, then tidy up the rest of the place while my parents sit silently, as if they’re communicating telepathically. I catch sight of my chickens through the window, noting that they’ve recently been fed and that the soil in the garden is dark with water when it hasn’t rained since I left. I spot Arthur’s coat, draped over the wall and forgotten, I feel another dart of happiness. He took care of everything for me.
I put my parents bags in a corner and set up another bed which was intended for Vikkie when she visited later on in the year. The house is cramped with the three of us there, and I suddenly have an idea. I get out my phone, and, excusing myself, head into the garden. I dial and listen to the dialling sounds.
“Emma?” Arthur’s voice comes down the line “Everything ok with your parents?”
“Sort of” I wince, I cannot tell them about Arthur, they would die, literally die of shock. “Actually they’re going to be staying with me for a while.”
“Really?” he pauses “That sounds…fun.” humour colours his voice, detectable even over the phone.
“It does, doesn’t it?” I wait for a second, internally arguing with myself. I cannot just invite myself to stay it would be rude, and stupid and totally inappropriate….
“You could always stay here” I could swear I heard him shuffling his feet and running a hand through his hair.
“I suppose so…..” I dither, not wanting to seem too eager.
“Come on, it can’t be that hard to get you back here…Daniel managed it.”
“Git” I say, feigning offence. He chuckles.
“Couldn’t resist, sorry. Pack a bag and I’ll put you in one of the spare rooms.”
“Daniel isn’t there is he? Because that’s not a conversation I need to have today…or ever really.” I shred a few leaves anxiously.
“No, he said he was going back to his flat yesterday. Wont be back till Christmas.”
“Alright, I’ll be down there in about an hour.”
“See you then.”
I hang up feeling light with happiness, but also a little nervous. Despite being (very) attracted to Arthur, I had never actually spent a lot of time around him and the prospect of doing so was a little daunting. What if we had nothing in common? What if I bored him? Feeling now slightly more than a little nervous I grabbed a few things from the house and said an awkward goodbye to my parents, before walking down to Arthur’s.
And that’s it so far. I’ll let you know how it goes.
As we reach the outskirts of the town and start driving towards the port, my phone rings. I flip it out one handed and press it to my ear.
“Emma?”
“Hi Vikkie. We’re nearly home”
“That’s great….why do you sound weird?”
“Weird?”
“All chirpy and….It’s an Arthur thing isn’t it?”
My smile stretches impossibly wider. “Yup”
“Well soak in the joy now because you are about to walk into the storm. Your parents are here, and they want to talk to you.”
I say goodbye to Arthur outside his house, allowing myself another brief moment to enjoy finally being allowed to hold onto him. Fear builds in me as I walk to my house alone. My parents are inside, sitting together on one side of the small table, like it’s a job interview….or a police interrogation. I am momentarily at a loss, then I cross the room and perch on the end of the bed, waiting for the yelling to begin.
“Emma, just what is it that you think you’re doing?” Mum starts, backed up by some glaring on behalf of Dad. “Dropping out of University” she pauses, dramatically, “Lying to us”.
“Ok, I apologise for lying, I just didn’t know how to deal with telling you the truth.”
“That should have told you something, when you’re ashamed of your decisions you’ve clearly made a mistake.” She fiddles with the empty mug I left on the table before went away.
“I don’t think it was a mistake, it was just difficult….” She cuts me off in disbelief.
“Not a mistake? Emma, you passed all you’re A levels, made it through all the applications without any trouble and your tutors seem to think you were doing really well.”
“You spoke to my tutor?”
“Well, they were concerned when you just dropped out in the middle of a successful term! You have a good future all laid out, you’ve been working for it for years, these last few months are a blip compared to that.”
“It’s not a blip! I chose to do this, I’ve been working really hard on everything, the house, the site….It’s all going really well.”
“But where is it going? Are you still going to be here when you’re fifty? How are you going to meet anyone out here, in the middle of nowhere. I know you probably “don’t care” about meeting someone and getting married…but it’ll sneak on you, one day you’ll be old and lonely and stranded on a rock in the middle of the sea.”
I can’t think of anything to say, She seems so certain that for a moment I’m sure that I have made a mistake. What am I doing here? I’ve given up my future for the sake of an unstable present. One lot of campers at my site, no money coming in, no idea how to run a business and a man whose twice my age…I stop myself. I refuse to get into that again, not when I‘m finally happy, a brief wave of warm emotion thaws my panic stricken mind. There is no such thing as a single, life ruining moment, one decision that if made wrongly with take out your entire life. I realise my Mum is still talking.
“Mum!” I cut her off with a wave of my hand. She stops mid sentence. “Enough, ok?”
She falls silent and my Dad jerks out of his seat, I suspect that she’s just kicked him into action.
“Emma, we’re worried about you, all these changes, so suddenly, could be a bad thing.”
“Really?” despite myself I’m getting angry, angry at them for ruining what should be the best day of my life, and angry at myself for letting them.
“And what would you know about change, the pair of you? All you do is sit around watching other peoples dreams come true on TV and talking about doing it yourself. But you’re still the same house you’ve been in for ten years! Nothing has changed and you’ve just wasted your time!”
There’s a stunned silence and I suddenly feel bad. It seems cruel to tell someone over fifty that they’ve wasted their life, its not like they can do anything about it now.
“Look” I say, placating “You can stay here for a few days and we’ll sort things out, and I’ll tell you everything. But I’m not going back to University, I’m sorry but it’s not what I want to do.”
I pick up the dirty mugs and heap them in the sink, then tidy up the rest of the place while my parents sit silently, as if they’re communicating telepathically. I catch sight of my chickens through the window, noting that they’ve recently been fed and that the soil in the garden is dark with water when it hasn’t rained since I left. I spot Arthur’s coat, draped over the wall and forgotten, I feel another dart of happiness. He took care of everything for me.
I put my parents bags in a corner and set up another bed which was intended for Vikkie when she visited later on in the year. The house is cramped with the three of us there, and I suddenly have an idea. I get out my phone, and, excusing myself, head into the garden. I dial and listen to the dialling sounds.
“Emma?” Arthur’s voice comes down the line “Everything ok with your parents?”
“Sort of” I wince, I cannot tell them about Arthur, they would die, literally die of shock. “Actually they’re going to be staying with me for a while.”
“Really?” he pauses “That sounds…fun.” humour colours his voice, detectable even over the phone.
“It does, doesn’t it?” I wait for a second, internally arguing with myself. I cannot just invite myself to stay it would be rude, and stupid and totally inappropriate….
“You could always stay here” I could swear I heard him shuffling his feet and running a hand through his hair.
“I suppose so…..” I dither, not wanting to seem too eager.
“Come on, it can’t be that hard to get you back here…Daniel managed it.”
“Git” I say, feigning offence. He chuckles.
“Couldn’t resist, sorry. Pack a bag and I’ll put you in one of the spare rooms.”
“Daniel isn’t there is he? Because that’s not a conversation I need to have today…or ever really.” I shred a few leaves anxiously.
“No, he said he was going back to his flat yesterday. Wont be back till Christmas.”
“Alright, I’ll be down there in about an hour.”
“See you then.”
I hang up feeling light with happiness, but also a little nervous. Despite being (very) attracted to Arthur, I had never actually spent a lot of time around him and the prospect of doing so was a little daunting. What if we had nothing in common? What if I bored him? Feeling now slightly more than a little nervous I grabbed a few things from the house and said an awkward goodbye to my parents, before walking down to Arthur’s.
And that’s it so far. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Friday, 9 July 2010
ooopsie
It has been pointed out to me that Daniel is sometimes Arthurs son and sometimes his brother...the man is a temporal paradox! seriously thought they are brothers - I just suck at editing :) sorry.
Electra
Arthur to the rescue! Sorry for the unrelenting suspense, but it was worse for me at the time.
After I have paid for my room and half eaten breakfast I go out onto the deserted streets. It’s barely morning and most of the shops are still closed. I start to walk, directionless, before going to a coffee stand on the street. I manage to dredge up enough change for a cup of tea and a packet of sweets. Taking a seat on the wide sandstone steps of a library I balance the cup next to me and methodically stir in sugar.
The time passes slower than I have ever known it to. The level of tea slowly diminishes and I go in search of a bin. Bored out of my mind I look through the windows of a dozen shops and hop from foot to foot nervously. The lights come on in a HMV across the street and I go in. I look over the spines of glossy DVD cases, scuffing my feet over the grey linoleum. Some rock-trance-gibberish weaves through the air and seems to get louder with each passing minute, making me tetchy. My phone begins to rig, making me jump. I had half convinced myself in the empty world that I was the only survivor of a global catastrophe.
“Emma? I’m outside Starbucks on Bridge Street.”
“Ok, I’m near there….I think.”
“Great, sorry I’m running out of credit.” abruptly the phone goes dead.
Smiling ironically to myself I slip my phone into my pocket. It takes me an embarrassing twenty minutes to find the right street, and even then it seems the longest street in the world. A hovering Starbucks sign, crouching like a parasite on the side of a three story building, guides me to the one car parked on that side of the street. It’s a kind of flatbed truck (I still know nothing about cars) painted green, but peeling. Arthur waves at me through the dirt tinted window. I yank open the door and settle myself in the seat, squirming on the wrinkled, age burnished leather and disturbing a cloud of tobacco scented dust motes.
When I slam the door shut the car feels very small, the space between us in particular is minuscule. Arthur seems to feel the same because he snaps the key round in the ignition and reverses out sharply, putting exaggerated focus on the road. I let my eyes stray to the mirror suspended between us and study Arthur closely for the first time. Only the top half of his face is visible, tanned and weather beaten, faintly traced with lines. His eyes continually move on the road, frowning at road signs, his heavy brows drawing together and strands of hair falling forwards over his face.
His eyes flick up to the mirror casually, casting a glance behind us, but they catch my gaze and hold it. Caught out my face flames and I look down, fiddling with the sweet wrapper and pulling out a few colourful pieces of sugar. The car moves forward again and, when I risk a glance from behind my hair, Arthur’s attention is back on the road.
“Smartie?” I offer the packet awkwardly and he takes a few, popping them into his mouth in between shifting gears and twisting the wheel. Ahead of us a junction is clogged with traffic and gradually we coast to a stop behind a scarlet hatchback full of people wearing baseball caps at odd angles. Arthur huffs deeply and turns off the engine. Silence congeals around us as we sit in the motionless car listening to the revving of engine and shuffling of tires outside. I’m very conscious of every movement, and so sit unusually still, but of course this makes me want to move around more.
“Well this is fun” Arthur says ironically, mouth turning up in a lopsided grin.
“I’m glad you find this funny” I crumple up the sweet wrapper and stuff it into an ashtray.
“Let’s face it, we’re not going to get a better opportunity to talk are we? When you get out of this car there’s a good chance I won’t see you again.”
“Not if I can help it” I can’t help smiling at his expression “I haven’t exactly made the best impression have I? First you see me with half my clothes off on the beach, then I punch you in the face, then you had to save me from my own bread, after which I slept with your brother, disappeared so you thought I was dead and then had to have you rescue me again. I don’t know how I’m going to top that, so I might as well just go home.”
“I don’t know…there’s another two hours of journey time, anything could happen.” His smile has grown into a full grin now and I thank God I can still deter serious discussion with humour.
“Emma…” he begins, his expression becoming grave again and causing me to mentally ask God why he insists on torturing me, it can’t all be the witchcraft thing…which come to think of it, I have yet to tell Arthur about.
“Emma…I really have no idea what to do about this.”
“This meaning…..” I meet his eyes and hazard a guess “The possibility of an us?”
He nods, “I mean, aside from the fairly monumental obstacle of age…there isn’t really anything to stop us.”
My heart leaps a few notches higher in my chest and thumps furiously against my ribs as if it’s trying to speak for me, because I can’t seem to say anything.
“If you wanted to do something, when we get back” he falters “You probably don’t want to…”
“Yes I do!” I blurt, then calm myself forcibly. “I do”
“I’m afraid I’m not really a clubbing, drinking kind of person” He frowns a little “the age gap rears its head again….”
“Who likes clubbing?” I shrug, I really don’t anyway, I’m more of a hot chocolate and a book kind of person, not a glow stick and aspirin….chic.
“We could just get a film and some dinner…” I suggest.
“I’ll cook” he interjects, managing to keep a straight face.
“Fair enough, but I get to choose the film”
“Good”
“Great”
I’m trying not to smile, but failing miserably, so that when he closes the gap between us and kisses me, our teeth bump. For a few seconds it’s totally, utterly perfect, almost worth dying-but-not-really-just-vacationing. Then the idiots in the hatchback catch sight of us and start piping the horn and yelling things about robbing the geriatric wing and Electra (which I’m quite surprised they know about, a classical education being wasted on the twats of the world, makes me glad I don’t pay taxes).
Arthur pulls away and glares through the windshield, looking so much like a crotchety old man I can’t help the splutters of laughter that escape through my nose. The guys in the car in front are still shouting and the hatchback is now visibly rocking, as if it’s filled with chimpanzees not chavs (there is a difference…I may have to look it up). I turn to look out the window, just as Arthur winds his down and we shout, in unison.
“Shut up you wankers!”
I get the feeling this is going to work out just fine.
:)
After I have paid for my room and half eaten breakfast I go out onto the deserted streets. It’s barely morning and most of the shops are still closed. I start to walk, directionless, before going to a coffee stand on the street. I manage to dredge up enough change for a cup of tea and a packet of sweets. Taking a seat on the wide sandstone steps of a library I balance the cup next to me and methodically stir in sugar.
The time passes slower than I have ever known it to. The level of tea slowly diminishes and I go in search of a bin. Bored out of my mind I look through the windows of a dozen shops and hop from foot to foot nervously. The lights come on in a HMV across the street and I go in. I look over the spines of glossy DVD cases, scuffing my feet over the grey linoleum. Some rock-trance-gibberish weaves through the air and seems to get louder with each passing minute, making me tetchy. My phone begins to rig, making me jump. I had half convinced myself in the empty world that I was the only survivor of a global catastrophe.
“Emma? I’m outside Starbucks on Bridge Street.”
“Ok, I’m near there….I think.”
“Great, sorry I’m running out of credit.” abruptly the phone goes dead.
Smiling ironically to myself I slip my phone into my pocket. It takes me an embarrassing twenty minutes to find the right street, and even then it seems the longest street in the world. A hovering Starbucks sign, crouching like a parasite on the side of a three story building, guides me to the one car parked on that side of the street. It’s a kind of flatbed truck (I still know nothing about cars) painted green, but peeling. Arthur waves at me through the dirt tinted window. I yank open the door and settle myself in the seat, squirming on the wrinkled, age burnished leather and disturbing a cloud of tobacco scented dust motes.
When I slam the door shut the car feels very small, the space between us in particular is minuscule. Arthur seems to feel the same because he snaps the key round in the ignition and reverses out sharply, putting exaggerated focus on the road. I let my eyes stray to the mirror suspended between us and study Arthur closely for the first time. Only the top half of his face is visible, tanned and weather beaten, faintly traced with lines. His eyes continually move on the road, frowning at road signs, his heavy brows drawing together and strands of hair falling forwards over his face.
His eyes flick up to the mirror casually, casting a glance behind us, but they catch my gaze and hold it. Caught out my face flames and I look down, fiddling with the sweet wrapper and pulling out a few colourful pieces of sugar. The car moves forward again and, when I risk a glance from behind my hair, Arthur’s attention is back on the road.
“Smartie?” I offer the packet awkwardly and he takes a few, popping them into his mouth in between shifting gears and twisting the wheel. Ahead of us a junction is clogged with traffic and gradually we coast to a stop behind a scarlet hatchback full of people wearing baseball caps at odd angles. Arthur huffs deeply and turns off the engine. Silence congeals around us as we sit in the motionless car listening to the revving of engine and shuffling of tires outside. I’m very conscious of every movement, and so sit unusually still, but of course this makes me want to move around more.
“Well this is fun” Arthur says ironically, mouth turning up in a lopsided grin.
“I’m glad you find this funny” I crumple up the sweet wrapper and stuff it into an ashtray.
“Let’s face it, we’re not going to get a better opportunity to talk are we? When you get out of this car there’s a good chance I won’t see you again.”
“Not if I can help it” I can’t help smiling at his expression “I haven’t exactly made the best impression have I? First you see me with half my clothes off on the beach, then I punch you in the face, then you had to save me from my own bread, after which I slept with your brother, disappeared so you thought I was dead and then had to have you rescue me again. I don’t know how I’m going to top that, so I might as well just go home.”
“I don’t know…there’s another two hours of journey time, anything could happen.” His smile has grown into a full grin now and I thank God I can still deter serious discussion with humour.
“Emma…” he begins, his expression becoming grave again and causing me to mentally ask God why he insists on torturing me, it can’t all be the witchcraft thing…which come to think of it, I have yet to tell Arthur about.
“Emma…I really have no idea what to do about this.”
“This meaning…..” I meet his eyes and hazard a guess “The possibility of an us?”
He nods, “I mean, aside from the fairly monumental obstacle of age…there isn’t really anything to stop us.”
My heart leaps a few notches higher in my chest and thumps furiously against my ribs as if it’s trying to speak for me, because I can’t seem to say anything.
“If you wanted to do something, when we get back” he falters “You probably don’t want to…”
“Yes I do!” I blurt, then calm myself forcibly. “I do”
“I’m afraid I’m not really a clubbing, drinking kind of person” He frowns a little “the age gap rears its head again….”
“Who likes clubbing?” I shrug, I really don’t anyway, I’m more of a hot chocolate and a book kind of person, not a glow stick and aspirin….chic.
“We could just get a film and some dinner…” I suggest.
“I’ll cook” he interjects, managing to keep a straight face.
“Fair enough, but I get to choose the film”
“Good”
“Great”
I’m trying not to smile, but failing miserably, so that when he closes the gap between us and kisses me, our teeth bump. For a few seconds it’s totally, utterly perfect, almost worth dying-but-not-really-just-vacationing. Then the idiots in the hatchback catch sight of us and start piping the horn and yelling things about robbing the geriatric wing and Electra (which I’m quite surprised they know about, a classical education being wasted on the twats of the world, makes me glad I don’t pay taxes).
Arthur pulls away and glares through the windshield, looking so much like a crotchety old man I can’t help the splutters of laughter that escape through my nose. The guys in the car in front are still shouting and the hatchback is now visibly rocking, as if it’s filled with chimpanzees not chavs (there is a difference…I may have to look it up). I turn to look out the window, just as Arthur winds his down and we shout, in unison.
“Shut up you wankers!”
I get the feeling this is going to work out just fine.
:)
Sunday, 4 July 2010
After the vanishing act
So off to Glastonbury with my morbid moods, I had to write this when I got back, having no internet access on the lam, so forgive me for adding some dramatic detail.
The journey takes an age and I wait it out, staring at the rain washed windows of various trains and busses whilst ignoring the passengers. I drink vending machine tea, which tastes dead to me after weeks of the home brewed, copper kettle variety. I munch on a few miniature packets of biscuits, feeling the food bunch in my stomach like wet sand. After only a short time I have become acclimatised to life on an island in a period before electricity, now it’s hard taking trains seriously.
I am the only passenger to disembark in Glastonbury, and the street is otherwise empty, a residential street. I walk for ages trying to find the shops, but discover only rows of houses and gardens. Eventually I stop at a corner shop and buy a newspaper as cover for asking directions. I follow these and eventually go through an improbable gap between some houses. There the street dead ends in a neat square of grass with a droopy birch, bordered solidly on all sides by houses. One of the houses however is not a house, but the back of a shop with a huge arch, like an underpass, through which I go. Stretching out on either side of me is the high street, with it’s colourfully fronted shops and little cobbled recesses leading to restaurants.
I wander around for a while, going in and out of shops full of glittering touristy rubbish and others selling the paraphernalia of the serious witch. The scent of handmade incense clings to me as I walk the open street, the smell of ground resin and singed herbs which reminds me of home. I run my hands over racks of thick coloured candles without interest and sift polished gemstones from hand to hand. But there’s nothing to really grab me, I feel as if I’m not entirely present, as if my real body is still on the island being shouted and gawped at.
I decide to stop somewhere for some dinner, and then check into a bed and breakfast or something. The restaurant I eventually choose is a dusky blue with hanging canopies of translucent fabric. I sit alone at an indigo draped table, eating a kind of Moroccan thing with apricots and couscous. The candle on the table burns down to its cheap glass holder and goes out. I still feel separate, as if none of these things are real. Already I want to return to the island, to get on with my real life. But I stubbornly seek out a hotel for the evening, one of the chain motorway ones with cream walls and green carpets in every room. I know that, despite my longing to return, once I do go home I will feel that same as I did before I left, ashamed, lonely and miserable.
I turn on the television as soon as I get to my room, skipping through the channels until I settle on a film that seems vaguely familiar. Flipping off the glaring fluorescents, I crawl underneath the green duvet and manage to keep my eyes open for another hour before succumbing to sleep.
I wake up the next morning and for a few awful seconds forget where I am. The television is still on, the sounds of a news broadcast filtering into the humid air. I struggle upright just as a knock comes at the door. I retrieve the breakfast that I ordered yesterday. A plastic bottle of orange juice and a plate of uniformly produced lukewarm pancakes clotted with too much syrup. As I settle myself into bed to pick at my oozing meal, I prod the remote and the faint voice of the presenter becomes audible.
Just as a preface to this – I didn’t believe it either, I still can’t.
“....Following the dredging there has been no sign of any remains, but the police statement implies that none are expected given the devastating weather conditions.”
Nothing to cheer you up like a little death with your breakfast, I twist the cap from my juice irritably. Why is there never any good news in the morning? It’s always doom and death and economic downturns.
“....Locals report that the victim had been behaving erratically and seemed unhappy, at this point suicide has not been ruled out”
Well that’s bloody typical. So you’re not leaping around with a basket full of cookies and a herd of tiny bunnies, therefore automatically it’s your own fault if something bad happens to you.
“.....It seems that the missing woman had been behaving strangely for some time, now we go live to a close friend of the woman in question.”
Wheeling out a grieving friend or relative to raise the ratings, it says a lot that I’m not surprised by this. Any further thoughts are cut off when the screen changes to show an image of Vikkie, standing in my garden on the island looking drenched and tearful beneath the presenter’s umbrella.
A cold wave of shock makes every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. They think I’m dead. Dead. It’s surreal to be sitting in the unfamiliar room watching a report on my own suspected suicide, almost as if I really am dead and this is a bizarre afterlife. Maybe it really is and....no, stop, I’m alive.
Vikkie is still being interviewed and I watch because I can’t think of anything else to do. Then a horrible thought occurs to me, my parents will have seen this. Setting aside the fact that they are probably upset, understandably so given my sudden death, they will be furious when they realise that I am not dead, but am in fact a liar and a dropout. I know that at some point it will all have to come out, I have to tell someone that it was a mistake.
I dig my phone out for beneath all the clothes in my bag, flip it open and scroll down a list of numbers. I can’t decide who to call first, my parents will be furious, which puts me off phoning them straight away, but Vikkie is still on camera which makes me reluctant to call her and give the reporters a real story.
At the bottom of the list of numbers are the contact details for Daniel Shield. Arthur, I realise, might be down there, on the beach, watching as they dredge up my sodden clothes and thinking....what? The truth is I have no idea, is he relieved that it’s all over, that his embarrassing lapse of judgement so neatly tidied itself away? Or does he feel sad, guilty, remorseful or horrified. I cannot face the last alternative, that he is simply indifferent, hardened against any concern for my welfare by my own stupid thoughtless actions.
I quickly return to Vikkie’s number and wait for the reporter to leave her alone. This takes a good five minutes as the interviewer is going in for the kill, his voice bending greasily into feigned sympathy, whilst still accusing enough to imply negligence on Vikkie’s part. At last I can’t take it anymore and dial the number just to give her an excuse to leave. As the phone in her pocket begins to chirp and she excuses herself, I feel once more the strangeness of the situation, as if she is just a character on the screen, coincidently answering a call I am making to someone real.
Her voice comes over the crackling line, “Hello?”
I hear no similar voice from the television, and assume she is safely away from the television crew.
“Vikkie? It’s Emma.”
“Emma?!” she blurts loudly “Emma, where the hell are you? We thought...”
“Yes I know, I’m watching the news right now, in Glastonbury.”
“Why are you in Glastonbury? Just how many secret lives are you leading?”
“Just the two that I know of” I joke weakly.
“I’m serious” she growls “I came up here to visit you, like I said in my message, but I couldn’t get over to the island because of the storm. The next thing I know you’re house is empty with no sign of a note...”
“What message?” I cut in
“The one I left on your phone.”
“I didn’t get a...” as if sensing my confusion, the phone, which only too late I remember has been off for over a week, gives a beep, and a brief check of the display informs me I have nine messages from Vikkie. Vikkie takes advantage of my stunned silence to continue her story.
“Anyway, I tried to find a number for that Daniel Shield guy to see if he knew where you’d gone, and all I could get was this weird number that turned out to be a house on the island. So I went there and you’ll never guess what!”
I closed my eyes and waited, feeling sure that I already knew where this was going.
“That git with the permanent scowl lives there, turns out they’re related. Anyway, he seemed a bit concerned that you’d just left, so that got me more worried and I called your parents to see if you’d gone to visit them.”
“You didn’t!” I exclaim “well done; now they’re going to hate me...”
“I think at this point they are just going to be happy that you’re breathing...and not being eaten by seals”
“Yeah, but sooner or later my being alive isn’t going to be a novelty anymore and they can get back to cursing the name of their lying, dropout daughter.” I pile my things back into my bag with the phone still clasped to my ear, then pause in dismay as something occurs to me. I grab my purse and open it, confirming that the worst has indeed happened.
“Shit! I left my cash card on the island, and I only have enough to pay for my room...just.”
“Why did you leave it behind?”
“I was in a bit of a hurry ok? Things have happened in the large space of time we weren’t speaking, oddly enough.” I throw my purse back into my bag and start going through the outside pockets.
“There’s no need to snap at me.” Vikkie snaps, causing the phone line to crackle.
“I’m sorry, stressed out. Can you pick me up?” Sudden hope lances through me, only to be shattered when she says,
“I can’t, it just about killed my car coming all the way down here so I had to take it in for a once over at a mechanic. Last time I saw it, it was up on blocks with the steering wheel missing.”
I slap a hand across my eyes in frustration and try to think of a way around the problems that keep mounting up around me. I can’t get back to the island, Vikkie can’t come and get me, I can’t get my parents to collect me because it would mean being in an enclosed space with them...
“Hang on a minute” Vikkie’s voice grows faint and I can hear her talking to someone else behind the hiss of static and constant bluster of the wind. Suddenly a voice returns, but it isn’t Vikkie.
“Emma?” Arthur’s voice comes through the tiny speaker, shock evident even with the terrible reception.
“Hi” I acknowledge weakly “It’s me...sorry about the...” how the hell do you apologise for accidentally faking your own death? “misunderstanding” I finish, mentally flinching at the poor wording.
An odd sound comes down the line and I realise he’s laughing.
“Well, personally I am very disappointed, but I’ll get over it.” He pauses for a moment “I was very worried, when you disappeared.” Any hint of humour is gone now, every word carries a weight of seriousness and I realise he’s being totally sincere.
“I’m sorry” I reply instinctively “I didn’t...I wasn’t trying to make a statement or anything, I really didn’t mean to drag you back into things, I’m sorry”
There’s a long silence.
“You’re kidding right?”
“Excuse me?” I blurt incredulously.
“Emma, you didn’t do anything you need to apologise for, you went away without telling me, so what? I’m the one who said you weren’t anything to do with me. If anything I should be sorry, and I am. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, it was just a bit of a shock, you and Daniel”
“Not me and Daniel!” I realise with a start what he must think, what neither myself (nor Daniel apparently) had told him. “Me and Daniel aren’t together...I mean we were for about three hours, which were probably the low point of my entire existence....no offence to your son.” I wince at my rambling.
There’s another silence as he processes this.
“I didn’t know that” he says finally, quietly.
I can’t think of anything to say, so I just sit, listening to the interference and a soft regular sound that I think is Arthur breathing.
“Your friend says you’re stuck in Glastonbury” his voice comes back across the line as if I have only just picked up the phone.
“Yeah” I sag in relief, finally an adult who can help me.
“I’ll come down and pick you up, it’ll take a few hours, but I’ll call you when I get there to tell you where I am.”
“Ok”
“See you soon”
“Bye”
His voice disappears and I hang up.
The journey takes an age and I wait it out, staring at the rain washed windows of various trains and busses whilst ignoring the passengers. I drink vending machine tea, which tastes dead to me after weeks of the home brewed, copper kettle variety. I munch on a few miniature packets of biscuits, feeling the food bunch in my stomach like wet sand. After only a short time I have become acclimatised to life on an island in a period before electricity, now it’s hard taking trains seriously.
I am the only passenger to disembark in Glastonbury, and the street is otherwise empty, a residential street. I walk for ages trying to find the shops, but discover only rows of houses and gardens. Eventually I stop at a corner shop and buy a newspaper as cover for asking directions. I follow these and eventually go through an improbable gap between some houses. There the street dead ends in a neat square of grass with a droopy birch, bordered solidly on all sides by houses. One of the houses however is not a house, but the back of a shop with a huge arch, like an underpass, through which I go. Stretching out on either side of me is the high street, with it’s colourfully fronted shops and little cobbled recesses leading to restaurants.
I wander around for a while, going in and out of shops full of glittering touristy rubbish and others selling the paraphernalia of the serious witch. The scent of handmade incense clings to me as I walk the open street, the smell of ground resin and singed herbs which reminds me of home. I run my hands over racks of thick coloured candles without interest and sift polished gemstones from hand to hand. But there’s nothing to really grab me, I feel as if I’m not entirely present, as if my real body is still on the island being shouted and gawped at.
I decide to stop somewhere for some dinner, and then check into a bed and breakfast or something. The restaurant I eventually choose is a dusky blue with hanging canopies of translucent fabric. I sit alone at an indigo draped table, eating a kind of Moroccan thing with apricots and couscous. The candle on the table burns down to its cheap glass holder and goes out. I still feel separate, as if none of these things are real. Already I want to return to the island, to get on with my real life. But I stubbornly seek out a hotel for the evening, one of the chain motorway ones with cream walls and green carpets in every room. I know that, despite my longing to return, once I do go home I will feel that same as I did before I left, ashamed, lonely and miserable.
I turn on the television as soon as I get to my room, skipping through the channels until I settle on a film that seems vaguely familiar. Flipping off the glaring fluorescents, I crawl underneath the green duvet and manage to keep my eyes open for another hour before succumbing to sleep.
I wake up the next morning and for a few awful seconds forget where I am. The television is still on, the sounds of a news broadcast filtering into the humid air. I struggle upright just as a knock comes at the door. I retrieve the breakfast that I ordered yesterday. A plastic bottle of orange juice and a plate of uniformly produced lukewarm pancakes clotted with too much syrup. As I settle myself into bed to pick at my oozing meal, I prod the remote and the faint voice of the presenter becomes audible.
Just as a preface to this – I didn’t believe it either, I still can’t.
“....Following the dredging there has been no sign of any remains, but the police statement implies that none are expected given the devastating weather conditions.”
Nothing to cheer you up like a little death with your breakfast, I twist the cap from my juice irritably. Why is there never any good news in the morning? It’s always doom and death and economic downturns.
“....Locals report that the victim had been behaving erratically and seemed unhappy, at this point suicide has not been ruled out”
Well that’s bloody typical. So you’re not leaping around with a basket full of cookies and a herd of tiny bunnies, therefore automatically it’s your own fault if something bad happens to you.
“.....It seems that the missing woman had been behaving strangely for some time, now we go live to a close friend of the woman in question.”
Wheeling out a grieving friend or relative to raise the ratings, it says a lot that I’m not surprised by this. Any further thoughts are cut off when the screen changes to show an image of Vikkie, standing in my garden on the island looking drenched and tearful beneath the presenter’s umbrella.
A cold wave of shock makes every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. They think I’m dead. Dead. It’s surreal to be sitting in the unfamiliar room watching a report on my own suspected suicide, almost as if I really am dead and this is a bizarre afterlife. Maybe it really is and....no, stop, I’m alive.
Vikkie is still being interviewed and I watch because I can’t think of anything else to do. Then a horrible thought occurs to me, my parents will have seen this. Setting aside the fact that they are probably upset, understandably so given my sudden death, they will be furious when they realise that I am not dead, but am in fact a liar and a dropout. I know that at some point it will all have to come out, I have to tell someone that it was a mistake.
I dig my phone out for beneath all the clothes in my bag, flip it open and scroll down a list of numbers. I can’t decide who to call first, my parents will be furious, which puts me off phoning them straight away, but Vikkie is still on camera which makes me reluctant to call her and give the reporters a real story.
At the bottom of the list of numbers are the contact details for Daniel Shield. Arthur, I realise, might be down there, on the beach, watching as they dredge up my sodden clothes and thinking....what? The truth is I have no idea, is he relieved that it’s all over, that his embarrassing lapse of judgement so neatly tidied itself away? Or does he feel sad, guilty, remorseful or horrified. I cannot face the last alternative, that he is simply indifferent, hardened against any concern for my welfare by my own stupid thoughtless actions.
I quickly return to Vikkie’s number and wait for the reporter to leave her alone. This takes a good five minutes as the interviewer is going in for the kill, his voice bending greasily into feigned sympathy, whilst still accusing enough to imply negligence on Vikkie’s part. At last I can’t take it anymore and dial the number just to give her an excuse to leave. As the phone in her pocket begins to chirp and she excuses herself, I feel once more the strangeness of the situation, as if she is just a character on the screen, coincidently answering a call I am making to someone real.
Her voice comes over the crackling line, “Hello?”
I hear no similar voice from the television, and assume she is safely away from the television crew.
“Vikkie? It’s Emma.”
“Emma?!” she blurts loudly “Emma, where the hell are you? We thought...”
“Yes I know, I’m watching the news right now, in Glastonbury.”
“Why are you in Glastonbury? Just how many secret lives are you leading?”
“Just the two that I know of” I joke weakly.
“I’m serious” she growls “I came up here to visit you, like I said in my message, but I couldn’t get over to the island because of the storm. The next thing I know you’re house is empty with no sign of a note...”
“What message?” I cut in
“The one I left on your phone.”
“I didn’t get a...” as if sensing my confusion, the phone, which only too late I remember has been off for over a week, gives a beep, and a brief check of the display informs me I have nine messages from Vikkie. Vikkie takes advantage of my stunned silence to continue her story.
“Anyway, I tried to find a number for that Daniel Shield guy to see if he knew where you’d gone, and all I could get was this weird number that turned out to be a house on the island. So I went there and you’ll never guess what!”
I closed my eyes and waited, feeling sure that I already knew where this was going.
“That git with the permanent scowl lives there, turns out they’re related. Anyway, he seemed a bit concerned that you’d just left, so that got me more worried and I called your parents to see if you’d gone to visit them.”
“You didn’t!” I exclaim “well done; now they’re going to hate me...”
“I think at this point they are just going to be happy that you’re breathing...and not being eaten by seals”
“Yeah, but sooner or later my being alive isn’t going to be a novelty anymore and they can get back to cursing the name of their lying, dropout daughter.” I pile my things back into my bag with the phone still clasped to my ear, then pause in dismay as something occurs to me. I grab my purse and open it, confirming that the worst has indeed happened.
“Shit! I left my cash card on the island, and I only have enough to pay for my room...just.”
“Why did you leave it behind?”
“I was in a bit of a hurry ok? Things have happened in the large space of time we weren’t speaking, oddly enough.” I throw my purse back into my bag and start going through the outside pockets.
“There’s no need to snap at me.” Vikkie snaps, causing the phone line to crackle.
“I’m sorry, stressed out. Can you pick me up?” Sudden hope lances through me, only to be shattered when she says,
“I can’t, it just about killed my car coming all the way down here so I had to take it in for a once over at a mechanic. Last time I saw it, it was up on blocks with the steering wheel missing.”
I slap a hand across my eyes in frustration and try to think of a way around the problems that keep mounting up around me. I can’t get back to the island, Vikkie can’t come and get me, I can’t get my parents to collect me because it would mean being in an enclosed space with them...
“Hang on a minute” Vikkie’s voice grows faint and I can hear her talking to someone else behind the hiss of static and constant bluster of the wind. Suddenly a voice returns, but it isn’t Vikkie.
“Emma?” Arthur’s voice comes through the tiny speaker, shock evident even with the terrible reception.
“Hi” I acknowledge weakly “It’s me...sorry about the...” how the hell do you apologise for accidentally faking your own death? “misunderstanding” I finish, mentally flinching at the poor wording.
An odd sound comes down the line and I realise he’s laughing.
“Well, personally I am very disappointed, but I’ll get over it.” He pauses for a moment “I was very worried, when you disappeared.” Any hint of humour is gone now, every word carries a weight of seriousness and I realise he’s being totally sincere.
“I’m sorry” I reply instinctively “I didn’t...I wasn’t trying to make a statement or anything, I really didn’t mean to drag you back into things, I’m sorry”
There’s a long silence.
“You’re kidding right?”
“Excuse me?” I blurt incredulously.
“Emma, you didn’t do anything you need to apologise for, you went away without telling me, so what? I’m the one who said you weren’t anything to do with me. If anything I should be sorry, and I am. I shouldn’t have shouted at you, it was just a bit of a shock, you and Daniel”
“Not me and Daniel!” I realise with a start what he must think, what neither myself (nor Daniel apparently) had told him. “Me and Daniel aren’t together...I mean we were for about three hours, which were probably the low point of my entire existence....no offence to your son.” I wince at my rambling.
There’s another silence as he processes this.
“I didn’t know that” he says finally, quietly.
I can’t think of anything to say, so I just sit, listening to the interference and a soft regular sound that I think is Arthur breathing.
“Your friend says you’re stuck in Glastonbury” his voice comes back across the line as if I have only just picked up the phone.
“Yeah” I sag in relief, finally an adult who can help me.
“I’ll come down and pick you up, it’ll take a few hours, but I’ll call you when I get there to tell you where I am.”
“Ok”
“See you soon”
“Bye”
His voice disappears and I hang up.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
Bad Bad Decisions
Oh god, worst thing to happen ever. I feel.....oh god I’ll just tell you.
I blame the entirety of what happened on alcoholic beverages in general and vodka in particular.
I went out shopping, mainly to avoid thinking about all the Arthur stuff going on. I stopped for a rest and had stashed my things under a table in a pub because I thought I deserved a drink after the last few days of total misery. I ordered my first vodka and coke (the first on many) and was about halfway through drinking it when someone sat down in the chair opposite mine. It was Daniel Shield.
“Hello again.” He greets me before I can pretend that I was just leaving.
“Hi” I reply, awkwardly, taking another gulp of my drink.
I have never liked this guy, I realise I only met him once in person, but still there are some people, in fact, most people in my case, who I hate on sight. Daniel Shield looks like the kind of person most people detest. Clean cut, organized and successful overlaid with smugness because he knows how clean cut, successful and etc he looks.
“Everything going well I trust?” he asks, as if he’s a minor royal talking to a shrimp factory owner.
“Excellently” I reply shortly
“No problems with the locals then? They can be rather...off-putting.”
“And you would know this from your long years of study” I can’t help retorting. I instantly regret it. There are some people you can banter with, arguing lightly and insulting them a little just for the fun of the confrontation. Mr Shield didn’t exactly look like one of these people; he looked like someone who had their lawyer on speed dial just in case someone mocked his one sixteenth Norwegian heritage.
“I actually come from Ilensay, I grew up there.” He smirks, knowing that he has pinned me conversationally, as the mental comeback count begins I realise that I have nothing suitably cutting to say.
“I had heard that there was a slight problem with Arthur, he holds quite a prominent position as the head of the council there.”
“I know” I snap, resenting his patronising tone.
“So punching him was, you agree, a fairly foolish idea?”
Bastard
“Do you want another drink?” his sudden offer catches me off guard and he takes my silence for a yes, plucking my glass from my hand and heading for the bar.
My mind is working furiously. Why would he....? Then it hits me like a cold sheet of water thrown up by a speeding hearse. He can’t be...flirting. The thought makes me want to laugh out loud, but also makes me almost sick with dread. So this is it, after all this time, and the only person who finds me attractive is a patronising stuffed shirt who thinks of flirting as verbally subduing your quarry and making them feel inadequate. Wonderful.
Ok so I have a teeny confession to make, I have never actually been in a relationship. Scratch that, I have never even been, almost-very nearly-potentially-possibly in a relationship, full stop, which makes this cosmic joke of a “date” even more humiliating and awful. Even more awful is the fact that this guy is my age, or very nearly my age, give or take a year. As opposed to he who I’m not even mentioning, who is my age give or take a decade and who I actually might have considered possibly liking. But look which one I end up with. Typical.
So I sit and drink my drink, convinced that I should be mildly grateful for the long overdue attention. I allow alcohol to slowly dull the receptors in my brain that are screaming, “Push over the table and run you idiot! This guy is awful and so not worth your time.” I just sit there, aware that I have been defeated, listening to his long winded and one sided conversation that I suppose is intended to put me in awe of him, but instead leaves me with the strange impression that he wants my vote in the next general election.
When he offers me a lift back to the boat because he is staying on the island overnight at, “the old family stamping ground” – which I assume means “house”, I accept. When we are on the boat and a sudden lurch pushes us together I don’t pull away fast enough to make it perfectly crystal clear that he should not be that close, which is why his hand ends up on my leg, and why I end up in the "old family heirloom" which I presume means bed.
So in conclusion, I wake up with a pounding headache and a dry throat, in a strangers house. Looking at my clothing strew across the floor and wondering why everyone thinks teenagers love one night stands, because it is certainly not an experience I will be repeating.
I hastily shove on my clothes and tiptoe downstairs, where I see one of my shoes in the middle of the living room. I hurry over to grab it and jam it onto my foot. I feel awful, cheap and disgusting and just…awful. I never did anything like this in school, I never got drunk or did…other stuff.
But that’s not the worst part.
“Emma?”
I turn in disbelief to see Arthur standing in the doorway in a rumpled T-shirt, jogging bottoms and sleep tousled hair. He puts his coffee on a little side table but continues to frown at me.
“What are you doing…?”
“There you are!” Daniel breezes in with another cup of coffee which he presses into my hand. “Oh, hi Dad”
No, please no!
“Daniel” Arthur say’s evenly, still looking at me.
“Dad this is Emma, but then you already know her.”
Ha bloody Ha!
“No I really don’t” murmurs Arthur, before saying, louder “I actually have some things that I have to do, I’ll see you later Daniel.” and then he’s gone, just like that. Daniel turns to me.
“Just us then, listen I was just…”
“I have to leave, actually” I thrust the coffee at him briskly, striding out into the hallway.
“Right, well, maybe we can…”
“Daniel, no, just no.” I sigh, jerking open the door “Nothing, again, ever.” I stress the last word, stepping out into the cool morning air and shutting the door behind me.
Of course then I tiptoe through the shrubs to get to the back door. I need to talk to Arthur, I need to explain. The door opens onto the kitchen, floored with fat terracotta tiles which make my shoes clack. The hall is carpeted and painted the same bland cream colour as the kitchen, though it is livened with a few pictures in gold frames. I hear sounds through a partially open door, a peek through shows me that it is a study, and Arthur is there, staring blankly at a computer screen.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room is slightly modern with blue walls and a chocolate brown carpet. The shelves are filled with novels, mostly Stephen Kings and detective thrillers. It’s oddly endearing, to see that he is a little less grown up than he thinks he is. I push open the door and step inside.
“Arthur?”
He spins round in the squishy beige chair, bare feet steadying him on the carpet. Now that he is actually looking at me, it makes things harder, all my words are sticking in my throat.
“Emma” he replies evenly.
“I wanted to…explain, about Daniel and everything.”
“You mean you didn’t sleep with him?” I can see now where Daniel gets that cold voice and glare from.
“Yes, I mean, I did, but I didn’t…”
“Emma, you don’t need to explain, because there is nothing to explain, I don’t owe you anything and you certainly don’t owe me anything. So there is nothing to talk about.”
I’m totally stunned, he just cut me off, right there, like everything is suddenly meaningless. I nod mutely and manage to walk out of the room and out of the house before my eyes start to burn. Perfect. Well if any future hope of a potential relationship was still flopping limply, beached on a far off shore, this was pretty much a rock to its head.
I make it back to the site in time to make a vat of porridge for the campers, then I have the longest ever shower and bundle up in fluffy socks with an enormous mug of hot chocolate. My head is pounding, I literally feel like I’m dying, how do people do this every weekend? I dig in my cupboard for a forgotten packet of liquorish allsorts, if I’m going to do this kind of thing regularly then I think avoiding sugar is a lost cause as well.
How could I behave like such a slut? Arthur thinks I’m too young for him, so my solution is to act like the typical irresponsible teen? Very mature. I can’t even bring myself to go and see him, to try and explain. Everything is ruined, my bright shiny new life is just a joke, a stupid little fantasy for the stupid little girl. I pick the packet of sweets up and throw them across the room, followed by the mug and a shower of magazines which slither down the wall into the steaming puddle of chocolate.
For a while I just stare at the mess, then I get a cloth and wipe up the liquid, tossing the broken china into the bin, followed by the damp magazines. I feel embarrassed by this tantrum, as if it proves all the bad things my mind is saying about me. I get the little pie plate from it’s place above the stove and start to make pastry with the ingredients still strewn across the table. Adults don’t sit around in pink fluffy socks eating sweets, they carry on and make do. Just because this life is fractured doesn’t mean it’s not worth living, people have to stick with their choices.
I spoon bruised and bleeding berries into the lined dish, slowly flattening them, watching the juice squirt out under the spoon. This so isn’t helping, of all the things I could have baked, why pie? Arthur was right, the whole island is too small, all my memories of it bleeding together so that every place is inhabited by Arthur. It’s ridiculous. I slash pastry ribbons to cross over the top of the fruit. Totally stupid, I’ve been with him (not even with him) for a grand total of about an hour, and for half of that he hated my guts. That’s not a relationship, that’s not even a long lunch.
But still, as I begin to work on my second pie mechanically, I can’t help but see him in my head. Ok, so and hour isn’t that long, but I spent more than double that with Daniel, and that doesn’t mean we got any closer. I met Vikkie on our first day at school, within the first fifteen minutes, and we’ve been friends for nine years. My hands still over the floury table, the pastry falls into a tangled lump. Maybe, sometimes, when you meet someone, it’s not about time spent together, or age or anything else for that matter. Perhaps it’s about meeting them, and that’s it.
But it doesn’t matter does it? I could have realised this days ago, I could have made him see. Now he hates me and nothing matters anymore.
I notice yesterdays clothing, rumpled and discarded on the floor. The thought of wearing it again makes me feel slightly sick; as if it’s a skin I’ve discarded which is slowly putrefying. I pick up the shirt and the shoes and go outside, the skirt trailing from my arm. I reach the curved wall behind the house and look down at the dark points of rock standing out in the churning froth. I throw the bundle of soiled fabric as hard as I can, watching it tumble over and over, the wind shredding it into it’s components and then strewing them over the waves.
So I decided that I need a holiday from everything, a little break to remind me that there is life away from the island. The campers have decided to cut their stay short because of a weather warning that’s been issued, a storm approaching. So I’m free to do as I please. I’ve decided that I should visit Glastonbury. A couple of days of vegetarian food and interesting shops and I’ll feel more myself again, I’m sure.
I blame the entirety of what happened on alcoholic beverages in general and vodka in particular.
I went out shopping, mainly to avoid thinking about all the Arthur stuff going on. I stopped for a rest and had stashed my things under a table in a pub because I thought I deserved a drink after the last few days of total misery. I ordered my first vodka and coke (the first on many) and was about halfway through drinking it when someone sat down in the chair opposite mine. It was Daniel Shield.
“Hello again.” He greets me before I can pretend that I was just leaving.
“Hi” I reply, awkwardly, taking another gulp of my drink.
I have never liked this guy, I realise I only met him once in person, but still there are some people, in fact, most people in my case, who I hate on sight. Daniel Shield looks like the kind of person most people detest. Clean cut, organized and successful overlaid with smugness because he knows how clean cut, successful and etc he looks.
“Everything going well I trust?” he asks, as if he’s a minor royal talking to a shrimp factory owner.
“Excellently” I reply shortly
“No problems with the locals then? They can be rather...off-putting.”
“And you would know this from your long years of study” I can’t help retorting. I instantly regret it. There are some people you can banter with, arguing lightly and insulting them a little just for the fun of the confrontation. Mr Shield didn’t exactly look like one of these people; he looked like someone who had their lawyer on speed dial just in case someone mocked his one sixteenth Norwegian heritage.
“I actually come from Ilensay, I grew up there.” He smirks, knowing that he has pinned me conversationally, as the mental comeback count begins I realise that I have nothing suitably cutting to say.
“I had heard that there was a slight problem with Arthur, he holds quite a prominent position as the head of the council there.”
“I know” I snap, resenting his patronising tone.
“So punching him was, you agree, a fairly foolish idea?”
Bastard
“Do you want another drink?” his sudden offer catches me off guard and he takes my silence for a yes, plucking my glass from my hand and heading for the bar.
My mind is working furiously. Why would he....? Then it hits me like a cold sheet of water thrown up by a speeding hearse. He can’t be...flirting. The thought makes me want to laugh out loud, but also makes me almost sick with dread. So this is it, after all this time, and the only person who finds me attractive is a patronising stuffed shirt who thinks of flirting as verbally subduing your quarry and making them feel inadequate. Wonderful.
Ok so I have a teeny confession to make, I have never actually been in a relationship. Scratch that, I have never even been, almost-very nearly-potentially-possibly in a relationship, full stop, which makes this cosmic joke of a “date” even more humiliating and awful. Even more awful is the fact that this guy is my age, or very nearly my age, give or take a year. As opposed to he who I’m not even mentioning, who is my age give or take a decade and who I actually might have considered possibly liking. But look which one I end up with. Typical.
So I sit and drink my drink, convinced that I should be mildly grateful for the long overdue attention. I allow alcohol to slowly dull the receptors in my brain that are screaming, “Push over the table and run you idiot! This guy is awful and so not worth your time.” I just sit there, aware that I have been defeated, listening to his long winded and one sided conversation that I suppose is intended to put me in awe of him, but instead leaves me with the strange impression that he wants my vote in the next general election.
When he offers me a lift back to the boat because he is staying on the island overnight at, “the old family stamping ground” – which I assume means “house”, I accept. When we are on the boat and a sudden lurch pushes us together I don’t pull away fast enough to make it perfectly crystal clear that he should not be that close, which is why his hand ends up on my leg, and why I end up in the "old family heirloom" which I presume means bed.
So in conclusion, I wake up with a pounding headache and a dry throat, in a strangers house. Looking at my clothing strew across the floor and wondering why everyone thinks teenagers love one night stands, because it is certainly not an experience I will be repeating.
I hastily shove on my clothes and tiptoe downstairs, where I see one of my shoes in the middle of the living room. I hurry over to grab it and jam it onto my foot. I feel awful, cheap and disgusting and just…awful. I never did anything like this in school, I never got drunk or did…other stuff.
But that’s not the worst part.
“Emma?”
I turn in disbelief to see Arthur standing in the doorway in a rumpled T-shirt, jogging bottoms and sleep tousled hair. He puts his coffee on a little side table but continues to frown at me.
“What are you doing…?”
“There you are!” Daniel breezes in with another cup of coffee which he presses into my hand. “Oh, hi Dad”
No, please no!
“Daniel” Arthur say’s evenly, still looking at me.
“Dad this is Emma, but then you already know her.”
Ha bloody Ha!
“No I really don’t” murmurs Arthur, before saying, louder “I actually have some things that I have to do, I’ll see you later Daniel.” and then he’s gone, just like that. Daniel turns to me.
“Just us then, listen I was just…”
“I have to leave, actually” I thrust the coffee at him briskly, striding out into the hallway.
“Right, well, maybe we can…”
“Daniel, no, just no.” I sigh, jerking open the door “Nothing, again, ever.” I stress the last word, stepping out into the cool morning air and shutting the door behind me.
Of course then I tiptoe through the shrubs to get to the back door. I need to talk to Arthur, I need to explain. The door opens onto the kitchen, floored with fat terracotta tiles which make my shoes clack. The hall is carpeted and painted the same bland cream colour as the kitchen, though it is livened with a few pictures in gold frames. I hear sounds through a partially open door, a peek through shows me that it is a study, and Arthur is there, staring blankly at a computer screen.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room is slightly modern with blue walls and a chocolate brown carpet. The shelves are filled with novels, mostly Stephen Kings and detective thrillers. It’s oddly endearing, to see that he is a little less grown up than he thinks he is. I push open the door and step inside.
“Arthur?”
He spins round in the squishy beige chair, bare feet steadying him on the carpet. Now that he is actually looking at me, it makes things harder, all my words are sticking in my throat.
“Emma” he replies evenly.
“I wanted to…explain, about Daniel and everything.”
“You mean you didn’t sleep with him?” I can see now where Daniel gets that cold voice and glare from.
“Yes, I mean, I did, but I didn’t…”
“Emma, you don’t need to explain, because there is nothing to explain, I don’t owe you anything and you certainly don’t owe me anything. So there is nothing to talk about.”
I’m totally stunned, he just cut me off, right there, like everything is suddenly meaningless. I nod mutely and manage to walk out of the room and out of the house before my eyes start to burn. Perfect. Well if any future hope of a potential relationship was still flopping limply, beached on a far off shore, this was pretty much a rock to its head.
I make it back to the site in time to make a vat of porridge for the campers, then I have the longest ever shower and bundle up in fluffy socks with an enormous mug of hot chocolate. My head is pounding, I literally feel like I’m dying, how do people do this every weekend? I dig in my cupboard for a forgotten packet of liquorish allsorts, if I’m going to do this kind of thing regularly then I think avoiding sugar is a lost cause as well.
How could I behave like such a slut? Arthur thinks I’m too young for him, so my solution is to act like the typical irresponsible teen? Very mature. I can’t even bring myself to go and see him, to try and explain. Everything is ruined, my bright shiny new life is just a joke, a stupid little fantasy for the stupid little girl. I pick the packet of sweets up and throw them across the room, followed by the mug and a shower of magazines which slither down the wall into the steaming puddle of chocolate.
For a while I just stare at the mess, then I get a cloth and wipe up the liquid, tossing the broken china into the bin, followed by the damp magazines. I feel embarrassed by this tantrum, as if it proves all the bad things my mind is saying about me. I get the little pie plate from it’s place above the stove and start to make pastry with the ingredients still strewn across the table. Adults don’t sit around in pink fluffy socks eating sweets, they carry on and make do. Just because this life is fractured doesn’t mean it’s not worth living, people have to stick with their choices.
I spoon bruised and bleeding berries into the lined dish, slowly flattening them, watching the juice squirt out under the spoon. This so isn’t helping, of all the things I could have baked, why pie? Arthur was right, the whole island is too small, all my memories of it bleeding together so that every place is inhabited by Arthur. It’s ridiculous. I slash pastry ribbons to cross over the top of the fruit. Totally stupid, I’ve been with him (not even with him) for a grand total of about an hour, and for half of that he hated my guts. That’s not a relationship, that’s not even a long lunch.
But still, as I begin to work on my second pie mechanically, I can’t help but see him in my head. Ok, so and hour isn’t that long, but I spent more than double that with Daniel, and that doesn’t mean we got any closer. I met Vikkie on our first day at school, within the first fifteen minutes, and we’ve been friends for nine years. My hands still over the floury table, the pastry falls into a tangled lump. Maybe, sometimes, when you meet someone, it’s not about time spent together, or age or anything else for that matter. Perhaps it’s about meeting them, and that’s it.
But it doesn’t matter does it? I could have realised this days ago, I could have made him see. Now he hates me and nothing matters anymore.
I notice yesterdays clothing, rumpled and discarded on the floor. The thought of wearing it again makes me feel slightly sick; as if it’s a skin I’ve discarded which is slowly putrefying. I pick up the shirt and the shoes and go outside, the skirt trailing from my arm. I reach the curved wall behind the house and look down at the dark points of rock standing out in the churning froth. I throw the bundle of soiled fabric as hard as I can, watching it tumble over and over, the wind shredding it into it’s components and then strewing them over the waves.
So I decided that I need a holiday from everything, a little break to remind me that there is life away from the island. The campers have decided to cut their stay short because of a weather warning that’s been issued, a storm approaching. So I’m free to do as I please. I’ve decided that I should visit Glastonbury. A couple of days of vegetarian food and interesting shops and I’ll feel more myself again, I’m sure.
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