All my life I had rehearsed my response to theoretical moments of peril – in my imagination I had saved Ethan from vicious dogs, disarmed knife-wielding rapists and wrestled suicide bombers to the floor. But now that a stranger had walked into my remote country cottage to do me harm, I was paralysed. I sat, frozen on the edge of the sofa while my heart tried to batter its way out of my rib cage and my breathing came so fast and shallow that I thought I might faint. My eyes panned across the room in what felt like slow motion, seeking a weapon. Candle on window ledge, DVD box on floor, magazine rack, logs in basket!
I slid off the edge of the sofa, prostrated myself across the hearthrug and felt around in the basket until my fingertips closed around a log of suitable diameter. Then, shielded by the alcove, I clambered to my feet, weighing the log in my hand. I didn’t even feel the bark chafe my scorched palm, I was too intent on its heft, its potential as a weapon. The blood was pulsing in my ears, but for the first time all day my mind was focused.
I could see him now through the open door. He was going through my handbag, which I had left on the kitchen table. He seemed untroubled by the possibility of being caught, an observation which did not give me much comfort. I skirted the room, back to the wall, blessing the fact I was barefoot, blessing Nick’s thoroughness in getting the floorboards relaid and waxed, so that not so much as a squeak gave away my approach. I was behind the kitchen doorframe now. Peeping round, I could see the back of his hoody-clad head, bent over my purse, his fingers riffling through it. I took the last three steps at a run, raising the log above my head so swiftly that I heard the displaced air whoosh in my ear, and if he hadn’t looked up at the last moment, if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of his face, reflected in the window – the startled eyes, the sunken cheeks, the elfin chin…
‘Jesus, Mum, what the fuck!’ he wheeled round, his face ugly with disbelief.
‘Ethan! Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my Jesus God!’
I dropped the log and pulled him close, overcome with relief and joy and remorse and the consuming desire to bury my face in his hot unwashed scalp and breathe in my own genes, my own kind, my child, my love. He raised his arms and broke angrily out of my embrace.
‘I mean, what the fuck? You could have killed me. You’re supposed to be better. Dad said you were better!’
‘No, darling, I am,’ I protested, with a manic laugh that was never going to help my case. ‘It’s just – Daddy’s not here and I wasn’t expecting anybody so I just – well, I know it seems bonkers, but there’s some funny people round here and I thought…’
I saw the expression in his eyes.
‘… I don’t know what I thought. I can see now I was being ridiculous, but honestly, sweetheart, as far as I knew you were in Chiang Mai. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming back? I’d have met you at the airport.’
‘Why didn’t I tell you?’ he said, his face contorted with incredulity. ‘I’ve been trying to fucking tell you for forty-eight hours. I ran out of money, like four days ago. I owe this Australian girl three hundred quid for my flight and I sent you about twenty WhatsApps. Why don’t you look at your frigging phone, would be a better question.’
‘WhatsApps?’ I said, frowning and patting my dressing gown pocket.
‘It’s too late now, Mother,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘There’s a cabbie out front waiting for his fare. It’s seventy-two quid and his metre’s still running, so…’
He tipped the contents of my purse onto the table and started raking through the small change. I handed him my credit card.
He slept in our bed that night, and I took the sofa. I couldn’t bear to put him in the attic. If I’d known he was coming, I’d have made it a bit more welcoming, but it was as cold and inhospitable as the first night I’d moved in and I was ashamed even to show it to him.
‘So tell me all about it,’ I said to him the next morning. We were sitting at the kitchen table, Ethan tousle-haired from sleep, in a Singha beer T-shirt and tracksuit pants, his skin tanned and glowing, except where a new tattoo on his bicep had formed a scabby crust. Ethan paused in his task of forking the last strawberry onto a portion of home-made waffle, and fixed me with a sardonic stare.
‘Which bit?’ he said.
‘All of it,’ I said, ‘I missed you. We both did. Come on, buddy. Look at this place…’ I waved a weary hand at the impossibly lovely landscape beyond the kitchen window, ‘… dullsville. Let me live vicariously through you. That’s what we have children for.’
‘Dullsville, Mother?’ Ethan said with a pitying smile. ‘It was good,’ he said, ‘mostly. Phuket’s a bit of a tourist trap, but the north is nice. Very spiritual.’
Now it was my turn to smile.
‘What?’ he said.
‘No, nothing…’ I said, then, unable to resist, ‘Is that where you got the tatt?’
‘Please don’t.’
‘What?’ I asked in all innocence.
‘Try and be down with the kids. It’s embarrassing.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, a little hurt. ‘What is it anyway?’
‘It’s Sanskrit,’ he said. ‘It means, “my soul honours your soul”. Some shit like that. This girl made me get it.’
‘The Australian girl?’ I said, keeping my voice light, despite a flutter of disquiet.
‘No, a different girl.’
I smirked.
‘So your soul doesn’t honour her soul any more?’ I said.
He put down his knife and fork.
‘Can you not?’ he said.
I held my hand up.
‘Sorry. Sorry. So… how was the accommodation? Was it backpackers’ hostels?’
‘Yeah, mainly. But Thailand’s so cheap you can stay in hotels…’
‘Till you run out of money…’
He gave me the look.
‘Sorry.’
‘Mum, I’m not a kid any more. I’ve been living independently for eight months. I’ve been to two different continents and six different countries and I’m not done yet, so…’
‘You’re not home for good then?’ I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my voice.
He looked at me and then, pointedly, around the idyllic country cottage I was privileged to call home.
‘Are you serious?’ he said.
‘No, I just thought… it’s not long till term starts. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to save up a bit? Get stuck into your reading list. You don’t have to stay here. I’m sure Jude’d…’
‘I’m going to defer for another year,’ he said, quickly and determinedly, as if he had rehearsed this speech. ‘There’s a lot more I want to do. I just need my flight money. This girl can get me work on her stepdad’s fruit farm in Queensland.’
‘The girl you owe money to?’
‘Yeah, but she’ll sub me for a bit.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good…’
‘It’s none of your business!’ he snapped.
I bit my lip and stood up, snatching his empty plate away, not wanting to well up in front of him. I washed his plate in silence, glancing over at him from time to time. He was picking his tattoo scab disconsolately. My boy. My blood.
‘I hope you brought me your washing!’ I said brightly.
He was right. A good parent trusted their child. They didn’t tie them to their apron strings. They sent them out into the world with their blessing, Australian girls notwithstanding. Australia – how far away was that? Five thousand miles? Ten? How many times a year would I be able to visit if he settled there? Would my grandchildren have Australian accents?
‘I’ve only got what’s in that,’ he jerked his head towards a smallish backpack. ‘I could do with some new stuff, actually…’
I refrained from asking him what he had done with the rather pricey lightweight rucksack we’d bought him before he set off, or its prolific contents. I imagined it was even now winging its way to New South Wales courtesy of Kylie or whatever her name was.
‘We might run to a new pair of jean
s…’ I said.
‘Not from round here though, right?’ he said guardedly. ‘I’ll get them in London.’
‘There’s a Mark One in town,’ I said, ‘they do a nice line in stone-washed denim for twenty-five quid a pop.’
He looked at me as though I’d suggested running him up a pair out of some old curtains.
‘Gotcha!’ I said, pointing at him and laughing.
His face broke into a grin and for the first time since he’d arrived we were our old selves. Me and Ethan. Ethan and me.
‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’
I started guiltily as Nick appeared through the back door.
Ethan stood up. I was so conscious of him shuffling from foot to foot behind me while I submitted to Nick’s rather over-zealous kiss that I forgot to sniff my husband for another woman’s perfume. When Nick had relinquished me, Ethan stepped forward and the two of them executed an awkward man hug.
‘Bad penny, eh?’ Nick said, with a slightly forced joviality.
‘Thought I’d pop back and say hello,’ said Ethan.
‘Doesn’t he look well?’ I said to Nick.
‘Very well,’ agreed Nick, ‘no sign of jet lag. What time did your flight get in?’
‘Sore point,’ I interjected quickly, ‘he had to get a cab back from the airport.’
‘Christ,’ said Nick, ‘what did that cost? Wasn’t there a coach?’
Already I could feel it. The tension.
‘It was my fault,’ I said quickly. ‘He’d been sending me messages and I didn’t pick them up.’
‘Why didn’t you try me?’ Nick asked Ethan, sounding a little hurt.
Ethan shrugged.
‘I assumed you’d be together… You live together, right?’ he added, pointedly.
‘Yeah. I was in London, though,’ said Nick. ‘Had to stay over. Bitch of a deadline on a bid… So, yeah,’ he raised his hand, offering Ethan a commiserating high-five, ‘I could have come for you…’
‘Wouldn’t have done to miss your deadline,’ Ethan said and leaving Nick’s hand hovering in the air, he left the room.
‘What’s up with him?’ Nick said disconsolately.
‘What do you think?’ I said.
‘Christ!’ Nick said. ‘It’s been months. I thought I might be off the naughty step by now.’
I gawped at him, astonished; in awe, almost, that he could make light of behaviour that had ripped through our marriage like a tornado.
Had Nick forgotten how our home had been afterwards? Me bursting into tears over nothing. Ethan pushing the boundaries like mad and Nick responding with the maturity of a toddler. Once, I remembered standing in the kitchen doorway, horrified, watching Nick trying to stuff cornflakes into Ethan’s mouth, having retrieved a not-quite empty packet from the bin, which Ethan had disposed of in a sulk claiming his father hadn’t left him any. Had Nick forgotten how, for months on end, the air had vibrated with hostility, aggression and shame?
‘I could murder a coffee,’ Nick said.
‘I’ll make some fresh.’
‘So you weren’t on your own after all?’ he said, jerking his head towards the ceiling.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I nearly crapped myself when he turned up out of the blue. I was cooking this steak that I’d bought for dinner…’
‘Steak. Nice.’
‘… Well, not so nice actually, but that’s another story… anyway, the smoke alarm goes off, and I burn my hand and I’m freaking out so much I don’t hear the bell, and Ethan’s got a cab waiting…’
‘Yeah, how much did that cost?’
‘Oh well, fifty quid or so…’
‘Jesus!’
‘Anyway, Ethan comes in through the back door, which I’d left open because of the smoke and I think he’s an intruder. You know who I thought it was? Remember that freaky guy you had a face-off with in the lane that time… Anyway, I get a log, right…’
Nick was looking pointedly over my shoulder at the coffee machine. I shut my mouth abruptly, swallowing the lump that came in my throat at his seeming indifference. Would it have cost him so much to hear me out?
10
‘So who are these people again?’ Ethan asked, as we made our way down the lane to Min and Ray’s house.
‘Our neighbours, obviously,’ said Nick.
‘You don’t have to stick around, love,’ I told Ethan. ‘Just stay for a drink to be sociable, and then you can make your excuses.’ ‘Why can’t he stay for dinner?’ said Nick. ‘It’s not like he’s got anywhere to be.’
‘Well, it won’t be much fun, will it,’ I reasoned, ‘stuck with a bunch of old fogeys chewing the fat?’
‘Sounds fucking depressing when you put it like that,’ said Nick.
‘Don’t be mean,’ I said, with a reproachful smile. ‘Min’s gone to a lot of trouble. I’m sure it’ll be lovely for us.’
As we approached the porch of Min and Ray’s house, the motion-activated light clicked on, bathing us in its chilly interrogative beam. I could see the muscle flexing in Nick’s cheek, Ethan chewing his lip nervously. I clutched the bottle of wine in both hands and plastered a smile on my face as the door opened.
‘Evenin’ all,’ said Ray. He was wearing jeans and a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt stretched over his pot-belly. His straggly grey hair was hooked behind his ears.
‘Hello there,’ I said, ‘I hope you don’t mind us bringing Ethan along. He’s just back from his gap year.’
Ethan closed his eyes briefly.
‘All right, mate?’ Ray greeted him with a manly handshake-cum-shoulder-clasp.
‘Is that your bike?’ Ethan jerked his head towards a vintage Norton parked a few feet away on the drive.
‘One of ’em,’ said Ray. ‘Into bikes are you?’
‘Yeah, me and a mate hired a couple of Hondas in Cambodia. Got a bit of a taste for it.’
‘Honda’s not a bike,’ Ray said scornfully. ‘That’s a bike. Play your cards right I might take you for a spin later.’
‘That’d be cool!’
‘Oh, I’m not sure that’s a good…’ I started to say but Nick flashed me a warning frown. I was surprised. It wasn’t like him to be protective of his son’s masculine pride. Against my better judgement, I banished from my mind all visions of twisted metal and butchered flesh and kept quiet.
‘Oh dear, are we early?’ I asked, as Ray showed us into the deserted living room. It was a curious mixture of good taste and eccentricity. Oak beams, exposed brickwork and a baronial-style fireplace were domesticated with warm lighting, squashy sofas, and all manner of throws, rugs and wall hangings. I couldn’t help wondering about the collection of Victorian taxidermy on the sideboard, though – a startled-looking squirrel stared out beadily from its glass coffin, a pair of greenfinches hovered for all eternity under a dome and strangest of all, a trio of fancy moths, wings outstretched, impaled on slender wires, resembled a tiny crucifixion. By the time I had taken in a vintage Wurlitzer jukebox in an alcove and – this at least should have come as no surprise – an expensively framed but hideously kitsch airbrushed poster of a motorbike hanging over the fireplace, I had warmed more than ever to our hosts.
‘No, you’re not early,’ Ray reassured me, with a friendly pat on the arm. ‘Fashionably late, actually, unlike some people…’
Cath had just walked in from the kitchen, wearing a natty electric blue suit and carrying a tray of drinks. She put it down on the table.
‘I’ve been earning my keep,’ she said. ‘Potatoes don’t peel themselves, you know.’
‘You look nice,’ I told her, going for an awkward air kiss.
‘Ach, away with you,’ she said, blushing furiously. ‘Here, try some of this. If you like it there’s a bottle in the kitchen for you.’
She poured me a glass of fizz and I took a sip. It was delicious – fragrant and light with a lovely alcoholic kick to it.
‘Home-made elderflower champagne,’ she said, proudly.
‘M
mm! Nick, you should try this, it’s amazing.’
Cath waggled the bottle at him.
‘I’ll stick to beer, thanks,’ he said.
‘How about you?’ Cath peered round me at Ethan.
‘Gosh. Where are my manners?’ I said, yanking him in front of me and remembering, just in time, not to smooth his hair as if he were still in Year One.
‘Cath, this is Ethan, my… our son. Ethan, this is Cath – she’s the most amazing gardener.’
To his credit, Ethan did not recoil from my touch, nor betray the monumental boredom he must, I imagined, have felt on being introduced to a middle-aged horticulturalist. In fact he acquitted himself rather better than his father, who stood gazing vacantly around the room as Cath regaled the rest of us with gossip from the green room at Gardener’s World. It wasn’t until Ray had answered the door to the next round of guests that Nick seemed to remember his manners, which might have had something to do with the fact that one of them was a striking brunette wearing a tan leather dress and an armful of bangles. Cath was still chatting away, but I kept losing the thread now, as I watched this woman thrust her hip at Nick and fiddle self-consciously with her hair. The husband wasn’t bad-looking either, though he wasn’t my type. He was short, with owlish specs, a linen scarf wound bandage-like around his neck and a head of unruly grey curls. I could see Nick sizing him up as the three of them chatted, mentally ascribing him a position in the pecking order a few rungs down from Nick’s own. The miracle, from my point of view, was that a couple who looked like this should be running a gallery in an undistinguished little town like ours instead of in Manhattan’s East Village. Along with some of the other recent developments in my life, Ethan’s return, my tentative friendship with Cath, the excitement I felt about my new art project, it seemed – notwithstanding the woman’s enviable glamour and the fact that she was all but throwing herself at my husband – to augur well for our future here.
The Move Page 8