Five Hundred Miles From You: the brand new, life-affirming, escapist novel of 2020 from the Sunday Times bestselling author

by Jenny Colgan

‘What is this stuff?’

  ‘Keeps your energy levels up.’

  It was a hard, sugary fudge that, once you were over the insane pitch of sweetness, was incredibly delicious.

  ‘Oh goodness,’ said Lissa.

  ‘I know,’ said Zoe. ‘Shackleton made it. Then I confiscated it in case they all got diabetes.’

  Lissa looked at the bag.

  ‘Yes, please eat more,’ said Zoe. ‘Seriously, it’s going to kill me. It’s going to kill us all.’

  ‘We should have one more piece each then hurl the rest out of the window,’ said Lissa bravely.

  ‘You’d kill the first bird that found it,’ said Zoe mournfully. ‘Stone dead. No one’s body can absorb that much sugar without consequences.’

  They both looked at the bag again.

  ‘Perhaps if we just finished it and got it out the way we wouldn’t have to think about it again,’ said Zoe.

  ‘We could keep some for Nina.’

  ‘She can’t have it. It would kill John if he got it through her breast milk.’

  Giggling mightily, they put the absolutely delicious vanilla-flavoured lumps of tablet in their mouths to dissolve happily as the van trundled down the country road, not another car in sight, the sun streaming through the open windows, the radio playing a jolly song with fiddles and lyrics Lissa couldn’t make out.

  Nina was pleased to see them as they turned into the farmyard.

  ‘Watch out for that chicken,’ said Zoe to Lissa as she stepped down. A particularly beady-eyed specimen was lurking, stepping from side to side in a corner of the farmyard. ‘She’s a total nightmare.’

  Lissa looked at the chicken, who glanced back at her, then directed her gaze straight back to Zoe. It was almost as if she was looking at Zoe specifically in a threatening fashion, but that couldn’t possibly be true.

  Anyway, Nina was sitting cheerfully on the steps of the other van and waved them over.

  ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Where’s John?’

  ‘Out with Lennox,’ said Nina, rolling her eyes but looking proud at the time. Her bonny boy and his dad were rarely parted. ‘Have a good morning?’

  ‘Yes!’ said Zoe. ‘Those cuddly Nessies are going like the clappers.’

  Nina rolled her eyes again. The tension between her beautifully curated bookshop and Zoe’s more touristy shop – Zoe parked up at Loch Ness – was sometimes there, but it didn’t matter. They were both making a living and now, sitting out in the sunshine in the shade of the beautiful farmhouse, with three vast mugs of tea, Lissa revelled in their chat, especially as it was about what it was like coming from an English city to such a remote part of the world.

  ‘My mum thought I was coming to the moon,’ said Zoe. ‘And also that I would be kidnapped by my new employer.’

  Nina smiled in response.

  ‘At least you weren’t the first English girl ever to set foot here. The silence in Wullie’s pub!’

  Zoe laughed.

  ‘I think he thought you were going to seduce him.’

  ‘Evil English temptress,’ agreed Zoe.

  ‘So what do you think?’ said Nina, turning to Lissa. ‘Are you going to stay for a bit?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Lissa. ‘It’s just a placement.’

  ‘Why did you choose here?’ said Nina curiously. ‘I mean, I kind of got stuck . . .’

  Lissa shrugged.

  ‘The . . . I mean, this is where it came up. With Cormac.’

  ‘Good old Cormac,’ said Nina. ‘I bet he’s having an absolute ball down there.’

  Lissa wondered what she meant by this but didn’t pursue it in case it meant, as she suspected, ‘pulling lots of girls’, some of whom might even be her friends. Then she thought of her hedgehog picture and smiled, but just as quickly dismissed it. He obviously did that for everyone.

  She leant forwards. She was glad she was off social media, but she did miss just having people to chat to. And she felt she ought to be a little brave. After all, they’d all made the move.

  ‘I . . . They kind of sent me here to . . .’

  The other girls went silent, sensing she had something to say.

  ‘I had a rough time in London,’ Lissa confessed. ‘I was a witness to a hit and run and . . . it all got a bit much for me.’

  Nobody said anything.

  ‘So. I’m kind of supposedly on a quieter beat for a bit. The NHS equivalent of basket weaving.’

  She attempted to smile, but it didn’t quite work.

  Zoe leaned forwards.

  ‘Was it awful?’ she said gently.

  Lissa got that horrid about-to-cry feeling again. She couldn’t speak, just nodded.

  Nina, who was next to her, patted her gently on the hand.

  ‘God, that must be awful. The worst that’s ever happened to me was a paper cut.’

  Lissa half smiled.

  ‘Is it helping?’ said Zoe. ‘I wasn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t anything like traumatised or anything. But I was stressed out and miserable, and coming here . . .’

  A flock of swallows lifted up from the far field across the road in one great swarm. Lissa watched them go.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Nina, standing up and going inside. She came back with a small book; on the cover was a woman standing.

  ‘Here,’ she said. Lissa took it.

  ‘I got two copies by accident,’ said Nina. ‘You can have it.’

  ‘The Accidental Tourist,’ read Lissa. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Healing,’ said Nina. ‘Best book ever written on the subject.’

  Lissa looked up at her, touched beyond measure.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Oh!’ Her face changed. ‘Here they come!’

  Lennox was bouncing the baby on his shoulders, heading down for lunch from the fields. In the old days, he’d have taken a lunchbox and thrown a sandwich in his mouth in the barn. Now, he knew there was warm bread in the kitchen from the baker’s as well as good cheese and ripe tomatoes and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Nina had bought some ironic Enid Blytonesque ginger beer which they were both enjoying entirely unironically. Seeing they had company slightly made him clam up as usual, but the girls talked enough for them all, as they sat out on the first clear, warm day of the year, watching John try to crawl on the rug and the chicken peck sinisterly in the corner of the barn. Lissa clutched her book gift as if it were treasure when she headed off.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lennox as she went, ‘are you talking to Cormac at all?’

  Lissa flushed.

  ‘Um . . . only professionally, you know, patient notes and stuff.’

  Lennox wasn’t interested in that.

  ‘Tell him I need harvesters. I’m not kidding. Barn’s all set up. Ninety squillion lads in London; they can surely spare a few.’

  Lissa blinked, then nodded and carried on her way.

  Chapter Two

  Cormac headed out, taking Robbie his breakfast. To his surprise, as normally Robbie was unconscious at this time of day, and Cormac would leave it near him, Robbie was actually sitting up, staring into the distance.

  ‘Morning,’ said Cormac. Robbie looked at him, and it wasn’t the usual unfocused look he had. The sun was out and could just be glimpsed between the walls of the roundabout underpass.

  Robbie scratched his head.

  ‘Man,’ he said, ‘can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Cormac.

  Robbie looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Can I . . . can I have a shower?’

  Cormac thought about it. Sure, nobody was going to mind. The only person he was going to have to deal with was . . .

  ‘Morning,’ he said. The grumpy porter looked up and grunted. Then he focused on Robbie, looking disgruntled. There was, undeniably, quite the whiff.

  ‘I brought you this,’ said Cormac. ‘I just had too many.’

  And he handed over a fresh bag of pains au raisins. Being ab
le to go out and buy pretty much whatever you like whenever you felt like it remained quite the novelty to Cormac, and he was enjoying it.

  ‘Try them,’ he said. ‘I think they’re French. They’ve got custard in them!’

  The man sniffed, then without another word, took the bag off Cormac, who quickly shuffled Robbie inside.

  Cormac bundled Robbie into the showers with a fresh towel, some of his clothes and instructions to stay in as long as he wanted; the hot water was limitless, even if the tiles were cracked.

  Kim-Ange caught him at the basement laundry door and stood there, arms folded.

  ‘Who’s that in the shower?’

  ‘A . . . friend,’ said Cormac. Kim-Ange beamed.

  ‘A lover?’

  ‘No!’

  She frowned at him and he realised he’d got it wrong again. London was teaching him a lot.

  ‘I mean, that would be obviously fine, aye . . .’

  Kim-Ange nodded more appreciatively. ‘But it isn’t . . .?’

  ‘Not on this occasion, no,’ said Cormac, feeling increasingly stupid.

  ‘Okay then,’ said Kim-Ange. ‘So he’s a friend of yours?’

  Cormac explained. Kim-Ange raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve let a homeless guy into a nursing accommodation?’

  ‘I thought you were meant to be the tolerant one.’

  ‘Well, have you left your wallet in your bedroom?’

  Cormac had of course. He turned round, then turned back.

  ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’

  ‘Yes, all right, country bumpkin,’ said Kim-Ange.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Cormac, as she followed him back upstairs.

  The room was empty; the shower too. Cormac called out Robbie’s name, but there was no response at all. He’d done a runner, taking Cormac’s clean clothes but leaving his dirty ones behind. They were, truly, only fit for the bin.

  Cormac clutched for his phone, but it was in his pocket – there was a new message from Lissa, something about Lennox looking for harvesters. Well, he was hardly going to manage that, was he? He scrabbled around the room, trying not to let Kim-Ange see that he was worried, or reveal the huge relief he felt when he saw his wallet, untouched, on the desk, his watch next to it likewise, and he felt both instantly guilty and dreadfully sorry for Robbie. He sat down on the bed, defeated. Kim-Ange made a decision.

  ‘Come for a walk with me,’ she said. She was wearing a bright gold sleeveless jacket with a fur trim over her wide back, tight black leggings and high-heeled gold Timberlands, with gold eyeshadow to match. It was a little alarming to the uninitiated.

  ‘What time is it?’ said Cormac.

  ‘Going for a walk time,’ said Kim-Ange.

  Cormac groaned and went over and washed his face in the small sink. ‘Are you sure?’ he said. ‘You don’t just want me with you so you can lean on me when your feet get sore in your very stupid shoes?’

  They were quite stupid shoes, with a dangerous-looking stiletto heel.

  ‘I do,’ said Kim-Ange. ‘And bare your teeth if anyone does shouting.’

  ‘Who’s going to shout at you?’ said Cormac, drying his stubble. ‘And even if they do, you wouldn’t hear them up there – you’re about nine foot tall in those.’

  ‘Catwalk,’ said Kim-Ange sagely. ‘Come on, we’ll go up to Tate Modern. They’re all arty up there. I shall be appreciated.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Well done for this morning. Risky, but you pulled it off.’

  Cormac didn’t feel much better though.

  Although once they got outside into what Cormac considered to be a terrifying heatwave and everyone else thought was a perfectly normal day, he felt that something had changed. At first, when he’d gone into clothes shops or walked through Soho, marvelling at the looks, the fashion, the different types of people – male, female and everything in between – he’d found it embarrassing. Why would anyone dress like that? Why would people want to stand out and have everyone stare at them, giggling and pointing? Now, as he started to get more used to the ins and outs of the inner city, he’d realised something that would have completely surprised him: he liked it.

  He liked the individuality of people’s dressing. He liked the effort that went into having silver hair, or wearing a wig, or something incredibly uncomfortable, just so that everyone else didn’t have to look at the same boring jeans and fleeces all day.

  He also had a theory: in Scotland, the colours and the world around you changed daily, hourly even – the pink of the blossom bursting; the gold of the daffodils; the deep greens of the grass after the rain; the soft lavender of the heather on the hillsides; bright yellow fields of rape; fresh white lambs dotting the place like clouds; sunsets that stretched uninterrupted for miles.

  Here it was grey pavement, grey buildings, grey pavement, brown buildings everywhere you went. Always the same, never changing. Harsh electric lights burning yellow, over and over again. You could barely see the sky from the street; couldn’t see anything bursting into life and colour, changing day by day. Nothing changed. Everything was at the same temperature; everything was built upon, and anything that wasn’t had a crane sitting on top of it.

  So people dressing colourfully – wearing yellow spectacles or bright turquoise suits or pointy red shoes – were all adding to the brick urban landscape, giving you something beautiful and interesting to look at because, in Cormac’s mind, they were so unlucky as to be trapped somewhere they couldn’t look at the sea and the trees and the sky.

  They walked up along the embankment of the vast sludge-covered river. It being the weekend, the pavements were completely thronged with crowds – families; people on bicycles and scooters; ridiculous grown men with funny beards; brightly coloured groups of young Italians with vast rucksacks; self-satisfied people stepping out of the curious Globe theatre – so that it was a squeeze past the Oxo Tower. There were just so many people. How, thought Cormac, did you ever get used to it? He understood completely now why you couldn’t say hello to passers-by; couldn’t even make eye contact. It would be impossible and exhausting. And, as he got carried along by the throng, he found himself thinking, You know, if anyone was looking at me, they wouldn’t necessarily think that I came from a tiny village or that I’d never spent time in the city before. They would see me walk and not think anything of it; think I’d lived like this all my life. And he found, to his surprise that he rather liked that sensation.

  ‘We’re going to look at some art,’ announced Kim-Ange.

  ‘I don’t know anything about art,’ said Cormac.

  ‘You doodle all day long!!’

  ‘That’s different. And modern art is weird. It looks like a kid did it.’

  ‘What an original and valuable insight,’ said Kim Ange. ‘You’re in the middle of one of the best centres for art in the world and all you want to do is sit in steak house windows in Leicester Square.’

  Cormac wished he’d never told her that.

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘No, you shut up! You might learn something!’

  Cormac trailed after her like a reluctant child as they entered a huge factory-shaped building with high brown chimneys right on the riverbank. There was a set of low, wide glass doors along the back end, and small children with scooters and tricycles were gleefully careering about the open space.

  Inside, away from the sunlight, it was gloomy and cool. The sloping concrete floor opened on to a vast underground chamber filled with odd shapes and sizes. Cormac folded his arms and announced that he couldn’t tell a piece of sculpture from the sign telling you where to go to the toilets, but Kim-Ange oohed and aahed while Cormac nodded patiently and wondered if there was a fast food restaurant nearby – he was fifty miles from the nearest McDonald’s in Kirrinfief and he found it something of a treat as it reminded him of birthdays when he was a child when the entire family would make a special trip, and also Jake had been bugging him to find out what KFC tasted like.

&n
bsp; ‘Come look at this,’ said Kim-Ange, recognising a bored person when she saw one. ‘These are cool. It’s a guy who went mad. And he painted pictures of his madness. And they’re the best insights into trauma I think we have.’

  Cormac was expecting something weird and surreal; melting clocks maybe.

  He wasn’t expecting what he saw. The upper galleries were dimly lit, practically dark, and he found himself in a small room shaped like a pentagon with vast canvases hanging on each felt-covered wall. The effect was close and claustrophobic.

  The first thing he noticed was that there was nothing on them. No shapes or drawings of anything at all – just great blocks of pure colour looming above him. What on earth was this? What a complete waste of his time. He didn’t understand modern art, and that was that. Kim-Ange, meanwhile, was off to the side staring, utterly rapt.

  He peered closer, then took a step back so he could take in the whole of the canvas in one go. It was three blocks of colour but it could – did, in fact – look like the ground, the sea, and the sky. The sky section was a deep ominous rust colour, like dried blood or the warning of something ominous; the blue section below was battered and rough, as if the sky was upsetting the sea, because something terrible was coming; and the earth was brown and dry, as if everything was hopeless. It was unutterably bleak and extraordinarily beautiful. How? Cormac thought. It was just some paint on a wall but they filled him with deep and heavy emotions.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he said finally.

  ‘I know,’ said Kim-Ange, who had a look of fervent reverence on her face, as if having a religious experience. ‘Aren’t they amazing?’

  Cormac looked at another one. Here there was a diseased yellow; the colour itself, the very pigment like a howl of disgust and misery. It had the ability to spear his mood, get right to the heart of him. He felt the artist was crying out personally for help, straight to him.

  ‘Who is this artist?’

  ‘Mark,’ said Kim-Ange, respectfully. ‘Mark Rothko.’

  ‘Is he still alive? What happened to him?’

  Kim-Ange looked and Cormac immediately knew the answer.

  ‘Suicide,’ he said. ‘It’s written there.’