by Sarah Till
We stare at each other through the darkness, our eyes locked. I can hear him breathe, close to me, warm and soothing. He sighs. ‘I needed a push. In the end I confronted her.’
‘With, like, evidence?’ I’m excited now, spurred on by schadenfreude.
‘Not exactly. I saw them together. In a restaurant, through the window. The thing is, he could have been a business colleague, or anyone. But it was obvious. His chair was pulled around to her side of the table, they were as near as they could be. I stood there, across the road, watching them, for ten minutes and they never took their eyes off each other.’
‘So did you confront her?’
‘No. I just went home and packed my things and went. I rented a room for about nine months and got on with my work. And here I am, living in the back of nowhere in someone’s spare room.’
I want to persist with my own line of questioning, ask him how he felt and how he left his whole life behind, but I can see Vera’s headlights and then I hear a car door slam. I go to make tea and make Gabriel a cup. He’s standing watching Vera scale the wall when I come back.
‘Death tourist.’ My explanation is met with no reaction.
‘So she’s here every day is she? What time does she leave?’ He studies me for a moment. ‘Just curious.’
‘Yeah. She walks all over the moor for hours. She’s looking for her missing relative. Or friend.’
Gabriel snorts and I finally snap.
‘You’re very rude, you know. These poor people have lost someone, or they want to be close to their loved ones.’ I listen to my voice and hear Sarah’s words, the words I had scorned when I first heard them. ‘That poor woman, her loved one has been missing for all those years, and she doesn’t even have the affirmation of closure. She’s here every day, even though she doesn’t know exactly where they are. And you’re mocking her.’ I listen to myself, a semi-expert on the crash now, something that happened before I was born but I seem to have interred into my own life by location. I snap at Gabriel, but I know really I’m angry for how he’s making me feel. Warm inside, kind of syrupy. He’s unphased by my outburst in any case.
‘I’m sorry you don’t agree, Patti. I wasn’t trying to be unkind. I suppose it depends what you believe. I’m more interested in the landscape and the people who are still alive.’
‘What do you mean? Interested in the landscape? And don’t you think that poor Vera’s loved one is still alive to her? She’s never had the closure of a funeral.’
He pulls his leg underneath him on the window seat and rolls another cigarette and for the first time I see his fingers are stained yellow.
‘The thing is, Patti like I said, it all depends on what you believe. On you own point of view. Things aren’t always how they seem.’
I smile a little now. If anyone knew about how things can become clouded, unsure, misted with confusion, it was me. After all, I was living with a man who was in complete denial of what I knew was true. As if he had read my mind, he continues.
‘So, I did a degree in geology. Late, mind you, I took a gap year that turned into six years selling double-glazing. I used to think that the whole world was joined up, one big piece of land, a full continent land mass surrounded by sea. A giant island. I spent hours and hours studying the islands to see where they had broken off.’
He traces the shape of the island on the window seat, his fingers touching mine when he reaches across the sea, and again our eyes meet.
‘I studied mainland Britain, with her wide hips and her backbone of the Pennines and tried to see where she had pulled away from France, then Ireland had pulled away from her. I imagined that I could make them fit together like a big jigsaw. Then, when I went to university, I saw that if you took all the water away, the world was all land after all, it always had been. And that the Pennines were no backbone at all, just a small scar on the skin of the earth. A blemish. Water just fills in the ravines to cause an illusion of being separated from the mainland. And, do you see, Patti, we are the same, made of the same stuff, we walk about on the landscape, believing the illusions, and finally going back to the earth or the air? To nothing. To me, everything between is a game. In the same way we think we can manipulate the earth if we see it as a series of small pieces, as living beings we miss the hidden depths.’
He pauses to draw on his roll-up.
‘But we can no more manipulate the earth as we can each other. It’s all relative. My truth was, at one time, floating islands, but now I know they are fixed – but out of my vision. So, in my opinion, there is no truth.’
He takes a breath.
‘So, the skill is to find someone who’s on the same wavelength as you. Someone who cares and who you can trust. And obviously, someone you are physically attracted to.’
I stare at him. In the coolness of the morning, I’m burning up with his heat, I know he’s talking about me, and it embarrasses me so I try to laugh it away.
‘Bloody hell. Did you really believe that? That England broke off from France?’
He laughs too and the sun rises fully over the horizon.
‘Yes. I also believed that sprouts were baby cabbages. I was a real sucker.’ We both snigger and drink our tea. ‘Problem is though, somewhere deep inside me, I still like the thought that the Pennines are the backbone of Britain. Even though I know it isn’t, I like to think it, somewhere deep inside. I can’t shake it. You know, those bumps that you can feel in a lover’s back, one by one, when you hold them close? You run your fingers along and feel the ridges, the seismic movements of them? I like the idea of them holding us firm and unmoving. But in reality Britain is just the top of a huge mountain, flattened by millions of years spinning in space, but pushed by a hard pressure trying to escape.’
My eyes go automatically to his groin and I see his erection through his shorts. If I were a different person I would have stayed and challenged him, maybe slept with him there and then. Believe me, I’m tempted. Or told him to fuck off. But I say nothing. David is upstairs and I have to be the dutiful, faithful woman or face the horrendous consequences. So I merely put my cup down and go into the kitchen, where, after only two minutes, David appears fully dressed. They begin to chat and by the time David leaves the house I am asleep safely in my own bed.
Later, I wake up and immediately think about Gabriel, taking myself by surprise as I feel an unfamiliar warmth of bliss flood through my body. I bask for a moment, daring to wonder if this is my escape route, my path away from David’s cruelty. Years ago, when I was a teenager, I’d know straight away when someone was attracted to me. It was always so obvious, and it was as if I had a built-in alarm system, a kind of radar. I was the kind of confident teenager who would encourage the boys, flirty and sure of myself. In public. But when I got home at night, in my bedroom, I’d chew the end of my pencil and dare to think about a wedding dress, and a three-tier pink and white cake. There would be dancing and a white gazebo and pink champagne. I was quick off the mark. I went straight for the wedding scenario. Of course, the over-romantic bubble had been burst with a series of faceless grooms, never staying long enough to fit, and I was back to teasing and flirting. Now, for the first time in an eon, Gabriel was standing in this picture slightly to my right in a suit, smiling into my eyes. It shocks me into reality and I dismiss it, wondering what the hell is happening to me? I’d only just met him and straight away I’m veering into some kind of teenage daydream.
In a few minutes I hear the kitchen door opening and Sarah’s voice.
‘Come on, sleepy head! Wake up! You haven’t seen to your birds yet or got the honey.’
I go downstairs and she’s making tea. There’s no trace of Gabriel and I wonder if I had imagined our conversation before. Maybe he’s in his room? I tell myself that there’s no harm in fantasising, no harm in looking at him.
‘How’s things, Sarah?’
Her head tilts to one side and she wrinkles her nose. ‘So-so. I’ve been busy yesterday with an all-day client. But I
did see a guy with David. Who is that?’
‘It’s his friend, Gabriel. He’s staying for a while, until he gets a place.’
‘Angel Gabriel. How wonderful! We could do with a bit of goodness around this evil place. All these vibes of death.’
I see her break into witchy mode and I sigh heavily.
‘For God’s sake. He’s no fucking angel. Any more than David is a Saint.’
Sarah dons her ‘I think you’re a little bit mad’ face and nods. ‘But you hardly know him. How can you say that?’
‘He gives me the chills. Makes me feel funny. In a big way. There’s something raw about him. Earthy.’
She giggles a little. ‘You like him! And there’s you going on about David being unfaithful all the time, Mother Teresa.’ I blush and she touches my arm over the table. ‘You’re allowed you know. Women have their needs as well. And you and David don’t... you know?’
It was true. I only made love with David once a month. On exactly the fourteenth day of my cycle. David had a calendar, where he charted my progress, like a pedigree horse or something. It was a memory of our trying for a baby, a ritual of our relationship, and another way he could impose his will on me. I say made love, but our sexual encounters had denigrated to a cross between a repeat performance and lazy sex. Then reduced to once a month. I was glad in a way because by then I had already begun to suspect and didn’t want him anywhere near me. But I alternated between missing him, his warm breath on me, and feeling ugly because he no longer wanted me. Even though I knew he was sleeping with someone else, I felt offended that he didn’t want me. He was simply fulfilling his husbandly duties.
‘No we don’t. Not so often. Obviously. I wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole now.’
Sarah leaned forward.
‘Oh. But do you, you know, use other means?’
I laugh.
‘Do you mean have I visited Ann Summers? Of course! David and I used to have a lot of fun in the early days.’
We didn’t. I laugh but she’s serious.
‘That’s not really what I meant. I don’t use vibrators or anything like that. I think that’s just a ‘man substitute’ and keeps you in the ‘I need a man’ mindset. I’ve got a much better way.’
For an awful moment I thought she was going to offer to show me, but she just stares at me, her face frank.
‘Self-love. Orgasm. The little death. Le Petite Mort. It’s a beautiful thing that women can achieve alone.’
I smile.
‘Mmm, I guess so, but I’ve never really tried it. Never needed to.’
I suddenly feel defensive and fold my arms. Sarah smiles.
‘You talk as if it’s a second best, Patti? Second to a man?’
‘That’s not what I mean at all. I just think that it’s private. When your sex life becomes public, then it’s something else.’
She nods.
‘Well, it isn’t second choice for me. Not in my case. I’ve lived alone, through choice, for many years. I had a relationship with this guy but it came to an end. I like it. I don’t need a man. But I guess if I wasn’t financially independent, or if I was insecure about myself, then I’d need someone to be a mirror for that.’
I prickled.
‘Well I’m financially independent and I’m not insecure, but I don’t have to mess with myself all the time. Even now, when David and I don’t...’
‘Do you think it’s wrong, then? So what’s wrong with women touching their own bodies? Really, Patti, what’s wrong with liking yourself? What’s wrong with a release, a death and rebirth all in one moment? You should try it. It might do you good.’
Apart from the shit psychic stuff and her ripping off bereaved families, this is the only thing I don’t like about Sarah. She’s like a broken record. She’s always banging on about sex. Every conversation just has to settle on how good she is at sex, how she loves to bring men home, and now, how she loves to have sex with herself. And every conversation ends up with me feeling worse about myself. She’s managed to do it again, and my leg is shaking now and my breathing shallow. My heart pounds in my chest and my mouth is dry.
‘But there’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing wrong with me.’
She leans forward again.
‘But you have had an orgasm, haven’t you? With David? You do know what it feels like?’
I scanned all my experiences of sex, right back to my teens, the moaning learned from listening to my friend have sex and from porno’s, the movement prompted by an older lover, me eager to learn. The moments of outward back arching and ecstasy, repeated for different men with precision, whilst mentally revising for my physics Masters. The intentional staring into the depths of their eyes just at the right moment, deep enough to see their empty souls as they empty themselves into a nameless woman.
Then, with David, the carefully planned foreplay followed by the main event. For him, it was physical, for me, mental. I wouldn’t have cared if it had lasted two seconds, as long as his want for me existed. It wasn’t that I hadn’t enjoyed it, it was very satisfying to know that he wanted me, that his eyes were for me only; it was just that I was unsure as to what I was supposed to get out of it. I wondered now, for the millionth time, why sex was so overrated. But, as if to suddenly answer the question, I thought of Gabriel.
‘Of course I have. David and I have ... had ... a wonderful personal life. And I’ve had lots of ... partners before him. So yes, of course I have. Of course I’ve had an ... an ... orgasm. Who hasn’t?’
‘OK. OK. Calm down. I was just saying. We all need some relief, Patti. Stop punishing yourself. Anyway, if you really think David’s having an affair, and you really need a man,’ she emphasises the word ‘need’, ‘You could spend some quality time with Gabriel. It might help you to move on. Not that I’m advocating moving from one man to another, with no time to heal in between, but if it stops you frowning and your leg from shaking, then why not?’
Her face cracks into a smile and she seems to have finished this particular excerpt from the Sarah Edwards Life Manual. I feel my forehead. My fingers find the deep lines between my eyebrows and I smooth them. I will my leg to stop the jiggling that it’s so intent on and laugh.
‘I don’t like him, though. He’s weird. Unpleasant.’ Of course, what I mean here is that I do like him. I don’t just want to fuck him, I want to stare at him, watch him lick his cigarette papers, see him move his hands when he’s talking. I wonder if she has detected it, and I try to justify. ‘I just don’t know what it is about him, but he talks in riddles. As if there’s a meaning behind things that he says.’
A little bit like you, Sarah, I want to add. I suddenly realise, with a small sense of dread, that she and Gabriel are very similar; they have a lot in common. I wonder if there might be a spark between them and panic. I’m already beginning to think he’s mine.
She licks her lips as if she’s going to devour prey.
‘Ooh, maybe I should meet him. I’ll pop over tomorrow shall I?’ I glance at the calendar and tomorrow is Saturday. It’s my only point of reference as my days roll into each other. ‘Take your mind off David and Sam. And the plane crash. You’ve been a bit preoccupied with that lately, you know. Don’t forget about the heather and moor, Patti. It’s important work you’re doing there.’
She was right. I’d opened a file on my computer and started to record all the details I found in my research. Unfortunately it wasn’t my thesis I was writing, but the information I’d found out about the crash victims. I knew that between being scared to death of David, imagining him having sex with another woman and tending the heather, all I thought about was the people who had died. What their lives would have been like now, had they lived. Seeing Vera every day didn’t help. I wanted to rush out there and ask her why she was here, what did she want with the moor? That would probably mean going out there and treading over its secrets. I decided to have a lie-in tomorrow and give the pocket-checking a miss. I didn’t want another solo encounter with
Gabriel in any case, not until I’d fully worked out how I could possibly develop a massive crush like this after knowing him less than twenty-four hours.
‘Yes, come over tomorrow evening. I’ll make lasagne and bread, and baby potatoes.’ I snigger a little. ‘He told me that he thought sprouts were baby cabbages.’
Sarah frowns.
‘Who did?’
‘Gabriel. He was telling me about the Pennines and that he used to think Ireland was an island that floated off from the mainland. And that he thinks there is no truth.’
Sarah laughs loudly.
‘I can see it’s going to be lively tomorrow. No, no! Don’t tell me what he said, let me hear it for myself.’
I half wish that I hadn’t invited her now, as I see Gabriel slipping through my silly, giggly, lovesick fingers.
The Moorland Wildlife Community
No other prime wildlife habitat in England and Wales can match heather moorland for its sheer scale and quality. It is a landscape maintained without the use of fertilisers and without widespread disturbance of the soil. As a result, moorlands are a stable home to a range of wildlife. Some species, such as the Merlin and Golden Plover depend heavily on the moors for their survival. Managed heather moor is most important for breeding birds.
Many of these species are considered to be in danger or vulnerable. Variations in the habitat suit different species. The red grouse, merlin, short-eared owl and hen harrier nest amongst the taller heather, where the plant growth provides them with cover. In contrast, the golden plover, lapwing and curlew are often found nesting on the recently burned open areas. Wading birds such as snipe and redshank, as well as duck nest in the wetter areas. Moorland is also an important feeding area for the Peregrine. Many of the birds which nest on the moor winter in this country, returning to another life for half the year.
The principal plants of the moor include ling, bell heather, cross-leaved heath and bilberry, all of which attract various species of bee. In the wet flushes and boggy areas, sphagnum moss and cotton grass are common and bog asphodel and the insect-eating sundew are found. Healthy populations of reptiles such as adders and lizards only occur where habitats are in good order. Small mammals such as voles and mice are abundant. These provide a plentiful food supply for owls and other predators. The emperor moth is the most impressive insect on the moors with the large, colourful, day-flying males and grey females on the wing in April. Most important, the moor community depends on life, and death, of these creatures and birds for its communal survival.