by Karen Swan
‘Oh no! I am not doing a damn thing and neither are you. You are not turning your attentions to Mils. She’s not like the girls you go for; she won’t just pick herself up when you lose interest – as you invariably will – and move on.’
‘But that’s what I’m telling you. I’ve never felt like this before. It feels different.’
‘Yes, because it’s Mils – it’s the novelty of seeing an old friend with new eyes. Believe me, I’ve been there. And sooner or later, the rose-tinted mist will clear again and you’ll realize you’ve made a mistake, and there’s no going back. Your friendship will be wrecked. Things would never be the same, not just for you two but the four of us.’
‘But Lee—’
‘No. No buts. Leave her alone, I mean it. She’s happy. Let her go on her date with Alexander Skarsgård and you keep well out of it. Two weeks from now you’ll thank me.’
‘I won’t.’ Liam stared at her, his hands on his hips, frustration blazing from his eyes, his mouth set in a grim line of despair. But he knew he couldn’t refute her claims. The hummus in her fridge lasted longer than his relationships.
‘Liam, I guarantee that by Christmas you’ll have turned your attentions to someone else. Leave. Mils. Alone.’
‘You have so little faith in me? You think I’m that shallow?’
‘I think you can lead a horse to water but you can’t change its spots.’
He looked confused and she laughed, hugging him and patting his back lightly, like she was burping a baby. ‘Be angry with me, that’s fine. But just trust me on this. Let the spool run. It’ll be better for everyone this way. You can thank me later.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Do you think that’s it?’ Lee asked, peering through the dirty windscreen at the long, brick gabled building. It was two rooms deep, with blackish-green painted shutters at the windows and a cat-slide roof. There was a row of oak trees just a metre from the front wall, and behind it stood a windmill and barns. Several small tractors were parked in a hard, rutted yard and, in the early evening moonlight, she could just make out reeds standing stiffly like needles, marking the edge of the frozen waterway. Sam had said to look for the windmill, but they had passed nine in the last two miles. ‘Jazzy?’
She twisted back in her seat to find her child fast asleep, his head lolling against the sides of the headrest, his lightsaber on the back seat and a crust of sandwich curling slowly on his lap. The journey had been predictably torturous, miles and miles of tailbacks snaking along the roads heading north; whilst the capital had had only hard frosts, it had been snowing intermittently in the countryside for the past few weeks and a thin crust of white blanketed the landscape, though not softening it.
They had sung every song they knew, at least three times; they had played I Spy, Bridges, Yellow Car; but eventually they had run out of energy as the line of traffic crawled along at a glacial speed. Lee had put the radio on for traffic updates; it appeared that not only were several million people trying to get to Friesland in one day, but most of the world’s press too. There wasn’t an available plane seat into the country, nor a hire car to be had, nor a bed to sleep in. The capital city hadn’t been this deserted since the fifteenth century.
‘Well, let’s give it a go,’ she murmured to herself. She turned in off the lane and drove slowly into the yard, triggering an automatic light. Several cars were parked there but she had no idea if one of them was Sam’s – she didn’t know which car he drove; she didn’t even know where he lived in the city! And yet here she was, coming to stay with his family. They were leapfrogging some milestones and hanging back on others and she felt another acrid burst of nerves.
Not wanting to wake Jasper unduly – lest she be at the wrong address – she got out of the car. The house was set not in a garden as such – there were no flowerbeds, no evidence of landscaping – but just an expanse of grass dotted with aged trees, and she began walking up the narrow path through the middle of it towards the door set in the gable end, her boots crunching in the hard-packed snow. She could see squares of light spilling onto the ground on the far side of the house, when she heard dogs bark suddenly.
She stopped automatically as three dogs bounded towards her, barking loudly, leaping about, tails aloft as they surrounded her. They didn’t growl or snarl but she stood rooted to the spot; she had encountered enough wild and stray dogs to know not to intrude further on their territory or show any signs of dominance.
‘You made it!’
She looked up to see Sam striding towards her, looking every inch the wholesome country boy in dark jeans, boots and a chunky cream jumper. Without saying another word, he clasped her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘I thought you’d never get here.’
‘Me too,’ she murmured, looking back into his eyes. They had an intensity to them she hadn’t seen before – just because he missed her? – and he kissed her again, seeming to draw the strength from her body.
The dogs stopped barking, seeing she was definitely friend and not foe, immediately trotting over to her and sniffing her shoes.
Sam pulled back finally, seeming sated by her presence. ‘Don’t mind them.’
‘Are you going to tell me their bark’s worse than their bite?’
‘No, their bite’s pretty bad, just ask the postman,’ he grinned. ‘But they’ll be fine with you now they’ve seen we’re friends.’
‘Friends, huh?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘I hope you don’t use this technique to signify friendship to your dogs with everyone who comes here.’
His eyes were steady upon hers. ‘No one comes here.’
‘Oh.’ She felt a small thrill at that. ‘Well, that’s okay then.’
He smiled. ‘That’s Solomon, Juno and Frida, but if you tap your thigh with your hand, they’ll come running.’
‘Well trained.’
He shrugged. ‘Farm dogs.’ He looked back at her again, drinking her in. ‘I can’t believe you’ve come.’
‘I said I would, didn’t I?’ she said, patting his chest, but also feeling the enormity of her quest – it was Sunday evening and she had travelled across the country to be here for him, when it had only been Friday night that they had become a They. It was all happening so fast, she knew that; all her long-held rules, mottoes, codes, were being dismantled one by one. Don’t stay over. Don’t see him again. Don’t meet Jasper. Don’t bond with Jasper . . . ‘How are you feeling?’
He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. ‘Stiff! I had a massive session yesterday afternoon and again this morning, working on my technique and speed; but I’ve taken it pretty easy this afternoon. Waiting, waiting, waiting for you. I managed to get a sports massage in town – suddenly the place is overrun with experts – got my paperwork sorted, sharpened my blades. They get blunt so quickly on the natural ice.’
‘Yes, I can’t believe how different it feels! Yesterday was my first experience of wild skating. I’ve only ever skated on rinks before.’
‘And did you like it?’ His eyes roamed over her as she spoke, as though she was somehow magical.
‘I loved it. Jasper had us out there pretty much all day.’
‘Where is he?’ Sam asked, startling at the mention of his name.
‘Asleep in the car,’ she smiled, touched by his concern as he turned to check the car was (a) there, (b) not being broken into and (c) not on fire.
He exhaled again. ‘My parents can’t wait to meet you both.’
She swallowed, stiffening in his arms. ‘Really?’
‘Of course.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Let’s get Jasper inside, the car will be getting cold quickly now the engine’s off. Careful on the snow here, it’s icy.’
‘Okay, Mr Health and Safety,’ she ribbed as he led her back towards her sleeping child.
‘Hey, Jazz Man,’ Sam whispered, squeezing his knee lightly. ‘You’re here, buddy. You made it.’
Lee sighed, seeing how he didn’t stir. ‘Mmm. When he goes, he really goes.�
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‘Shall I carry him in?’
‘Oh . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Won’t that look . . .?’ She didn’t want this to look like a show of Happy Families, for his parents to think she was lining him up as a surrogate father to her child.
‘What?’
She shook her head. She was over-analysing everything. Nerves were getting the better of her. ‘Nothing. You take Jazz, I’ll bring the bags.’
Carefully, protecting his head as he lifted him out, Sam carried Jasper over the lawn and towards a door at the back of the house. Lee followed after him, glancing in as they passed the windows and catching vignettes – an elm dining table and ladderback chairs, bronze candlesticks, a dark oil of a pastoral scene similar to this one with big skies, an open horizon, the silver veins of waterways channelling through the land. A utility space – a boiler suit hanging limp from an overhead drying rack, white goods, racks of wooden crates with apples arranged neatly, dog beds on a terracotta tiled floor.
Sam pushed against a green door and walked into a large wooden kitchen. It couldn’t have been touched up in forty years but it was warm and inviting, with a huge range on the back wall, rails with copper pans and utensils hanging from hooks, and a tiger-striped black cat curled up in the seat of one of two armchairs set either side of the fireplace.
Sam’s mother was stirring something on the stove but she turned as they walked in – a lean, slender woman with graphite-grey short hair and strong, straight dark eyebrows. Immediately Lee could see Sam’s face in hers, the delicate touch of their bone structure, deep-set eyes. She was wearing jeans and a colourful knitted jumper pushed up her arms, revealing strong, pink hands.
‘You must be Lee,’ she said, smiling with her eyes as she took in the sight of the three of them. ‘I am Agnetha, but call me Aggie.’
‘Hello, it’s so lovely to meet you,’ Lee said, walking over and shaking her hand. ‘And this is Jasper. I’m afraid the journey became a bit too much,’ she said as they looked back at Sam holding the unconscious child on his hip, Jasper’s chubby cheek pressed against his shoulder and drooling slightly.
‘He is beautiful,’ Agnetha whispered, her eyes shining.
‘He is heavy,’ Sam grinned.
As if on cue, Jasper stirred, his little nose twitching as the cooking smells permeated his brain and reminded his stomach he hadn’t had a proper meal in over five hours. He blinked several times, trying to wake up, disoriented to find himself in the bright, huge unfamiliar kitchen. ‘. . . Mama?’
‘It’s okay, darling, we’re at Sam’s house in Leeuwarden, remember? This lady here is Sam’s mama, Mrs Meyer.’
‘Oh, he must call me Aggie too, please. We are not formal here.’ Agnetha went up to him and, gently, as though she was catching a bubble, touched his hair. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Jasper. Sam has told me so much about you.’
Jasper smiled, liking the warm greeting and the cat on the chair and the food on the stove. ‘I made him a banner.’
‘Did you?’ Sam asked, looking pleased.
‘Sshhh!’ Lee whispered, pressing a finger to her lips and laughing. ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
‘That’s what the commotion was! Our guests have arrived.’
Commotion?
The rough voice made her turn to see a tall, well-built man coming in from the hallway. He had shoulders like scaffolding planks and had to duck as he came through the door. He stopped short a metre in front of her, staring down with an unreadable gaze. Frisians were known for being surly, but he seemed more than that. ‘I am Evert, Sam’s father.’
He held out a hand and it was like being gripped by a vice. ‘I’m Lee Fitchett, and this is my son Jasper; it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Evert’s eyes rolled over to Jasper but did not stay upon him, coming straight back to her again. He openly scrutinized her, as he might have assessed a prize potato. ‘Sam says you are a war correspondent.’ It was a strange opening gambit – straight into that, no pleasantries . . .?
‘Was. Not any more.’ She inclined her head towards Jasper by way of explanation.
He blinked. ‘You must have seen some things.’
‘Yes, you could say that.’
Another moment passed and he frowned, seeming almost disappointed. ‘I thought you would look . . . tougher.’
She gave a small surprised shrug. Had he expected muscles, camouflage gear and an AK-47 over her shoulder? ‘Well, quite often it was an advantage to look weaker than the people I met out there. They wouldn’t feel threatened in the same way if they felt they had that over me. They would drop their guard more. I’ve found it’s often an advantage to be underestimated.’
He looked back at her, his dark, dark eyes – Sam’s eyes – beginning to shine with a tiny gleam. ‘Indeed. I’ve always backed the underdog.’
Lee glanced back at Sam, as much to check on Jasper as to change the conversation, and was surprised by the expression she saw on his face. Not fear – it wasn’t that – but apprehension. He looked so tense.
‘Would you like to see your room?’ Aggie asked, chucking Jasper on the cheek. ‘We put in some of Sam’s old toys for you.’
Jasper was fully awake now. Toys and food and a curled-up cat were too much to miss. Lee picked up their bags and followed the three of them into the hall, seeing how Evert watched her son as he was carried past. His look was not one of apprehension, like his son’s . . . but of fear, as though domesticity itself threatened him.
The hallway was narrow, with rough limed walls and beams strapping the ceilings overhead, honeycomb-shaped terracotta tiles on the floor. There was plenty of artwork on the walls, heavily wrought, densely coloured, and she began to sense they had been drawn by the same hand – a bunch of tulips drooping in a milk jug; the windmill at sunset; twisted winter trees . . . Sam’s? She remembered what he’d said about trying to work in oils, his frustrations at not finding his style there . . . Were these his early efforts, kept and displayed by his proud parents?
Rooms led off on each side – from what she could see: a cloakroom, a WC, a sitting room, a study . . . All of them with whitewashed walls and rugged floors, sparsely decorated with dark country furniture and fringed table lamps.
They climbed a narrow, creaky staircase that fed off to the right two-thirds of the way down the building, turning back on itself as it wended up to the first floor. Agnetha led them left and into a large bedroom at the back. It had two windows, looking down – she imagined – towards the water. A metal bedstead was draped with old linen sheets and a crocheted blanket, deep fluffy pillows that Lee could tell would balloon around their heads when they lay down. An almost-black chest of drawers had a blue-and-white jug and bowl on the top, red-and-blue-striped ticking curtains hanging from a metal pole. A large sheepskin rug was deeply piled and softer underfoot. Some camel-coloured towels were folded neatly at the end of the bed and on the far side of the room was a small blackboard on an easel, some chalks, and a yellow-painted wooden toy chest.
‘What a beautiful room,’ Lee said warmly. She could feel the history of this house; it was like getting into a bed moments after another had left it, still warm with memories.
Sam walked to the far end of the room and opened up the yellow chest. ‘What have we got in here then, Jasper? Anything you think you’ll like to play with?’
Jasper scampered across the floor, his footsteps no doubt reverberating through the house and making Evert downstairs scowl as the floorboards rattled. Lee watched him peer in and then reach down for something.
‘He spent at least an hour this afternoon up in the attic, finding all these old toys, choosing the right ones, cleaning them . . .’ Aggie whispered, as they both watched.
Lee blinked, feeling another complicated rush of feelings – excitement and happiness, but also panic . . . Sam was running ahead and she couldn’t let Jasper get too attached. She had to make sure there was some sort of boundary, a buffer zone for his heart. If anyone was going to end up wit
h a broken heart, it had to be her and not her son. But as she watched Jasper hold up a wooden plane, spinning the propeller whilst Sam made Spitfire noises, she knew she might already be too late for buffer zones.
‘The bathroom is just here,’ Aggie said, leading her back to the door and pointing to the next room down the hall. ‘It isn’t an en-suite, I’m afraid, we don’t have much call for that here, but only you two and Sam will use it. We have another one we use at our end down there.’
Lee wondered where Sam’s room was. Not that there would be any corridor-creeping going on tonight; between her son and his parents, they were well and truly snookered.
She saw a large framed photograph on the wall opposite, of a man skating. He was in that familiar hunched pose, body bent forward, hands clasped behind his back. The colours were faded but still bright.
‘Is that your husband?’ she asked, peering at it more closely.
‘Yes, 1997, the year he competed. He came second.’
‘Second? It’s an incredible achievement.’
Aggie made a funny low sound. ‘To be honest, it was a curse in many ways, coming so close. It might have been better if he’d come last: at least then he wouldn’t have tortured himself with all the If Onlys. For years afterwards, he told himself he’d get it at the next race, he’d prove himself then. He would train and train and train, no matter the weather. But of course, there never was another race. Not until now – and now he’s too old.’
Lee bit her lip, remembering Pabe’s words – a bad-tempered loser – and now well able to imagine the hardening effect on the abrasive man downstairs, his bitterness to have been denied the chance to rewrite history, fulfil his destiny. Lee couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Aggie, being married to him as his ambition and desperation finally ceded to the sour acceptance that there would not be a next time. All his efforts were in vain. He’d had one chance and he’d blown it.
‘He must be so pleased then that Sam’s got an opportunity to compete as well?’ she said instead, trying to find a positive.