by S Williams
‘Wow, it’s like living in the olden days! I wouldn’t like to be here alone; all I have is a tiny torch and even that’s got flat batteries.’ Athene pats her Parka. She thinks it’s something someone from a southern city might say. Mary doesn’t comment, just takes a sip of her coffee and looks out at the worsening day. Athene wonders if the mention of Heathcliff was a little too much.
After a pause she says, ‘You thought you might have heard of Blea Fell House, after all?’
Mary stays looking outside. Or maybe not outside, Athene thinks. Maybe at something else entirely, that only she could see.
‘That was the latest from Kanye, and after the news, you need to get grungy, grab your skateboard and hippy skirt, because we’re going to be winding it back all the way to the nineties.’
Mary and Athene both look at the radio. The sound of the DJ’s voice has a faraway quality, the top and bottom frequencies lost in the static. Then the signal blizzards, drowning out whatever news there was about to be. Athene turns back to find Mary staring at her. Although the skin on her face looks like it has been butchered by time, her eyes look worse. Up close, Athene can see spider web veins, criss-crossing the yellow-white. The eyes themselves look dry, like all the moisture has been used up.
‘I’m surprised someone your age has even heard of Heathcliff. What’s your masters in: English?’ Mary says.
Athene shakes her head.
‘No, Psychology. I’m looking at Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and its effects on the subject in society.’
Athene looks at Mary expectantly, and there is a pause while the older woman processes.
‘What, like when the soldiers come back from Iraq or whatever?’
‘Like that, yes,’ Athene says, then points at the window. ‘Look, I’d love to chat, but the weather really does look rotten. Did you say you thought you might…?’
Athene waves her mobile, with the address of the holiday property on its screen.
‘Blea Fell House, yes,’ Mary says. ‘Well the thing is, love, I think someone’s scammed you.’
Athene creases her eyes. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Blea Fell House. The reason I didn’t remember it straight away is that it isn’t a holiday house.’
‘What?’ Athene says, looking confused. ‘But I’ve got a booking confirmation!’
Mary shakes her head. ‘Did you do it through a travel agent?’
‘It was my mum. My mum found it.’ Athene shrugs one shoulder. ‘I don’t know where she got it from. What site, I mean. It popped up when she was looking for places.’
‘Sounds about right,’ Mary says firmly. ‘We get a lot of people turning up to the holiday homes, only to find someone else has booked it as well.’
‘But you’re saying this isn’t even a holiday home?’
‘It’s not even a home home. Blea Fell House was abandoned years ago. All it is now is an overgrown wreck.’
Athene stares at Mary, who nods again.
‘Sorry,’ she adds.
Which is when the static storm ends and the DJ fades back in again.
‘Right, let’s kick off our nineties night with Britney, and “Hit Me Baby One More Time”.’
As the synth line starts, Athene looks at Mary, with her egg-skin and her haunted eyes and the broken way she holds her body, like a secret.
Nineties night, Athene thinks.
How absolutely fucking appropriate is that?
Extract from Bella’s Diary
Blea Fell House: Summer, 1998
sometimes I think my body is a ship: something that gets tossed on the sea of life.
and sometimes I don’t think it’s my body at all.
sometimes I think I’m like the pinball machine in the pub; like the ball that flies around, rebounding off rails and lighting up pins, until everything is lights and sound and tilt tilt tilt.
16 today, and I already feel world-sleepy.
x
3
Mary watches as Athene looks at her in consternation.
‘A wreck?’ says the young woman, aghast. Outside the weather has upped its stakes, rattling the windows in short gusts, trying to find a grip on the building. The radio-tide of static and music washes in and out. Mary nods.
‘Completely. Hasn’t been lived in since just before the end of the last century. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, love, but I reckon you’ve been shafted.’
‘Athene, please. Call me Athene. If you’re going to give me bad news I’d rather you use my name. But we received an email and everything!’ Athene reaches down and rummages in her backpack, picking through the contents with quick hands until, eventually, she pulls out a well-thumbed collection of printed A4 sheets, carelessly stapled together in the top corner.
‘See?’
As she puts them on the counter, Mary can see a printed picture of the house, Blea Fell, on the cover sheet. Not the house as she imagines it looks now, all broken and hollow, burnt and crumbled; but as it looked then.
Back in the days when it was occupied.
Back in the Bella-days.
Mary feels a tightness in her chest as the barbed wire of memory grips. The image brings back thoughts and feelings that she locked away years ago. She feels that if she were to touch the picture, it wouldn’t be paper and ink she felt, but stone and ivy.
Just looking at it makes her heart ache.
Shaking her head slightly, she scans the contents. As well as the picture, there is a short welcome section explaining the dos and don’ts of the property, followed by a paragraph listing local amenities, and things of interest to do in the area.
‘Looks very professional,’ Mary says, flicking through. There is a slight wind-moan creeping around the corners of the café. ‘They’ve really done a number, haven’t they?’ She looks a little closer, squinting. ‘They’ve even listed my café!’
‘Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake? Mum and I paid a lot of money; we’ve rented for the whole month. Maybe you’re thinking of a different house?’ Athene’s voice is hopeful, like verbalising the idea might make it real.
Mary shakes her head. Next on the sheets came a brief description of the history of the house. Mary holds her breath and looks at it closely but it is harmless; merely giving information about the architecture and design of the property and the juniper wood in the field opposite. Mary skims through the rest.
‘Sorry, Athene,’ she says, pushing the papers across the counter. ‘This is definitely Blea Fell. I knew it back in the day, when it looked like this. I don’t think it even has a whole roof anymore. I wonder where they got the picture from?’ She taps the sheets. ‘You see that there’s no contact number, or email or whatever, on this? For the pretend owners, I mean. In case of emergencies? Just the local police and hospital. Nothing connecting it to whoever sent it to you.’
‘Are you sure?’ Athene flicks rapidly through the document. After a moment, Mary sees her shoulders slump slightly.
‘Fuck, you’re right.’ She looks quickly up at Mary, an apology stamped on her face. ‘Whoops! Sorry. It’s just that–’
Mary shakes her head, smiling. ‘No need. I swear like a trooper when no one’s around. Running a café is practically swearing 101.’
Mary sees that Athene isn’t really paying attention; she’s re-flicking through the paperwork, checking to see if she’s missed anything. Mary takes a moment to study her. She guesses she’s about twenty, but it’s so hard to tell these days. The difference between teenager and adult has blurred so much. Kids seem to stay young forever, hitting eighteen and then putting everything on cruise control, not even growing up when they get kids of their own. Mary doesn’t blame them. Growing up is bollocks. Growing up is like being dead only without the rest; giving up on all the fun that youth can bring, and just keeping the pain.
Mary looks down at the picture of the house again.
Although sometimes, she thinks, youth isn’t fun at all, and growing up is the only way of escaping
it.
She looks at the picture a moment longer, then blinks the thought away and turns to look out at the day beyond the window. It is now near dark, with the glass acting as a gloom-mirror, reflecting the two women as ghosts, sitting in a ghost café.
Seeing the image, Mary feels a shiver down her neck, as if someone has trickled a handful of cold earth onto her. For a second she wonders if any of this is real. The girl, and the café, and the rain. The track on the radio, from so long ago. Maybe she is still there? Still young. Still with a future. Still going to leave and never come back.
She looks at the ghost-her in the glass, and blinks.
Or maybe not.
Mary bites her lip, and paints a smile on her face. She looks at Athene. The girl can’t be more than fifteen years younger than her, but she looks like she’s from another age.
‘Look, it’s way too late to travel back down south. I don’t suppose…?’ Athene looks out at the night.
Mary feels a sudden stab of panic. For a moment she thinks the girl might ask if she can stay with her.
‘Do you know of a B&B or something? Somewhere I can bunk down?’
‘A B&B?’
Athene nods. ‘Or maybe a hotel near, or something? The weather’s really shitty. I think I need to find somewhere to stay around here or I’ll end up in a ditch or something. Maybe sort out this stuff in the morning, yeah?’ She looks down at the brochure. ‘This hotel it mentions in the amenities section. The Craven Head. Good food and clean sheets. Is it real, or just there for show as well?’
Mary looks at her for a moment, then looks away. ‘The hotel in the village. Yes, it’s real. More of a pub, really; but I imagine they’d be closed now. The season’s ended and–’
‘You don’t have a number for them, do you? It’s not listed here,’ Athene pleads. ‘I really don’t want to drive far in this.’ She indicates the rain lashing down outside.
Mary swallows and nods. ‘Of course. I could phone them from here and see if they have any rooms if you want.’
‘Are you sure?’ Athene’s face lightens a little. ‘I might have more chance of getting in if it comes from you.’
‘Well, I do know the manager.’ Mary smiles, but her smile is tight.
Athene smiles back, then looks down at the sheets of paper in her hand. ‘Mum booked by credit card, so we should get our money back.’
Mary thinks that Athene must be one of those people who say their thoughts aloud, processing in real time. A heart-on-her-sleeve kind of girl. That was not what Mary did. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
‘I can probably even get you local rates.’
‘That’s, um…’ Athene clears her throat, creating a pause. ‘Really kind of you.’
Athene gives her a quizzical look, and Mary suddenly wonders if the girl thought she was hitting on her. Mary imagines herself through the girl’s eyes: some worn out woman who might have been pretty once, but now resembles the grey cloths she uses to wipe up the grease left by other people. She feels a twist of disgust in her gut and quickly says, ‘No problem. I won’t come with you cos I’ve got a ton of things to do around here. Okay if I draw you a map?’
Athene nods and looks away, toward the door. Mary feels like she’s made some terrible social taboo. She hopes it is just imagination: that it’s all in her head, and the girl didn’t misinterpret her suggestion. She reaches under the counter and finds a biro and an old order pad.
‘Great.’
She begins to draw a map of how to get to the village.
‘The roads get a little dangerous round here, you see? The mist can come down, and the signposts are for comedy, so a person can get lost before they know it.’
Mary knows she’s gabbling, but can’t help herself. She wants the girl to see that she’s normal; a caring person helping out a stranger in need. The picture of Blea Fell has knocked her off-kilter.
‘Sure, and with no satnav… I really appreciate it, Mary.’
Athene leans forward to look at the map Mary is drawing, turning her body so the two women are side by side. The radio is static, gentle like falling snow; and the rain has settled into a steady pour. When Mary has finished she points out the route, starting with a block in the top corner.
‘This is the café, yeah?’ Athene nods, the escaped strands of her hair like seaweed. Mary wonders how long it takes to dye it so many different colours. ‘Okay. So you go back down the dale until you get to the crossroads, and then you turn right under the railway bridge. About a mile further on, it’s left, and then after that it should be simple. You’ll see the lights from the village as you come around the corner, then it’s just a case of heading for them.’
‘And the hotel?’
‘Pub, really; the Craven Head.’ Mary nods, and writes down a number. ‘It’s the only pub in the village, so there’s no confusion.’ She pauses, then quickly writes another number underneath. ‘And this is my number, in case it all goes horribly wrong and you get lost and need me.’
‘Which would make me an idiot, as I’ve got your wonderful map.’ Athene smiles.
‘You know what I mean,’ Mary says, feeling slightly awkward.
Athene packs away the information about the bogus holiday cottage and picks up the map. ‘And you’ll phone them?’ she asks, her eyes wide.
‘Absolutely. As soon as you go I’m closing up, and I’ll give them a bell. Ask for Jamie when you get there; he’s the manager. Although manager might be a bit of a posh word. Bartender-cum-owner-cum-chef might be a better word. But like I said, it’s clean and cheap, and will give you somewhere to sort yourself out. Phone your mum and stuff.’
‘I really appreciate it, Mary.’
Athene swings the backpack up over her shoulder and walks to the door. She looks at the rain beyond the pane for a beat, then turns and smiles. ‘Even in the rain it’s beautiful here, isn’t it? You’re very lucky.’ And then, before Mary can answer, she swings the door open and makes a dash for her car.
Mary watches as the young woman gets in. There is a pause while she types something on her phone – probably a message to her mum telling her the bad news – then starts the vehicle, and drives out of the car park. Mary watches as the tail lights recede, away and down toward the village at the base of the valley. Even once the car has disappeared, Mary stays watching. Looking at the last spot she could see the lights.
After a long minute, she looks down at her hand, wondering if she imagined it. Imagined the touch of Athene’s finger on her skin as the girl picked up the map Mary had drawn. Mary takes in a slow breath. Even if she had ghost-stroked her, it would surely have been an accident? A casual, unmeant, brush of skin-on-skin as she reached for the map. Unmeant and unmeaning.
Mary shakes her head.
‘Stupid cow,’ she reprimands herself.
In the clicking of the overhead lights and the tip-tapping of the rain, Mary reaches for the telephone, to call the pub.
4