by Julia Green
I scroll down the screen, to check out the postage-stamp-size photos of paintings by Emily Carr (1871–1945). I start clicking on the images to enlarge them. Fir trees. A log cabin. Totem poles. A child sitting on her mother’s lap. I love her paintings of trees. My favourites are Above the Trees and The Little Pine: young trees full of light and happiness against a darker background of mysterious forest that looks as if it is alive and moving.
A car bumps across the rough field. Headlights sweep across the curtains. The car brakes; doors slam; voices. They’re back.
Cassy stumbles in and dumps two carrier bags on the floor. She swings her hair back, smiles. ‘Em! You OK? Sorry we’re so late!’
Dad flicks the kettle switch as he walks through the kitchenette. He nods at the laptop. ‘Homework?’
I’ve logged off the website already. I feel weirdly guilty, as if he could tell what I was about to do. My next search . . .
Cassy lays out the foil dishes on the Formica tabletop. ‘Prawn korma, vegetable biriani, onion bhajis and rice.’ She hasn’t looked so happy for ages.
‘What’s this in aid of?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘Just a rest from cooking,’ Dad says.
I get out some cutlery; Dad opens a bottle of beer. He pours two glasses. ‘Want some, Em?’
‘No thanks.’ I don’t like beer much, and in any case, drinking with your parents just seems weird.
‘So,’ Dad lifts his glass. ‘Here’s to us, and la dolce vita.’
‘La what?’ Cassy wrinkles her nose up, which makes her look about ten.
‘The sweet life. It’s a film,’ I explain.
Dad smiles at me above Cassy’s head. He still finds it amusing, the things she doesn’t know, even after all this time.
The rest of the meal, they talk about the house, and then about work, and laugh a lot. I just want it to be over. I can’t work out why they are so over-the-top cheerful. Without Kat here, it’s as if the balance has shifted. I’m the odd one out. They egg each other on, and think everything is funny. Even after we’ve cleared the table and Cassy and me are watching TV, Dad keeps looking at Cass. He’s only had two beers. It’s gross. I take the extension lead, so I can plug in my laptop on the bunk bed, and leave them to it.
Alone in here, lying on the bottom bunk, I pluck up my courage and try again. The internet connection is painfully slow. I type the name in a second time. Francesca Woodman. I press Search. But nothing comes up. Nothing relevant, I mean. No photographers, no famous artists, no one who might be my real mother.
Today is the first time I’ve thought about her for ages. I was two when she left; I don’t even remember her face. But something Mr Ives said in Photography, earlier today, has started me off again. One tiny throwaway remark.
‘Wonderful work, Emily. You’ve got a particularly good eye for light. An artist’s attention to detail.’ He was leafing through my photography journal, where we stick in our most interesting photos, and write notes on the processes and stuff like that.
He turned over another couple of pages, to my sequence of black and white photos of the trees on the lane down to our field. And then he said the words.
‘These are so like Francesca’s work! Remarkable. It must be in the genes!’
I went cold.
Mr Ives didn’t notice, of course. He was already moving on, to someone else’s table, picking up another journal and leafing through.
Dad and Cassy are giggling. The walls are paper thin: I can hear everything in too much detail. I put on headphones, listen to music. I give up my search on the internet, email my friend Rachel and Kat instead. There’s a message from Rachel:
come and stay over at the weekend?
yes, I type back.
At some point, the whole caravan shakes when Dad or Cass goes out for a pee, and the door bangs back on its hinges. The wind’s got up. It rocks the caravan and whistles in around the loose metal window frames. I feel a second blast of cold air when the door opens again and Dad/Cassy comes back in. I check the time: 11.40.
I turn out the light, get properly undressed and snuggle under the duvet. On this top bunk, I’m only about ten centimetres from the ceiling. It gets claustrophobic if you start thinking about it too much. I lift a corner of the curtain and stare out into the darkness. A thin crescent moon is rising: a sky canoe. Is that from a poem? Wordsworth? Coleridge? Cassy’s voice murmurs something to Dad; I can’t hear her actual words, just the low whispering. Finally it’s silent, apart from the wind. Still I can’t sleep. My mind is racing.
I lean over and scrabble in the box on the shelf next to Kat’s bunk. I know it’ll be here somewhere. My hand finds the hard edge of a book, the raised pattern of letters on the cover. I pull the curtain back further, so I can see better in the silvery moonlight.
Kat and I looked at this book so often when we were little that the pages became unstitched. On the inside front cover, a bookplate shows a lion and a unicorn holding an open book between them, and in the middle are printed the words: This book belongs to__________. In the space, the name Francesca is written in blue ink, in careful joined-up writing.
My finger traces around the letters, the loops and curls. This is our mother’s book, from when she was a little girl, which she left behind with Kat all those years ago (fourteen years, nearly fifteen). The paper’s soft, yellow at the edges and mottled, from damp. It’s all I have of her, and so very little to go on. Over the years, even her name, Francesca, has become this unmentionable secret in our family.
I turn the pages. In the faint silvery light, I begin to read the story that Kat used to read aloud to me. At the edge of a big forest . . .
The words are stepping stones, taking me back to the feeling of being very little, and afraid. The words are white pebbles glowing in the moonlight, showing the way back . . . and I’m not sure I want to go there, after all, or what I will find if I do.
But before I have gone very far, I’m already drifting into sleep, and dreaming . . . and it’s not my mother, Francesca, who comes to me then, but Seb.
4
He’s like a magnet, pulling me in.
The second time I see him, it’s at the house, again. It’s a Friday, so I get home early, while it’s still light. I don’t have any lessons Friday afternoons and you’re allowed to go home to study.
I change into jeans and trainers, sling the camera in my shoulder bag and pull my bike out from under the tarpaulin behind the caravan. I have to wipe the saddle and brush the cobwebs off from under the seat. I haven’t used the bike since we last went to Moat House, Kat and me, over a month ago. Kat’s bike’s there too, with a flat tyre.
It’s uphill all the way to the main road, then along a bit on the level, and then downhill the rest of the way. Whizzing down the lane under the trees with their autumn leaves all orange and red is amazing, like travelling through a tunnel of golden light. I stop at the beech tree near the gate to take some photos: the trunk and branches are black silhouettes against a blaze of coppery leaves, the whole thing lit from behind by the sun, low in the sky.
I can’t see any vans, or hear the tap-tapping sound of chisels on stone: perhaps the workmen knock off early on Friday afternoons? I park the bike up against the farm gate, push through the smaller wicket gate beside it. The low sun casts long, deep shadows over the grass.
I walk slowly up the steps to the front door and push it open. All the rubble has been cleared away. The floor is just earth, but clean-swept. I can see for the first time what it might be like when it’s finished: the big, airy living room with its huge fireplace, the kitchen looking out on to the river. Once the new French windows are installed it will all be flooded with light.
My eyes adjust and I freeze. Someone is here after all, with their back to me, crouched at the foot of the scaffolding. For a moment my eyes can’t quite take in what – who – exactly I am seeing.
Seb turns. He looks startled too. He’s holding some sort of building trowel
in one hand. He scrambles up to face me. He’s wearing blue overalls, like painters and decorators wear, except he’s covered in stone dust.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Repointing the stone.’
‘I mean, why? Are you supposed to be doing that?’
‘It’s OK. Just helping my dad out. He’s gone to get more sand. He’ll be back in a minute.’
We stare at each other. Without Kat here, everything’s completely different.
‘I’ve got to take all the old mortar out. Very carefully, by hand. It takes ages,’ Seb says. He starts work again, raking out the loose stuff between two stones, ready for the new mortar which will stick it all back together properly, to make the wall sound and strong. He’s only done about one millionth of the wall so far.
‘That’ll keep you busy for about a year, then,’ I say.
‘You can speak. That’s four whole sentences.’
I glare at him. The cheek!
‘Your sister did all the talking, when we met before,’ Seb says. He does that half-smile, sort of teasing.
‘Well. She likes to talk.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Not as much as Kat. Only when I’ve something to say.’
‘Has she gone, now? To her university?’ The way he says it makes it sound as if he is mocking Kat. As if going to university is not something he would ever do.
‘Yes. She’s in York,’ I say. ‘Not back till December. Sorry.’
‘Why sorry?’
I don’t answer. I suppose I’m expecting him to be disappointed that it’s me here, and not Kat. People usually like Kat more than me. Boys do, anyway.
‘Have you come to take photos of the house?’ Seb asks.
My hand automatically touches the camera, still round my neck. ‘No.’
‘What, then?’
‘You are very nosy,’ I say. ‘I came to see how the house . . . what was different.’
‘And the camera?’
‘It’s what I do. Photograph things.’
‘A hobby or a passion?’
He’s taking the piss, presumably.
‘A passion. And it’s for work.’
He looks a bit impressed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, A-level work.’
‘Oh. That.’
‘Yes.’ I’m half waiting for him to make some sarky comment about school. I imagine he hasn’t been for ages. But he doesn’t.
We study each other. Between us, something sizzles. A kind of energy.
I’m thinking: he’s so beautiful. Pity he’s sarcastic. It spoils him.
He’s thinking: I haven’t a clue what he’s thinking.
I’m slightly dizzy – from the cycling, or the sun, or being so close to Seb, I don’t really know why. I might tip forward any second . . .
A large bird flies up through the gap in the roof. The flap of its wings makes us both jump back. Its mewing cry echoes round the stone shell of the house. It’s an eerie, wild sound.
‘A buzzard? In here?’ Seb says.
‘I suppose it’s the perfect place. For a nest or whatever.’
‘They don’t nest in the autumn!’ Seb says.
‘Sorry to be so stupid,’ I say.
‘I didn’t mean that . . . it’s unusual, to see a buzzard in a building, that’s all.’
‘When will they mend the roof?’ I ask.
Seb shrugs. ‘More stonemasons are coming next week. That’ll speed things up. It’s been a bit slow so far. Just Dad and me. I should get on, really.’ He turns back to raking and scratching at the stone.
I watch him.
It’s very strange to think of Seb working in our house, getting to know it close-up, stone by stone.
‘Can I take a photo?’ I say.
‘It’s your house. You can do what you like.’
‘No, I mean with you in it, working at the stone.’
He shrugs. ‘If you want.’
But there’s not enough light. I need the tripod, for a long exposure.
‘Nice camera,’ Seb says, stopping work again.
‘Thanks.’
‘Expensive.’
I flush. ‘It was a birthday present.’
‘When was your birthday?’
‘Summer. June.’
We both step back when we hear the van engine slowing down at the gate, as if we’ve been standing too close and don’t want anyone else to see.
I walk back to the open doorway to see who’s arrived. A white van is drawing up outside the gate. A thick-set man with messy dark hair and olive skin like Seb gets out. I watch him lift my bike away from the gate, open it and drive through. He parks the van, goes round to open the back doors, starts pulling at something in there.
‘Seb?’ the man calls up.
I stand to one side to let Seb go through the doorway, down to help his dad.
I push the heavy wooden door closed and walk back into the middle of the house. Even with the gaps and spaces, the stone walls seem slightly warm, as if they’ve soaked up the day’s sun and are now slowly releasing it. I keep my hand against the stone. Something in me gives, as if I’ve been holding on to my breath and now at last can let it go, alone in the house just for a minute or two.
I can hardly take it in, that I’m actually going to be living here. My room will be at the top, with the view over the river and the fields beyond, and all the space I could ever want. It will be worth waiting for. Six months, Dad says. Six months is bearable. Perhaps this really will be the house where Dad settles at last, and we won’t ever have to move on again. We will be properly home. I think it’s all I’ve ever really wanted, to feel that.
I hear footsteps on the stone steps. I turn as the front door swings wide open, spilling golden evening light over the earth floor.
‘Hello there!’ Seb’s dad wipes his hand on his T-shirt and holds it out to shake mine. ‘Rob’s daughter? Pleased to meet you. I’m Nick.’
‘Emily,’ I say. It’s funny shaking hands. His hand is warm and dry, sort of dusty. I glimpse Seb in the doorway: that half-mocking smile.
His father is big and muscly and old. But once, he would have been good-looking. He’s got the same colour skin, and the dark stubble, and deep brown eyes, like Seb.
‘We’re just about packing up for the day,’ Nick says. ‘We’ve a bag of sand to bring in, and then we’ll be off home.’ He moves towards the bit of wall where Seb was working, frowns slightly, and rubs at the stone with his hand.
Seb’s face tightens.
‘Not bad,’ Nick says. ‘But you need to work faster than that if you’re expecting to get paid.’
Seb’s about to say something, then stops himself. He looks furious.
‘I’m going now too,’ I say cheerfully, to break the tension between them.
Nick smiles at me. ‘She’s a grand house, isn’t she? She’s going to be, anyways. When she’s had a bit of TLC. Give us a hand with the sand, then, Seb. We need to get it under cover.’
I can hear their voices rising and falling – well, Nick’s, anyway – as I walk over the grass. It’s damp with dew already. I push my bike to the lane. When I look back, Seb’s standing at the top of the steps, watching me. I wave at him. It’s a test. My challenge to him: what will he do?
He waves. Not so cool and ironic, then, that he won’t do that.
I think about him as I cycle home. That sarcastic, mocking tone in his voice. It’s like he’s defending himself from something. It’s just a mask, really. He’s learned to do that. It’s not the real Seb.
Kat will be dead jealous that I’ve met him again. Or maybe not, now she’s in York with all her new friends. Perhaps I won’t mention it. It’s not as if anything’s actually happened. A bit of conversation, a feeling of something important, that’s all.
Cassy’s lying with her feet up on the sofa when I get back. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she says, in a sleepy voice that shows she doesn’t really care.
&n
bsp; ‘I went to see the house.’
Cassy sits up a bit. ‘And?’
‘That’s it. Then I cycled back.’
‘How is it coming along? Have they done much?’
‘Hardly anything. Still that big hole in the roof, and the tree growing out of the top. There was a bird in there. A buzzard.’
Cassy sighs. She looks totally wiped out.
‘Shall I make you tea?’ I say.
‘Would you? Thanks, Em.’ She closes her eyes again. ‘Are you going out, later?’
‘Yes. Said I’d see Rachel. I’ll need a lift, though.’
‘Your dad can take you. When he’s back.’
‘I’ll stay over. You and Dad can have the place to yourselves for a bit.’
Cassy doesn’t seem to hear. I fill the kettle and switch on my laptop while I wait for the water to boil.
Kat’s on MSN.
– How’s things? she types to me.
– OK. Missing you. How’s uni?
– Awesome. Having a really good time.
– I saw your photos on Facebook.
– Yeah – people from my flat. I really like them.
Anna, Ell, Maddie. Plus Simon.
– Simon?
– He’s in my biology seminar. Got to go now – making supper xxx
She’s signed off before I’ve a chance to say anything at all about me. Or Seb.
5
‘Soon as you’re seventeen we’ll teach you to drive,’ Dad says.
He lets me change gear on the ride over to Rachel’s. I’ve been doing it since I was about ten. Cassy gets cross and says it isn’t safe, but according to Dad I’m learning about cars that way. I had a go at actually driving, when we first came to the caravan field. I laughed so much I went round in a big circle and almost into a hedge.
‘Now!’ Dad says, just before the bridge.
I do a smooth gear shift down to second. ‘We’ll need a second car, if I’m driving too,’ I say. ‘And there’s the lessons. I’ll have to get a job.’
Dad frowns. ‘Not with A levels coming up. There’s nothing more important than your education, Emily. It’s the passport to your future . . .’