by Lia Louis
I nod. ‘She’s only doing this for Dad, though,’ I tell him. ‘She’d have never had me as a bridesmaid if it wasn’t for him. She’s trying to cheer him up. Show him everything is normal or something. Prove a point.’
‘What point?’ Roman asks, the spring sun beating down on his face, his eyes still scrunched closed. I always imagine painting the line of his profile when he lies like this. It would be a perfect line of peaks, lines rising and falling, like the tracing of a slow heart rate on a monitor.
‘That there’s nothing to it,’ I say, eventually, squishing the fresh white bread between my fingers. ‘That I’m lying; that if I can put on a dress and walk down an aisle, then I’m fine. Then there’s no need for all this. For The Grove, for the doctors …’
Roman’s face turns towards me at those last few words. His scrunched eyes open. ‘That you’re lying? She said that?’
I shrug. ‘I heard her saying to Dad that he should call my bluff, put his foot down—’
‘So, we all lied to get here?’ Roman says, brow furrowing, eyes flashing. ‘Because being here is, what, preferable?’ Roman shakes his head, a muscle in his jaw pulsing. ‘She really has no idea, does she? No idea how tough it is being here. No idea how far you’ve actually come, what you’re going through …’
A mass forms in my throat at the sound of those words, and my nostrils sting – the threat of tears. They come so easily these days, especially when someone is being nice to me, when someone cares. And Roman does.
I can’t reply. I fiddle with the crust of the sandwich in my hand and stare at it as if I’m doing an intricate cross stitch I can’t take my eyes off.
Roman watches my face for a moment, but then he straightens, suddenly, as if someone has asked him to sit up, don’t slouch. He sits tall and straight on the bench beside me now, legs wide, shoes flat on the cracked concrete. ‘So. I have a tux,’ he announces, clearing his throat and pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket. ‘Two actually.’
I blink. ‘You have a tux?’
‘Two,’ repeats Roman. He smiles widely, biting his tongue, tapping the end of a cigarette on the box in his hand. ‘Yep. One black, one white, motherfucker.’
I burst out laughing. It’s sudden, comes out of nowhere. It’s his face; his stupid, dorky face. The giant smile, full of cheek, and those blue eyes, always flashing with something – as if he knows something you don’t, and behind his eyes is where it’s hiding. And ‘motherfucker’ did it too, I admit; the way it sounds in his accent. Motherfockeh.
‘How the hell did you end up with two tuxedos?’
‘Same way you’ll end up with a catarrh yellow dress hanging in your wardrobe soon,’ Roman smiles, cigarette between his lips. He lights it on the first go and takes a drag. ‘So, you can take your pick, Lizzie J. Black or white?’
‘Black,’ I say.
‘To match the colour of our souls. Good choice.’
I smile. The Grove stares back at us from across the road; its angular lines like a disapproving frown, and the white-painted metal-framed windows, set with glass that looks as though it would rattle if there was even a slight tremor, look like a row of mirrors with no reflection. It was built in the late forties, apparently. It used to be a small, village infant school, then a drop-in clinic. Now this. I wonder if it’s always looked so unremarkable. I wonder if it’s on purpose, so it doesn’t stand out, and doesn’t bring any attention to itself and to the people inside it.
After a while, Roman stands up, squashing the cigarette under the heel of his tatty black boot. ‘Come on. It’s almost one.’
I groan and squint up at him. The way he’s standing in front of the sun makes it look like there’re sunbeams shooting from his head.
‘Come on,’ he says again, holding out his hand. ‘Stat.’
‘Jobsworth.’
Roman smiles and pulls me to my feet. A crisp breeze swirls through the maple trees lining Lambourne Avenue, making the sound of distant waves. ‘Just keeping you in check,’ he says. ‘Someone’s gotta.’
‘But I don’t want to go back.’
Roman smiles, sadly. ‘I’m afraid you have to go back, Lizzie J,’ he says, putting his heavy arm over my shoulder. ‘It’s the only route out of this. But … least I’ll be there.’
Chapter Six
‘Turn back.’
‘No.’
‘Seriously, Priscilla, I mean it. Abort. Abort mission.’
‘This is just your nerves talking.’
‘No, no, it isn’t, P. This is logic talking. This is normal me talking. This is actually ridiculous. I mean if you really think about it, this whole thing is absolutely bloody ridiculous.’
‘Lizzie,’ says Priscilla, her hands wrapped around the steering wheel. ‘I am not allowing us to come this far and turn around again. We’re almost at the Dartford Crossing and we’ve only just cleared all that god-awful traffic.’
‘But I have a bad feeling. In my tummy. Like …’ Priscilla sighs as I ramble, the corner of her mouth twitching a smile. ‘Like we shouldn’t be doing this, we shouldn’t be going all the way to this random address we know nothing about. I mean, it is mad, isn’t it? Really mad.’
‘Yeah, OK, it is mad.’ Priscilla flashes me a look over the tops of her sunglasses and looks back at the stretch of road ahead. The icy air-conditioning blasts through the vents on the dash, making her hair dance as though she’s on a misty, whispery perfume ad; a perfect metaphor if ever there was one for how bloody cool and irritatingly relaxed she’s been about what she is simply seeing as a little adventure on a Saturday morning. ‘It’s really mad,’ she carries on. ‘But going there is all we have. We tried the number from Google and it’s dead. All we’re going to do, Liz, is take a look. A quick drive-by and home again. We’d kick ourselves forever for not doing this if we didn’t bother at least trying to find out where that bloody letter came from while the iron’s hot.’
‘Oh, god, I feel sick.’
‘Nerves.’
‘No, Priscilla, I mean it. I feel like I’m gonna poo myself and puke all at the same time.’
‘Neeeerves,’ sings Priscilla again, and I desperately want to slap her.
I am nervous. Terrified, actually. The unwavering confidence that overwhelmed me after overhearing Auntie Shall had dissipated about five minutes into this journey. I thought I might wake up this morning and change my mind; regret the rash decision to go to Kent, to the trout lakes and pear farm – the home of that stamp – but I didn’t. Instead, I woke up determined. I woke standing taller than I had in a long time, as if held up by the anger about it all; Shall’s words, Dad trying to defend me the way you would someone that committed a shameful crime, all the unbearable things that stepped out from the shadows of my mind since opening Roman’s letter. He sounded so desperate, so sorry – why? I owed it to him. I owed it to Roman not to ignore his letter, regardless of how late it found me. That’s how I felt until the car began drawing further and further away from home, anyway. I owed the person that dragged me back from the edge.
But now, I just feel terrified. I’m scared I’ll find him. I’m scared he won’t want to be found, least of all, by me. I’m scared I’ll find nothing.
‘Lizzie?’
‘Mmm?’ My eyes are closed, my hand clasped around the handle above my head, as if I am on a rollercoaster, holding on for dear life.
‘You haven’t shit your knickers, have you?’
‘Fuck off, P. My stomach might explode.’
Priscilla laughs. Her laugh is a cackle – a ‘dirty’ laugh. It’s always been the same. I remember the way it stopped me in my tracks the afternoon we first met: Homework Club, age twelve, her there for detention, me, because it was my go-to hiding place. I said something, she cackled, in the middle of slicking on raspberry lip gloss, the teacher hissed at us, and I wondered for a moment, if it was a total and utter piss take. It’s just that sort of a laugh. Infectious and unapologetic. Just like Priscilla.
&nbs
p; Priscilla pops two fruit pastilles in her mouth from the bag on her lap and says, ‘You won’t shit yourself, you know.’
‘And how do you know exactly? Cal had that sickness bug and came into work last week.’
‘Oh, it isn’t a bug,’ tuts Priscilla. ‘If it’s a bug, then I am Ian Botham. It’s nerves, that’s all. Simple nerves. I think you forget how well acquainted I am with your bloody bowels.’
I stare at her. ‘Do I?’
‘Every P.E. lesson,’ Priscilla says, ‘you’d say you had cramps, that you felt sick, felt ill, like you might be getting a bug or the beginnings of food poisoning or dysentery or blah blah blah …’
‘P, look, do you have a mint or gum or anything peppermint to actually help me here?’
Priscilla stretches an arm over and pulls open the glove box. She hands me a pot of chewing gum.
‘Every P.E. lesson,’ Priscilla continues, pausing to look in the rear-view mirror as she moves over into the middle lane, ‘especially cross-country running, you’d be pale – like deathly pale, and you’d be promising me that your bowels would likely explode over us all. Do you remember, Lizzie? All those years, every lesson the same, until we actually got out on the field.’
I nod rapidly, though I still want to slap her. Of all the memories of me this woman holds dear, it’s this she remembers with clarity.
‘And then before every date you had with Ricky Gardner at work last year,’ says Priscilla. ‘Every single time, and well, you never ever have shit yourself, have you?’
I look over at her. She raises her eyebrows at me and gives a victorious shrug.
‘Well. Thanks for that, Priscilla,’ I say, resting my head back on the seat and raising a thumb. ‘Romantic story.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she nods. Ricky Gardner. You can always trust Priscilla to dredge up things I’d rather forget – her brain is a recycling bin of all the moments I have erased from my own. It’s not that I regret dating Ricky. It was just a total waste of time. He’d started work at Fisher and Bolt last year as a temp on the sales team. He was shy, well-spoken, wore round, trendy glasses, and had a smile that made his eyes glitter. He asked me out three times before I agreed, and we’d had a nice time – such a nice time, there was a second date, a third, and a fourth. It’s just a shame we never got to date five. After spending most of our fourth date eating cheesy chips and kissing in a booth in a dark, trendy pub in Soho, he held my face, told me he loved my mouth when I smiled, and then said, ‘Guess what I’m thinking about. Go on’. Cheesy chips, I’d guessed. How Slater from Saved by the Bell likes his eggs? ‘Nah,’ he grinned, eyes drunken slits. ‘I’m thinking of you, on your knees … sucking off that waiter over there. I bet you would, wouldn’t you? I can tell. Always the quiet ones. Always.’ I walked out when he stumbled off to the loos, shocked – but not shocked enough to forget to ask for the almost-full bowl of cheesy chips to be wrapped up in a doggy bag for me to take home – and within a week of ignoring each other at work, his eyes always averted to the floor, he left. For greener pastures. For pastures littered with ‘quiet ones’ eager to blow random bartenders, I expect. He was my first date in three years. I’ve not had one since. Haven’t wanted one.
The rest of the journey passes in an anxious blur, with Priscilla looking over at me, grinning excitedly every time the Sat Nav gives us a new instruction, and now we’re off the motorway, winding down country lanes, meandering through higgledy-piggledy villages, getting closer and closer to the address of the farm, it’s every few minutes.
‘Shit,’ Priscilla grins, reaching over with her spare hand and grabbing my wrist. ‘Six minutes, babe!’
We wind and wind for what feels like ages on the last mile, swaying, stopping and starting, as tractors and cars squeeze past, and people riding horses trot by. There is nothing here. Just stretches of leafy emerald land, sandy cornfields, and wedges of thick, dark forest – the sort of places you imagined as a kid that witches and bears lived. What would Roman want with a place like this? He dreamed of travel and cities and adventure, counting the miles between us, and home, until the figures doubled and tripled and quadrupled. We both did. We saved for it, counted down the days until we could go after it together – that was our plan. He had nowhere else to go; no family. He was trapped – stuck with his mum in a boring town in Herts, stuck at The Grove, stuck in ‘the system’. Why would he have come here? It’s the middle of nowhere. There are no train stations, no shops, no bus stops. It’s even been ages since I saw a house. And suddenly, this trip feels outrageous – ludicrous, as Sad Gail would say. We are grown women chasing a white rabbit into the middle of the countryside on a Saturday morning when we could be – should be – doing anything else.
‘In one hundred feet, your destination will be on your right.’
Priscilla lets out another excited squeal and I can’t respond. I swear my heart beats must be visible from the outside.
Then, I see it: the logo. The tree tunnel ends, and there it is, as a backdrop on a white sheet of a sign, the edges bordered with overgrowth, bottle green letters spelling ‘Broxton Farm’. Beside it, is a dusty, dirt-track road, and an open metal gate.
Priscilla pulls in and stops in the entrance. The engine is running, and other than its soft chugging, and the distant tweeting of birds, it’s silent here.
‘You ready?’
I turn to look at Priscilla. ‘I don’t know about this.’
‘We don’t even have to get out,’ she says. ‘See how you feel. But, remember what you said Thursday night, Lizzie. What’s the alternative? To ignore it? To never know?’
Yes, I want to say. Yes, let’s go with the alternative and never know, turn around, and go home, where I can shut all the curtains and stay holed-up until Monday morning.
But Priscilla is already pushing her foot down on the accelerator and we are easing forward, down the track.
‘We’ll just take a look,’ she says, the car swaying, rocking on the uneven road. ‘See how we feel, see what we find … and, of course, see who we find, too.’
Broxton Farm is abandoned. A still, silent circle of shabby barns and barren wooden shelters, all empty, except for the odd rusty looking spare engine part or pile of rubble. My heart filled with relief but sank with disappointment all at once as we drove in. But then we saw the house, set back behind a cluster of overgrown spruce trees. It’s the sort of house that demands a double take. Layers of gingerbread brick, a spray of wild yellow flowers climbing around the front door and to the upstairs windows, all of them set in black lead, with diamonds on the glass. Each window has a window box, too. Empty, but striking, painted in midnight blue. A chocolate box cottage, that’s what Priscilla called it.
I raise my hand to the peeling front door.
‘Go on. Hurry up,’ whispers Priscilla, jiggling about on the spot. ‘Knock.’
‘I just need a minute.’
She eyeballs me. ‘You told me to make you. Literally minutes ago, you told me if you chickened out—’
‘P, I know what I said, I just mean I might need to take a—’
Priscilla reaches her hand up quickly to the brass knocker and knocks twice. She raises her eyebrows at me. Sweat pricks the back of my neck. It’s just a knock at a door – that’s all it is. But it feels like more than that. I feel like we are pelting a bee’s nest with rocks; tampering with something that shouldn’t be disrupted.
There’s silence. A moment. Then a man’s voice, calling out to someone inside. My head whooshes with my heartbeat. Something clatters on the other side of the door – a latch. I haven’t even thought about what I’d say if it’s Roman who answers. The thought makes my stomach turn.
The door opens in one swoop.
It isn’t Roman.
It’s a man; tall, skinny, with greying hair, darkened by combed-through gel. His cheeks are marked with deep set laughter lines, and his eyes squint as he looks at us.
‘Now, you certainly don’t look like Richard the property surve
yor.’ He chuckles. ‘How can I help?’
He’s posh. The sort that says ‘ghastly’ with oodles of ‘gaaaaah’ and probably reads the Financial Times on the loo while shouting stock prices through the door.
Priscilla’s eyes fix on me. She clears her throat – a prompt, a nudge to speak.
‘Er,’ I wobble. ‘I um … we may be barking up the wrong tree completely here, but we’re looking for someone. An old friend from um, school. I think he used to live here.’
‘Or still lives here,’ adds Priscilla, hopefully.
‘Right.’ His voice lifts at the end of the word, as if it’s a question. ‘And who is it you’re looking for?’
I launch the first rock. ‘Roman.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Roman?’
‘The man’s face barely flickers.
‘Roman Meyers,’ I say this time, and louder, clearer, hoping the surname jogs something, but he is doing what I hoped he wouldn’t. He is shaking his head, his mouth a hard line.
‘No, I’m sorry, girls,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid not.’
My shoulders deflate. Disappointment and relief again, both wash over me. Priscilla looks at me, then back at the man.
‘Could he have been a previous tenant or—’
The man shakes his head before Priscilla can even finish. ‘This farm has belonged to the same people for fifty years. There have been no recent movers, or previous owners or anything similar, I’m afraid.’
Just like that, the palpable excitement that had been buzzing between us, even amongst all the anxiety, like electricity, fizzles, as if a kill-switch has been yanked. But I smile at the man.
‘Well, thank you, anyway. Sorry for disturbing you. I suppose it was a long shot.’
‘The thing is,’ interrupts Priscilla, ‘he sent us a letter, this friend. And the envelope had your logo on.’
The man straightens in the doorway. A breeze floats through the house and to the outside; a swirl of earthy aftershave and freshly brewed coffee. ‘Broxton’s logo?’