Tyme's End

by B. R. Collins

  ‘Do you have photos and things?’

  There’s something strange in his voice, like the answer means a lot to him.

  ‘A couple. Most of them are in photo albums and I can look at them, but I’m not allowed to take them out until I’m eighteen, in case I lose them.’ There’s a pause. I wish he’d say something. I can feel the matter-of-fact look on my face start to crack like varnish.

  He nods. He reaches for his cigarettes again. I watch him take one out and light it. After he’s lit it he turns his lighter over and over in his hands. His fingers leave smears on the silver.

  ‘I’ve got a lot of . . . research,’ I say. ‘I call it that, anyway. It’s stupid, but – I haven’t shown anyone, ever. Maps and pictures and things. Because –’ I’m glad he’s not looking at me. ‘They’re nice, Mum and Dad, I’m not being ungrateful, they didn’t have to take me in, and – but I don’t belong here. It’s not . . . mine.’

  He tilts the lighter so that I can see his face, reflected. His eyes stare at me, pulled out of shape by a dent in the metal.

  ‘I don’t belong here,’ I say again. I’ve never said it aloud before today. ‘People look at me with Mum and Dad and Sam and they can see I’m not one of them. And here –’ I look around at the tourists and the little kids playing on the grass. ‘It feels like a foreign country.’

  ‘You don’t think you’re English, because you weren’t born here?’

  ‘I know it’s stupid. But – I come from somewhere else. That makes a difference. You said yourself, the past is important. Well, my past is somewhere else.’

  He turns his head to one side, frowning, as if he’s listening to something a long way away.

  I say, ‘What’s wrong? What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing. You think the past is – passed down in your blood or something.’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘We inherit history. We don’t have a choice about how we think, or who we are. It’s already decided for us.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I –’

  ‘It’s an interesting idea. Potentially racist, incidentally, but interesting.’

  I twist to stare at him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because if who you are comes from your parents and your ancestors, then you automatically have more in common with the people who come from the same genetic background.’ His tone is intellectual, faintly amused. His accent is so English he sounds like someone from an old film. He catches my eye and laughs, but there’s something uncomfortable in the way he’s looking at me. ‘I didn’t say it was wrong. Necessarily.’

  A silence.

  I say, ‘I wasn’t saying –’

  He reaches out and puts his hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry. You said – you put something into words. You made me think about something else. About – someone else. I wasn’t taking the piss.’

  I look down at his hand. His skin is pale against mine and his palm is warm and slightly damp. I feel as if I’ve got more nerve endings in that patch of skin than in the rest of my entire body.

  ‘Really, Bibi. It’s very . . . biblical. The sins of the fathers being visited on the sons, debts being passed down to people who don’t even know what happened.’ His voice negotiates the consonants like corners, a little too precise.

  Oh, shit. After what he said about his grandfather . . . I can’t believe I forgot.

  I say, ‘Oliver, I only meant – because of who I am – because of my past – I can’t be happy here. I wasn’t talking about anyone else.’ I’m trying too hard, and my voice is shrill and unconvincing.

  He isn’t listening anyway. He flicks his fingernail against his empty glass and screws his mouth to one side, as if he’s trying to decide whether to buy another round. He says, ‘Can I see it? Your . . . research?’

  ‘My –?’

  He looks at me. ‘I know it’s none of my business. You don’t have to say yes.’

  ‘Why do you want to? It’s not even really about my mum, it’s just about –’ I imagine my papers, the grubby computer printouts and tourist brochures for Israel and newspaper articles and . . . It means something to me, because – well, because it’s a kind of promise to myself, a reassurance that I don’t really live here, that Mum and Dad aren’t really my parents, that some day I’ll leave and never come back. But Oliver wouldn’t understand. ‘Why do you want to see it?’

  ‘Because I –’ He laughs shortly, tapping the glass over and over. ‘I suppose – I want to know more about you.’

  ‘Do you?’ I catch myself on the verge of giggling and blushing and saying, ‘Really?’ and control myself just in time.

  He nods. He glances sideways, but his eyes don’t meet mine. ‘You remind me of – someone I used to know.’

  Oh. I want to say, ‘Who?’ but there’s something about his face that tells me he doesn’t want me to ask. But it doesn’t matter. I replay the words in my head: I want to know more about you . . . I say, ‘All right.’

  He smiles at me. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My stuff’s in my room, at home. Shall I go and get it now?’ I despise myself as soon as I’ve said it, because I sound like an eager, helpful little girl who wants to be milk monitor. But Oliver doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘If that’s OK, yeah, good idea. I told your parents I was leaving this morning, so I don’t really want to run into them.’ He gestures at my empty glass. ‘Another shandy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want it waiting for me when I get back. And another packet of crisps. Preferably prawn cocktail. Please.’

  The corner of his mouth twitches. ‘And the moon on a stick?’

  I lean across and punch him on the arm. I don’t do it hard, but I can feel solid muscle and the warmth of his skin on my knuckles. He says, unconvincingly, ‘Ouch,’ and grins at me.

  I jump off the wall and make my way towards the side gate on to the High Street. I can feel Oliver watching me leave, but I don’t look back. I’m scared that, if I do, he’ll be able to see the way my heart is pounding.

  .

  By the time I get back the people eating their lunch have finished and gone, and Oliver is sitting at a table, smoking. I’ve got my special box in a bag across my shoulder, and it’s heavy, but I stand where I am for a few seconds, looking at him. He hasn’t seen me. His chin is propped on one hand and his hair is falling over his forehead. He taps the cigarette ash on to the table and I want to laugh at how perfectly he does it – how that is the only, the absolutely best way of tapping ash in the whole world.

  I walk over to him. He doesn’t look up until I sit down opposite him. Then he smiles and pushes a full pint glass towards me. ‘Madam’s shandy,’ he says. ‘Waiting for her, as requested.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  I look at him for too long and I can feel myself starting to blush, so I sling my bag on to the table. ‘Here we go,’ I say. ‘The Habibah Hope Archive.’

  ‘Who’s Habibah Hope?’

  ‘Me,’ I say. ‘It means “beloved”. “Darling”.’ A split-second pause. ‘I mean, it means “darling” as well as “beloved”. I wasn’t calling you –’ Oh, bloody hell.

  ‘Really? How disappointing.’ He laughs. I join in, but he looks at me in an odd way, as if I haven’t done it quite convincingly. ‘It’s pretty. Habibah. Beloved. It suits you.’

  ‘Yeah. Er . . .’ I clear my throat and get my special box out of the bag, open it, and push it across the table to him. ‘You said you wanted to see it.’

  He nods, and the laughter goes out of his face. I wish I hadn’t reminded him; for a second he looked young and ordinary and happy. He takes the box and starts to look at my things, picking them out carefully as if he’s taken me seriously about it being an archive. I watch his hands, grateful for the way they treat everything like it’s
precious.

  When I look at his face finally, he’s frowning.

  ‘There’s a lot of stuff here, Bibi.’

  I shrug. ‘Whenever I see something that – seems relevant, I cut it out. I like it when there’s so much I can spread it out on my bed or the floor and nothing else shows through.’

  ‘And how much of it is actually about your parents?’

  ‘Quite a lot,’ I say. ‘There are all the Google maps of where they used to live in Tel Aviv, and the village where my mother was born, and –’

  ‘That’s not technically about them though, is it? It doesn’t tell you anything that might – that would mean anything to you.’ He’s talking gently, seriously, like a teacher. If he were anyone else I’d tell him to piss off.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No-o,’ he says. ‘Just –’ Suddenly he covers his face with his hands, rubbing his forehead, and I see his shoulders move as he takes a deep breath. Then he puts his hands down flat in front of him and looks straight into my eyes.

  ‘Bibi,’ he says. ‘You live here. Here and now. You’re not a foreigner.’

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say. I reach for the nearest bit of paper, but the sun glares on the white and I can’t take in what’s on it. I say, ‘But – this is about my parents. My real parents. It’s important to me.’

  ‘Of course. But –’ He stops.

  ‘But?’ I pick up the sheets of paper and put them back in the box. One of the photos of my dad is on the table next to Oliver’s elbow and I lay it carefully on top of the rest. My hands look weird, like someone else’s.

  ‘But.’ He swallows. ‘Does this – is it useful? Does it make you happy?’

  ‘That’s not the –’ I stop, because I know I’ve answered his question. I can hear Sam’s voice in my head, mimicking me – You’re not my real father – and my own voice shouting at Dad, spitting adopted at him like an insult every time we have an argument. And then I run to my special box, my imaginary Israel with my imaginary parents, where I belong. Or to Tyme’s End, to be on my own. I look up at Oliver and it’s like he can see what I’m thinking.

  I say, ‘You said the past was important. You said it matters, that it makes us who we are. So this is me. What’s wrong with that?’

  He put the box to one side, gently, and pushes my shandy closer to my hand.

  ‘Tell me! What’s wrong with it?’

  He looks over my shoulder. I almost turn and follow his gaze, because I could swear he can see someone there, that he’s not talking to me.

  He says, ‘But we’re stronger. We have to be stronger.’

  Silence.

  It’s like something’s happened. Something invisible and soundless, but . . . The world’s changed in a hidden, quiet way that I can’t see.

  Oliver’s still staring past me. For a second I feel disorientated, dizzy. Something’s going on, and I don’t know what it is.

  I say, ‘Sorry. What –? Can you explain what you just said? Subtitles for the hard of understanding?’

  He laughs. He looks at me and laughs. And it’s strange, it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh as if he means it, as if he’s not thinking about something else at the same time. It’s a warm, lovely laugh. It makes the hairs on my arms stand on end with sheer pleasure. I take a quick drink of shandy because I can’t look at him.

  He says, ‘What are you doing now? This afternoon?’

  ‘I’m –’ I shake my head. ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Why don’t we get some food and stuff, and we can have a picnic. By the river, maybe. D’you fancy it?’

  ‘Yes, I do fancy it,’ I say, like an idiot. ‘That sounds lovely.’

  ‘Splendid.’ There’s definitely something new in his voice, a kind of excitement. He looks younger than he did. He stands up and points at my shandy. ‘Are you going to drink that?’

  It’s like he’s a different person. I laugh and drink as much as I can and offer him the rest. He downs it. Then he gives me his hand to help me up.

  I take it and stand up, but neither of us lets go.

  He brushes a strand of hair away from my face with his other hand. He says, ‘Bibi . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I won’t sell it. Tyme’s End. It won’t be turned into commuter flats. Whatever happens, I promise I won’t sell it.’

  ‘Really?’ I can’t breathe properly.

  ‘Really.’ His eyes are steady, but there’s something in his expression that I can’t identify.

  I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t.

  He drops my hand. I follow him out through the pub on to the High Street. I can feel my face smiling and smiling, as if it’s going to crack.

  .

  .

  VI

  .

  .

  The garage shop is cool and filled with an even, calming hum from the fridges. Oliver spins on his heel, his hands in his pockets, like a little kid. When I catch his eye he grins and shakes his head, laughing at himself. ‘Wow!’ he says. ‘So much stuff. So much surprisingly posh food.’

  ‘Only the best for us,’ I say. ‘Champagne. Caviar.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘I wonder if . . . Do you really like caviar?’ He turns away without waiting for the answer, picks up a basket and shoves it into my arms. ‘OK, here’s the plan. I’ll pay for it if you carry it. Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ I say, and then start to giggle as he strides towards the chilled drinks cabinet and grabs a bottle of champagne and a bottle of elderflower pressé. ‘I didn’t mean champagne, necessarily. I was just –’

  ‘I know,’ he says, and holds the bottles out to me, already raking the nearest shelves with his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, the champagne’s for me. You’re a minor. You get the elderflower juice. Cookies? Chips?’

  ‘Biscuits and crisps, you mean,’ I say. ‘Yep, sounds good.’

  ‘Strawberries. Chocolates. Guacamole, caviar, French bread, watermelon –’ He’s not actually talking to me any more. ‘Caviar? Caviar – hmm . . . sorry, looks like it’s no go on the caviar. Cheese?’

  I walk behind him like a handmaiden and curtsy demurely when he drops an armload of food into the basket. There’s no way we’ll get through all of it, but I don’t say anything. My arms are already aching from the weight of the bottles. He says, ‘You OK with that? I was joking, you don’t have to carry it.’

  ‘I’m fine. Ice cream?’

  ‘There’s a slight drawback to ice cream,’ he says. ‘What with the heat outside and everything. I bet you a fiver you can’t guess what it is.’

  I nudge him with my shoulder, because I can’t let go of the basket to hit him properly. He steps sideways to avoid me, then catches my arm to stop me losing my balance. ‘Oops!’ I say, and laugh up at him.

  ‘You’re not drunk, are you?’

  ‘Stop asking me that. I’m completely – I’m absholutely shober.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Honestly, Oliver. I’m not a kid. I’m not drunk, and even if I were –’

  ‘OK, OK. I’m not listening,’ he says. ‘Come on, let’s pay for this stuff.’

  He gets his credit card out at the till and taps it on the counter while the attendant swipes the bar codes. ‘Oh – Bibi, would you grab a couple of those containers for gasol— petrol? I have a feeling there’s a lawnmower in one of the outbuildings – you know, one of the big ones, that you drive – and I might see if I can do something with it later.’

  I get two petrol containers, and swing them up and on to the counter. They look odd beside the champagne and strawberries. The attendant says, ‘That’s thirty-two pounds and eighty-seven pence, please.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I say. ‘Oliver, are you sure? We could just get crisps and beer.’

  ‘Don’t be si
lly,’ he says, punching in his PIN. ‘It’s a pleasure. Really.’ He looks up and smiles, so I can’t tell whether it’s a joke. ‘Stop worrying. I’ve got more money than – well, more than you, anyway.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I say, and wait while he pushes his wallet into his back pocket. I follow his hand with my eyes and feel myself blushing, stupidly, for no reason. He thanks the attendant, passes me the bulging plastic bags, and picks up the petrol containers.

  ‘Wait here, I won’t be a sec,’ he says. He smiles at me. I stay where I am, leaning against the counter and watching him through the window as he fills up the containers and comes back in to pay.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’ I say. ‘Tyme’s End?’

  ‘Dear God, you’d think it was the only place in the world,’ he says. Then he grins. ‘Yes. Well, sort of. Follow me.’

  He walks out with a bounce in his step, glancing round but not waiting for me, so I have to hurry to keep up. The heat from the garage forecourt pours over me like warm oil. I feel softened and slippery. The bottles clink gently.

  And we go back down the High Street towards the broken bit of wall. It’s like I’ve spent the whole day just walking back and forth, tying an invisible knot round Tyme’s End, with Oliver. It feels like a dream. I clench my fists tightly round the handles of the plastic bags, but the sense of unreality doesn’t go away. When we climb over the wall I can’t believe I’ve done this before, for real: it’s more like I’ve been rehearsing it, hoping, waiting with bated breath for the moment when he takes my hand to steady me. I stagger and he laughs, and somehow it’s easy, it’s natural, to put my hands on his shoulders, letting him take my weight, to lean forward until our faces are only a few centimetres apart.

  Then he swings me safely to the ground, gives me back the plastic bags, and leads me down past the house, through long grass and the beginnings of woods, to the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.