Tyme's End

by B. R. Collins

  No would be a lie, and I don’t want to say yes. So I stay quiet.

  ‘You should go home. It’s getting late.’

  ‘I haven’t had my champagne yet,’ I say, and I hear him laugh. The vibration goes through my back and straight to my heart.

  He shifts, and reaches backwards. I’m leaning on him, so I move too, until we’re lying down, my head on his chest. He grunts, and then makes a satisfied noise. ‘Got it. Here we go.’ He passes the bottle to me. I have to tilt my head forward to drink. The champagne’s warmish and flat, but it tastes great.

  I prop it in the crook of my elbow and look up at the patch of clear sky above the pond. The stars are starting to come out.

  I say, ‘Do you want me to move?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Because – I know you don’t want to –’

  There’s a pause, and I hear him swallow. ‘I never said I didn’t want to.’

  There’s another pause. The undergrowth rustles as the dark things start to wake up. I open my mouth, but I’m smiling so hard I’m not sure I’ll be able to make words.

  ‘Bibi,’ he says, very softly, into my hair, ‘if you laugh, or say anything, or make so much as a joke I swear I’ll –’ He hesitates. Then he puts on a theatrical, reading-aloud kind of voice, parodying himself. ‘I’ll break your neck in one swift practised movement like a stick of sugar candy.’

  ‘Rock,’ I say. ‘Not “sugar candy”. Rock.’

  ‘God, teenagers,’ he says. ‘You have to have the last word.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  He shakes his head and we both laugh quietly, as if neither of us wants to break the silence. And we lie and look up at the stars.

  .

  .

  VII

  .

  .

  It’s starting to get light. I lift my head a little and the sky above the trees is so blue and clear I want to touch it.

  I say, ‘Are you asleep?’

  Oliver yawns and I feel him shake his head. ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Definitely. Can’t you tell?’ I lie back down, resting my head in the hollow between his shoulder and his chest. He got his spare sweater out of his bag for me – fumbling around by the light of his cigarette lighter – when I woke up at midnight, freezing and not sure where I was, but even so I’m cold. The warmth of his body is comforting, and his sweater is like another pair of his arms, hugging me. I breathe in his smell. I’m knackered and covered in midge bites, and my neck aches from leaning on him all night, but I don’t want to go home.

  ‘It’ll be morning soon.’

  I don’t answer. If I pretend we can stay like this for ever, maybe we can.

  ‘Bibi? You should go home. Your parents – won’t your parents be –’

  ‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘I want to watch the sun come up. Forget my parents.’

  ‘Oh. OK,’ he says, and yawns again. ‘I wonder what time the first train is.’

  ‘To Gatwick?’ I raise my head again to look at him, but there’s not enough light yet to see his expression.

  ‘Yeah. Well, to Tonbridge.’

  ‘Have you booked your flight?’

  ‘I’ll get the first one I can, when I get to the airport.’

  I feel sick. I sit up. My hair’s sticking to my cheek where I was leaning on him, and I brush it away. ‘When are you coming back?’

  ‘Probably never.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Bibi, you knew – I said, all along. I told you –’

  ‘I said it’s OK.’ I look up at the sky. It looks fragile. If you hit it with a hammer it would shatter, with a huge musical smash. ‘What about Tyme’s End? I thought you weren’t going to sell Tyme’s End?’

  ‘I’m not. I’ll get my solicitors to give it to you. Miss Habibah Hope of 19, Marks Cross Road, Falconhurst.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I’m not joking.’

  I look round at him. He shrugs and smiles. In the half-light his face is pale, eaten away by shadows like an old man’s. I wonder suddenly what his grandfather looked like. ‘But – I thought –’

  ‘You want it, don’t you? This.’ He gestures to the smooth, blue-grey water and the trees. ‘I don’t mean the hou— not just the house. I’d like you to have this.’

  ‘I thought you . . .’ I don’t know what to say.

  ‘As an apology,’ he says, and runs his hand over my hair and down my back.

  It makes me shiver. ‘You don’t have anything to apologise for.’ I turn my head so that his cheek is only a few centimetres from my mouth. He’s still smiling, but not at me. ‘Really – Oliver, you don’t have anything – I promise, there’s nothing to apologise for.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ he says. Then he turns and kisses me, very lightly, on the mouth. It’s so quick and gentle it’s like something brushing past me: a ghost, a memory, a premonition of a kiss.

  I go to kiss him back, but he’s already getting to his feet.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get this trash cleared up before the sun rises.’

  .

  The dawn is beautiful. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the sun come up before – not watched it rise, like this, concentrating on every second as the sky goes green and lemon-green and amber and rose. We stand a little way apart, and even though we can’t see the sun through the trees the sky is so lovely I want to pause it, like a TV, and keep it like that for the rest of my life. It makes me sad to know I’ll only see it once, and then it’ll be gone. I feel like I’ll never see anything as good ever again.

  I say, ‘What’s the time?’ because if he says how beautiful it is I’ll start to cry.

  ‘Five past five.’

  ‘What time’s your train?’

  ‘First one’s about quarter to six, I think.’

  ‘And that’s the one you’re getting.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Then you should go,’ I say. ‘It’ll take half an hour to walk there, probably.’

  He glances at me and nods. ‘Will you come to see me off?’

  ‘If you want me to.’

  Suddenly he pulls me sideways, so I stumble into him, and he puts his arms round me and squeezes me so tightly it’s hard to breathe. ‘Yes,’ he says. His mouth is next to my ear, and it tickles. ‘Yes, I’d like you to.’

  I clench my jaw, because I’m not going to cry until he’s safely on the train to the airport.

  ‘I’m really glad I met you, Bibi.’ He pulls back, his hands on my shoulders, and smiles. ‘I can’t tell you how glad. If I hadn’t – I don’t know what I would’ve done.’

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Great. That’s excellent.’

  He watches me for a second, and then laughs. ‘Yeah, OK. I’m getting sentimental. Sorry. Forget it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, although I know I won’t forget it, ever.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he says. And we start to walk up through the trees towards the house and the bit of broken wall that I know better than my own front door by now.

  I thought it would be quiet – it feels quiet – but actually there’s birdsong and things rustling and there’s already the occasional swish of a car from the road. I hear a motorcycle drone past, cutting out at the loudest point, and an aeroplane goes overhead, leaving a double trail on the blue like a scar. Everything’s wet, shining with dew, and it smells of fresh air.

  Then Oliver stops dead, and points. ‘Bibi. Look.’

  For a moment I don’t know what I’m seeing. Tyme’s End, with reddish copper light blazing through the windows, the panes glaring the colour of fire. For an odd second my heart jumps into my throat. But the light’s too even, too still, to be a real fire: it’s only the dawn reflected in the glass. I
breathe out slowly, half wanting to laugh. It’s as beautiful as the sunrise, but in a different way. I can feel goose pimples prickling on my arms. Everything goes very still, as if we’ve walked into a photo.

  There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is, but –

  ‘I think it remembers,’ Oliver says. His voice is funny, quiet and focused, as if he’s talking to someone hidden, just within earshot. ‘I think – especially now, at dawn, in summer . . . I think Tyme’s End knows what happened there, all the things that happened, the things that people don’t know and can’t ever know. I think the past leaves traces that we can’t see. And sometimes . . . We think things have gone, when they haven’t.’

  I don’t want him to go on. I really don’t want him to go on. I close my eyes and dig my nails into my palms, because there’s something – I don’t want him to say any more. I wasn’t scared last night, but now – in this glorious, chirping, dazzling morning – I am.

  ‘I think . . . we look at the past. And sometimes it looks back at us.’

  I squeeze his hand, pressing it against my leg. ‘Oliver –’

  He looks down at me, his eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to remember who I am. Then he shakes his head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re freaking me out. I don’t know why. You looked – like someone else.’

  ‘Someone better-looking, I hope.’ He grins, but that other expression – the trace of unfamiliarity – is still just visible.

  I shrug and pull him forward. ‘Let’s go. Your train.’

  ‘Wait. I –’ He doesn’t move. He’s still got hold of my hand. ‘There’s something I . . . Will you give me a minute?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to go and – say goodbye. I know it sounds stupid. Just go and have a last cigarette and . . . look round.’

  ‘It’s not stupid.’

  He nods, the corners of his mouth turning up, but his eyes are distant, staring over my shoulder at the house. He says, ‘My grandfather died there. I was upstairs when he – I came downstairs, at dawn, and found him.’

  I haven’t got a clue what to say. I still feel a dragging, dull pain in my gut. It takes me a moment to realise it’s fear.

  He pulls his hand out of mine. ‘Stay here.’ He takes his rucksack off his shoulder and slings it into the grass at my feet. ‘I won’t be long. One cigarette.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Actually, why don’t you wait for me at the wall? Then I won’t have to retrace my steps. It’ll save time. If I want to catch this train –’ His tone is brisk and businesslike, as if this is just an ordinary day, as if we’ll see each other again tomorrow.

  I say, ‘Sure. Fine. I’ll wait for you at the wall.’

  ‘Great.’

  He strides off towards the house, breaking into an irregular run. The windows have started to fade now. But the unease stays with me, even though the flat fire on the glass has died.

  I remember suddenly that my special box is inside – but it’s safe there. I’ll get it later, when he’s gone. I watch him until he slides in through the back door. Then I pick up his rucksack and make my way diagonally through the trees, turning my back on Tyme’s End.

  .

  I wait for him at the wall. He doesn’t take that long – fifteen minutes, maybe – and then he’s walking towards me, hurrying, with his hands in his pockets and his head down, as if he’s making an effort not to look back. He smiles when he sees me, and reaches out to take his rucksack. I can smell the smoke on his clothes, but in the fresh air it’s not as bitter as normal; it’s more like woodsmoke or a bonfire. He pushes me forward, so I almost trip and have to brace myself against the wall. It’s cold and wet under my hands, like damp sand. ‘Come on. Let’s go. I’ll miss the train.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ I say. ‘If you make me break an ankle there’ll be all sorts of complications and it’ll take even longer.’ It’s meant to be a joke, but it just sounds petulant. I can’t help it; I don’t want him to go. I hope he does miss the train.

  We walk down the High Street. I want him to take my hand, but he doesn’t. There’s hardly any traffic, but I can smell petrol. It makes me feel queasy.

  He’s biting his lip, frowning. When he glances sideways he sees me looking at him and looks away.

  We don’t say anything until we get to the station. The ticket office is closed, but the gate on to the platform is open, and the boards are flashing up the train to London. He says, ‘That’s the one. I have to change at Tonbridge.’

  We’ve only got seven minutes. I feel my throat tightening and tightening. I want to turn round and walk away. I want to go with him.

  ‘Bibi,’ he says. He’s talking very softly, as if he doesn’t want to be overheard, but there’s no one else around. ‘Listen to me. I wanted to say . . . You belong here, OK? Even if you don’t always live here, in England, you’ve got as much right to be here as anyone else.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I meant it, about Tyme’s End. The land, the river – it’ll be yours. It’ll be really yours. As much yours as it was mine, or my grandfather’s, or H. J. Martin’s. Don’t keep telling yourself you belong somewhere else, because you don’t. Inheritances don’t always go through bloodlines.’

  I’m not completely sure what he means with that last sentence; but he’s talking so earnestly, carefully, looking straight into my eyes, that I think I understand what he’s trying to tell me.

  ‘And – the things you don’t know . . .’ He pauses, and, without quite knowing how, I realise he’s talking about my mum, my real mum. ‘Don’t let them haunt you. Don’t let anything haunt you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But – don’t forget, either. The past does matter. But not as much as the present.’

  ‘OK.’

  He stares at me. There’s a pause; then, suddenly, it’s like he can see my expression. He rubs his forehead with his hand, laughing. He’s got a smear of something dark on his hand, like mould. ‘All right. I just needed to give you the benefit of my superior wisdom.’

  ‘Was that all of it? Eleven years’ worth?’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’ He shakes his head. ‘I did mean it, though.’

  ‘Yeah, it was really . . . interesting.’

  We look at each other, and we both grin.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘OK, I will.’ But he doesn’t move. Then he grimaces and digs quickly in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Shit. Sorry, I –’

  He’s holding something out to me: familiar glossy rectangles, the top one shiny ochre and brown.

  My photos. I meet his gaze and I don’t know what my face is doing.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I took them out of the box to have a look, and – I must’ve forgotten to put them back. Do you mind?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m glad.’

  He smiles at me. I take the photos and hold them gently, making sure I don’t make fingerprints on them. He says, ‘Thanks. Sorry. Was that out of order?’

  ‘Oliver,’ I say. ‘I’m glad.’ And I don’t know why, but I am. It’s as if he’s given them to me, like a gift. I think of him flipping through them – no, staring, holding them up to his eyes as if he could get closer than the camera was, the way I do – and it makes me feel odd and surprised and free.

  ‘My train,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘Do you – wait –’ I feel panicky, like I’ve forgotten something. ‘Your email or something – mobile number –’

  ‘Give me yours,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you. But I had to borrow a cellphone from a friend – damn, that reminds me, I’ll have to post it back to him – so don’t save the number.’

  I give him my mobile number, and by the time he’s put it int
o his phone the recorded announcement is saying, ‘The train now approaching platform one . . .’ I can’t see the train yet, but the rails are hissing and singing.

  ‘Promise you’ll text me.’

  ‘I promise. From the train, I expect.’

  I laugh, but not for very long. The train’s going to come, any second now.

  He says, ‘Goodbye, beloved.’

  Then he kisses me.

  .

  And this time it’s a proper kiss.

  .

  The train comes. I feel it rumbling under my feet, and Oliver pushes me away. I hold on to him for as long as I can, and then I stand with my arms at my sides, my hands empty, watching him run through the gate on to the platform. He smacks the button next to the train door with the flat of his hand and steps through it as soon as it opens. Then he stands looking out, his hand raised in a kind of frozen wave. I can feel myself smiling and crying, both at once, because I don’t want him to leave but I’m ridiculously, impossibly happy. I wave back.

  Then, before the train goes, I turn around and walk away.

  My heart’s racing. I can still taste Oliver’s mouth – the bitterness of smoke, and the staleness of neither of us having slept properly, and champagne, river-water, strawberries.

  It’s already getting warm. The long sideways shadows are starting to recede. I turn my head towards the light. I want to spin and jump and shout, and there’s no one around, so I do.

  I’m in a kind of daze, light-headed and thirsty. I don’t know where I’m going, but I bounce and jump and tap-step-ball-change all the way down the High Street. Where I could turn right to go home I carry on walking, because once I have a shower and go to bed this feeling will go and never come back. I want to hang on to it for as long as I can. I try to remember what the kiss was like, but it’s already slipping away, and last night is a blur of champagne and silver water. All I know is that it happened.

  But right now that’s enough.

  I stop, squeeze my eyes shut, and try to see Oliver’s face. I can still smell him: the bonfire scent of smoke, the sourness of petrol fumes . . . I try to hear his voice, the way his American accent came and went. I play our conversation over in my head, the last few seconds before he kissed me. I gave him my mobile number, and then he said goodbye, and then . . .