Truestory
Page 12
I laughed. ‘Get on with it,’ I said.
Jeannie sat with her cloak spread out around her as she munched on her hot dog. ‘This is a beautiful sausage,’ she announced, holding it up and examining it like a jewel to the light. She smiled at Sam. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job.’
‘Larry cooked the sausages,’ said Sam.
Everyone watched Larry rake the red embers.
‘Well, you can do the marshmallows,’ he said. ‘Put one on here, hold it six inches away and keep it turning.
He handed Sam the toasting fork.
‘Have you got children?’ Jeannie asked.
‘No, ‘fraid not,’ said Larry, topping up Jeannie’s glass. ‘I don’t live the life for children, sorry to say.’ Larry ruffled Sam’s hair. ‘I’ve got my pal here though. He’s keeping me busy.’
I sipped Jeannie’s wine, thick and sweet and viscous. It was already going to my head; God knew what kind of a potion it was.
I watched Larry and Sam over the brim of my glass. Sam was concentrating on his marshmallow, twirling it as it melted and bubbled brown. When Larry had ruffled his hair he hadn’t dodged or winced or smoothed it down. I took another sip and enjoyed the heat as it trickled down my throat. It warmed me, travelling through my body, making me happy and relaxed – the same sensation I had when I watched Sam and Larry together.
I’d been jealous of Larry when he first arrived and frustrated that he found it easy to say and do the right thing with Sam when I found it so difficult. But however he’d done it – whether it was his maps, his stories, his good humour, his easy-going attitude, or whether it was just because he knew he could walk away at any time – I could not deny he had transformed Sam’s life.
‘Larry hasn’t got kids but he’s turned his hand to everything else,’ Duncan said. ‘He’s a bit of a gardener.’ Duncan swigged his ale – he’d refused to drink wine, especially Jeannie’s. ‘When’s our new crop ready to plant out?’ he asked.
‘Pretty soon,’ said Larry.
Why did Duncan have to bring that up in front of Jeannie? Maybe he was proud of his daft new venture and wanted to show off.
I shifted on my seat. It was hard and uncomfortable. The wind was getting up and starting to blow the ash about and the clouds were scudding low in the sky.
‘We’ll have to put this fire out if the wind gets any worse,’ said Larry. ‘We dinnae want to be mending that tunnel again.’
‘More wine?’ I said, waving the bottle about and then pouring the dregs into my own glass.
‘I’m going to try one of Sam’s delicious-looking marshmallows and then I’ll have to go,’ said Jeannie. She bent forward and pulled the marshmallow from the fork. ‘Elvis has a skin infection and gnawed his foot this morning until it was red raw and bleeding.’ She put her head back and licked the hot sugary string. ‘I’ve fixed a cone round his neck,’ she went on, ‘but he keeps getting stuck behind the sofa.’
I bit my lip to hide a smile. ‘Oh,’ I said, glad I’d finished my sausage. Larry caught my eye, obviously thinking the same thing. A rush of happiness swept over me, fizzing through my body, and it was hard not to laugh out loud.
After Jeannie struggled out of the wicker chair and left in a billow of purple, the sky turned grey and mauve, and dusk arrived within minutes. Duncan stood up and stretched. ‘Looks like the party’s going to be rained off. I’ll go and unpack some ale I got this afternoon.’ He looked at Larry: ‘Come and try it.’
‘Aye,’ said Larry.
Sam, Larry and I were dashing about, piling up plates and left-over food, when there was a great clap of thunder and a fat drop of rain hit my cheek. Sam flung down a bag of bread rolls and grabbed his ears. The sky darkened; it was going to heave it down. Before I had a chance to tell Sam to get back to the house, it started – rain coming down in buckets and hard. I screamed and laughed at the same time; it was that kind of rain.
‘Come inside,’ I yelled, and I dashed for the summer house, trying to cover my head with a plate.
When I turned round, Sam had gone.
Larry was in the summer house next to me. Rain was dribbling through the roof by the door and I shrieked again as a drop slid down my neck. Larry pulled me towards the back of the summer house – it was drier there where the roof was holding. We both laughed and wiped our faces and stared out at the fire spitting and smoking, surrounded by sodden party stuff, Jeannie’s chair now soaked and sorry-looking.
I laughed again to see the rain bouncing off the garden. ‘That’s crazy,’ I shouted over the roar of the storm as it buffeted the summer house and Larry laughed too.
Suddenly I gave a great shiver as the rain chilled my skin. I put the plate on the floor and hugged myself and rubbed my arms to warm up.
Larry opened his jacket.
‘I’m warm,’ he said.
I hesitated, just for a moment, and then moved towards him. He circled me with his jacket and held me tight. He was warm and his face was rough against mine.
He wiped a drop of rain off my forehead and twisted his fingers in my hair. His mouth tasted of wine and cigarettes. It was a long time since I’d kissed someone who tasted of wine and cigarettes. A drop of rain slid down either my cheek or his; I didn’t know which.
Chapter 20
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Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Truestory
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.15
Lightning is caused by negative and positive electrons and thunder is caused by sound waves but is there any other reason?
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Fizzy Masara
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.18
No. But just you wait . . .
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
JC
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.25
Truestory, read the Bible for many examples of God using the weather to show his will. You will find mention of HAIL, FIRE, THUNDER, DROUGHT, RAIN, FLOOD, WHIRLWIND. These are all examples of God, the Supreme Being, showing us his displeasure.
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Fizzy Mascara
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.31
Like I said. No.
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
ChocolateMoustache
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.35
A thunderbolt is the result of natural laws. It is nothing to do with good or evil. Don’t worry, Truestory!
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
JC
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.37
You must realise that man is not in control of his own life. We exist because God has decided that we will. He sees all. He knows all. He is all.
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
DiamondSky
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.45
Why? Wot u been doing, Truestory? LOL
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Root Toot
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.52
Well I’m in control of my life so speak for yourself JC.
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
AuntieMaud
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.53
Nice to hear from you Truestory. My mother always said God was all very well in his place – and that place was the back pew at Matins on a Sunday. Hope you are well and that the treasure map is revealing all its riches. x
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Truestory
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 20.56
I put the antique map under a magnifying glass and it revealed t
wo things: a summer house and a well. Both have been secret for years. I am worried that meddling with secrets makes frightening things happen. This is not scientific but I have had a bad shock. The noise of a thunderbolt is the loudest noise I have ever heard. It is louder than the rotovator (which I have heard from a distance); it is louder than the Hoover (even when it is right outside my bedroom door), I estimate that it is even louder than a million Finnish scouts all shouting at once (and they have the current world record).
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
AuntieMaud
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 21.00
Truestory, I’m sorry to hear of your terrible shock but don’t worry about disturbing secrets. My mother always said: ‘What’s for you won’t go by you.’ You found the map – God must want you to have it! Wishing you many more adventures. xx
Re: Is a thunderbolt Divine intervention?
Truestory
Date: 14 June 2014
Time: 21.04
I know many facts about lightning and thunder from the internet but when I heard the thunderbolt near the summer house I wondered if God was showing he was angry. I have never had that thought before but when you hear a noise as loud as a million Finnish scouts all shouting at once it can change what you believe.
Chapter 21
We stayed in the summer house as the storm turned from a torrential downpour to heavy rain to occasional fat drops seeping through the roof and plopping off the ivy leaves that crept round the door.
‘You’re beautiful, Alice,’ Larry said. He smoothed my frizzy hair and stroked my cheek and kissed my eyelids and said again, ‘You are so beautiful.’
He tasted of Jeannie’s wine and cigarettes and I couldn’t remember anything ever tasting as good. I dreaded him only kissing me once; I dreaded the moment fading away in embarrassment and disappearing forever. I knew with certainty I didn’t want that to happen.
I slipped my arms around him, burying my hands inside the back of his jacket, feeling his shoulder blades and the muscles of his back and then I leant up and pulled him towards me and I kissed him again.
In that moment I was totally alive, lost in the taste of him, the smell of him, the feel of his lips on mine. My stomach knotted and tightened and I opened my eyes a fraction. His eyes were shut as he kissed me, he was concentrating only on me.
The intensity of the rain and the rumble of the thunder created a haven in the summer house, a place apart, somewhere without Sam or Duncan or Backwoods or anything. Only me and Larry, right here, right now. He stroked my face and kissed my neck, brushing his lips against my throat. I closed my eyes and let out a small groan that was lost in the rain battering on the summer house roof and lashing against the windows.
As the minutes passed the rain lessened, the roar of the storm abated and we broke apart. He looked into my eyes and scanned my face and he said again, ‘Beautiful.’
My fingers lingered on his shoulders, moved down to the small of his back then, letting my arms fall, I gazed up the orchard at the house which I could see through the clear patches Sam had scraped on the windows. There was no sign of anyone.
One of the wonky garden chairs was collapsed on its back, the cushions were sodden, the abandoned plates brimming with rain water. Through the dusk the farmhouse windows stared back at me blank and black and inscrutable.
‘I’d better go,’ I said. He took my hand and kissed it; he held it in both his own then let it go. I hesitated. I didn’t want to break this spell. I kissed him again urgently, savouring every second before breaking away.
Putting my head down, I dashed through the summer house door, the ivy grabbed at me and cold drops of rain found the bare skin on my hands and face. I ignored them – hardly felt them – and ran up the orchard, past the squandered party stuff towards the house.
On the step I looked back. Larry was beside the summer house, watching me. He raised his hand and I waved back.
I picked my way over the trays of seedlings. With my hand on the kitchen door I stopped and took a deep breath. Where was Sam? What had happened to Sam when the thunder started? I felt sick. I took another breath and slowly released it. I smoothed my hair, straightened my shoulders and walked into the kitchen.
‘You get trapped out there?’ Duncan was lounging in front of the fire, legs up on the range, swigging from a bottle of ale. ‘What’s happened to Larry?’
‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked.
‘Bolted upstairs like a bat out of hell. Where’s Larry? He needs to try some of this ale.’
I kicked off my shoes.
‘Drying off, probably, in the caravan.’ I avoided Duncan’s eye. ‘I’m soaked,’ I said and I headed upstairs.
I sat on the bed with the door shut and stared into space. How had that happened? Where had it come from? I re-ran the memories. We were probably only in the summer house for fifteen minutes but it was fifteen minutes going round on a loop in my head.
I could still taste him, feel his fingers tangled in my hair, touching my face, his body pressed against mine. I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. What the hell was I doing?
And Sam? His door was shut. I needed to see if he was all right. It was like my life had jumped tracks, raced away, heading to the unknown, out of control. But I couldn’t shed my responsibilities as easily as that. For a few minutes I may have felt like a different person living a different life – but I wasn’t, I was Sam’s mum and he needed me and that was that.
I tapped on his door. There was no reply but I pushed it open. Sam was curled on the bed, the quilt wrapped round his head.
I felt an almost overwhelming urge to hug him.
‘Sam,’ I whispered, ‘you okay?’
He unwrapped half his head. I could only see one eye but I knew he didn’t want me to touch him.
Occasionally, when he looked like that, I couldn’t resist and touched him anyway and he’d shrink away and make me want to cry. Sam didn’t like it when I cried, especially if I made a noise – although usually my crying was quiet. Sometimes I could cry making no noise at all, an art I’d perfected since giving birth to Sam.
At times, instead of putting an arm round him, I put a hand on his shoulder or patted his back. Sam didn’t react as badly then because these gestures were quicker and not near his face; he could hold his breath and know it would all be over in a few seconds. Afterwards he’d pluck at his sweatshirt or rub his shoulder to smooth away the echo left by my touch.
Very occasionally I’d kiss him, although I hadn’t tried to do that for a long time. I used to touch the top of his head with my lips or brush his cheek with my cheek, but he’d wipe away the feeling straight away. He’d see me watching so I’d try not to look hurt and I’d remind myself: he can’t help it. It’s not his fault; it’s just the way he is.
With his one uncovered eye he watched me watching him. Was I going to touch him, to hug him, possibly to kiss him? He pulled his legs closer and curled himself even smaller.
‘Sorry about your party getting rained off,’ I said. ‘Hope you weren’t too scared of that thunder.’ I perched on the bed in silence.
Slowly he emerged from the quilt and, keeping himself curled tight, he sat up, dropped his chin onto his knees and shrugged his shoulders.
He said: ‘I wanted to deaden the thunderbolt in my head but it did not work.’
I forced a smile and, to change the subject, I said, ‘I think Jeannie enjoyed her sausages,’
He gazed at his quilt, probably wishing it was still wrapped round his head. ‘I know. She said so.’
‘Don’t worry about that thunder, Sam. It’s over now.’
He looked the picture of misery
‘You’ll be all right. You’ve had a shock, that’s all.’
There was a pause, then he said: ‘Now you know I’m okay, why are you still sitting on my bed making it go down at the edge and knocking me off balance?’ He hugged his knees even tighter.
Despite knowing be
tter, I put a hand on his shoulder.
‘If you’re sure you’re okay, Sam?’
He started holding his breath so I took my hand away and stood up. He rubbed his shoulder.
I stood for a long moment watching the top of his scruffy head and then I let out a huge sigh. I couldn’t help it; the sigh was so enormous I felt myself deflate.
‘Okay Sam. I’ll leave you in peace. Night, night.’
He didn’t look up. I don’t suppose he wanted to give me any encouragement to stay or, God forbid, to sit down again. His forehead dropped onto his knees, so I turned and left the room.
I stood on the landing not sure what to do; hide in my room or brave going downstairs? I didn’t fancy making conversation with both Duncan and Larry at once, but I couldn’t face skulking in my room. I headed downstairs.
Duncan was by the fire on his own. He stood up as I walked into the kitchen.
‘I’m going to see if Larry wants any.’ He held up his beer bottle. ‘It’s good stuff.’ He shoved his boots on and disappeared outside. I sat by the range, feeling chilled, holding my hands inches from the fire, staring at the flames until my eyes stung and watered. I was shivery; the cold had got into my bones and the fire could not warm me up.
‘He says he’s beat.’ Duncan was back, knocking his boots off. He had a look on his face like a kid not invited to the party. ‘He says he’s going to get his head down.’
I felt a kick of disappointment, followed by a wave of relief. It was probably for the best Larry staying outside, I couldn’t have acted normal anyway.
‘I’m getting an early night myself,’ I said. ‘I’ve caught my death out there.’
I went upstairs leaving Duncan with his feet on the range and a canned-laughter sitcom on the telly.
On my way up I stared out of the landing window at Larry’s caravan. The lights were on but the curtains were drawn. I could see the faint shadow of him sitting at the table. What was he doing? Was he reading? Was he smoking? Was he thinking about me? I watched for ages, the low glow of the caravan light shining across the orchard, so close I could shout his name and be heard and yet so far away.