Truestory

by Catherine Simpson

  Next morning I was down early. I’d barely slept all night. Duncan was still milking and Larry was nowhere to be seen. I felt shaky, embarrassed and self-conscious and nervous but excited too.

  I’d dug out a T-shirt from the back of the wardrobe. It was a bit on the small side but I thought I could get away with it. I breathed in and felt my breasts strain against my top. I still looked all right if I gave myself half a chance. I’d put a skirt on too – my legs were good, I knew that. I was only forty-two, even if some days I felt more like a hundred and forty-two.

  It was eight o’clock. Duncan would be in any time and Sam would be down at half past as usual. I caught sight of myself in Duncan’s shaving mirror propped up behind the kitchen sink. I’d put mascara on. I hadn’t bothered with mascara in a long time. I’d brushed my hair too – though you couldn’t tell. I looked glassy-eyed and wary – furtive even – or was that my imagination? I flicked the kettle on and gazed unseeing across the yard. Bess yelped and wagged her tail. Larry must be coming across from his caravan. My heart leapt and I felt myself holding my breath.

  There was a tap on the door. I didn’t answer. I glanced at myself in the mirror and pulled in my stomach just in time for the door to open.

  Larry stuck his head round and half-smiled. ‘Is it okay?’ he said, nodding towards the kitchen table.

  ‘Hi, course,’ I forced a smile and grabbed the coffee jar. ‘Coffee?’

  Larry glanced at the clock and walked towards me. ‘Alice, I’m sorry, I was . . .’

  I interrupted him: ‘Don’t be. Don’t be sorry.’

  Larry touched my arm ‘No.’

  We looked at each other for a second and then his hands were holding my waist and my arms were round his neck. Somehow we side-stepped the kitchen window, getting out of sight of the yard and I could feel him pressing me against the kitchen wall, his hands moving down my body, pulling me even closer.

  Bess yelped again and we broke apart, listening for the trudge of Duncan’s boots coming up the yard. We heard him call to the dog, telling her to be quiet and go to bed. I spun round, coffee jar still in hand and faced the boiling kettle, getting my breath back, trying to wipe the desire off my face.

  Duncan strode in and nudged his boots off.

  ‘Anyone fancy scrambled egg?’ He was grinning at me and Larry. ‘They’re laying well.’ He had six eggs from the hen cabin.

  ‘Aye, good idea,’ said Larry. He took the eggs from Duncan and crossed to the kitchen unit beside me. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘It’s a speciality of mine,’ and he smiled at me.

  I tried to smile back and say something normal but I couldn’t remember what normal was. I put coffee granules in three mugs and poured boiling water on top.

  This was excruciating. Larry was so close; I could feel his closeness when he passed me the milk carton and when he leant in front of me to get a glass bowl. I took ages to make the coffees. I didn’t want to turn round in case what I was thinking was written across my face. It had to be; it was too strong not to be.

  After stirring the coffee till I nearly wore out the spoon, I handed a mug to Duncan. ‘Ta, Love,’ he said sitting at the kitchen table with his feet on another chair. ‘So,’ he took a big swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘what’s happening today?’

  ‘Erm . . .’ I couldn’t think; in fact it took me a minute to work out it was Sunday – everything had been thrown in the air.

  ‘I’m digging in some compost in the tunnel,’ said Larry.

  Duncan seemed interested. ‘Need any help?’

  Larry was beating the eggs. ‘Aye, could do,’ he said, and Duncan nodded.

  ‘It’s not a bad day,’ Duncan said. ‘That storm changed everything. We needed it.’

  Larry carried on beating the eggs and I fiddled with some pots and pans.

  ‘Aye,’ said Larry after a few seconds, ‘I reckon we did.’

  Chapter 22

  After breakfast we went outside. Duncan and Larry disappeared into the polytunnel and Sam and I messed about in the garden. Sam scraped away with his butter knife. Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  I gazed past him into the summer house to where Larry and I had sheltered, hidden together last night.

  ‘You all right, Sam?’ I asked but I didn’t wait for an answer. I wandered off and picked up the sodden cushions. I carried them at arm’s length and pegged them on the line. I couldn’t settle to anything so I brewed some tea and took it outside with a plate of cake.

  Duncan and Larry came out of the polytunnel.

  ‘I’m glad of this,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s as hot as a whore’s arse in there with the sun on it.’

  I scowled. I didn’t think there was any need for that.

  Duncan laughed but Larry didn’t so Duncan stopped.

  ‘You want to help in the polytunnel?’ Larry asked, but Sam shook his head.

  ‘I am never going in the polytunnel. It is full of black soil and it smells funny. Also it is as hot as a whore’s arse in there with the sun on it.’

  I raised my eyebrows and Duncan avoided my eye and took a big bite of his cake.

  I chopped an onion. I wasn’t concentrating; I’d be lucky if I didn’t chop my finger-ends off. I brushed a strand of hair from my face and my eyes prickled and stung. I hated onions. I hated cooking full stop but I was making Spaghetti Bolognese because it was the one thing I was good at and Larry might like it.

  My eyes welled up with onion tears and I wiped them away then noticed the mascara streaks across the back of my hand. Damn, I’d forgotten about that. I glanced in Duncan’s shaving mirror. Bugger it; black eyes and a red nose. Bet he wouldn’t think I was beautiful now.

  I smiled and then couldn’t stop. It was mad. I was mad. But I didn’t need to feel bad because nothing had happened. Not really. Nothing had happened except a kiss, and what was a kiss?

  I watched Bess zig-zag on her chain, to and fro, to and fro, rounding up an invisible herd. My hands rested on the chopping board. I’d done nothing wrong because almost nothing had happened. Almost nothing. I drove the knife through the onion.

  And yet everything had happened.

  The way he’d pressed me against the kitchen wall and kissed me. The way he’d stroked my face and run his hands down my body and told me I was beautiful. The way he’d pulled my head back and kissed my throat and my neck and whispered my name.

  I thought I’d got too weary to feel excited and alive, but I hadn’t.

  I attacked the rest of the onion before swiping it off the board and into the frying pan where it hissed in the hot oil. I stopped myself wiping my hands down my T-shirt, as I would if I’d been wearing one of my old sack-jumpers. I stirred the onions and wondered what Larry and Sam were up to.

  I tipped the mince on top of the onions and bashed it around. I’d stick a bit of wine in as well; there was a half-drunk bottle of red somewhere.

  I closed my eyes and imagined uncorking the wine and pouring a glass and sipping it and offering it to Larry and tasting it on his lips.

  The mince was spitting and burning on the bottom of the pan. My eyes flew open and I grabbed the handle and knocked it off the heat. I’d lost interest in Spaghetti Bolognese. I wanted to go and find Larry and Sam.

  I jogged down the garden feeling shot-through with energy.

  Larry and Duncan had finished in the polytunnel and Duncan had gone to check on a calving cow. Larry and Sam were clearing round the summer house.

  ‘Why don’t we do some more exploring?’ I said. ‘We could look for that old well.’ Sam’s butter knife slowed in its scraping. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Larry. ‘We could do.’

  We both watched Sam who was focusing on the window pane and scraping with glacial slowness.

  ‘I’ve had a brainwave,’ Larry said and winked at me. ‘Why don’t you take your divining rods? They find water, don’t they?’

  ‘Wikipedia says a brainwave is a “rhythmic or repetitive neural activi
ty in the central nervous system”,’ said Sam. He stopped scraping. ‘I do not think you have had a brainwave. I think you have had a good idea.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Larry. ‘Go and get them.’

  Sam put down his scraper and slow-marched towards the house.

  Larry strode over and stroked my upper arm with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ve wanted to touch you all day.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  His hand slid down my arm and briefly our fingers linked.

  We followed Sam towards the house.

  ‘We’ll talk later,’ Larry said, and I nodded.

  Sam was in the kitchen with his photocopied map spread on the table and his water diviners beside it.

  Larry gave him the magnifying glass. ‘Okay, let’s check the exact location of this well.’ They bent over the map and Sam pointed. ‘Right. Do you want to get roped up again, Sam? Keep you safe?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘He doesn’t need that, do you, Sam? You’ve already cracked The World of the Jungle at the Bottom of the Orchard. Going behind the workshop’s nothing, is it? You’ve been in the workshop before – this isn’t much different.’

  I felt euphoric. With Larry’s help we’d achieved so much with Sam and today we were going to take another step towards leaving Backwoods for good.

  ‘Come on!’ I said, heading to the door. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Larry hesitated for a moment then followed.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’ll grab the spade on the way.’

  Sam clung to the kitchen table. He was counting to himself under his breath. I willed him to move.

  ‘Come on,’ I said again. I felt as though I had enough energy to get all three of us behind the workshop and digging for a well.

  I went back for Sam but I didn’t touch him, I kind of herded him, urging him ever closer to the door. He gripped his divining rods and inched away from the table.

  It was a stop-start journey and Sam’s face never lost the look of stark terror but eventually we turned the corner behind the workshop. It had taken so much energy to get him there, I was beginning to feel drained. We scanned the area for signs of a well.

  Larry prodded about with his spade and examined the ground.

  ‘It should be round here, son.’

  Sam hovered by the corner of the workshop, clinging onto his divining rods and counting to himself under his breath.

  ‘Aye, this’ll be it,’ said Larry and he pointed with his spade to where the ground had sunk.

  ‘I think we’ve found it already,’ I said to Sam, and grinned at him.

  ‘There is no slate roof or brick surround or bucket on a rope with a handle.’

  I laughed but Sam did not crack a smile. ‘Or a cat,’ he whispered. His divining rods were out in front of him, clacking around, and he was gripping them so hard his knuckles were white.

  Larry hacked at the ground to break the grass. Then he slammed the spade in and started digging. It was impressive. I wondered if he was putting on a show for me and I hoped he was. If he was it was working.

  Within a few minutes he’d cleared the grass and his spade hit something hard.

  ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  After another few minutes we could see it was something wooden. Slowly he cleared more and more soil.

  Larry said: ‘It’s the well cover. Looks like it’s slipped.’

  ‘It has slipped to an angle of 45 degrees,’ whispered Sam.

  Larry carried on scraping and digging, with sweat beading on his face, until we could see the whole of it, black and rotten.

  ‘It’s had it; I reckon I can put my spade right through it,’ he said, and he whacked it. The wood cracked and splintered and he hauled it out bit by bit.

  Sam’s eyes were screwed shut.

  ‘You okay, Sam?’ I said, grabbing his shoulder. He shrank away.

  ‘Larry must have dug through the top soil and some sub soil,’ he whispered. ‘The well may go right through the bedrock and on to the centre of the earth.’

  ‘I don’t think – ’

  ‘The internet says you need a diamond pickaxe to dig that far.’ He was starting to bend at the waist. ‘But that might not be a true story.’

  He fell to his knees, dropped his divining rods and clapped his hands to his ears.

  He wailed: ‘Larry has opened a bottomless pit to the centre of the earth.’

  ‘No, Sam.’ I was appalled. I could see where this was going. ‘Larry will stop now, he’ll stop.’

  ‘I should be roped up,’ said Sam, bent double. ‘There is a yawning chasm. A sudden precipice.’ He collapsed onto the grass and curled up, wrapping his arms round his head.

  ‘Sam’, I said, kneeling beside him. ‘It’s okay, it’s just the well. Larry won’t dig anymore.’

  But it was too late. Sam let out a scream; a terrible high-pitched shriek that brought me out in a sweat.

  ‘Sam,’ I begged, ‘Sam, it’s okay. You’re all right. Forget the well. We’ll leave it. Sam!’ I took him by the shoulders, trying to get him to stand. Larry nudged me aside and attempted to pick up Sam. His screams went up an octave.

  ‘Don’t drop me down the well! Don’t!’

  ‘Leave him, Larry.’ I grabbed Larry’s wrists. ‘Don’t lift him, you’re making it worse.’

  ‘Take some deep breaths, son,’ he said, ‘You’re safe. Take some breaths.’

  But Sam’s screams got more hysterical. I held my hands over my ears. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ I sobbed, ‘I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m sorry.’

  Larry was saying: ‘Breathe, son, breathe.’

  I knelt beside him. He hadn’t been this bad for ages and it felt worse because he’d been so great since Larry arrived. And this was all my fault for trying to make him run before he could walk. He’d wanted to get roped up and I hadn’t listened to him. I’d been stupid.

  His screams were ripping right through me. I’d have given anything to make him stop. Then the screams turned to sobs and I wiped my eyes to look closer only to see he was biting his arm so hard he was shaking.

  ‘No! Stop it, Sam!’ I grabbed his arm to force it from his mouth. ‘Stop biting. Stop it!’ I yanked his arm from between his teeth and he screamed again so loud it shook my brain.

  ‘I’ll get him inside,’ Larry said.

  ‘No,’ I grabbed Larry. ‘Don’t pick him up. Leave him.’ There was blood trickling down Sam’s arm.

  Larry took no notice and put his arms under Sam’s armpits. Sam’s shrieks went up a pitch and his arm swung round. He must have grabbed his water diviner because the wire whipped round and caught my face with a great sting. I screamed and felt the warm wet blood on my cheek.

  ‘No,’ Larry shouted, but the wire thrashed again and hit Larry as he held Sam.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, letting Sam crash to the ground.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  Duncan was striding round the workshop corner. ‘What in holy fuck is going on?’

  He took in the scene with a look of fury.

  He marched up to Sam who was lying on his side, purple in the face, covered in snot and tears with bloody streaks down his arm and he picked him up, pinioning Sam’s arms by his sides and crushing him to his chest, much as he would have picked up a calf, and strode off with him.

  I ran behind. ‘We were doing some exploring. He got frightened.’

  Duncan did not answer. He took Sam inside and straight upstairs and laid him on the bed and covered him with his quilt.

  ‘Are you all right, Sam?’ I wiped my eyes.

  ‘Well he doesn’t look all right, does he?’

  I stroked Sam’s head and he shot further down the bed until he was completely covered.

  ‘Leave him,’ Duncan said and he turned and went downstairs.

  I knew it was pointless trying to talk to Sam or to touch him so I pulled the door to and followed Duncan downstairs.

  He’d pour
ed himself some water and was taking a long swallow.

  ‘Leave the lad in peace,’ he said and marched out past Larry who was having a fag by the open door.

  Larry stubbed his fag and came in.

  ‘Is he all right and are you all right?’

  We were both far from all right, but I nodded.

  ‘Is Sam like that a lot?’ he said.

  ‘Not as often as he was.’

  I walked over to the abandoned cooking and examined the burnt mince. ‘Thanks for your help,’ I said. ‘Sorry if he got you with that wire.’

  Larry shrugged. ‘The lad was scared. We’re all scared of something. Anyway, he didn’t get me as bad as he got you.’ Larry examined my face. ‘Got any TCP?’

  I pointed to the dusty first aid kit stuck on the wall and he took some cotton wool and antiseptic out and dabbed my cheek.

  ‘Thanks, anyway,’ I said. ‘You were trying to help.’

  ‘I’m sorry it worked out like that. I’m fond of the lad.’

  ‘It was my fault. I wasn’t thinking straight. It was a stupid idea. I got carried away.’

  ‘I took a photo on my phone down the hole to show the lad it’s only a foot or two deep and full of rocks and soil. He’ll see there’s nothing to be frightened of.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. I fought my bottom lip to stop it wobbling. ‘It’s not usually that simple though. What he’s frightened of – I don’t know – it doesn’t make sense half the time. That’s why it’s so hard to help him.’

  I picked up the pan, scraped some mince off the bottom and flicked one or two burnt bits into the sink.

  There was silence during which I could still hear Sam’s shrieks echoing round my head.

  ‘I thought I’d make some Bolognese sauce . . .’

  Larry was standing close behind me. He slipped his arms round my waist and kissed the back of my neck.