by Freya North
‘I don’t want to go home,’ Frankie said, leaning back on his chest not knowing whether to close her eyes and just feel or keep them wide open and absorb all the details to bank for later. They stayed like that, in the moment that turned into a while. ‘It’s heaven on earth and I want to live here.’
Scott smiled to himself. He could recall in finest detail the patterns in the bark and the twist and reach of the limb-like branches of Corsican pine at Holkham. He could conjure that marshland road to the shingle beach at Salthouse, the mercurial hue of the sea there. He carried in his nose the mouth-watering tang of vinegary paper holding hot chips, the taste of crab dressed that day, of synthetic ice cream in a whorl stabbed through with a stick of flaked chocolate. He could still see in crisp detail the village of Glandford, considerably prettier than Pemby. At night, he’d recall the softness of her bed compared to his. The aroma of her tea which was nothing like his. The scent of her linen, her hair. The sound of the water in the pipes in her house as it argued its way to the taps. All of it contributing essential details to the portrait of Frankie he kept in his heart.
‘Owl Mountain, Mount Meager, Mount Currie, the Camel’s Back, Seven O’Clock Mountain. The Lillooet, the Ryan, the Birkenhead rivers – Twenty Mile Jim Creek, Gingerbread Creek, Miller Creek. One Duck Lake, Tenquille, Joffre.’ Her list sounded like a poem. Scott closed his eyes and drank in the sound of Frankie giving voice to his world. She interrupted his thoughts, turned to him, put her lips to his. ‘But what I’ve loved most of all is just – this,’ she said. ‘Just hanging out with my –’ She stopped. ‘I don’t know how to refer to you.’ She giggled and her eyes danced above the smudges of mascara mingling with perspiration. ‘Us being together, chatting and cooking, lolling about and popping into town. Cleaning our teeth side by side, feeding the dog and saying oh, hi Valerie, hi Richard – yes we have time for coffee.’
Frankie turned and faced the lake again.
‘Against the most beautiful backdrop the world has to offer, the glorious prose of a normal day-to-day can be played out.’
‘I had no idea,’ Scott said, drawing her back against his chest and within his arms.
‘And nor did I,’ said Frankie.
Annabel’s eyes were itchy and hot, tiredness and frustration mixed with a little fear. But she wasn’t going to say so and she certainly wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to fall asleep – not here on the sofa, not upstairs in her bed. She would force herself to stay awake until everything was fine. She glanced at her brother. Sam was double-screening; the volume low on the TV, the tinny sounds of Clash of Clans emanating from his mobile phone, his eyes flicking from one screen to the other.
‘Who’s he? Does Graham Norton actually know him?’ she asked her brother. ‘He’s quite rude to him.’
‘He’s an American actor – you wouldn’t have heard of him. He’s only in 15s and 18s,’ said Sam.
‘Is Graham Norton American?’
‘He’s Irish, stupid.’
‘I’m not stupid – he sounds a bit American and anyway, lots of Irish emigrated there, especially to New York and Chicago.’
Sam gave her a look that said he thought anything she had to say was insignificant.
‘We were taught it in school,’ she said grumpily. ‘What’s the time anyway?’
Sam sighed. ‘Five bloody minutes after you last asked me.’
‘I’m going to tell Mum you swore.’
‘She’s not here.’
Annabel paused. ‘I’m going to tell Dad, then.’
‘He’s not bloody fucking shitting here either.’
‘Where do you think he is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is his phone still off? Just try him one more time?’
‘It’s off. And he doesn’t have voicemail.’
‘What do you think we should do, Sam?’
‘We’ll give it until the end of The Graham Norton Show – then we’ll decide.’
‘Ok. But I don’t like it. I’m not happy and I want Mummy.’
It seemed to Sam that they had too many choices once Graham Norton had gone. He went through them methodically with Annabel. They could try Miles’s phone again. Which they did and still it was off. They could phone the police – but they couldn’t recall actually seeing a police station since they’d lived in Norfolk so maybe there weren’t any out here and if they had to send for a force from another county, it would take too long. And what could the police do anyway? They didn’t want their dad to go to prison. They didn’t want to be taken into care because they’d been left Home Alone. So – they could phone their mother, but she was over the sea and far away, and she’d go ballistic. And they didn’t want their dad to get into trouble – they’d only just got him back. Or they could phone no one, just try and go to sleep – with Sam on the roll-out mattress in Annabel’s room with his cricket bat to hand and a chair jammed against the front door. But the children knew sleep would not be possible. Should they go to the Mawbys’? But old people went to sleep early, didn’t they – and they didn’t know them well enough to ask for help. They wouldn’t want to stay the night in their house, it looked too grey and cold. Sam could email Scott – but what if he didn’t check his inbox until his evening, which would already be their tomorrow by which time no doubt their dad would be back and the can of worms would have been opened for nothing.
‘I am thirteen,’ Sam said, a little hesitant.
‘I know,’ said Annabel.
‘So I have to take responsibility,’ he said. He reached for his phone and scrolled to his mother’s messages. She’d sent numerous texts each day of her trip, with updates about the weather and a zillion samey photos of this mountain or that stream. She was usually rubbish at selfies but the goofy one of her and Scott was classic. Sam couldn’t bear to look at it just then. He scrolled back and back through the last six days to the last text his Mum had sent on British soil. He clicked on the number contained within it and cleared his voice.
Ruth and Peter were happily loafing on the sofa, in their traditional Friday-night post-curry inertia, the debris of which was still on the coffee table in front of them, like the spoils of war.
‘Who on earth is phoning at this hour?’ She didn’t recognize the number and let it go through to voicemail. She scooped up a little paneer shashlick with the nan bread and it was halfway to her mouth when she listened to the message.
‘Oh shit,’ she said. ‘Shit.’
Peter collected Annabel and Sam while Ruth closed the curtains in the spare room, folded back the linen and made it all look welcoming. The children tucked down gratefully, sleepy almost immediately; their relief palpable at being safe in bed in a house with their mum’s friends. Ruth sat next to Annabel who had cocooned herself tightly.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said and both children thought to themselves that Ruth was someone they could trust. Her voice was soothing but authoritative; it was like their mum’s. ‘You did the right thing and I’m really proud of you. Jack and Penny will think it’s Christmas morning when they wake up and find you here.’
All night Ruth’s sleep was perforated with colliding thoughts on what to do about all of this. In the early hours, she slipped out of bed to lie semi-supine on the floor, her head resting on a pile of magazines. Even after two decades spent practising and preaching the Alexander Technique, she still marvelled at how soothing, proactive and empowering it was to lie like this. To be in the now and to have no physical tension opened mental pathways, while breathing deep and wide facilitated the unravelling of the tangle of thoughts. In some ways, she felt at her most upright when lying down.
‘What are you doing?’ Annabel, wakeful, had come across Ruth.
‘Having a think,’ said Ruth. ‘Why don’t you lie beside me and have a think too?’ She made a lower pile of magazines for Annabel’s head and gently positioned the child’s body.
‘Let’s think,’ said Annabel, letting out a long, contemplative hum.
/> ‘OK,’ said Ruth lightly. ‘I’m thinking that your mum flies back today so there’s no point worrying her with what’s happened because it’s not like she can get back here any quicker.’
‘Good point,’ said Annabel.
‘Thank you,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m thinking that we’ll go back to your house after breakfast and leave a note for your dad to call us when he returns.’
‘You do think he is going to come back though, don’t you?’ Annabel asked, audibly attempting to hide the concern in her voice.
Ruth’s heart creaked. ‘I’m sure there’s an explanation.’
‘Do you think he’s gone back to the equator?’
‘Not in your mum’s car, no,’ said Ruth.
* * *
‘Don’t go,’ said Scott to Frankie.
‘Come with me,’ said Frankie to Scott.
They stood on the doorstep, her suitcase and bags already in the truck. Buddy in the back seat looking up reproachfully at the figures on the porch.
Frankie and Scott gazed out at the view: Mount Currie, tinged with salmon pink and eel grey, the trees emanating a purple-green light, clouds flicking at the sky here and there.
‘Ready?’ asked Scott.
‘No,’ said Frankie.
* * *
They drove via the airfield. Buddy tumbled out of the truck and loped over to Aaron, hopeful of a flight.
‘Now you sure you don’t want me to fly you to Vangroovy?’ Aaron asked Frankie.
‘No offence – but yes, I’m sure,’ said Frankie.
‘All right, all right!’ Aaron shrugged. ‘Crazy Englishwoman,’ he said under his breath while he held out his hand, which she took. He placed his other hand over hers, shaking it warmly. ‘You be sure to come back soon eh?’ he said. ‘You bring your kids next time, liisáos.’
It meant angel. She didn’t want him to let go of her hand.
‘You sure you wouldn’t rather go in my girl here?’ Aaron said, nodding over to his little plane. ‘You sure you want to make your man drive near enough eight hours round trip? He’s not getting any younger, you know.’
Frankie laughed. ‘I’m sure.’ My man. That’s who Scott is. That’s how I’ll refer to him. Dropping to her knees, Frankie hugged Buddy who pushed his wide skull up under her chin. ‘Look after Scott,’ she whispered.
‘I’ll pick him up later,’ Scott told Aaron. ‘Thanks for having him.’
‘Hey Buddy,’ Aaron said, walking away from Scott and Frankie. ‘We got the plane to ourselves, we got the whole sky to ourselves. What do you say to that?’
The dog trotted off with Aaron towards the Cessna without so much as a backward glance.
In Whistler, Jenna was busy in her shift but snuck out to say goodbye to Frankie.
‘It’s been so nice getting to know you,’ she said.
‘Oh goodness,’ said Frankie, ‘it’s been a pleasure.’
‘Come back soon – or have my dad come visit you.’
‘Actually,’ Frankie said, having given it no prior thought though it struck her just then as one of the best ideas she’d had in a long time, ‘you must come over to the UK too.’ She looked from Jenna to Scott, their little tight family of two. ‘Will you come to me for Christmas?’
Back at Vancouver airport.
Was it only a week ago? Was she not somehow justified in feeling just a little bit Canadian now that she’d forever take her coffee double-double, that these days she was awake when England slept, that she felt more spiritually connected with the land here than at home, and that she’d entrusted a Canadian man with her heart. Frankie and Scott loitered in Departures, looking at the boards and all those planes separating and uniting countries and people. The flight was on time and her suitcase had trundled off. Without warning, the thought of England just over ten hours away brought a pang of longing for her children so acute that it could have doubled her up, had Scott’s arms not been around her already. Guilt too – how could it be that she had not missed them more, that she’d relished this time on her own, without them? An image of her kitchen bolted across her mind, followed by a vivid recall of the patch of sunlight that pooled in the hallway which Annabel had termed supernatural. Her heart felt cleaved into two and it hurt.
‘This is rubbish,’ she said.
‘It is a bit,’ said Scott.
‘In my forties and finally I find a love that makes total sense, that brings me so much complete happiness, that enhances my life but—’
‘It sucks,’ said Scott, ‘but you know, we have what we have and for that I am grateful.’
‘But shouldn’t we be actively pursuing more? It’s not greed – it’s good.’
‘Love has come into our separate lives,’ Scott said.
She thought about that. Separate lives. It didn’t have to be that way, surely? ‘I have to go.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ll see you soon?’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, baby.’
Up the garden path to her home. Everything prettier than she remembered or perhaps just grown more so since she’d left. The patio plants and climbing roses blousy and fragrant, a tangle of sweetness echoed blissfully by the greeting her children gave her. Annabel’s limbs vined around Frankie’s while Sam – was he an inch taller? – hugged her and hummed. She didn’t notice that Miles wasn’t there but she was too euphoric and exhausted to wonder why Ruth was in the kitchen clearing away dinner.
‘Did you see a bear?’ Annabel asked.
‘No,’ Frankie rued.
‘Do they all say “oat and aboat” over there?’ Sam asked.
‘No,’ Frankie laughed. She gazed at her children. ‘Scott says hi.’ They were like puppies on best behaviour sensing their treat was imminent. ‘He’s sent you a couple of little gifts. And I may have picked up one or two things for you.’
Soon the sofa was piled with Frankie and her children, Canucks toques and home jerseys, hoodies from Roots, T-shirts emblazoned with traditional First Nations symbols, candies and cookies made with maple syrup.
‘Ice hockey is so cool,’ Sam said, pulling on the jersey. ‘I wonder if there’s a rink near here?’
Annabel’s mouth was too full for her to comment.
‘You look like you need a cup of tea,’ said Ruth, bringing one through, thinking to herself even if you don’t feel like it now, you’ll certainly need it shortly.
Frankie looked around her living room; the clutter of family life strewn here and there because not enough hours in the day allowed for the Dumping Basket to be sifted through, or the DVDs to be put back properly, or old magazines to make it to the recycling pile, or the T-shirt slumped over the back of the sofa to be taken promptly to the washing basket. The bump and scuffle of children, dinting the paintwork and leaving their marks on the walls, a faint footprint on the floor, a ghostlike slump in the cushions. She loved it. Sipping tea, her thoughts drifted to Scott’s living room, the walls constructed from long cedar logs, the lofty ceiling, the faded rugs and leather suite, guitars on the walls, the peaceful quiet of everything in its place, the vast picture windows affording those views out to the mountains, the wilderness.
‘Yin and yang,’ said Frankie.
Ruth and the children looked at her, startled.
‘Sorry – just miles away.’ And then she stopped. Miles away. Where was Miles? For a split second, she thought perhaps he was here and she simply hadn’t clocked him, so low down was he on her radar of all that mattered most. And then Frankie thought, why is Ruth here? And then she thought, why is Miles not here? Ruth was regarding her levelly, telepathically saying from one mother to another, not in front of the kids, Frankie. Suddenly, the milk in Frankie’s tea soured.
‘Kids – can you clear this stuff up? Put it away in your rooms? That would be amazing.’
Once she’d heard them clunking about upstairs, Frankie turned to Ruth. She didn’t need to ask.
�
�He’s not here,’ Ruth said bluntly.
‘When?’
‘He didn’t come back last night. The children waited – and then Sam did exactly as he should and gave us a call.’
As much as Frankie blinked, she couldn’t stop tears. ‘Were they OK?’
‘They were very OK – they watched Graham Norton here which was a treat, I believe. And then they gave us a call.’
However much lightness Ruth was laying over the events – and Frankie was aware that she was – Frankie was grateful. She realized just then that Ruth had taken on her mantle when she wasn’t here.
‘I want to call him a cunt.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Ruth. ‘I’ve called him that already. Not in front of the children – obviously.’
‘I feel horribly implicated by his behaviour,’ Frankie said quietly.
‘Don’t you go feeling guilty about where you’ve been,’ Ruth said, ‘nor why you went. And it wasn’t your fault that what happened, happened.’
‘My mother and sister will have a field day with this one.’
‘It’s nothing to do with them. They needn’t know.’
She hadn’t thought of it that way. ‘You’ve tried calling him?’ Silly question. ‘Is my car here?’ Oh Christ alive.
‘The children were really fine, Frankie. Sam sees himself as Man of the House.’
‘I can’t believe last week I felt grateful that Miles was here. I actually felt excited for the children. I justified my trip by saying it would give them quality time.’ She paused. God, she was suddenly stratospherically tired. ‘Now I just feel like a prize idiot.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I should have known.’
‘But I like it that you have a soul that wants to believe that people are inherently good,’ said Ruth.
Miles did come back, much later.
Frankie and the children heard the car crunch up the gravel. The children didn’t leap up and scramble to the front door this time. They just glanced at each other.