Two of the long walls in the kitchen are lined with wooden cupboards; they have painted white doors and scrubbed wooden surfaces. Still hanging from one of the walls are the steel wall hooks that would have held the pots and pans used to cook sumptuous meals for the previous owner and his guests. On one side of the room is a large white Belfast sink with a wooden drainer, and opposite a forlorn-looking gap where a range cooker once would have stood. In the centre of the room is a long scrubbed wooden table where I can imagine vast quantities of vegetables being chopped, cakes baked, and other meals prepared in the kitchen’s heyday.
‘Ah, a table!’ Danny announces, while I wander around the room. ‘That will do.’
‘For what?’ I ask.
‘Gracie, Gracie, don’t be coy, we haven’t stepped back in time, you know. I’m not the master’s son trying to have his way with the housemaid!’
What on earth was Danny going on about?
‘No, I know you’re not,’ I reply, thinking that Danny must be really drunk if he’s confusing us with the people that lived here a hundred years ago. ‘Isn’t this place amazing though?’ I continue, looking around me. ‘You can almost smell a pig roasting in the oven, and hear the sound of the kitchen staff chattering away while they prepare food for the family.’
‘Never mind that,’ Danny says, as he moves towards me around the table. ‘I’m only interested in you right now, Gracie.’ Danny pulls me to him, wraps his arms around me, and we begin to kiss, then after a few seconds I feel him push against me, so I’m wedged up against the top of the table.
‘Why don’t you… hop up… on top of it,’ Danny breathes heavily, as his kisses move from my mouth down on to my neck.
‘OK,’ I agree, moving away from him for a moment so I can pull myself up on to the table in the same way as we hopped up on to the tables at school, so we could swing our legs underneath.
‘Great,’ Danny grins, watching me. I don’t know what it is, but Danny looks different. His eyes, always so pretty, have an almost glazed look about them. Perhaps it’s the drink.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask him as his hands slide up my thighs, pushing my dress with them.
‘Sure am,’ he mumbles, and as we kiss again I feel one of his hands go a bit too far.
I wriggle a little on the table, in case he’s made a mistake.
But his hand doesn’t move; if anything, it tries to probe further.
‘Stop it, Danny!’ I say, trying to make light of it as I pull away from his lips. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You know what I’m doing, Gracie,’ he murmurs as he begins caressing my neck again. Except now it doesn’t feel pleasant, it’s starting to feel scary.
‘No, I don’t!’ I cry, pushing him away.
Shocked rather than angry, Danny stands watching me from a few feet away across the floor.
‘I mean, yes, I do know,’ I try to say in a calmer voice. ‘At least, I think I do.’
Danny looks as confused as I feel.
I jump off the table, and pull down my skirt.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m just not ready for that sort of thing yet, Danny.’
‘Of course you are, Gracie,’ Danny says, approaching me again.
‘No!’ I put my hand out like I’m holding back traffic. ‘No, I’m not. I’m not like those girls out there, Danny. They’re all confident and grown-up, but I’m not them, I’m me. They might be ready to have sex, but I’m not.’ I can feel myself breathing as heavily as Danny had been a few moments ago, but my shortness of breath is for a much different reason. I begin to move away from Danny around the table towards the door. ‘I like you and everything, Danny, you know I do. But I’m sorry, I can’t do that. Not yet anyway.’
Before Danny even has a chance to reply, I turn and run out of the kitchen, back along the hallway and up the stairs, my heart still pounding and my breathing shallow and fast.
I don’t care if Danny ditches me because of what happened in the kitchen just now. I know some of the girls in my class have had sex already, I’ve overheard them talking about it, but I’m not ready for that sort of relationship yet, and if Danny can’t deal with that, fine. I can’t deal with him.
I pause in the upstairs hallway, not knowing where to go next. Music still booms from the ballroom as the rest of the party guests carry on enjoying themselves. But I can’t go in there, not now.
Charlie – that’s who I need to see, he’ll make everything right, I know he will. Why didn’t I go after him when we argued? If I had, the kitchen incident would never have happened. It’s that damn typewriter’s fault; I didn’t push to go after Charlie because of what Remy had said. But was that really the reason I didn’t follow him? Or was it more to do with Danny’s persuasive powers? Whatever the reason, I need to apologise to Charlie as much as I need to see him right now.
As I stand in the hallway deliberating where he is, I wonder if he might have headed upstairs, but as I’m about to dash up one of the staircases to look for him there’s a knock at the front door.
Instead of answering it to see who’s there, I just stand staring at the big wooden door paralysed with fear. Who’s out there? No one knows we’re here tonight. At least, no one was supposed to know…
‘Gracie!’ I hear my name called behind me as Danny catches up with me from downstairs. ‘Gracie, I’m sorry.’
But I don’t stop to listen; instead I throw myself at the door, and pull it open.
Whoever’s on the other side has to be easier to deal with than Danny right now.
‘Good evening, miss,’ a large but fairly friendly-looking policeman says as I stand silently staring at him.
When I don’t say anything, he looks past me into the house.
‘Are you holding a party here tonight by any chance?’
I’m about to deny it, when ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ comes booming through the hallway, as someone in the party decides that now would be a good time to crank up the volume.
‘We didn’t think we’d be doing any harm,’ I protest, as thoughts of us all being banged up in jail for trespassing race through my mind.
The policeman holds up his hand. ‘We’ll deal with that later,’ he says. ‘Right now, I need to find out if any of you know a Charlie Parker?’
I’m not sure why, but I raise my hand.
The policeman nods. ‘May I come in?’ he asks.
As I stand aside to let him in, the policeman turns to summon his colleague from their car.
‘Is everything all right, Gracie?’ Danny asks while we’re waiting for the second policeman to arrive.
‘I’m not sure,’ I whisper.
‘Is it about the party?’
I shrug. I can’t deal with his questions right now; I’m more concerned with what’s happened to Charlie.
‘Now,’ the first policeman says when they are both standing safely inside and we’ve closed the door behind them. He takes off his hat. ‘The reason I asked whether you knew a Charlie Parker before is there’s been an accident…’
I gasp. ‘Is Charlie OK?’ I manage to squeak.
‘He was hit by a car down on the main road at the front of the house and taken to hospital. We only know his name because it’s written inside his trainers.’
That’s so Charlie.
‘We saw the lights on at the house, and guessed he’d come from here,’ the policeman continues. ‘We need to get in contact with his next of kin – do you know where we can find them?’
I nod. ‘Yes, I can take you there. But is he… is Charlie OK?’
The policeman looks at me with sympathy.
‘Let’s just find his parents first, eh, love?’
As I leave Sandybridge Hall in a police car, Danny’s words ringing in my ears about how he and the others will clear everything up, and how I’m not to worry, all I can think about is the last letter – the one that told me not to follow Charlie.
What if I had? I wouldn’t be doing this now, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t be tra
velling in a police car with the siren blazing on my way to see Charlie’s parents.
If I hadn’t taken the letter’s advice, my best friend wouldn’t be lying in a hospital alone right now. He’d be with me, and more importantly, he’d be OK…
I’ll never trust Remy again.
Summer 2016
Even with the age gap between us, Iris and I work well together in our little office. Sandybridge Hall employs a lot of people, but our office in one of the only wings of the house to be modernised is the hub of everything.
‘Right,’ I say once I’ve finished all my work for the morning, ‘I’m going to disappear for a bit.’
Iris looks up from her computer screen, eyes me for a moment, then simply nods. Even though we have a great relationship, I’m still her boss, and if I want to slope off in the middle of the day to do something important, then that’s up to me.
‘I’ll probably see you tomorrow, OK?’ I add when she doesn’t speak.
‘Sure,’ Iris says, obviously still a little put out at not being let in on my secret.
My mobile phone vibrates across the desk as I’m about to pick it up and put it in my bag.
‘Hi, Olivia,’ I say as I take the call. ‘What’s up?’ Olivia’s half of a brother and sister partnership that helps out at my parents’ antiques shop. ‘No…’ I begin. ‘… No, Olivia, I can’t, really.’ I listen a bit more, and then I sigh. ‘OK, sure, if it’s that important. Yes, I’ll go.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Iris asks, looking intrigued.
‘Apparently there’s a rather large parcel for the shop that’s arriving on a train today from Norwich. It needs collecting from the station in a vehicle; Olivia doesn’t trust them to look after it properly if she leaves it there overnight. The shop’s van is in the garage for its MOT, so now I’ve been volunteered to go and fetch it in the Range Rover.’
‘And you can’t because…?’ Iris probes innocently.
‘Nice try.’ I wink at her. ‘I’ll probably just have enough time if I leave now,’ I say, checking my watch. ‘Right, I’d best get moving.’
Iris watches me as I gather my things from my desk. ‘You sure you don’t want to say where you’re going?’ she asks. ‘It seems very cloak and dagger.’
‘No, I don’t,’ I tell her purposefully, slinging my bag over my shoulder. ‘Now I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’
Iris simply shrugs.
Sandybridge train station is on the other side of town from the hall, so I have to drive through the town centre to get to it. As I travel along the seafront I get caught in a small traffic jam, while a delivery vehicle blocks the narrow road dropping off its cargo – sacks and sacks of potatoes – to the fish and chip shop.
While I wait for the traffic to move again, I glance out of my window at the little coffee shop I’m pulled up next to, and remember what it looked like when Charlie’s parents owned it back in the eighties, and how Charlie had worked behind the counter to learn the family business.
How things change, I think, as the traffic begins to move. How we’ve all changed since those happy, carefree days.
Finally I arrive at the station, and find the train carrying the package is delayed. ‘Great, this is all I need!’ I mutter. ‘Today of all days…’
So I return to my car, climb into the driver’s seat, and wind the window down, hoping to hear the announcement of the train’s arrival. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently, then to help me remain calm I reach for one of the sweets that I know my other half always keeps in the glove box – ooh, éclairs. Nice.
I pop one into my mouth and try to distract my thoughts away from what’s supposed to happen later today – assuming I ever get there.
I look out of my open window at our little old station that doesn’t seem to have changed in decades. It reminds me of one of those toy stations you might set up for a child’s wooden train track. There’s one ticket office, housed inside a small brick building, that leads out to just the one platform on the other side. The only modernisation the station seems to have undergone is the installation of automatic ticket barriers, replacing the elderly stationmaster I remember from my childhood, who would collect your ticket stubs at the end of your journey, and quite often know you by name too.
The entrance to the building is through an ornate brick archway, and it’s as I gaze at this that I remember the time mistletoe hung from that same archway and I found myself caught underneath it…
Part Two
December 1992
Eleven
Got it! I jump on to my train, that’s minutes away from departing from Edinburgh’s Waverley station, dragging my suitcase behind me. I find the carriage where I hope I have a seat reserved, then I heave my suitcase up on to one of the already overflowing luggage racks. Today there seem to be quite a number of people doing the same as me – returning home for the Christmas holidays. So in amongst the vast array of suitcases and bags stacked precariously on the luggage racks are even more bags filled to the brim with brightly coloured parcels decorated with ribbons and bows.
Suitcase safely stored, I make my way down the carriage of the train as it pulls out of the station, and find my aisle seat. I’m seated at a table opposite a lady who I’m pleased to see is already deep into her Times crossword.
She smiles politely at me as I sit down, then returns to her clues.
I sigh as I settle back in my seat. The long journey from Edinburgh to Sandybridge was never going to be an easy one, but it’s one I’ve grown pretty familiar with after almost three and a half years of taking it. Whatever route I took home, several changes of train were involved, which usually meant rushing for my connections, so it was not a journey I undertook too often.
On the plus side, I love Edinburgh, the city I’d chosen to study my degree at; the university is great, the people are friendly and I love the city’s rich and vibrant history, which I enjoy seeking out whenever I have some free time.
‘Nearly miss the train, did you?’ the lady opposite me asks, as my breathing begins to return to normal, and my flushed cheeks begin to cool.
‘Yes, my taxi got caught in traffic on the way to the station. Only just made it!’
The woman smiles. ‘Edinburgh is lovely, but if you get caught on Princes Street you’re there for some time!’
‘Yes,’ I agree. I don’t take taxis too often – as a student I can’t afford them – but I’d had no alternative today with my large, cumbersome suitcase.
‘On your way home from university for Christmas?’ the woman asks, looking me up and down.
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘I have a daughter about the same age as you. She’s at Cardiff, studying English.’
‘I nearly did English,’ I tell her. ‘But I changed to history.’
‘Do you mind me asking why?’
‘No, not at all, it’s quite a long story though.’
I have until Newcastle,’ the woman says, smiling, ‘why not tell me?’
Over the next few minutes, I tell my new travelling companion how my academic change had come about. All about Danny, and how I’d tried desperately to show an interest in the subject he was so passionate about in the hope he’d feel the same way about me. Then I tell her what had really sparked my interest: the time I’d spent at Sandybridge Hall with Charlie. That was when I’d begun to think about the past as something I might be quite interested in, rather than something inherently dull. It was shortly after Charlie’s road accident that I’d borrowed my first few history books from the library, when I’d been there getting fiction for Charlie to read in his convalescence.
‘Your friend was in an accident?’ the lady asks. ‘How awful.’
‘It was. He spent about three months in hospital, then quite some time recovering at home. Poor Charlie; it completely messed up his education.’
‘Why?’
‘He missed too much school, so when it came time for his exams he failed miserably – well, I say failed; to
some people the grades Charlie got would have been pretty good, but to Charlie they were a definite failure.’
‘Couldn’t he retake them?’
‘He didn’t want to. He was too proud to stay back and retake his final year, so instead he started helping his parents out at their café.’
‘He never went back to school or university?’
I shake my head. I still feel guilty about it, even after all these years. I can’t help feeling it was partly my fault. If only I’d gone after him instead of wasting my time with Danny. If only I hadn’t listened to a stupid typewriter…
‘So what happened next?’ my travelling companion asks. ‘Once you’d become interested in history, did you study it too?’
I nod. ‘I never thought it would be one of my A-level subjects, but I loved it, and now I’m enjoying my degree so much. It isn’t the battles that interest me, important though they are, or the kings and queens; it’s the lives of the real, everyday folk – and, more importantly, how they lived. I’m particularly interested in the twentieth century, the years between and including the two world wars. My dissertation is going to be on the changing role of women between those years.’
‘It sounds as though you make the perfect history student,’ the lady tells me, as she begins to gather her things. ‘I should know, I teach it. Only at A-level though, but that’s why I was so interested in why you changed subjects.’
I smile at the lady as she stands up.
‘Good luck,’ she says. ‘I hope you get a first next year.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as I watch her ease herself into the aisle of the carriage as we pull into Newcastle station. ‘I hope your daughter does well too.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles again one last time and begins to move towards the exit. ‘It was lovely to meet you.’
Letters from Lighthouse Cottage Page 9