The Great Escape

by Fiona Gibson

  Johnny pauses. ‘Well, I used to think it was having Cal pretty young,’ he begins, swirling the wooden stirrer around his cup. ‘You know what it’s like, Sadie, with babies …’

  ‘Oh yeah. It changes everything. Not just the practical stuff, but the the way you are together …’

  Johnny nods. ‘So there was all of that. We were young and thrown in at the deep end. But now’ – he glances at Lou – ‘I don’t think it was anything to do with Cal at all. Having a son is amazing, so I don’t regret me and Rona, not a bit. I just think maybe the two of us weren’t right, and never would have stayed together even if she hadn’t got pregnant.’

  ‘Johnny,’ Hannah says hesitantly, ‘why did you stop being in touch with us? We all tried to call, and I think Lou wrote to you too.’

  Lou looks away as Johnny sips from his cup. ‘Yes, I know. It sounds pathetic now, but back then we were still trying to figure everything out, making it up as we went along really. And it’s what she wanted …’

  ‘Rona didn’t want you to be friends with us?’ Lou exclaims. ‘Why not?’

  Johnny exhales. ‘She felt … threatened, I guess. She knew how close we all were …’ He turns to Lou and smiles. ‘I’m sorry. And yes, I did get your letter, Lou.’

  ‘Did you?’ She shuffles in her seat and wills Hannah to fire another pertinent question. But there’s just an awkward pause, and Lou senses Hannah and Sadie looking curiously at her, then at Johnny. Hannah removes her arm from around his shoulders and clasps her cup.

  ‘I should’ve replied,’ Johnny adds, ‘or at least explained.’

  ‘Oh, that was years ago now,’ Lou says quickly. ‘I’d forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ Hannah says briskly. ‘We’re all here together now and that’s all that matters. We won’t lose touch again.’

  Everyone agrees, and when Sadie goes up to the counter to pick a selection of cakes for everyone, Hannah insists on helping her. Lou can sense Johnny looking at her and it feels as if her heart has been put on hold.

  ‘We’re not going to lose each other again, are we?’ he asks gently.

  ‘No, Johnny,’ Lou murmurs, silently thanking Hannah and Sadie for taking a terribly long time to choose those cakes. ‘I really don’t think we are.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Spike had forgotten it costs 30p to get into the superloos. 30p for a pee. Promising he won’t use any of the facilities and only wants to get his wallet back, Spike gushes his thanks as the sympathetic attendant opens the glass barrier for him.

  Of course his wallet isn’t sitting patiently beside the basin where he washed his face. It’s nowhere to be seen, which leaves him no option but to call Lou and admit that he’s followed her to Glasgow. ‘Why?’ she’ll ask, at best taken aback but more likely, he realises now, pretty pissed off. And what can he possibly say? That he blagged a lift because Johnny Lynch – whom neither of them has seen for over a decade – happened to leave a weird message on their answerphone, about seeing Lou out on the town with her supposed boyfriend? Spike’s head is pounding but he doesn’t even have the money for a Paracetamol. He’s overreacted like a complete idiot, and on top of all that he’ll have to explain that not only has he rocked up to gatecrash her girlie weekend, but also has zero pence to his name.

  Spike has never felt smaller, or more foolish, in his life.

  He leaves the loos and steps out into the smoky fug outside the station, trying to calm his racing thoughts. He’s stranded in Glasgow, a city in which he no longer knows anyone – at least no one he’s been in touch with for years now. He’s all alone.

  Get a grip, he tells himself angrily. You know this city like the back of your hand. First priority, he decides, is to get some money. The only way he might possibly do this – ruling out snatching a handbag or begging in the street – is to utilise one of his many talents.

  The afternoon is turning warmer now, and Spike can’t remember seeing a bluer sky. As he lights a cigarette, an idea starts to form – one which offers him a glimmer of hope. Spike is starting to feel more human now, his hangover finally clearing as he heads away from the station. Taking care to avoid Puccini’s, he quickens his pace, determined to get himself out of this mess.

  Spike rarely feels more at home than when he is in a music shop. There’s something about looking at row upon row of guitars and knowing that he can play any one of them that makes everything seem right in his world. He loves playing guitars in shops. Someone always listens, even though they pretend not to; it’s one way of gaining an audience these days.

  While Sound Shack is a mess, strewn with dog hair and chewy bones, this cavernous, three-storey building is neat, professional and entirely dedicated to the discerning musician. The ground floor has all the woodwind instruments, and drums are up on the second; Spike is reassured to see that the basic layout hasn’t changed. Taking the stairs two at a time, he gallops up to the first floor where the guitars are displayed. Here, although he pretends to browse the instruments, he’s really checking out the staff. There are only two currently on the shop floor: a teenager in a shrunken grey T-shirt, and an older man with a gingery beard, taking a guitar from the wall and handing it to a middle-aged man in a baseball cap.

  No, they won’t do. To them, Spike’s just any one random bloke who’s just happened to walk in off the street. The younger guy would have been in primary school or possibly nursery when Spike lived in Glasgow, and he can tell the bearded one has an attitude. Spike’s spirits sink, weighed down by the pizza in his belly and an unavoidable sense that he is well and truly stuffed. He’ll have to call Lou, he decides, studying a wire rack bearing packets of strings.

  ‘Spike?’

  He spins round and hesitates for a second as a heavy-set man with a shaven head beams at him. ‘Terry!’ he exclaims. ‘You’re still here …’

  ‘Still hanging on for my sins,’ Terry says with a grin. ‘Should’ve got a proper job by now …’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spike chortles, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘Good to see you, though. How’s it going?’

  Terry shrugs. ‘It’s going. Tough times but we’re okay, y’know? So what are you doing here? Thought you moved away years ago.’

  ‘I did, I have … just up for a visit.’

  ‘Right. Still got family up here?’

  ‘Not in Glasgow, no. The old folks have moved out – they’re in sheltered housing now, down on the coast …’

  ‘Aww, hope they’re doing all right,’ Terry says.

  Spike nods and sucks his teeth, regretting having mentioned his ageing parents and eager to move on to the matter in hand. ‘Anyway, just up to see a few old friends,’ he says quickly. ‘The thing is …’

  ‘Still with lovely Lou?’ Terry asks with a smile.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Spike nods, allowing Terry a few moments to reflect on the wonderfulness of his girlfriend.

  ‘Doing her jewellery, is she?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Still pottering along. …’

  Terry scratches his head and steps back, giving the impression that, niceties over, he should really get on with doing something more productive. ‘So, er … are you looking for anything?’

  Spike exhales and glances around the shop. ‘Not exactly. I’ve … had a bit of a disaster, Terry, to be honest.’

  ‘Yeah? What happened?’ A deep crevice appears between Terry’s bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘Just got here, like, just got off the train … and had my wallet stolen.’

  ‘Jeez.’ Terry frowns. ‘You mean all your cards gone, everything?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spike casts his gaze at the faded carpet tiles.

  ‘Called the police? And your bank?’

  ‘Yep, it’s all in hand.’ Spike brushes back his hair distractedly. ‘The thing is, Terry, I know it’s a big ask …’

  ‘Sure,’ Terry says, frowning. ‘I can lend you …’ He takes his wallet from his back pocket and opens it. ‘Only got a fiver in here, can’t really leave the
shop to go to the bank, but would that be enough to get you to your friend’s place?’

  Spike’s cheeks flame instantly. ‘Er … thanks, but I can’t take your money. It’s my own stupid fault. I should’ve taken better care of it. You see, what I was wondering is …’ He turns towards the rack of guitars on the wall and winces. ‘I couldn’t, um … borrow one for a bit, could I? Just for an hour or so?’

  The crevice between Terry’s brows has deepened to a geographical fault. ‘What for, mate?’

  ‘Well … I was thinking of busking.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Terry says with a barking laugh. ‘You don’t need to do that. Take the fiver. Look, I can probably get you another, would a tenner do? Hey, Norm!’ The boy in the shrunken T-shirt turns round.

  ‘No, no, I can’t take anyone’s money,’ Spike cuts in, panic rising in his throat. ‘I … I’d feel really bad. And look … Lou’s up here with me and we planned to go for dinner tonight, it’s a sort of special occasion …’

  ‘Her birthday?’ Terry suggests.

  ‘Yeah. Exactly. So I need …’ He throws open his arms in a women, what can you do? kind of way. ‘I need quite a bit and I can’t ask you for that. So I thought … I’d need an hour, two at the most …’ Terry scratches his chin and glances at the guitars on the wall. ‘Just anything you can spare,’ Spike adds. ‘I’ll take really good care of it, I promise.’

  Terry’s mouth has set in a firm line. ‘Well … Mike’ll go mad if he finds out. But he’s on his lunchbreak so I might be able to help you out.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Spike murmurs.

  Terry twitches his head in the direction of the stock room. ‘C’mon. Let’s see what we’ve got. But I’ve got to tell you, Spike, any damage …’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll guard it with my life.’

  Ten minutes later, Spike emerges from the shop, gripping the handles of a guitar case, ready to play what is possibly the most important gig of his life.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Petra was right. Her gnarled recycled cartons don’t go soggy when filled with gloopy substances. They are a miracle of modern construction and, as she lays out the picnic on a large crocheted rug, Ryan can’t help feeling a little in awe. It’s one of those perfect picnics you glimpse sometimes, wondering how on earth the family managed to put it all together. There are dips, crudités, a berry salad, a carrot cake and the posh ham sandwiches. There’s Ryan’s ex-wife looking elegant in a simple grey shift and sandals with a tiny heel, and the two beautiful children they made. There’s chilled champagne, proper glasses, sunshine and all of Hampstead Heath spread out before them.

  Josh and Daisy aren’t even arguing. They’re sitting together a few metres away, chomping on sandwiches while Daisy fires questions about secondary school, which Josh is even deigning to answer.

  ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ Petra says, selecting a celery stick and biting it delicately.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Ryan says. ‘I should be working today but …’ He shrugs and chuckles, reclining on the rug. ‘I guess the bar snacks can wait.’

  Petra smiles and falls silent again, and Ryan senses that she’d like to say something more.

  ‘Lucky with this weather,’ he adds quickly to fill the space.

  ‘Yes.’ More silence. Josh and Daisy are wandering towards the pond now to throw their crusts to the ducks. Fourteen years old and a smoker, for God’s sake, and Josh still won’t tolerate crusts.

  ‘So, what d’you think about the smoking thing?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘We should talk to him of course.’

  ‘Yes, we really need to.’

  ‘I think we should both do it together,’ Petra says, turning to him.

  ‘You’re right,’ Ryan says. ‘United front and all that. But not today, huh? This is just too nice.’

  Petra nods. ‘We need to choose our time. It’s not easy, is it? We’re so rarely together these days …’

  That’s what happens when a couple breaks up, Ryan thinks dryly. ‘Well, we’ll just have to plan it, grab some time when it’s just us …’ And no Hannah, he means. ‘When Daisy’s not earwigging,’ he adds quickly.

  ‘Yep,’ Petra says firmly. ‘I’m sure we can do that.’

  Ryan studies her face. She is sitting up straight, long, slender legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. There’s a sadness in her eyes which he hasn’t seen for a long time. She’s usually so brisk at handover time; brittle and impenetrable. ‘Is everything all right, Petra?’ he asks gently.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘It’s just … I do regret it sometimes, you know.’

  ‘What d’you regret?’ he asks, startled.

  She lowers her gaze. ‘What I did three years ago. Leaving …’

  ‘Do you? Leaving the kids, you mean?’

  Her grey eyes are fixed on him now. ‘Yes, but not just the kids. Us too.’

  He looks past her, at their children who are messing about, trying unsuccessfully to skim stones across the water. Because you haven’t met anyone else? he thinks. Because you’re all alone with your cello in that perfect little Crouch End flat?

  ‘Why, though?’ he asks. ‘You seemed so sure when you left.’

  She shakes her head, pushing her hair back distractedly. ‘I was a mess back then, Ryan. I can’t tell you how hemmed in I felt, trying to keep everything going. It’s not as if I have a regular job that can just be slotted in …’

  ‘Like mine?’ he asks curtly.

  ‘I’m not belittling what you do, but you know what my life is like. You know the schedules, rehearsals, touring … it just became impossible. Half the time when I was away, I was eaten up with guilt …’

  ‘But the kids were fine,’ Ryan cuts in. ‘They had me, didn’t they? I might not be perfect, but we muddled along …’ She throws him a resigned look. ‘I did my best,’ he adds. ‘You didn’t think they’d be better off without you, did you?’

  ‘In some ways, yes.’ Her eyes mist with tears and she places her hand on his arm. ‘I know you were doing your best,’ she adds softly, ‘and I couldn’t have had my career without you. But the way I saw it, it was all such a terrible compromise …’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he mutters.

  ‘I mean,’ Petra says, more forcefully now, ‘your life’s always been more stable, and I knew that the kids would know where they were and you’d always be home, making dinner …’

  ‘… while you flew off to China or Brazil or Berlin or wherever …’

  ‘It’s what I do, Ryan!’ she exclaims, swiftly removing her hand. ‘But now they’re older and I know they could cope with me being away, because they’re settled. And that’s mostly because you’ve done such a great job with them.’

  Jesus Christ. Ryan thought he’d been asked along on a simple family picnic, and now he’s being given a performance review. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters.

  ‘Look how happy they are,’ she adds, indicating the two of them perched at the edge of the pond.

  Ryan nods wordlessly. ‘Petra, are you actually saying you want me and you to try again?’

  She presses her lips together and nods, her eyes filling with tears again.

  ‘But … I’m getting married in two weeks’ time …’ To someone who feels trapped, possibly even as ‘hemmed in’ as you claim to have felt three years ago. I’m clearly good at making the women I love feel imprisoned …

  ‘Well,’ Petra clears her throat. ‘I had to tell you what I’ve been thinking.’

  Ryan glances distractedly around the heath. He could do it. He could set Hannah free to pursue her art without grumpy stepchildren impinging on her life. ‘The kids would be pleased,’ Petra adds tentatively.

  ‘Yes, they probably would be.’

  He’s looking away now but can sense Petra studying him. An elderly couple walks by, arm in arm, and they murmur something and smile. I probably look like I have the perfect family, Ryan reflects, with the good-looking children and
the beautiful wife and the wicker hamper. But it doesn’t feel perfect. He wants Hannah to be in Petra’s place, and a pang of missing her sweeps over him. ‘Maybe,’ he murmurs, ‘it would be better if the kids lived with you.’

  ‘What?’ Petra looks aghast.

  ‘Well, you know they’re not exactly a hundred per cent delighted that I’m marrying Hannah …’

  ‘Yes, because they don’t want to share you,’ Petra declares. ‘They love you to bits. It’s hard for them, Ryan.’

  ‘And I love them,’ he shoots back, ‘more than anything, but I can’t let them dictate how I live the rest of my life.’

  She blinks at him. ‘You mean … you’d seriously make them move out?’

  ‘God, Petra, you’re making it sound as if I’d be putting them out on the street. They’d live with you – their mother. You’ve got a lovely flat, plenty of space …’

  ‘It’s only two bedrooms, and what about their schools?’

  ‘Well, we’d have to figure something out …’ He knows, as soon as he’s said it, that it’s not what he wants, and he’s sure it’s not what his kids want either. Daisy and Josh belong with him.

  ‘But … what about my work?’ Petra asks coolly. Ryan looks at her, marvelling at how quickly she’s transformed from being Petra the guilt-ridden mother to Petra the concert cellist. Petra for whom, if push came to shove, Elgar would always come before any real, living person.

  Her entire demeanour stiffens as she starts to pack the remains of the picnic back into the hamper. The cartons have started to wilt now, and the berry salad has barely been touched. ‘Maybe we should ask them,’ he adds, ‘and see what they think.’

  Petra nods curtly, lips pursed, eyes guarded. ‘We should think about it. We shouldn’t rush into anything.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And we need to talk to Josh about the cigarettes.’

  ‘Yes, of course we do.’ Ryan stands up, strides to the water’s edge and puts an arm around his son and his daughter. Josh is only two inches shorter than he is, his baby softness morphing into sharp cheekbones and a handsome face. Turning to him, Daisy grins and snuggles closer. They could all live together – his family – and Petra could cook her delicious meals, when she was around. Instead of the top floor being a jumble of Hannah’s paintings and art materials it could be serene again with a chrome music stand placed like a spindly sculpture in the middle of the floor, and the cello parked in the corner, watching over the room like a stern aunt.