A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  And, after that, Edinburgh. Tartan and shortbread and bagpipes. A whole new city to explore, unhindered by agenda-setting parents or teachers. Just me and my boyfriend. And in the evening, after the inevitable hand-in-hand romantic walk, it will be just me and my boyfriend in a hotel room. A hotel room with a double bed and a door that locks.

  Calm down, heart. It’s not time for racing yet.

  We make actual plans, like that we will climb Arthur’s Seat and go and find the statue of Greyfriars Bobby, but in my head everything gets a bit fuzzy after the hotel-room bit.

  I don’t tell Tem any of our plans, which makes me feel guilty and a bit sad. I’m not sure when it started to be OK to keep secrets from Tem. Before my decision not to tell her about my meds, I’d never even lied to her. That seems like a long time ago now.

  The only people in the world who know about the trip are me and Rhys, and that fact just makes it all the more perfect.

  I arrange to work extra hours at the kennels during the first week of the Easter holidays so I can take time off for Edinburgh and also be able to afford it. The free time I have I divide between Tem, Rhys and my mother’s family. Bell is hyped about her upcoming operation, counting her teeth every night and poking her tongue out between the gap where her front teeth used to be. I tell her that the Tooth Fairy gives an extra gift when there’s an operation involved, which turns out to be a mistake.

  ‘Like another tooth?’ she asks, eyes wide. She’s developed a lisp since losing her teeth, plus a breathy little whistle every time she speaks.

  ‘Er . . . no.’

  ‘Like a gold tooth?’

  ‘What? No, Bell. Like a present.’

  ‘Is it a puppy?’

  ‘No, Bell.’

  ‘A kitten?’

  ‘It has to fit under your pillow, remember?’

  ‘A hedgehog?’

  ‘It’s not alive.’

  ‘A violin?’

  This goes on far longer than could possibly be considered cute.

  I count the days, watching the clock on my work shifts and sharing long jackbytes conversations with Rhys in the evenings where we talk about our options as tourists (slightly limited by our lack of a car), whether we should try haggis or not (obviously), what we’ll do on the bus for all those hours (KISS).

  And then it’s Wednesday morning. I’ve packed everything I need for Edinburgh into an innocuous-looking weekend bag, just like the kind I usually take between my two houses, and glance into Bell’s bedroom before I head down the stairs. She’s fast asleep, so I decide not to wake her up.

  ‘Let me know when you’re back at your dad’s,’ Mum says as I head into the hall.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I think there’s still a part of me that’s waiting for her to read my mind, gasp in shock and call off the whole trip. ‘See you later. Love to Bell.’

  She gives me a quick hug. ‘Bye, love.’

  I close the door behind me and let out a breath, pulling my bag up over my shoulder and taking the left turn out of the driveway that will take me towards the train station.

  When I get there, Rhys is already waiting. He’s wearing a rucksack on his back and his face breaks into a huge smile as I appear.

  Hi. He leans slightly down to kiss me. Ready for an adventure?

  Ready! Or, at least, as ready as I’ll ever be, I think. I desperately want to do this, and I’m so excited to have this time with Rhys, but I’m still me. I’m still anxious.

  The train into London takes about half an hour, and then it’s another twenty minutes on the Tube to Victoria. It’s standing room only on the trains and so we are crammed together for most of the way, unable to talk. We make faces at each other instead and mouth the occasional question – Did you bring any toothpaste? and the like – and I lean into him as he rests his chin on my head.

  At Victoria we buy food and magazines for the journey. The magazines are totally not necessary – I have four books in my bag – but something about long journeys calls for magazines. Rhys gets a large coffee for himself and a hot chocolate for me and then we’re ready. We join the queue for the bus.

  ‘Can’t take that on,’ the driver says to Rhys. He’s gruff, with a thick Scottish accent and an even thicker beard. I can see by the expression on Rhys’s face that he can’t lip-read through all the facial hair and my stomach clenches. The driver looks at him, waiting for a response. ‘Right?’ he says. ‘Drink it all now or throw it away.’ He looks at me, then gestures to my cup. ‘You too.’

  Rhys, brow furrowed, turns to me. With his free hand he signs, What?

  We can’t take the drinks on the bus, I sign.

  ‘Oh.’ The driver’s entire face changes as he watches, realization kicking in. ‘Oh, shit. Uh . . .’ He glances behind us at the queue, then clears his throat. ‘You,’ he shouts. ‘Can’t. Take. Hot. Drinks. On. The. Bus.’ He points emphatically at the cups we’re holding. ‘Those. Throw. Away.’

  If I was a better person, this would be the moment that I’d probably tell him I could hear perfectly, but I don’t. I put on an exaggerated confused expression and look at Rhys. This guy thinks deaf people can hear if you shout loudly enough.

  Rhys immediately makes a gormless expression, looks at the cup in his hand, opens his mouth in a big round O, then looks over at the bin.

  ‘Yes,’ the man bellows. ‘Bin.’

  ‘Come on, mate,’ someone behind me says. ‘You can’t be yelling at a couple of deaf kids.’

  ‘Yeah, just let them on,’ another voice joins in. ‘It’s a Megabus, not a bloody private jet.’

  ‘On a private jet you’d be allowed to take a coffee on,’ the first person says, and there’s laughter from the queue.

  ‘It’s the rules,’ the driver says uncertainly. He coughs, then repeats in a stronger voice, ‘It’s the rules.’

  ‘We won’t tell,’ private-jet man says impatiently. ‘Can we just all get on now?’

  The driver looks back at Rhys and me just in time for us to paste identical, innocent grins on our faces. ‘Ach, just get on,’ he says, waving us towards the open door. ‘Don’t spill anything.’

  We can get on, I sign quickly, pushing Rhys towards the coach before the driver can change his mind. I look back at our helpers as I go and sign a quick thank you. I know they won’t be able to understand the actual sign, but there’s something universal about an expression of thanks. They’ll know.

  It seems like a good idea to be as far away from the driver as possible, so Rhys and I choose seats at the back of the coach. He lets me have the window seat and busies himself with pushing our bags into the overhead luggage rack while I keep the two cups safe in my hands. I watch him, smiling. His T-shirt rides up and I let my eyes fall to the smooth brown skin of his stomach. It’s . . . well. It’s nice.

  All good? He tumbles into the seat beside me, his whole face a beam, and takes his coffee from me.

  All very good, I reply. I put my free hand to his collar and pull him the last few inches towards me. We kiss and it’s perfect.

  It’s pretty goddam perfect.

  We arrive in Edinburgh at half past seven – an hour late because of heavy traffic near Newcastle. I’m so happy to get off the coach I actually bounce on the pavement. This makes Rhys laugh, so it’s OK that it might look weird to other people. He pulls his arms through the straps of his rucksack and then takes my hand. He gestures around, smiling, and without words he is saying, Edinburgh.

  I squeeze his hand and look around, bubbly with happiness and stored energy. The air is cold but the sky is an almost entirely clear blue. When we left London, it was raining.

  ‘Wow,’ I say quietly out loud, even though he can’t hear me. ‘It’s so much more beautiful than I was expecting.’

  Even though we’re standing outside a bus station, which doesn’t usually offer the best city views, everywhere I look the city seems beautiful. In London, if you stand in the right place and look the right way, you get a good skyline, but in Edinburgh it is ever
ywhere. If I face left, I see old buildings shining golden against the sky, the colour of the tea-stained paper we used to make in primary school so we could pretend it was ancient. A castle, a cathedral, a church. It looks like the kind of city you’d make up if you were writing a medieval fantasy.

  Rhys has let go of my hand and has pulled up Maps on his phone. He has an adorable look of intense concentration on his face as he looks down to the phone and then up again, his hand absently pointing in different directions. After a minute, he puts his phone away and grins at me. Hotel?

  I nod. Even though I didn’t exactly do anything strenuous on the coach, for some reason I feel exhausted.

  This is the old part of the city, Rhys tells me as we begin to walk. He is just slightly ahead of me and walking at an angle so we can still have a conversation. His excitement shows in his hands, and I love him for it. That’s the train station, there, see? Waverley. On the other side is Princes Street. That’s where chain shops and things are. The newer bit. I like the old bit best. He bumps into an older man and stumbles slightly. Sorry! he signs, his head clearly still in BSL mode.

  ‘Watch it,’ the man grumbles, not even noticing. There’s such unkindness in his tone that I’m suddenly glad that Rhys doesn’t have to hear it.

  Our hotel is really central, Rhys continues happily, beautifully oblivious, considering we couldn’t afford much. Maybe we should have gone for a hostel, but . . . He pauses, embarrassed and shy. I wanted it to be special.

  How can I not love this boy?

  I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. He beams. I’m really happy, I tell him.

  The hotel is on the corner of an old street. There are at least three pubs in sight of our window and about six within a minute’s walk. When we check in, the woman at the reception desk barely blinks at my silence and Rhys’s unusual voice, as if she’s used to seeing young couples with communication difficulties checking in alone. She talks normally, not raising her voice or making exaggerated hand gestures. When she hands Rhys our key, my heart jumps. I think part of me had expected her to tell us we were too young to book a hotel room. Too young to . . . be in a hotel room together.

  Anyway. We’re here.

  Rhys collapses on to the bed and lets out a happy groan, rolling on to his back like a cat. I’m filled with a sudden, ridiculous shyness and I hang back by the window, the warm metal of the radiator against my skin. Rhys and I have been alone together lots of times, of course, but there’s always been someone on the other side of the door or waiting for one of us to get home. Now it really is just us. Us and a bed.

  Rhys sits up a little and looks at me, a small smile on his face. Is he nervous too? Do boys get nervous about stuff like this?

  Are you OK?

  I nod, but I feel how hesitant it is and know there’s no hiding it from him. I push myself away from the radiator with both hands and walk towards the bed, climbing up on to it beside him. The mattress and quilt sinks under my knees.

  He takes my hands and squeezes, nudging his nose against mine. He is saying, It’s OK. It’s us. It’s you and me. He doesn’t need to sign or say this for me to know that it’s what he means. Maybe that sounds strange to people who use speech as naturally as breathing. Or maybe everyone has a silent language with the person they love. Either way, I relax. I nudge his nose right back.

  When we kiss, it’s gentle at first. He’s half sitting, half lying and I’m sitting sideways on my right thigh. Only our faces touch and it’s almost tentative, like we’re doing it for the first time. His fingers graze my arm and land on my jaw. I can feel his thumb begin to trace circles on my neck and a shot of something hot and surprising whizzes through my entire body. It’s me that opens my mouth first as we kiss and when his tongue touches mine I feel as if I’ve been set on fire.

  In a very, very good way.

  Rhys pulls me down beside him and slides his hand to my waist, his other still on my face. We are on a bed, I’m thinking. We are on a bed! I’m also thinking, This didn’t take us long, and Oh my God oh my God oh my God and I need to pee. Shut up, no you don’t. Be in the moment.

  A rumble comes from somewhere between us and for a second I’m confused, before realizing it came from one of our stomachs. It must be mine, because he hasn’t reacted, and if it was his own rumble he’d have noticed it, right? So now I need to pee and I want to eat. Way to be passionate, Brons. And suddenly I’m laughing, slightly hysterical with panic and – yes – lust, and I break away from the kiss. Sorry. I try to calm down. Sorry!

  What’s wrong? he asks, looking worried. Did I . . . ?

  No, it’s me, I flail. My stomach.

  Your stomach? He looks at me incredulously for a second, then starts to laugh. Your stomach, he repeats, then properly cracks up. He pulls me towards him and bear hugs me into the bed, grizzling against my neck, and by then I’m laughing so hard I really might pee there and then. I disentangle myself, punctuating my withdrawal with kisses, and go to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

  I take a second to look at my reflection; my hair is wild around my face, my eyes shiny and happy. My mascara has smudged slightly around my eyes, but I’m not sure if this happened on the coach or on the bed. This is the face of a girl on a city break with her boyfriend, I think, and I beam at myself.

  When I go back into the bedroom, Rhys is sitting cross-legged on the bed with a map spread out in front of him. Shall we go somewhere for dinner? he asks. The hotel has a restaurant, but it doesn’t look that great.

  OK. Where? I’m not quite sure whether he means right now or later. If he wants me to come back to the bed so we can . . . you know. Pick up where we left off. That’s probably what I’m meant to do, right?

  Pizza? His expression is hopeful. I’m really hungry too. Shall we go now?

  My stomach lets out another happy rumble and I smile. Pizza.

  By the time we get back to the hotel after dinner – Pizza Hut, because who needs luxury when you’ve got pizza? – I am fuzzy with happiness and sleep. So far, Edinburgh – lit up in the darkness and somehow even more beautiful – is everything I’d hoped it would be. We walk hand in hand in silence and it feels so nice I want to sink into the moment and stay there forever.

  In the room, Rhys showers while I change into my pyjamas. I’m so nervous I get under the covers and huddle there until he comes out. When he does, he is wearing nothing but a towel and still glistening with water droplets. Oh, hello. Hello.

  ‘Um,’ I say.

  He grins. It’s the grin of a boy who knows he has abs and is very happy with them. The grin of a person who hasn’t grown up watching adverts that tell him everything he should hate about his own body. Lucky sod. I slide further under the covers and scrunch them around my neck.

  I’m going to brush my teeth, I sign, then bolt out of bed and into the bathroom before he can get a proper look at me. Why did I choose these pyjamas? They’re old novelty pyjamas from Canada. They have mooses on them. Find me something less sexy than a moose.

  I take out my nerves on my teeth, swish mouthwash for longer than is technically required, then breathe in slowly. I put my hands on the sink and meet my own gaze in the mirror. ‘You can do this,’ I whisper. ‘You can totally do this.’

  I turn off the light and walk back into the main room. I’m not sure what I should say to Rhys, how to kick-start us both into the mood we were in earlier, but my hands drop to my sides when I look at the bed. Rhys is lying on top of the covers, wearing a Yoshi T-shirt and a pair of boxers. He’s on his back and his arm is splayed back against the pillows.

  He’s fast asleep.

  Well, thank God, really. It’s more of a relief than anything else. I turn off the light and slide under the covers beside him, my heart rate slowing as I relax against the pillows. Tonight, we’ll sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll . . . well. We’ll see, won’t we?

  I can smell his hair, freshly shampooed, just inches away from me. I can hear his soft breath. We’re sleeping together for the first
time, I realize, and the thought makes me smile in the darkness. I reach over the covers and run my fingers down his arm, closing them around his hand. ‘I love you,’ I whisper into the ether, and squeeze his hand.

  He squeezes back, like he’s heard.

  Texts from Edinburgh

  To Mum:

  Back at Dad’s! Hope Bell is doing OK! Xx

  To Dad:

  How’s Rita doing? Tell her I miss her! Xx

  Um, and you and Lucy too, obvs! xx

  To Tem:

  Not to boast or anything, but my

  boyfriend has a very nice face.

  And bum.

  Tem:

  STEFANIE BRONS!

  I’m so proud of you ilu xxxx

  If you were looking for a perfect day, you wouldn’t find much better than this.

  It’s early evening and the sun is just starting to dim over the city. Rhys and I are sitting on a bench looking over at Castle Rock, sharing a portion of fish and chips. It’s all we can afford if we want to hit Rhys’s target of spending less than a tenner for the entire day – he calls it a game rather than simply being poor, and I play along because it’s more fun. At lunchtime we had sandwiches from Tesco. Breakfast was the biscuits we got free from the hotel.

  Everything we’ve done today has been free – and wonderful. In the morning we went to Greyfriars Kirkyard, and I told Rhys the story of Greyfriars Bobby, which was one of my favourite stories as a kid. We went around the cemetery together, reading the gravestones, making up lives for the people buried underneath them. My anxiety tried to interrupt, reminding me that I’d be under a gravestone one day and forever, but I pushed it away and it didn’t come back.

  We made up our own city walk, ignoring street signs and maps and just taking left turns for twenty minutes, then switching to right. We ended up discovering weird side streets and steep flights of cobbled stairs that would probably have been shortcuts somewhere if we’d been paying attention. Rhys bought a single Creme Egg and we shared it in tiny, nibbly bites, cuddled together on a bench in the Old Town.