“I’ll just wait for him a little while. Now that I’m in.” Linda said. Natalie never used a teapot but Linda had bought them one and knew they kept it at the back of the cupboard. She’d already washed and dried it and was now re-washing the already clean mugs while the tea brewed. Natalie sat at the table and watched her, glad at least that the kitchen was clean.
“Where’s he gone this time anyway? Is it work?”
“No. He’s off on one of his surfing expeditions somewhere.” Natalie made sure she didn’t sound bitter.
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Lovely. For him.”
If Linda caught the irony here she ignored it.
“And did he tell you when he was coming back? Because the new one is being delivered some time tomorrow you see.”
It took Natalie a second to work out she was talking about the washing machine again.
“I don’t know. We last spoke on Friday. He said he’d call me on Saturday to let me know for sure. And obviously he didn’t. But he’s working tomorrow, so he’ll be back sometime today.”
“Oh dear. And you’ve made an effort haven’t you?”
Natalie glanced at her in surprise.
“I saw the wine in the fridge, and that smell is delicious. Don’t worry. I won’t stay long when he’s back. I’ll let you two young lovebirds have your nice evening together.” Linda said, sitting down opposite her. “Just as soon as he’s moved my machine.”
She wasn’t sure, but Natalie thought this was a joke. She sipped her tea thoughtfully.
“You know he’s a bloody fool if he prefers to go off on silly adventures instead of spending time with you. A bloody fool.”
For the first time since Linda’s arrival Natalie smiled at her naturally.
“Thanks Linda,” she said. Sometimes she glimpsed an alternate universe where she got on well with this woman. She wondered if they’d get there. One day, maybe.
“He’s not on his own is he?” Linda was saying now. “I don’t like it when he goes off on his own. Is he with Dave?”
“No Dave couldn’t…” Natalie stopped herself. “Actually I don’t know. I think Dave might have gone after all.” Natalie wondered what made her say that. She felt her cheeks flush hot and she blew across her tea so that tiny ripples appeared in the surface of the liquid.
Linda gave her a curious look but then brightened a little. “Oh well, that’s good. Jim won’t get into too much trouble if Dave’s around. He’s a sensible one, he’ll keep them out of trouble.”
Natalie just nodded, but she kept her eyes on the table and away from Jim’s mother.
four
“LOOK THEY’VE PROBABLY got into some scrape or another. Or stopped off for a meal on the way back.” Linda said a little while later. Her tea cup was empty now. “He gave me plenty of sleepless nights when he was a teenager I can tell you.” She gave Natalie a smile that was designed to be reassuring.
To Natalie there was something vaguely insulting in this, though she couldn’t say exactly what. Her anxious feeling was back. She tried Jim’s mobile yet again but there was still no answer, just the same electronic beep which she thought meant that his phone had a dead battery. She was pleased Linda didn’t think to suggest she try Dave’s number. When she set the phone down she was surprised to see that Linda was leaving, she was saying something about getting a neighbour to move the washing machine. Natalie had forgotten all about it. For a moment she thought about asking Linda to stay, just until Jim finally got home, but she said nothing. It probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. It was getting a bit late for a romantic reunion, and a rerun of the argument was looking more likely now anyway.
Linda bustled herself out of the house. She seemed untroubled by her missing son, reassured perhaps that he was with Dave. But Natalie could take no comfort from this.
With Linda gone the house was too quiet. She could hear a clock ticking and the burbling of the heating pipes. She turned the TV on to drown out the noises and tried to return to her scripts, but she found herself giving them even less attention than before. Instead she thought back to what he’d said on the telephone on Friday night. He was in a phone box outside a pub, the line wasn’t great, presumably because he had to keep pushing coins into the slot. They talked about nothing for five minutes, neither of them wanting to re-visit the argument they had when he left. But right at the end he did. He said he was sorry. He said he realised he was being selfish and he said he was missing her. She felt her throat constrict as she tried to reply. Eventually she said the same to him, only to realise he must have run out of money because the line was dead.
“Oh Christ. What have you done?” she said out loud, and threw the scripts down again. How did she end up in this position, with a man who was so damn difficult?
“And where the hell are you Jim?”
She sighed. She thought about the last few days. She’d come so close to throwing it all away. But all it had done was make her realise how much she wanted what she had. How much she wanted to make it work. If only life could be a little bit easier she thought, but then she smiled again. How was life ever going to be easy with a man like Jim? Not for the first time she let her mind drift back to the night they met. He’d practically got into a bar fight of all things.
There was an eccentric young man who dressed as if he was an eighteenth century gentleman. She saw him around the town from time to time, where he stood out somewhat in his waistcoats, woollen trousers and monocle. She’d never spoken to him but she’d smiled when he touched his hat on passing in the street. One night, possibly a Wednesday - it was midweek certainly - when Natalie was still relatively new in the city, she and a friend were in a trendy bar where the young man also happened to be drinking. He was alone, as he usually was, and reading quietly from a slim volume of what looked like poetry. They were sitting a little way away, chatting about work. It was a quiet evening, and it would have passed entirely unremarkably had the elegantly dressed young man not somehow managed to offend two drunk young men.
These men had stumbled in a while earlier. They were too drunk already to see how out of place they looked. Too far gone to notice that the sports bar they remembered on this site had been bought out, closed down, refurbished and reopened as a wine and tapas bar. But now inside it was obvious enough from the lack of giant screen TV showing sports and the middle-class huddles of professional people drinking quietly that they’d made a mistake. It was bravado that made them stay. That and one of them remembering drinking San Miguel on holiday in Lanzarote and how it didn’t give you a hangover. He persuaded his dubious mate to stay for one pint, only to discover that the bar was too posh to serve pints, and almost too expensive for him to afford two bottles of beer. The two men were now standing rather too close to the table where the young man was still reading, and they were compiling a list of the many faults of the establishment, including the “wankers” who drank there. And it was in this situation that the eccentric dress of the young man really stood out. After a while the two drunk men began to punctuate whatever they said with the expression “fucking freak” shouted every few words in his direction.
Natalie and her friend were sitting far enough away from this scene that it wasn’t their problem, and certainly not their responsibility to do anything about it. They could see and hear clearly enough, but it was in the background to their discussion. And if nothing else had happened Natalie might never even have fully registered that anything was wrong. The men were near the end of their drinks. Soon they would grow bored and wander out, presumably to another bar, more their style, and everyone else in the wine bar could relax, and get back to enjoying their quiet midweek drink.
Perhaps Natalie halfheartedly hoped that someone would do something, but it wasn’t a conscious thought. Certainly the scene wasn’t causing too much concern for Natalie’s friend, Alice. She had already persuaded Natalie to stay for another drink, was already at the bar fetching them now. And that’s when someone did do something
.
It was another man, on his own, who had appeared to be simply walking through the bar, his route taking him close to where the two abusive men were standing. But when he drew level he suddenly changed direction, raised up his hands and shoved one of the yobs as hard as he could, pushing him into a pillar that held up the ceiling. The man crashed into it, and then his feet slipped out from underneath him, and he fell to the floor. He ended up on his backside with his San Miguel spilling onto the bottom of his pastel-pink shirt, and the crotch of his jeans. The man who’d had caused this didn’t stop to watch, he just carried on walking past until he reached the bar, and calmly ordered a drink. He was standing, as it happened, right next to Alice.
Natalie saw the whole thing and registered at once the spike in her anxiety levels. What scared her was the retaliation that would surely come. It was obvious how angry the man on the floor was, but also clear how fit and strong he was, she could see it in the way he sprang back to his feet and looked around for someone to retaliate against. But he had a problem, there didn’t seem to be anyone there to fight back against. The man who had pushed him was now engaged in conversation with Alice at the bar, as if he were nothing to do with what had happened. And the man who had been pushed looked suddenly uncertain, you could see it on his face. Anger turned to confusion, then to a kind of embarrassment - at his inability to respond in the way he felt he should when all eyes were now on him, and at the realisation that the large wet patch at the top of his jeans must make him look like he’d pissed himself.
His friend fared no better. He had made the split-second decision to pretend he’d seen nothing, and started laughing instead at his friend sprawled on the floor, as if he thought he had simply fallen over, or slipped. And he too appeared to feel a rush of embarrassment at this. He didn’t even glance in the direction of the man at the bar, as if even looking at him might earn himself the same treatment. Instead, when his friend was back on his feet, he began quickly finishing his drink, and muttering something about how it was time to go somewhere decent. It was only when it became clear they were leaving that Natalie realised she had been holding her breath.
As they left some bravado returned to the two young men. The one who had fallen shouted how ‘next time’ someone was going to get the shit kicked out of them, then he quickly ducked out the door. Natalie watched them through the plate glass window, she flinched when the other man gave it a hard kick. It bowed and for a moment it looked like it might break, but then it seemed to bounce back. And then the men were gone.
The young man reading his poetry, who had barely moved at all during the whole episode now stood up and gave an elaborate bow towards the man who had helped him. In response this man lifted the drink the barman had just put down in front of him. There were a few half-embarrassed whistles and cheers from across the bar, and then everything returned to normal. It was as if nothing at all had happened.
Natalie watched her friend Alice saying something to the barman, then she began talking to the man. They stayed chatting for some time, every now and then looking over to Natalie as she waited at her table. Natalie hoped she wouldn’t bring him over. Not because she didn’t like the look of him. He was handsome, tanned skin, with very dark hair and sharp features that split every now and then into a warm smile. No, she didn’t want Alice to bring him over because if that happened she knew Alice would end up sleeping with him. And he didn’t look like the kind of guy Alice needed in her life right now.
Alice brought him over.
“Natalie, meet Jim,” she said. “I had to buy him a drink after what he just did.”
Jim gave her a smile which confirmed to Natalie that he was as arrogant as he looked, then he and Alice resumed their flirty conversation from the bar. Natalie hardly listened, instead she wondered how long this one would last. Maybe it would just be a one night stand? Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend too long supporting her friend when this one split up with her.
And then Alice had stood up saying she had to go to the ladies room, and as she’d passed by where Natalie was sitting she leaned in close to her ear.
“It’s not me he’s after,” And she walked away, trailing one finger along the surface of the table behind her.
five
OUR CAMPSITE WAS just a mile away from the village, right down by the beach. It had three rows of static caravans, a field for tents and another one for travelling caravans. There were two toilet blocks with showers that didn’t work very well, and a covered area with a row of sinks where people went to do their washing up. The grass was pockmarked with molehills.
There was a house that came with the site. The main room downstairs was also the shop and reception for the campsite. The rest was just a normal private house, which became home for Mum and me. The windows were tiny and the walls were thick but that hadn’t stopped the damp settling into the furniture and carpets over the many years since they’d been laid. From the upstairs windows you could see the ocean, but not the beach, since there was a high bank of shingle that stopped the high tides from flooding the camping fields. Compared to Australia it wasn’t much of a beach anyway. The warm blue waters and white sand I was used to were replaced by slate grey sea and patches of dirty-coloured sand scattered among the pebbles.
Mum found out about it from a magazine article that was left on the plane. It was one of those articles that gives suggestions for life-changing adventures that people could do. You know the type, go and count monkeys in the rainforest, or build an eco-house in Mexico. I don’t know why she chose the campsite, I was too young to talk about it at the time, and there never seemed much point later on. But it’s weird to think I could have turned out a monkey specialist. Or a Mexican drug lord. But instead I was stuck in Wales in the fucking rain.
The campsite was sold as a going concern, which meant there were visitors right from the day we moved in. Mum thought I’d enjoy working in the shop, and driving the tractor around to cut the grass and under different circumstances I might have done, but I was a twelve year old kid, I’d just watched my Dad blow himself up and then I’d lost every friend I had in the weeks afterwards. So I didn’t much.
I don’t remember much about the first few weeks, and I don’t much like trying to remember. I knew the whole thing was insane of course, but I felt it was my fault. I’d fucked up somehow and this was my punishment. I cried all the time, during the day at least, but not for Dad. I cried for me, and where I was. At night it was Mum that cried. She’d bury her face in a pillow so I wouldn’t hear, but her sobs were so loud it didn’t work.
The day Dad died was the last day I went to school in Australia, and a few weeks later I started a new school in Wales. They were pretty different. There were more kids in my old school than in the whole village we’d moved to. My new school had less than a hundred students. I was probably the first new kid any of them had ever seen, I was definitely the first Australian.
I do remember starting at that school. It felt like arriving on another planet. They spoke English at least, not that guttural gargling Welsh the old folk in the village still coughed up when they queued in the post office, but none of the kids wanted to talk to me, and I pulled a fierce scowl onto my face every morning to warn off anyone who thought of trying. There were twelve kids in my class. Twelve kids was an easy number for the teachers to work with. Six tables of two. “Choose a partner,” the teachers would say. Sometimes they’d remember to add: “Jesse, you work alone for now”.
Every day it rained. Every day I hated everything and every day it got a little bit worse. But I didn’t tell anyone. After school I’d get back to the campsite and I’d tell Mum it was alright, then I’d go to bed early to have a little cry, and I’d try to sleep while all the time hearing her crying in the room next door. The only thing that kept me going in those early days was this idea I got that I just had to sit it out for a while. Eventually Mum would come to her senses and we would go back to our old life in Australia.
But Mum wouldn’t
take us back. She didn’t think we could go back. She didn’t think people would ever forget what had happened to Dad, not the way it happened. Plus by then she thought everyone back home would think she was a coward for running away, and then a failure for not making it work. So for Mum the only option left was to make a go of it. And I think she got some relief out of being so busy as well.
There was a steady flow of regulars to the static caravans, a trickle of caravans and tents popping up and down on the grass like mushrooms. There was a regular flow of complaints too, since the site was run down. So Mum jumped in and out of overalls to fix plumbing and electrics and stock the shelves of the shop with brands of food I didn’t recognise but had decided I didn’t like.
We’d been in Wales maybe six weeks when I finally got that we weren’t going back. It was a Saturday. And I turned thirteen years old. Back home on that exact day I was supposed to be having a beach party, only because of the time difference, by the time I woke up it would have already been over. I was so excited I’d already invited a load of my friends, before Dad died I mean. I was allowed as many as I wanted because we were doing it on the beach. Dad was going to do a bbq and we’d play Aussie footie and I knew for a surprise he’d booked some blow-karts - they’re like land yachts that you can race on the beach at low tide. But we’d only do any of that if there was no surf. What me and my mates all hoped was we could spend the whole day surfing and then stuff our faces with sausages and burgers slathered in ketchup, and then watch surf movies all evening. It was going to be the perfect birthday. I wondered if anyone had thought to cancel all those invitations. I wondered if any of my friends had turned up at the beach on the off chance. I wondered whether the surf had been good. I wondered if the blow-kart guy had come with the little yachts loaded in the back of his Ute and scratched his head and then spat on the ground and gone for a beer.
The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller Page 2