by Zoe Strachan
‘Guys like her,’ Stephie said.
‘She drinks a lot,’ he said, after a moment.
‘Is that a non sequitur?’ Stephie said, choosing a new pebble and kicking it with one foot and then the other as they walked. Richard tried to tackle it away from her but she was too fast for him.
‘Not quite. I mean, some men find that attractive, I think.’ The word ‘men’ seemed wrong, somehow, in the context of his little sister and her friends, even though they were, he supposed, women. The characters he made in games were men; soldiers, guys with guns, heroes and villains. And his neighbours too, eking their smallholdings into the hard soil.
‘You saying she’s a drunken slapper?’ Stephie said.
‘Of course not,’ he said, gaining control of the pebble and kicking it extra hard down the hill. ‘Ha,’ he said.
‘She is though,’ Stephie said. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘I never said there was,’ Richard said. ‘I just meant that she doesn’t seem to have many inhibitions.’
‘Her family are quite well off,’ Stephie said.
‘Now who’s coming out with the non sequiturs?’
They followed the road back round the bay, not stopping to sit on the beam this time, and passed the ruins of the crofts opposite the beach.
‘Kind of sad, I always think,’ Richard said. ‘So many people lived here, once. There was a whole community, shifted to the coast by the clearances.’
‘It must’ve been hellish.’
‘Yes. And then I guess some of them emigrated, in the end. Or were forced to emigrate.’
After a moment Stephie said, ‘Richard, I read your letter.’
He turned away from the lichen-etched stones and the spikes of marram and lyme that punctuated the sandy belt by the road. ‘What letter?’
‘I know I shouldn’t have but I’d thrown out some notes that I realised I still needed and when I got them out of the recycling your letter was jumbled in with them. I saw his name – Luke’s – and got nosy. I’m really sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Richard said, surprising himself. ‘It wasn’t that private.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well don’t you want to see him again?’
‘I don’t know,’ Richard said. ‘It’s not as if you can go back in time, is it?’
‘Closure?’ she said.
‘Is that your enlightened psychological opinion or just something cribbed from a women’s magazine?’
‘For fuck’s sake Richard,’ she said. ‘It isn’t exactly rocket science.’
It isn’t that simple either, he wanted to say, but instead he quickened his pace so that she had to hurry to stay alongside him, and they walked the rest of the way home in silence.
0
Waiters in aprons and open-necked shirts swerved around tables awash with glasses, brandishing pepper grinders and over-seasoning their banter with pregos and scusis. One caught my eye, Guiseppe (of course), with his dark stubble and hint of cologne. It was a Thursday night and the Trat – as those who ate out dismissed it – was mobbed. Professor Mendelssohn and Dr Lloyd were at a corner table, lubricating a visiting speaker or external examiner; Yahs were trying to get their dates drunk, the boys’ faces glistening in the candlelight and the girls in their skimpy tops going along with it; freshers were basking in the approval of their visiting parents and showing off to younger siblings. I’d thought of bringing my own parents when they came, imagining myself a sleek and suave host (although they, of course, would be paying). But it was too loud, the clientele too removed from that of the lounge bar at their local, the Wheatsheaf Inn, the prices too far in excess of a bar supper. I glugged down more than my share of the first carafe of house red, certain that even if I picked a margarita with no extras everyone else would be indulging in three courses. I shook my head when invited to order a starter, but the warm, savoury smell from the kitchen and the dark-fringed eyes of Giuseppe as he murmured is very good sir, I recommend, conspired to make me order the special linguine alle polpette. Late nights, lack of funds and a desire to be skinny and angular had depleted my diet and I was ravenous. Luke was also sticking to a liquid antipasto. He leaned over and refilled my glass, draining the carafe and smiling at the waiter for another, then raised his glass to me with a sardonic incline of his head, as if accepting that it had been his idea to come along.
We’d been walking back from the castle that afternoon when he’d said, let’s go, it might be a laugh. Unlikely, I’d replied, but he’d teased me and prodded me and tried to shove me into the ditch at the side of the road until I started laughing and said, well all right then. Anything to make you happy. Maybe I was trying to prove to myself that no matter how many of these friendly little invitations were thrown our way, it was still a case of us against them. The castle had been cold, frost crackling across the windowpanes, and we’d looked wistfully at the marble fireplace, imagining a warming blaze. I think we both knew our visits were numbered, as I huddled on the chaise-longue with my knees hunched up to my chest and my breath crystallising in the air.
Yah, I heard Guy’s voice raised above the others at the far end of the table. We’ll be at Val for the hols. The chalet sleeps another two, why don’t you tag along?
We go to Colorado usually, said a clipped, East Coast American voice. But I’m willing for a change …
Oh yah, said Sara Green, do come along. It’ll be super.
The girl to the right of Luke was a doctor’s daughter; she’d already instigated that conversation, eager to rank and file her neighbours. I lied and told her that my father was a lawyer and my mother didn’t work, which reassured her. She might as well have had a set of crampons strung round her waist, she was so earnest a social climber.
Do you ski, she turned to Luke to ask.
I thought for a split second that he was going to throw his glass of wine over her, but instead he just laughed, oozing scorn. She turned back to more illustrious members of the group, obviously desperate to spear the table with an ice pick and haul herself up and onto the Val d’Isère trip. Luke plucked a piece of bread from the basket and started gnawing on it, then when he’d finished he offered me a cigarette, which allowed me to extricate myself from an increasingly tedious conversation with the girl next to me, who was trying to convince me to come and see the operatic society’s Christmas show. Someone at the other end of the table snapped his fingers to attract a waiter. Most of them were offhand with the staff and although I’d tried to compensate by being over-solicitous our pecking order must’ve been clear to the eye. Giuseppe and his colleagues weren’t impressed. I thought of my parents again, my mum’s near-pathological dislike of shellfish, my dad’s oft stated belief that pasta was food for women.
Gilbert and Sullivan are irresistible, don’t you think? the operatic girl said to Luke instead. And it’s The Mikado. That’s everyone’s favourite. You will come, won’t you? I’m one of the three little maids, you know.
I’d rather die, he said with polite restraint that struck me as ersatz, a sarcastic double bluff. His face was flushed, I noticed, and he was drinking faster than usual. He looked dissolute and slatternly and the more I drank, the more I wanted to touch him.
Philistine, the girl announced, her enthusiasm unshaken as she turned to recruit another potential audience member.
Cunt, Luke said. If she heard him, she didn’t react. Perhaps it was her operatic training, some kind of stagecraft.
I was starting to feel a little unreal myself, appended to this tableful of people who were so emphatically not my kind of people. The horsey laughs of the girls were getting louder, as they tossed their highlighted hair in response to the boys, who were preening in front of each other as much as for the benefit of the girls, becoming more swollen with self-satisfaction with every glassful. Luke caught my eye and smiled. I smiled back and he nodded, as though in acknowledgment of an expected signal. Just then our plates were
put down in front of us, my polpette and his vongole. Luke glanced around the table, where people were already stuffing pizza and garlic bread into their mouths, then looked at me again. As if of one accord, we picked up our plates and stood up. Luke paused, and I thought for a second that he wasn’t going to go through with it, but then he reached over and lifted the nearest litre carafe of wine as well.
Buon appetito, he said, and we walked out.
Don’t worry, he said to the waiter as we passed, the guy in the white shirt’s paying.
It was cold but we walked down towards the harbour and sat on a bench to finish our meal, taking turns to slug red wine from the carafe. It might have seemed romantic, if I hadn’t been with Luke, or if Luke hadn’t been who he was. The tide was in, the water lapping high against the wall of the harbour. I’d seen seals there once, begging for scraps from the fishing boats.
They’re all the fucking same, Luke said. Every last fucking one of them.
I know, I said, passing him the carafe. It looked absurd, out of proportion, and I was going to make a joke of it but didn’t. Luke gulped down some wine, wiped his mouth with his hand and said, I hate them.
Me too, I said.
When Luke had finished eating he stood up and braced himself like a discus thrower, then hurled his plate into the harbour. It arced out across the water, the splash of its impact catching in the light from the streetlamps, sending glinting droplets of orange into the darkness.
Yours? he said, holding out his hand.
I’ll do it myself, thanks, I said, tracing the logo of the restaurant with my finger. I stood up and launched my own plate out into the darkness as though I was skimming a stone, except that the edge of the plate cut through the water and it sank straight away.
What now, Luke asked.
Let’s not go home yet, I said.
15
Rummaging at the back of the cupboard under the sink, Richard found his gardening gloves at last. On his way outside he saw Loren was sprawled along the couch, leafing through one of the back copies of Country Life that had been gathering dust on the bookshelves in the living room.
‘These aren’t mine, by the way,’ he said. ‘They came with the house. I’ve been meaning to put them away in the loft.’
‘Why? They’re fascinating,’ Loren said. She sat up, making room for him beside her. ‘Look at this. Isn’t it near here?’
The magazine was open at the property section. She indicated a half-page advertisement, a glossy aerial photograph of an island.
‘So it is,’ Richard said. ‘Just round the peninsula. When was that?’
She checked the date. ‘Seven years ago.’
‘Before I came here then. Wonder if they’ve got running water yet?’
‘Imagine being able to buy an island.’
‘Imagine being able to sell an island,’ he said. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it?’
She grinned. ‘I suppose it is, yeah.’
‘Oh well, I’ll leave you to it.’ Richard wondered what exactly he meant by this, other than that he didn’t know what else to say.
‘What’re you up to?’ she asked.
‘My turn to clip the hedge.’
‘Sounds urgent.’
‘Oh, the folk who own the house on that side,’ he pointed, ‘are coming up for a week. They’re kind of fussy. Can’t have their over-privileged kids traumatised by out of control privet. Also, I feel as though my head’ll explode if I sit in front of my computer any longer.’
She smiled. ‘Want a hand?’
He hesitated. ‘Okay then, that’d be great.’
‘No problem.’ She stretched her arms then twisted her hair into a topknot that seemed to stay put of its own accord. The magazine slithered to the floor. ‘I should do something to earn my keep.’
Richard took the ladder from the shed, and sent Loren to plug in the extension cable. As the afternoon grew warmer, he felt sweat pooling between his shoulder blades and realised that he was enjoying the job, the errant manliness of operating a power tool. He sliced through shoot after shoot of privet, concentrating on achieving an even edge, and the situation with Rupe and Somme slipped from his mind. Luke still hovered on the periphery of his thoughts, and Richard wondered how he was spending his day. Did he have a garden, a hedge to clip? A wife, children? Loren darted around below him, scooping up armfuls of cuttings and stuffing them into garden refuse bags, her hands exaggerated and clumsy inside his heavy gloves. The clippers were too noisy to allow conversation, but every now and then he paused to ask if the top of the hedge looked straight. The drive sloped more steeply before it met the road, and the ladder didn’t feel as secure as he’d have liked. Clambering onto the top rung to reach further than was safe to lop off one last shoot, he shouted down, ‘There, will that do it?’
‘Hang on a minute,’ she said, and he glanced round and saw that she was pulling her t-shirt over her head. The ladder shifted slightly in the gravel.
‘Sorry,’ she said, standing back to look at the hedge. Purple bra straps showed on either side of her red vest. ‘Down a bit to your right,’ she called.
Richard nodded, the clippers whirring to life in his hands.
‘Is that it?’ he asked after a few more strokes.
‘Yes, that’ll do it,’ she said, ducking to collect the last few clippings that had fallen. Relieved, Richard climbed down the ladder.
‘Do you know what’s nice after an afternoon of hard labour?’ she said, pressing the button on the four-gang to reel in the extension cable.
‘What?’
‘A beer. You put the stuff away, I’ll bring us one out.’
‘Deal,’ Richard said. When she turned to go back to the house he looked at his watch. The back of four. Early, but they had been at it for hours. He’d told Stephie she could work in his study for a change, and he thought about calling in to her. Instead he sat down at the picnic table, felt the wall hot and prickly against his back. She’d said she wanted to work until six anyway. The sky had turned hazy, as though the blue had been leached out by prolonged soaking. Loren came back with two bottles of beer, and as she reached over the table to hand him one, Richard noticed the light catching the skin on her inner arms. He thought she’d scratched herself on the shoots of privet, but then the marks resolved into delicate threads of scarring, long-faded.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘Cheers,’ he said, watching the scars slip out of sight as she raised her bottle to drink.
‘Oh,’ she said, catching the direction of his gaze. ‘That.’
‘Mmm.’
She took another drink of beer and smiled. ‘Teenage angst.’
‘Right.’
‘What can you do. Sometimes you just have to feel something, don’t you?’
Two wrens started squabbling on the ground close to the table, conducting a territorial disagreement or picking over some scrap that one had plucked from between the slabs. Loren turned to watch them. Her face had been in shadow, her back to the sun; now her profile was sharply illuminated.
‘Nice here, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Lucky weather. Not so nice in winter.’
‘But you stay.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you get snowed in?’
‘Not yet. The snow plough comes by, and people are pretty quick off the mark with the grit.’
‘Shame.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t think I really want to be that isolated.’
Loren twisted round, looking towards the road and the sea beyond it.
‘What must it have been like round here, before snow ploughs and gritting?’
‘All fields?’ he said.
She laughed. ‘Yeah, I guess so. Ever regret coming?’
He circled the base of his beer bottle on the table, watching the liquid inside adjust and find its level.
‘I like it here,’ he said. ‘Seeing the landscape change, being near the sea. It’s very … open.’
L
oren started picking at the label on her beer bottle. Without looking up, she said, ‘If you looked back at your life so far, could you pinpoint when it took the twists and turns that it did?’
‘Are you talking about any particular twists and turns?’ he said, wondering what Stephie had told her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosey. I just wondered if you could put your finger on the moments you made the choices that mattered, the ones that changed your path.’
‘You mean like when I turned into the sort of person who owns gardening gloves?’ he asked, nodding towards the gloves on the table beside her.
‘No,’ she smiled. ‘Well, maybe. I don’t know what’s a big deal for you. Anyway, ignore me, I’m waffling. I’ll put these back in the shed.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘And thanks for the help.’
‘You’re welcome. It was kind of fun.’
Loren picked up the gloves and sauntered towards the byre. Her vest had a racer back, and Richard could see that her shoulders had caught the sun. He got up and hopped down off the patio onto the grass to look at the hedge. When he turned back towards the house he saw Stephie looking out the window of his study. She didn’t wave. He wondered how long she’d been standing there.
0
What do you want to do then? Luke asked.
I don’t know, I said. Something different. Something fun.
Although we were taking a roundabout route, hopping on and off the kerbs and jumping over puddles as we went, I knew we were heading home. There was nowhere else to go. As we walked along Trinity Wynd we saw a bin that had been upturned, skewing rubbish all over the narrow street. I sent a can rattling over the cobblestones, chased it for another kick. When Luke caught up with me, he was twirling a wire coat hanger around his index finger.
Look at you. Were you in the majorettes or what?
He aimed a punch at my shoulder but I jumped out of his way and continued along the narrow street. The light grew dimmer as the road curved, the bare twisted branches of trees overhanging high garden walls on one side, the blank faµade of a church hall on the other. Spotting the opening of the lane behind the big houses, I asked Luke to hang on and jogged ahead, turning the corner for privacy. As I peed, I looked up and scanned the sky for stars, but it was murky with cloud.