by Fox Brison
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
Crap. I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. “Nothing. Nothing important anyway.” I wasn’t about to offend her again by telling her that I reckoned the only reason she was flirting with me was because she’d suffered a grievous head injury at some point in the past. “Thanks for sorting out the power. Would you like a drink before you go?”
“Go?” she laughed. “I’m going nowhere, unless you’re with me.”
“Er, what?”
“Er,” she mimicked my bemusement, “you’ve an enormous bump on your head so I’m going to stay here and monitor you. Wake you every couple of hours. That sort of thing.”
“Oh no you’re not!” I exclaimed.
“Oh yes I am,” she said in a parody of a pantomime dame. “It’s either me, or I call my mother and tell her what happened. And we both know she’ll have Tommy and his boat ready to take you to casualty.”
“You play dirty, Ms Jeffries”
“No, I play to win,” she replied, deadly serious. “I’m going to help you up and then I think a shower and change of clothes is in order.”
“I’ll get-”
“Oh. My. God. Stubborn much? You’ll wait on the sofa until I’m finished. I’ll poke about in your drawers – unless there’s something hidden in them that you don’t want me to find?” The twinkle in her eye revealed exactly what she thought might be hidden.
It wasn’t, I’d left it at home. Which was a shame because I could really have done with it the past few weeks.
“Poke away,” she raised her eyebrows again. “Seriously, Jeffries, out of the gutter.”
Natalie lifted me from the floor. Wow. She hooked my knees in her arms leaving me no choice but to wrap my hands around her neck. I buried my head into her shoulder. Blimey O’Reilly Jeffries. Muscles. Abs.
Maybe I’ve died and gone to lesbian heaven, I thought, taking in a deep breath. She smelt so good. Citrusy good. She gently laid me on the sofa, covered me with a fleece blanket which hung over its back, and then knelt on the floor beside me.
“Do you need anything before I jump in the shower?” her voice was husky and her eyes drifted to my mouth. Clearly I wasn’t the only one suffering.
But what a way to suffer.
“No, I’m good,” I whispered, my fingers itching to run through her thick silky hair. Her eyes darkened, the fire reflecting in them.
She turned away. “Jesus, Skye, do you know-” she shook her head. “No, I don’t suppose you do. You never did.”
Huh?
I watched her stride away. I didn’t know what I’d done, didn’t know how I’d spoilt what was obviously a moment. I never had moments, not like the ones I wrote about, not like the ones you’d see in films, the ones I’d wished all my life for. I lay back against the cushion and closed my eyes. My head was thumping and I wished I’d asked for some…
“Here.” she was as quiet as a mouse, but was clearly an unfledged angel. I took the paracetamol and swallowed them with a sip of sparkling water. Natalie ducked her head, avoiding any eye contact, and returned to the bathroom. I sighed and stared into the flickering flames. My eyes were heavy, and I could sense her presence in the house, even if I couldn’t see her. I wished I could see her. I wished I was brave enough, or beautiful enough, or worthy enough. But I wasn’t. “Way out of your league Donaghie,” I muttered, drowsily. The shower started and I heard drawers being cautiously opened. My eyes drooped some more. I wanted to stay awake. I wanted to puzzle out what her expression meant, what her anger meant.
I wanted to figure out whatever it was I hadn’t known. Was it important? It must have been for her to look so disheartened when she said it…
***
Beep, beep, beep.
I jerked awake and immediately regretted it. Taking in deep breaths, I fought the nausea and managed not to upchuck. “How are you feeling?” Natalie was sitting in the chair opposite the sofa, her long legs sticking out of the bottom of a pair of my pyjama bottoms. She looked like a Dickensian orphan minus the scurvy and grime. A cute Dickensian orphan I might add. She was seriously working the wet look.
“You’re still here?” I blurted out.
“I told you I would be,” Natalie chastised.
“Have you slept yet?” She didn’t answer and passed me over another couple of paracetamol before kneeling by my side, checking the second head which was protruding from my face. “Natalie, why are you so angry with me?” Normally I wouldn’t ask questions like that, I was usually too afraid to hear the answer.
“I’m not,” she raked her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit I’d noticed. It stuck up in several places. “I’m angry with myself.”
“Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what I’ve done wrong. Let me fix it. Let me try at least. I know we haven’t seen each other for years, but you’re Sara’s kid sister-”
“I’m not a kid anymore,” she barked and my head snapped back from the force of her retort. “Is that all I am to you? Sara’s kid sister? The girl who stood back whilst her friends treated you like scum?” she rocked back on her heels. “Do you know how I’ve felt the last month? Since you told me? Since I asked Sara and she told me what Ali and her gang did to you… I know it could get bad, but…”
“Hey, shhh, it’s okay.” This time I couldn’t stop myself. I reached out and swept the hair back from her eyes. It felt good. It felt right. She rested her cheek into the palm of my hand and it nestled there, a perfect fit. “You’re more than Sara’s kid sister. Infinitely more than that. Natalie, would you like to have a drink with me?” The question was out before I had the opportunity to second guess myself. “I owe you, and not just for tonight. You seem to have a habit of turning up just when I need you the most.”
“I always will,” Natalie’s words caressed my heart and I felt a chink in the wall I’d built to keep people out.
“It might have to be next week,” I warned. “I don’t know when I’ll be up to a night out.”
“Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.” The promise was there in her eyes, the promise of a night out and more.
And it was the more that scared me witless.
Chapter 13
Natalie
Hey Mam, I’m staying with Skye. She took a tumble and hit her head.
Nat
Is she alright? Does she need to see a doctor? I can call Dr. Mallery.
Mam
Nah, she’s okay, she’ll just have a humongous headache tomorrow
Nat
Mam just told me about Skye. Is she okay?
Sara
She’s fine, sparko on the sofa right now. Sara promise me you won’t get mad.
Nat
Mad? Why? What happened? Christ please don’t tell me she hurt herself whilst you two were at it. I thought we’d agreed Skye was off limits.
Sara
Do you need me to come over, pet?
Mam
No, I’ve got it covered, I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t be worried when I didn’t come home.
Nat
You’re a good girl Natalie Jeffries.
Mam
Jesus, Sara, what did you think, we were competing in the gymnastics discipline in the sex Olympics? Skye had a power cut and slipped on a wet patch.
Nat
Oh thank God. Not that Skye’s hurt, but thank God you didn’t do anything stupid.
Sara
Skye asked me out and I said yes.
Nat
That’ll teach me to speak too soon. You’re a letch Natalie Jeffries! Waiting till a girl is practically comatose before tricking her into a date!
Sara
You’re dating Skye?
Mam
Huh? Mam, how did you know that?
Nat
Sara just told me.
Mam
Hey fattest finger first, you sent Mam your last text. Idiot.
Nat
You’re the idio
t. And letch. Did I mention that?
Sara
I know you think it’s a bad idea, but it’s different with Skye. I really like her. You know that. She asked me to go for a drink. As a thank you for rescuing her.
Nat
Fine, Natalie, you’re both adults. Just know this. If it all goes tits up, I won’t be Miss Piggy in the middle.
Sara
I wouldn’t expect you to be.
Nat
I’d better go. I’m sitting on the loo and it’s cold.
Sara
TMI sis. We still on for the weekend?
Nat
Sure you little brat, I’ll see you then.
Sara
Chapter 14
Skye
St Cuthbert was an okay bloke, according to most historical research.
I’d studied him faithfully, yes, pun intended again, and often wondered if there had been more men and women like him throughout history, would the past have been different? One of my favourite films is Pay it Forward and for sure, I respect the ideology behind it. Do-gooders who announce to the world just how good and charitable they are, are missing the point completely.
One of the things I admired most about St Cuthbert was his unflagging devotion, spreading the Christian message to remote villages. On foot I might add – no Facebook or fancy SUV to aid his efforts. I also admired his humbleness. I mean, he was born of a noble family but lived an austere life, often as a hermit. I liked that. I think I could be a hermit if I put my mind to it.
People are such idiots sometimes, including me. Unfortunately I can’t be a hermit from myself.
I tried to lessen my need for the comfort and reassurance that being close to someone brings, because, quite frankly, growing up I’d rarely received either.
Cuthbert was a selfless man. He could have had great riches, could have demanded much for the miracles it is said he wrought, but he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t even want the title of bishop when it was conferred upon him, he just wanted a quiet life where he could commune with his Lord and help those who needed him. The complete and utter opposite of what we see from those in power today.
Seriously, cash for questions, dodgy expenses and Donald Trump – need I say more?
So maybe I am a romantic, or maybe it’s just nostalgia for a time when, yes, life was hard and shit and people died young. But it was also a time when there were men like Cuthbert who eschewed the trappings of power. I also loved the dichotomy of cult versus religion. Even now, we refer to Cuthbert’s church as a cult. Would Cuthbert be vilified by the media and politicians if he lived now? Would anger and rage at a egocentric society replace love and peace for all mankind? Would he be considered the norm or a deviant?
I wanted to immerse myself in Cuthbert’s legacy; I think it was because I always wanted to be more than I was. I was journeying through Cuthbert’s life, and being here on the island I began to question several things about both my hero and myself. Could I be alone? Could I live a simpler life?
I threw my pen down in disgust.
This self-analysis crap was taking me away from what I wanted to write. This was about Cuthbert’s journey, not mine.
The sky was lightening, just. Another dreary Northumbrian day was ahead, and I decided there was no time like the present to investigate Cuthbert’s hidey hole, the place he went to meditate away from the monastery. Eventually he would settle on Inner Farne Island, slightly further down the coast, but first he went into hiding just off the coast of Holy Island, on a tiny little islet called Hobthrush. I vaguely remember the parish vicar telling us that Cuthbert survived his time there by only eating raw onions. I kid you not. Raw onions.
I don’t think I’ll take my journey quite that far.
Last summer I’d spent three weeks completing Cuthbert’s Way, a walk though his life, eventually crossing the pilgrim’s path, which went over the sands between the mainland and the island. The end was exhilarating to say the least – and wet, (maybe Andy’s charge of being tide table dyslexic wasn’t far off the mark) but at least this time I’d made it safely across, and Sara was waiting with coffee and a bacon sandwich, so no angry girlfriend to spoil my achievement.
No that came later when I arrived back at my flat in Durham and found an irate Stacy pacing. Seemingly I missed our three month anniversary.
Okay, I’m starting to see a theme emerging here.
I admit it. My name is Skye and I am a really lousy girlfriend. I should start my own support group, Sucky Relationships Anonymous. None of my girlfriends ever lasted long, most of them said I’m emotionally vacant, or simply just vacant from the relationship. I’ve yet to find a woman who gets me, apart from Sara and she doesn’t count, but in fairness I’ve yet to allow a woman the opportunity to reach that stage. Stacy was the closest but my heart is like tomorrow; always there but never reached.
The walk down to the shore was pleasant enough, the chill wind was bracing rather than off-putting, and my cheeks took on the familiar ruddy hue of my teenage years when I’d come in from the hockey field exhausted and amped up on adrenaline. Funnily enough, the weather mirrored those autumnal days, the dark clouds scurrying overhead racing to dump their contents over the towns which dotted the far shore. “Hey, Skye,” Natalie was hefting boxes from the back of a van into her mother’s shop, “where are you off to in such a hurry?” God she looked good. Her Durham cricket shirt looked as if it was painted on. By an artist. An old master. Da Vinci himself. I licked my lips then glanced back up at her eyes.
Busted.
I shook myself at her knowing grin. “I’m off to Cuthbert’s Isle. I want to take a few pictures, try to imagine what it would have been like.”
“Got your onion?” she teased.
“Of course. Sandwiched between two slices of granary bread and mixed in with mayonnaise and cheddar cheese. Yum.”
“A purist like yourself not going for total authentication? I’m disappointed, I thought you’d be up for the whole reality experience.” Natalie leant against the open door of the van and looked interested in my answer. She had that way about her. When she focused on you, just on you, the whole world slipped into nothingness until there was only her eyes.
Holy smokes what the hell is this woman doing to me? “Been there, done that,” I pulled on my own t-shirt which read, I did it Cuthbert’s Way “got the t-shirt. Besides I’m not a great fan of reality shows.”
“No? Geordie Shore not on your planner then?”
“I’d rather pin my eyes open with rusty nails and watch paint dry.”
“So, you owe me a drink.” Her hand went into the pocket of her cargo shorts and I heard her jingling her keys. Her left hand raked through her hair. Sweet, she was nervous!
“I do?” I said. “Oh, yes I do.” I’d forgotten that. Okay, who am I kidding, I had thought of little else, but I needed to take a huge step back before I stumbled forwards into a mistake of epic proportions. Natalie tilted her head and I read the disappointment in the set of her shoulders.
“Look not to worry, you were concussed, probably didn’t know what you were saying. I’d better get on. These boxes won’t unload themselves. I’ll maybe see you around sometime… friend.”
Ouch.
If I had any sense, I should have grabbed the get out clause she’d just pointed out in the small print of our burgeoning relationship with both hands and ran with it.
Burgeoning relationship?
Who am I kidding? Natalie flipped my switch alright, but I was the nerd whose hero was a dead Christian saint and she was… she was… hell, she was Natalie Jeffries. She looked beyond good. And she had saved my bacon, literally.
It would have been rancid the next morning if the fridge hadn’t come back on.
She’d held an ice compress to the egg on my head, which was currently changing into a rainbow of colours, all night long. We’d talked, in between my bouts of concussion induced sleep. I had lain on the sofa until the sun was high, my head firmly pillowed in
her lap as she told me about her dreams of becoming a coach – not at international level, nothing so grand. No. She wanted to coach underprivileged girls and boys, to understand in this era of burgers and video games that exercise was more than just sweaty armpits, muddy legs and numb fingers. She wanted to give them what she had been given; a sense of belonging, a chance to build confidence and friendships. Sport was an opportunity to escape.
It was nice, having someone help me, having someone other than Sara or Michael show me a modicum of compassion. It had been a long time. “Tonight, eight pm at the Smuggler’s?”
“Perfect.” If Natalie was shocked by my sudden about turn she didn’t show it. “See you then,” her voice was a mere whisper and she kissed my cheek. Wow.
I gulped.
“Yeah, see you then. I mean tonight then.” I tripped over my feet as I turned back down the road, but at least this time I didn’t land on my head. God it was so embarrassing how I became such a clumsy clot around her. My feet, my words, my feelings, all became a tangled vine ensnaring my coolness. Cool? Me? Nah, I chuckled. If I was a character in one of those God awful American teen movies, which secretly I loved, I’d be the nerdy best friend, or the poor geek in the science club, or even the emo who haunted the hallways in her ripped jeans and tattered trainers. And although they sometimes got the girl, more often than not they were left on the sidelines as their friend went through an epiphany and got the boy.
***
The road towards the dock was quiet, the bad weather a deterrent to most sensible people, and only a few seasoned walkers ventured out. Most of them were quiet, filled with the peace of being in the same place where St Cuthbert made his necklaces immortalized by Sir Walter Scott in his poem Marmion. The wind whipped up, blowing my auburn shoulder length hair into my eyes and I brushed it back before firmly pulling on my knitted wool hat. I looked like a reject from a bad Scandinavian art film, it had a bobble and everything, but I didn’t care. I was warm and that was all that mattered. Four seasons in one day was a phrase coined in Northumberland; I was just waiting for the snow and I’d have the full set.