Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  A couple of days later, we’re eating breakfast when Mum suddenly remembers we have to phone Dad to let him know we got here safely. “I was meant to phone him Sunday night! Alright if I use the phone quickly, Rachel?”

  I follow her down to Uncle Robert’s study.

  “You can do it if you like, Jakey. Hand him on to me when you’ve said hello.” Mum wanders about the room, looking at the pictures as I dial the number.

  Dad’s phone rings a few times before it’s answered. It’s Gypsy’s voice, “Hello? Hello?” I’m looking at Mum, and she can’t hear Gypsy, but somehow her face shows she knows something’s not right. I quickly hang up.

  “I must’ve dialled the wrong number,” I say, staring at the phone on the desk.

  “Try again,” says Mum calmly, but this time she holds on to the receiver as I dial in the numbers.

  It seems to take for ever before anyone answers.

  “Oh, Bill. I wasn’t sure if you were in or not. – Sorry we didn’t phone earlier. Just got wrapped up in things. – Yes, fine, fine. Jakey’s here, wants a word. OK, well, speak soon – bye.” The suspicious look has dropped from her face, and she hands me the receiver, and leaves the room.

  Dad’s fine. He asks me how Griffin’s getting on with the other dog, and tells me to phone whenever I like. I listen hard for background sounds and voices, but it’s quiet. I ask him what he’s doing tonight.

  “Not much, son. Might even stay in and watch the box. It’s work tomorrow, and we’re starting a big job, so I need to be on best form.”

  There! A noise – maybe the clatter of cutlery or plates being put down on a hard surface.

  “Who’s that, Dad? I can hear someone else.”

  “Oh, it’s Stu. We’ve been watching the sports roundup,” he says, casually.

  “Can I say hello?” I ask, my heart pounding.

  “To Stu?”

  “Yeah. Can I?”

  Then it’s Stu on the phone.

  “Oh, Stu,” I say when I hear it’s really his voice. I haven’t got a clue what to say to him. “Um, can you say hi to Malc for me?”

  “Yeah, course I can, Jakey boy. Want to speak to your dad again?” and he hands me back before I can answer. I can tell he’s grinning.

  “Happy?” asks Dad. “You have a good week, Jakey.” There are voices in the background.

  When we’ve said goodbye, I stay for a while, leaning up against that huge desk, screwing up my eyes as I try to recall the woman’s voice that I heard answer the phone earlier. Maybe it was the same voice I heard at Christmas? The one Dad had said was just the TV. But no, this one was clear and husky, and definitely belonged to Gypsy.

  I’ve got that horrible stomach feeling you get when you’ve forgotten something, but you can’t remember what the thing is. The fried breakfast is sitting heavy on my stomach and I feel slightly sick.

  I straighten up the phone, and shut the door to Uncle Robert’s study as I leave.

  “Everything alright?” asks Mum when I return to the living room. She’s got her feet up on one of the big scruffy sofas, and she’s reading a country magazine. There’s a big glass of water on the coffee table next to her.

  “Fine,” I reply. “Think I’ll go and help Aunt Rachel in the kitchen.”

  Mum smiles at me and goes back to her reading.

  After ten days, it’s time to go home. George’s made me three different compilation tapes, which we spent hours recording and logging on the cassette sleeves. And he gave me this brilliant black hooded sweatshirt that he says he doesn’t wear any more.

  As we all pile into Aunt Rachel’s car to go to the ferry, Mum runs back into the house to phone Dad and tell him what time to pick us up at the other end. George and Katy stand in the doorway ready to wave us off.

  When Mum returns, the engine’s already running. Mum quietly slides into the passenger seat. Aunt Rachel toots the horn, and pulls away, and we wave out the back window until we can’t see George and Katy any more. The house looks enormous in the distance.

  We trundle along, in silence, for about ten minutes, with Aunt Rachel turning to look at Mum every now and then, and Mum staring at the road ahead. Andy seems oblivious to the mood in the car, as he stares out the window, chewing the bubblegum that Katy gave him as we left.

  “What is it?” Rachel whispers.

  “Nothing,” says Mum, with no expression in her voice.

  “Mary? What is it? Did something happen with Billy when you phoned?”

  “Billy didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t speak to him.” They’re both trying to keep their voices down but I can hear everything.

  “So, who did answer then? Come on, Mary, it’s clear something’s going on.”

  Aunt Rachel slows the car to a stop, as a pair of riders cross the country path ahead, going from one field to the next. The silence seems to expand the insides of the car, and the doggy smell of Ellie is stronger than ever. Griffin stands up at the window and lets out a little whine when he sees the horses trotting off along the field. The car starts moving again.

  “Well?” says Aunt Rachel.

  Finally, Mum speaks. “My new best friend, Gypsy. Gypsy answered Billy’s phone. In Billy’s flat.”

  The two of them sit in the front, stiff as statues, barely seeming to breathe.

  “So, what did you say to her?” Rachel asks, turning to look at Mum again.

  The car bumps and jostles along a rocky bit of road, and we all wobble and bounce in time with each other.

  “Nothing,” says Mum, as the road becomes smooth again. “I hung up. I heard her voice, and I panicked. I just hung up.”

  Neither of them say another word on the subject, until we reach the port.

  Aunt Rachel helps us to unload our bags on to the pavement. “You need to phone me when you get back home, Mary. OK? Let me know how things are. Yes?” She’s holding Mum by the shoulders, looking down into her face.

  But Mum can’t look up from the ground. Her body seems to have shrunk, and her shoulders are sloped and weak looking. Aunt Rachel slips me and Andy two quid each, and kisses us on the tops of our heads. I take as much of the luggage as I can and lug it towards the ferry as Aunt Rachel waves us off.

  “What’s up with Mum?” asks Andy, looking over his shoulder at her, a little way behind us. Her arms are folded and her face is a worried frown.

  “Nothing, mate. She’s fine. Just don’t bug her on the ferry, alright? She’s tired.”

  Andy nods, and looks back at Mum again, who seems unaware that we’re even there. She’s looking beyond us, appearing to scan the clear horizon for something we can’t quite see. When we reach the passenger entrance, I hand the man our tickets and we board the ferry home.

  Just as we’re about to turn into our road, Mum tells the taxi driver she wants to stop off at the Royal Oak first.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask her, alarmed.

  We pull up in the car park next to the pub and Mum gets out.

  “You can turn round and wait here,” she says to the driver, “and you boys, stay put.”

  As the taxi circles the car park and pulls up alongside the pub, I see Mum disappear through the front entrance. I jump out after her, telling Andy to look after the dog.

  Inside the pub it’s dark, and the outside sunlight seems to flood across Mum as she stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. The shadow of her reaches across the dusty floor towards the bar. It’s half past two, and most of the Sunday lunch-timers have made their way home. The only people left in the pub are Dad, Gypsy and Stu; and a few old men down the other end of the bar. Dad’s leaning on the bar with his back to us, chatting to the landlady, and Stu and Gypsy sit in the lounge seats, with their backs to the bay window. When he notices Mum standing there, Stu smiles awkwardly. Gypsy looks shocked for a moment, then flashes her white teeth.

  “Mary!” she cries. “You’re back! Come and sit down with us – Billy’s getting a last round in. Billy!”

  Dad tur
ns round, visibly shaken to see us standing there.

  “Shit,” he says, “did you ring me to pick you up? Shit. I completely forgot you were back today.” He puts two pints and a glass of white wine on the table, and sits down next to Stu.

  “No detox?” Mum asks Gypsy. “And no Greenham Common either?” Her body is rigid, and her face is white.

  Gypsy smirks. “I had a better offer,” she replies, turning to look at Stu like a tiger guarding its cub. Stu.

  Mum looks at Dad, who shrugs. “Don’t ask me,” he says.

  “So what was she doing at your flat, then?” I blurt out, unable to bear the tension any more. Everyone looks at me as if they’ve only just realised I’m here.

  “You should ask your older brother about that, Jakey,” Gypsy smiles at me. She’s pissed. She looks all cocky and droopy-eyed, and her shirt has become unbuttoned one too many. In fact, it looks like a man’s shirt.

  “Matt?” My stomach clenches. “You mean Matt’s been back?”

  Mum’s fingers feel for mine, and I don’t know if it’s because she needs support to stand up or that she just needs something to occupy her hands.

  Gypsy snorts, her mask of friendliness slipping. “Oh, he’s been back alright. Pissed as a fart, and climbing into my bed in the dead of night.” She looks Mum right in the eye. “Horny little animal.”

  Mum lunges for Gypsy and Dad leaps up to grab her.

  “Billy?” Mum’s voice cracks, as he holds his arm around her and she regains her balance.

  Dad looks at Gypsy, angry. “It wasn’t like that, Gypsy, and you know it. He came back in the early hours without telling anyone – the night you all got the ferry. He’d had a skinful, and he obviously climbed into bed, his bed, and Gypsy was in it. Don’t you go making out he’s some kind of pervert, Gypsy; that’s way out of line, and you know it.”

  Gypsy takes a drink from her glass, bats her eyelashes at him. “Sorry, Billy, you’re right.”

  “Anyhow, love, the next day Gypsy came looking for me in here, for somewhere to stay for a night or two.”

  “Which is when I met laughing boy here,” Gypsy croons, leaning her chest into Stu, kissing his ear.

  Mum looks disgusted. “Come on, Jake, let’s go and find your brother.” She turns towards the door.

  “Matt?” Dad calls after her. “Matt’s gone, Mary. He took off almost as soon as he came, love.” He looks tired and sad. “I didn’t even see him, love. He just took off.”

  Mum’s eyes fill with tears and she leaves the pub before they spill. I look back at Dad, but he’s got his head down, running his finger across the wet table. Gypsy and Stu flirt and play fight with each other, giggling and laughing, unaware of Dad’s pain as he sits there making patterns out of spilt beer.

  Back home, Gypsy’s keys are lying on the doormat where she posted them back through. Mum rushes up the stairs and I go straight into the kitchen to see what’s what. Matt’s left all sorts of tracks that show he’s been here, but they’re cold. Like a fox’s paw prints in the snow. He’s left a dirty cereal bowl on the side in the kitchen, and a coffee mug. The dregs in it have dried solid, so you can tell it’s been there for days. There’s a used towel draped over the edge of the bath and dried vomit splashes in the basin, and the toothbrush mug lies smashed on the lino floor. He’s taken most of the remaining clean clothes from his wardrobe, and dumped off a bin liner full of old ones in his room. There’s no note, no sign that he’s planning to come back.

  I shut the bedroom door and start to unpack my bags, with Griffin following me about the room. When I pull down my Secret Literature money box to stash away Aunt Rachel’s two quid, I find it empty. Fifty-two pounds and sixty-five pence. All gone.

  Mary, May 1977

  I’ve been trying to guess where we’ve been heading for the past hour and a half. Billy woke me this morning with a cup of tea, and told me we were going for a picnic once he’d dropped the kids at his mother’s.

  “You deserve a treat,” he had said, throwing open the curtains, “so I’ve taken the day off. Happy?” I’d flinched against the bright May morning, feeling last night’s wine throbbing behind my eyeballs.

  Now, as we turn into the car park at Devil’s Dyke, Billy puts his hand on my knee. “Happy birthday, darlin’.” He kisses me briskly on the lips and gets out of the car.

  Billy opens the boot of the car, and unloads the picnic stuff. I fumble in the glove compartment for my sunglasses, and get out to help him with the blanket and flasks that won’t fit in the hamper.

  “We had a basket just like that when I was little,” I say, as Billy struggles with it on the walk up the hill. He’s bought it especially for today.

  “We didn’t really do picnics much when I was little,” Billy replies.

  “I didn’t know that about you, Billy. That’s quite sad, really,” I say.

  “Well, you know Mum. She’s never really been one for the great outdoors.”

  We walk on in silence as the view opens up before us, a calm warm breeze dusting around our clothing.

  “It’s perfect picnic weather, Billy.” The clean air rushes into my lungs, exhilarating, fresh.

  Billy spreads the blanket out, weighting the corners with the hamper and flasks. We lie, side by side, watching the birds and clouds float by overhead.

  “See that jet stream?” Billy points to a wisp of hazy white cloud left in the wake of a faraway aeroplane. “Reminds me of smoking. Cigarettes. Mmmm.” He turns and grins at me.

  I tut, annoyed at the reminder. We both gave up in the New Year, after Matthew had kept on at us over Christmas. Sometimes, the craving’s almost unbearable.

  “I’d kill for one right now,” I say, twisting a tassel of the blanket under my fingers. “Just one would do it.”

  Billy reaches into his hamper, and produces an unopened packet of Benson & Hedges.

  “Billy!” I smile at him despite myself, rising on to my elbows.

  He widens his big brown eyes. “We could just have one? It is your birthday, after all?” He leans over and kisses me, pulling a daft begging face.

  I flop back against the woollen rug, defeated. I try not to respond, but find myself saying, “I suppose one wouldn’t hurt. And, as you say, it is my birthday. Just one, OK? And then you’ll throw the pack away?”

  Billy nods, with a serious expression, then, magician-like, he produces a bottle of wine, two glasses and a corkscrew. We’re all alone up on this hill, no one else to be seen. It’s just Billy and me, here in the May breeze. Billy’s hair flutters around his ears and I think how handsome he still looks. He passes me a glass of wine, and lights my cigarette for me. He raises his glass to my health, and we breathe deeply of our cigarettes, feeling the welcome toxin fill our lungs.

  “Heaven!” I exhale, steadying my glass in the grass beside me. I lie back and enjoy the head rush through closed eyes.

  “So, this is where your folks used to bring you, then?” Billy’s hand brushes my leg as he lies back down beside me.

  “Yes. About once a year we’d come up here for a picnic. My mother loved it. And Daddy too.” I open my eyes, and see a bird of prey hovering in my eye-line, perhaps a kite, so still against the currents. It dips from view. “You know, it’s been over ten years. Since I saw them. Since you met them that one time.”

  Billy’s fingers find mine. “You never talk about them. Does it bother you? I mean, do you miss them?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly not at all. But sometimes it feels like it matters. If your mum had been more welcoming it might have been better.”

  Billy lies quietly beside me. He rolls over to face my profile. “I know, darlin’. But we’ve got each other, and the kids.” He watches me, and I close my eyes. He kisses my knuckles. “Haven’t you ever been tempted to call them, or write?”

  I sit up and take a deep drink of my wine. “I have. I’ve written to him every birthday and Christmas, and sometimes in between. For the past ten years.” I carefully balance my glass in the im
print it’s made in the grass.

  Billy sits up too. “Your dad? You never told me.” His voice sounds hurt.

  “That’s because he’s never replied to any of my letters. Not even one.”

  Billy kisses my lips. “You’ve got me, Mary.”

  I smile and think about my last letter, posted yesterday, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. As I stood at the post box, I’d wondered if they were remembering my birthday too, if I might find a card from them in the post this morning. But there was nothing.

  “Why’d you just write to your dad?” Billy asks, topping up our wine. “And not your mum?”

  “Because she’ll never forgive me. Ever. But he would. Might. I don’t know. Anyway. Let’s forget about them. What’ve we got to eat?”

  Billy lays the food out across the picnic blanket. He’s bought all my favourite things. Smoked salmon sandwiches. Grapes and tomatoes. Little pots of chocolate mousse. Madeira cake.

  “I got a bit of overtime last week,” he explains, passing me another sandwich. He feels about in his jacket pocket, and pulls out a little package, wrapped in red tissue paper. “I hope it’s OK.”

  Under the wrapping is a little black box, and inside the box is a silver pendant on a fine chain. The pendant is a trio of birds in flight, joined together by the tips of their wings. It’s pretty and delicate.

  “It’s because of the boys. You know, to represent the three boys. See, that one’s Matthew, the middle one’s Jake, and that’s Andy at the end.”

  My eyes brim with tears, and I can’t speak. Billy pulls me closer and fixes it round my neck.

  “It’s beautiful, Billy,” I sniff, and he smiles so gratefully that I want to gather him up and hold him for ever.

  But a dog walker passes beside us now, nodding good afternoon, so I squeeze Billy’s thumb instead. Between us, we drain the last of the wine and pack up the hamper, before walking along the fields to look at the views of towns and villages nestling below. My fingers twirl at the pendant now resting against my collar bone.