The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

  Stop it, he told himself, and sat down, conscious that as he arrived, Mathilda fell silent and they both turned their faces towards him.

  “Is it okay if Isaac stays with us?” asked Mathilda. “While he works on the Landmark cover, I mean.”

  “You want to do it?” Despite his misgivings, he was pleased.

  “He needs somewhere to stay. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, do you mind?”

  Mathilda laughed. “It’s your house.”

  “So it is. Maybe I’ll fill it with bass-players and bunny-girls.”

  “You’d get sick of them before I did.”

  “How did you get to know me so well?”

  Mathilda’s laugh of pleasure was low and sweet. She ruffled his hair and returned to her coffee. Jack took Mathilda’s hand and held it for a second beneath the table, then brought it to his lips and kissed it.

  It wasn’t until he emptied his pockets in the hotel room that night that he remembered the sketch Isaac had given him. He unfolded the paper and studied it by the dim light of the bedside lamp. It was amazing what Isaac had accomplished so quickly with a stolen pencil and a sheet of cheap typing paper.

  As he looked closer, admiring the deft little strokes that subtly suggested the heavy pile of the curtains, he realised that the face of the girl was familiar to him. Standing in the empty theatre in front of the drawn curtains, her face raised hopefully and a tear on the curve of her cheek, Isaac had drawn Evie.

  chapter seven (now)

  Davey awoke a few days later to find a bone-deep chill and a thin West Country rain falling like mist. When he dressed, his clothes were clammy and he could see his breath in the air. Beguiled outside by the rain’s gentle appearance (“It’s like walking in a cloud,” he declared poetically, trying not to mind Priss’ snort of derision), he found himself drenched within twenty minutes and wandered disconsolately back to the warmth of the kitchen, where Priss, shivering and trying to hide it, sat on the floor by the Aga with her arms wrapped around her knees.

  After a few minutes, Isaac joined Davey at the scrubbed pine table. He had been mysteriously absent for the whole of the previous day, returning at some unknown time after midnight. He looked tired but content. He carried a chewed-up pencil stub and a stack of paper held together with a giant bulldog clip, and he wore an ancient oiled-wool sweater that glistened with flecks of rain. Davey, trying to concentrate on The Cruel Sea, found himself distracted by Isaac’s insistent gaze. When Davey caught his eye, Isaac looked at him questioningly and made a miniscule gesture towards Davey’s rapidly-fading black eye.

  “It’s nothing,” said Davey defensively, wishing he had long hair like Priss that he could hide behind. Isaac looked disbelieving. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Sorry.”

  Isaac leaned over the table and turned back the hair Davey had combed over the crusty scab along his hairline. He looked at Davey sternly.

  “It’s nothing,” Davey repeated. “Really. It’s nearly gone now.”

  Isaac put one finger to his lips, and then glanced out of the veranda windows. Tom was just visible through the rain-kissed glass.

  “Oh my God,” said Davey, horrified. Isaac shook his head and repeated his shhh gesture. Davey lowered his voice. “Of course it wasn’t, you don’t think I’d stay here if he’d, you know, b-b-b-beaten me up, do you?”

  Isaac’s gaze was unflinching. Davey had never realised how disconcertingly intimate the act of looking into someone’s eyes could be.

  “Look, it wasn’t Tom, okay? Why does it matter, anyway? It’s not going to happen again. What? What? It’s not, okay? I w-w-w-wouldn’t let anyone d-d-d-do that to me ever again, it was a w-w-w - ” he stopped in exasperation. “A one time thing. Alright?”

  Isaac continued to look at him.

  “Why are you asking, anyway?” Davey whispered. “Kate and Tom never ask, never. Even Priss doesn’t ask.” Isaac was studying the stain of bruises that spread down Davey’s neck. Could he tell how much further they spread, underneath the thin blue cotton? Isaac looked again at Tom. In his eyes was an unmistakeable warning.

  “What is it? Why do I need to be careful? Do you know him or something? Why do you think he b-b-b- why do you think he might have d-d-d-d-d – shit – why would you think he hit me?”

  Isaac shook his head in surrender, and returned to his pencil and paper. He was drawing Priss as she sat by the Aga. Isaac, Davey thought jealously, seemed to draw Priss a lot. Was he interested in her? Surely he was far too old to think he had a chance. He wondered if Isaac made a living from his art. Probably not. If he had money, why would he sleep in an ancient tent pitched on someone else’s lawn?

  Kate, looking uncharacteristically harassed, came through the French windows carrying two hemp bags of shopping.

  “Priss,” she said.

  “Mmm?” Priss was flushed and drowsy with the warmth of the Aga. Davey thought she must look like that first thing in the morning, before she hid behind her make up.

  “And Davey as well, come to think of it,” said Kate. She put the bags down on the table. A bunch of overripe bananas slid furtively out and made a bid for freedom. Isaac put out a hand and caught them without looking.

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to do something for me,” she said. “I want you to promise you’ll stay out of the other half of the house.”

  Davey blinked. Priss held her face carefully blank and smooth. Isaac watched with intense interest.

  “Why?” asked Priss.

  “I think you know,” said Kate, so sharply that Davey flinched and Priss blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, but I think you know.”

  “Because it’s dangerous?” Davey asked.

  “We’re not stupid,” said Priss. “We can look after ourselves.”

  Kate sat down, reached across the table and took his hand, a warm and intimate gesture that caught him off-guard. Then she beckoned Priss to come and sit with them. She reached out to stroke Priss’ hair. She flinched, then let her.

  “This house,” she said. “It’s beautiful, of course it is. And you’re welcome for as long as you want. But you have to be careful too. It’s - ” she hesitated. “It’s very old. It has ghosts.” Priss shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t mean ghosts like people walking around dressed in white sheets, I mean bad memories. Old secrets. Things that are best left undisturbed. Do you know what I mean?”

  To Davey’s horror, Kate seemed close to tears. Davey didn’t dare move. Priss’ eyes were huge and her face was a milky white. Isaac was watching them intently.

  “Sometimes it’s best to let the past lie undisturbed,” she continued. “If you wake it up, it can be dangerous. So I want you to promise me you’ll stay away. Not stir things up. Be safe. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Davey instantly. Kate squeezed his hand and smiled.

  “Thank you. Priss?”

  Priss had got the colour back in her cheeks. “Alright,” she said.

  Kate looked unconvinced. “You really mean it?”

  Priss met Kate’s gaze head-on. “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” Kate tucked a strand of hair behind Priss’ ear, and stood up. “Then that’s settled. I’m going to make some bread.”

  Priss looked guilty. “I’ll help,” she said.

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  “Then give me something else to do. It’s not on, you running round like a slave.” Priss poked Davey hard in the chest. “And you can do something useful an’ all.”

  Davey put down his book obediently and waited for orders.

  “Are your rooms tidy?” asked Kate, laughing.

  “Yes,” said Davey.

  “No,” said Priss. “But I’m the only one who sees it so it doesn’t matter.”

  Kate shook her head mockingly. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to tidy your room?”

  To Davey’s astonishment, this question seemed to impale Priss like a bayonet. She stared at Kate speechle
ssly, her mouth quivering. Kate put her hand up to her mouth. Davey felt he should rescue the situation, but had no idea how. Then Tom, his arms loaded with logs, banged impatiently on the veranda door, and Kate went to let him in. Priss sat back down by the Aga and pulled her hair over her face.

  “This’ll keep us going for a bit,” said Tom. “The bedrooms’ll be cold, but we can get warm before we go up. Which room do you want a fire in?”

  “We’ve got a fire,” said Priss, yawning and stretching.

  “You can’t sit there,” said Kate. “I’m making bread. You’re in the way.”

  “We can have cornflakes.”

  “With dinner?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Kate said so,” said Tom. “Pick a room, this is heavy.”

  “Or Weetabix,” said Priss.

  “Or I could make bread,” said Kate. “Just be told, Priss. You’re not spending the day in front of the Aga. In fact, that goes for all of you. I want everyone out of the kitchen. Leave me to commune with the dough.” She was trying to keep her tone light, but she looked strained and tired.

  “Let’s go in the library,” said Davey.

  “Library it is.” Tom strode off. Priss trailed after him. Davey stood up to follow him, then felt Isaac’s fingers close around his wrist. He tried to snatch it away, but Isaac’s grip was surprisingly firm. Something slipped into the palm of his hand. When Davey tried to look, Isaac pressed his fingers tightly closed. Not here.

  In the hall, he found Isaac had given him a folded sheet of paper. Of course. What else would it be? His skin itchy and uncomfortable from the unwanted contact, Davey stuffed it into his pocket without looking at it and went into the library.

  “There,” Tom said, crouched on the hearth. “Keep it topped up, but not too much or you’ll likely crack the oven.” He picked splinters off his jacket and dropped them into the flames. They danced and leapt like fireflies. “See you later.”

  “Are you going out?” asked Priss. “It’s raining.”

  “I don’t think I’ll melt.”

  “But it’s fuckin’ freezing,” Priss said. Tom looked at her reproachfully. “Sorry, but it is. It looks alright, but it kind of soaks you all the way through and gets into your fuckin’ bones - look, I can’t help it, it’s how I was raised.”

  Tom smiled. “I like being outside. Behave yourselves, okay?”

  As soon as he was gone, Priss snatched Davey’s book out of his hands. “What the hell was all that about?” she demanded. “All what? I was reading that.”

  “Read it later, daft lad, this is important. About the other half of the house.”

  “She doesn’t want us to go in there.”

  “But why?”

  Davey remembered his brief glance into the chilled ruin that lay behind the connecting door, and shivered. “Because it’s dangerous. I think she’s right. It’s horrible in there.”

  “Or maybe because there’s something she doesn’t want us to find.” Priss bit her thumbnail. “She was warning us off, wasn’t she? And I’ve looked in there, I’ve looked everywhere, I couldn’t find a thing! I was really starting to think - shit. Shit! I wanted to be wrong, Davey, I really did.” There were tears on her lashes, which she blinked furiously away. “Is every good thing in this whole fuckin’ world a fake?”

  “I think you’re wrong. Kate and Tom are lovely, Priss. They’re lovely. Where do you think we’d be if they hadn’t taken us in?”

  Priss wiped her nose on her sleeve. “You’d be lyin’ dead in the outhouse, mate,” she said. “No way I’d have dragged you in over the doorstep and then mopped up your spew all night.”

  “And how about you?” he asked daringly.

  For a moment, he thought she was going to answer. Then she laughed, and kissed him lightly on the nose.

  “Nice try, posh boy. But you don’t need to know nothing about me. What was Isaac talking to you about?”

  “Nothing. He never says a word to me.” A spasm of jealousy stabbed the backs of his knees. “Does he talk to you?”

  Priss looked amused. “There’s no need to be jealous. I’m not interested in him.”

  “I d-d-d-didn’t mean that! That’s disgusting, he’s far too old for you.”

  “He’s not bad looking, mind you,” said Priss. “He’d be alright for breeding purposes.”

  Was she trying to make him jealous? “I doubt he wants a baby at his age.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t have a baby, would he, I would. We’d get a council flat and live off benefits.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t, you dozy twat.”

  Her face was radiant in the firelight. He thought of Botticelli’s Flora, of the swell of her belly beneath her gown, female and disturbing and mysterious. “Do you want to get married and have children one day, though?”

  Priss laughed. “You know what love and marriage really are, posh boy? Stockholm Syndrome. All those centuries of oppression, it was the only way women could survive.”

  “But that’s not how it is these days. Women aren’t property or anything.”

  “And that’s why the institution of marriage is collapsing. We don’t need you any more. These days, we can fuckin’ bin you off as soon as you’ve knocked us up. Fifty years from now, men and women won’t even bother trying to live together. We’ll just maintain separate residences and meet up for a shag occasionally. Romance is over, mate. Here. Have your dodgy war-porn book back. And don’t talk to me for a bit, alright? I need to think.”

  The flames shone on Priss’ hair, and the wood crackled. This whole setup, Davey thought gloomily, was wrong. He should be making a move, maybe sliding his arm around Priss’ waist and moving her closer, or putting one hand under her chin and tilting her face to his. Instead he was trying to justify his existence as a man, and to explain why he didn’t – yet – believe that the kind, gentle woman making bread in the kitchen was some kind of murderer.

  Davey found Tom in the garden, inspecting the vegetable beds. The existence of an actual working kitchen garden, like the library, was another astounding miracle Davey couldn’t get used to. The beds were well-tended, their borders cleanly defined, the weeds kept in check. Tom was hardly ever in the house, and when he was, he was constantly looking towards the doorway. Was this where he spent his days?

  “Want to help?” Tom asked, offering Davey a wooden basket half-filled with bean-pods. Drips of water rolled off the sleek grey strands of his hair and down his collar. Davey hunched himself deeper into his jacket in sympathy.

  “Is it these ones here?”

  Tom plucked a ripe pod from the long green coils of a stand of beans, broke it open, and breathed the scent deep into his lungs.

  “Just the big ones,” he told Davey. “Careful,” he warned as Davey reached clumsily into the centre of the tripod. “Don’t knock them over.”

  “Sorry.” Davey laid the beans carefully in the basket, took a step backwards and knocked into another tripod. “Oh, shit I mean, sorry - ”

  “It’s okay.” Tom took his elbow to steady him.

  “I d-d-d-didn’t mean to wreck all your work - ”

  “You haven’t. It’s fine. See?”

  “But you must have worked really hard on these, um, planting them all out and everything.”

  “No harm done,” said Tom. “We’ll need more wood for tonight. Want to come and help?”

  Davey followed Tom down the path, pondering his response. “No harm done.” Was it simply a kind attempt to reassure him? Or was he elegantly sidestepping Davey’s attempt to discover how long Tom had lived here? The paper Isaac had given him was like a shrieking mandrake in his pocket. The contents of this letter had united in his mind with a theory of his own to produce a brilliant but as-yet-un-established whole. If he could find a way to prove it, dazzle Priss with his solution -

  In a dilapidated stone building that could have been a barn or a stable or an unusually opulent garage, the walls were stacked
several feet deep with logs. In the centre, a chopping block waited. A stack of newspapers had sprawled out across the floor, The Mirror, The Guardian, The Times, The Express, The London Evening Standard, recent editions as far as he could see, although no visitors had come to the house since he had been here. Was this what Tom did every day? What was he looking for? The phrase something nasty in the woodshed slunk through his brain.

  “Does it get cold here in the winter?” Davey asked Tom.

  Tom was gathering the newspapers back into a pile, his movements slow and careful, almost as if he were acting the appearance of casual ease. “We’ll be alright. We’ll keep a few rooms warm.”

  Again that evasive switch of focus from the past to the future. Was it deliberate? Or was he simply sensitised to it?

  “I’ve never lived anywhere without central heating,” said Davey, then had to stop himself from wincing. He was glad Priss wasn’t here to laugh.

  “No,” said Tom. “No, that makes sense. Davey, since you’re here - ”

  Davey felt a spasm of alarm.

  “Look, I’m not going to pry,” Tom continued. “Everyone’s entitled to their past. But, the thing is - ” he hesitated. “Is there someone who’ll be worrying about you? Someone you ought to get in touch with? Just to let them know you’re alright?”

  His cheeks burned as if Tom had slapped him. “I wrote to - ”

  “Yes, but did you send it?” asked Tom, very gently. Davey couldn’t answer.

  “I can post it for you. It’s alright,” he added, “I’ll take the ferry. They won’t trace you from the postmark.”

  “Do you know where there’s a p-p-p-post box?”

  Tom swept a few splinters of wood from the top of the block. “Davey, all towns have post boxes. Pass me some of those logs, will you?”

  “I ought to go myself,” said Davey. “You don’t have to.”

  “It’s okay, I don’t mind.”

  Tom swung the axe. The log fell apart in two halves with a satisfying thunk. Keen to look useful, Davey heaved another log over. Thunk. The slicing of the wood was clean and quick. Was Tom willing to go because he had nothing to hide? Or was it because he was hiding in plain sight?