by Rosie Blake
A slow realisation of why he’d suddenly decided to take up pottery crept over Greg and he felt a rush of affection for his little brother. ‘Fair enough, mate. What about work?’
‘I was owed a load of holiday so I’m taking mornings off this month. They’ve been good about it.’
‘So, pottery. Looking forward to seeing what you produce.’
‘Pool?’ Danny suggested, clearly not wanting to linger too much more on the subject.
‘Cool,’ Greg said, searching through his pockets for a pound and letting his brother off the hook.
‘Loser buys the next round,’ Danny said, getting up, a confident look on his face.
This was a pointless statement really as Greg always paid for the round, he also always lost at pool to Danny; who could clear a table in one go.
‘You’re on,’ Greg said, pushing back his chair with a scrape on the stone and nearly hitting his head on the heavy oak beam that ran through the middle of the ceiling.
They’d played for an hour and then Danny was off, out to take a girl to dinner. Greg couldn’t get a name out of him. He waved as he left, round the corner and onto the high street. The common wasn’t on his way home but he found himself weaving his way there, the street lights on and the village quiet in the darkness. He stuck his bare hands in the pockets of his coat, the cold seeping through the thick material.
He didn’t need to walk towards the iron bridge, could join the common further up, but he found his legs taking him there, wondering if the boat would still be there, feeling a flicker of curiosity as he saw circles of yellow light in the distance. Then, maybe it was the four beers, he was sure he saw smoke belching out of the back of it, followed by the high whine of an alarm. He started ambling towards it. It was her boat; it was definitely the same boat. Then suddenly she was there, a silhouette really, hunched over herself on the bank, boot slippers at the end of bare legs.
Maybe it had been the beers that gave him the confidence to approach her. He regretted it the moment he saw her. Still bent down, her head whipped round, she took one look at him and started screaming.
Fair enough, Greg, you have just emerged from the shadows like you’ve been lurking outside her house and now you are making an unsteady beeline for her.
‘Are you, is there a fire?’ He realised he was running at her still, the beers making it harder to tell how fast.
‘No, but geese and chicken and…’ She was gabbling something at him and he was trying to concentrate on what she was saying. She was either pretty incoherent or he was more drunk than he thought. He swept past her and poked his head through into the boat, looking for a fire. It was then that Marmite launched himself up into his arms and started licking him as if he had rescued him from certain death.
Stepping back onto the bank, he looked worriedly at the girl, who was turning in a slow-circle, asking, ‘Where are the geese?’
Maybe she was a little nuts. He noticed for the second time she was wearing pyjama shorts and top. He was often finding her in nightwear on the common.
‘Geese?’
‘There were…’ She stopped quickly as she noticed him clutching her dog. He sheepishly handed him over, aware of his beer breath as he leant towards her.
‘So you’re sure you’re all right?’ He put up the collar of his coat and tried to hear her over the sound of the alarm.
‘I was cooking.’
He couldn’t help smiling. She seemed impossibly young in her pyjamas, goosebumps breaking out on her arms, her hair sticking out in different directions.
‘Were you. I might just, if I may?’
He returned to the boat, stepping into it and finding the alarm on the ceiling. Pulling it back to reveal the square of battery, he let it dangle from two wires. The noise ceased and he turned to check the oven, opening it with an oven glove, coughing as he released more smoke into the room and into his face. He was holding the black remains of something on a tray and set it down on the side.
‘Grill was on,’ he said, trying to look at her but his eyes were streaming. Wiping at them, he noticed the open cookbook on the sink. ‘Was that what it was going to be?’
‘Supposed to be.’
‘Well, it looks delicious.’ The photo looked tasty, the ingredients long and complicated-looking. ‘You are obviously a decent cook.’
‘Er, it was an experiment. I thought if I could get this recipe right, I could do it, but I don’t have the first clue how to cook.’
He heard the uncertainty in her voice and wanted to reassure. ‘You did go for something really complicated.’
‘Was it?’ She looked up at him fully then and he took in her smile, her green eyes warm in the light.
‘Well, I am always wary when the title is in French. And you would have had to make the Sauce Velouté from scratch, which is definitely not a beginner’s meal. I mean, who even knows what a Sauce Velouté is?’
He suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to stay, shrugging off his coat, taking the apron off its hook and putting his head through it. He knew this was one area where he could help. He wasn’t a man of many talents, but he had been taught to cook as a child by his mum and he had always loved it, experimenting with different recipes, buying stacks of cookbooks. He looked at the piles of food on the counter.
‘We could make something from this.’
He barely heard her next word, running through what he could make as he rolled up his sleeves, too quick to realise she was protesting. Normally he would make his excuses and take the hint, but something stopped him; he wanted to try.
‘I’ll teach you how to make one simple dish. What do you say?’
She went to refuse and then he saw with a relenting smile that he had won. ‘That would be really kind. Thank you…’
She raised both her eyebrows at the end of the sentence and he realised he had yet to introduce himself. ‘Greg,’ he added, feeling ridiculously formal as he held out a hand.
‘Eve.’
It was a simple, elegant name and he felt himself smiling again as they shook hands.
He knew exactly what he was going to make and he talked her through what to peel, passing her things to chop and quietly scraping the ruined food into the bin before she could really notice. As he was scrubbing at a pan, he felt an overwhelming sense of familiarity as he talked, as if he was back in the kitchen at home but instead of learning the recipe he was passing it on.
‘This was a recipe for a salad my mum used to make every Boxing Day. Best with potatoes and cold meat. My brother is pretty hopeless at cooking, but even he can make this now, so, Eve, I pass it on to you.’
Mum had always loved this recipe. He had a strange urge to tell her more about himself now, here in her kitchen, feeling like he had known her for a while when in fact he had only just learnt her name. She had that kind of face, a sort of child-like expression, easy smiles and wild hand gestures as she spoke. He turned his back and busied himself with turning on the gas oven and putting the potatoes on to boil. He rattled on. ‘You can still make an ordinary salad, we’ll do that too, but this is special.’
‘Special,’ she teased and Greg couldn’t help but laugh, lobbing an apple at her as she grinned at him.
It was easy. Watching her amused him – she seemed to be enjoying learning and was just lacking confidence, clearly expecting the leeks to start burning, or to chop off a finger. He remembered his mum teaching him to cook after Dad left; it was something they’d done together. Greg had always liked making things. He’d been the science geek at school, while Danny had spent all his time in the drama department because he said that was where to meet the best girls. Greg had liked concocting things in the kitchen in the same way that he enjoyed the lab and, later, veterinary surgery. Now, as he was balancing and slicing, it seemed to him the same skills. He felt himself switch off, relaxed in the warmth of the little boat, making dinner.
He looked sideways at Eve, bent over some leeks, frowning as she ensured she chopped them into precise 1 cm slices. He
nearly started teasing her again but found himself unable to, happy to smile as she turned to him with a triumphant grin and a curtsey.
‘You must stay.’
She moved past him to get knives and forks; she smelt of apples.
He knew he had to go; he shouldn’t have stayed this long, knew where he should be, back with her. ‘Oh no, I really shouldn’t.’ He checked his watch.
‘Do, absolutely, I insist.’
He heard himself reply without another thought, liking this life on the boat, his life out there somewhere behind the portholes, beyond the common. ‘Well, I can’t be long, I have to be somewhere.’
‘Very mysterious,’ she said.
He nearly told her, right then, wanting to share it all. The thought was gone as quick as it came and he laughed back, a little higher than normal.
She was completing the pen pot today. It stood where she had left it and Raj was showing her how to slice it off the wheel using cheese wire. It was smooth around the edges and, as she balanced it on a wooden board, she felt an absurd rush of pleasure; her first potted item, ready to be fired in the kiln. It was smaller than she’d imagined it would end up, but she had scraped and pummelled and the clay hadn’t quite worked in the way she had envisaged. Still it was a pot, it could hold stuff in it like pens and things. She pictured herself in her flat, surrounded by her pottery, offering guests a pen and being all ‘this old thing’ about it, nonchalant laugh, ha ha, I am soooo creative.
It wasn’t relaxing starting a new piece, a bowl which she was told would be straightforward. She was hunched over the wheel, teeth biting down on her lip with every false turn, the watchful presence of Raj, quick to step in and help her. He was wearing a black T-shirt and faded blue jeans today, and Eve had tried not to stare at his forearms, which seemed large, probably from carrying lots of heavy pots around the place. Halfway through the class a cough came from the door and Minnie called out without looking up. ‘Gerald, don’t loiter there, come in and make yourself useful, we need more ginger biscuits.’ And, moments later, Gerald had sidled in huffing, carrying a plate and lowering it with a clatter on the table.
He was wearing very tight-fitting trousers and Eve had been forced to look away as Gerald had stood in front of her, looking at Minnie’s wheel and trying to engage her in conversation.
Minnie swatted a hand behind her. ‘Thanks, darling.’ And Gerald stood there looking lost.
‘What’s all that about, do you think?’ whispered Eve to Danny, who was at the wheel next to her.
He shrugged, one hand pushing his blond fringe back, leaving traces of clay clinging to individual strands. ‘Not sure, think he’s a bit uneasy about…’ Danny indicated towards the front of the class where Minnie was gazing up at Raj from her wheel, one hand on his arm as he helped fix her egg cup.
Eve nodded, giggling a little conspiratorially. ‘I see.’
Minnie turned then, Gerald still standing there lost. ‘Darling, could you get Raj a green tea, you know I told you he doesn’t drink caffeine.’ Gerald had turned, muttering to himself. Eve’s new pot wobbled as she bit down on a laugh.
‘I think he’s worried about the competition,’ Danny confirmed, waggling his eyebrows and setting her off again.
Sure enough, the week was spent with Gerald wandering into the lessons feigning interest and sometimes asking Minnie random questions under the clear guise of spying on Raj. Lowest points: ‘Do you know where I put my secateurs?’ and ‘There is a squirrel on my car.’ Danny had hidden under his wheel on that one, shaking with laughter, as Eve had got up pretending to go and hunt for more clay on the other side of the room. When the visits caused Minnie to banish him from lessons, Gerald could be spotted walking across the lawn peering in sideways, pruning trees that didn’t need pruning and suddenly emerging from the dining room at the end of lessons, at one point making Eve jump and step straight back onto Danny’s toes.
Eve loved the lessons, was sad not to have her phone so she could call her friends and tell them more, relying on emails to keep her in touch and make her laugh. She hadn’t seen any more of Greg after that first night and, later in the week, she found herself walking into the village, hoping on the off-chance she would bump into him.
Too cold to wait around for long, she had sat on a bench next to the enormous Christmas tree with a hot chocolate, the air smelling of pine needles, her shopping bags around her feet, Marmite trying to steal her marshmallows when she wasn’t looking. Various men walked by bundled inside winter wear but no sign of Greg. She had prattled on while they’d cooked and she hadn’t thought to ask him more about himself. There were no sightings and, as she waved goodbye to her potter friends for the weekend, Marmite in tow this time, sad to be leaving Sandy who had already become his Best Dog Friend, she wondered idly what she would do on her first Friday night alone in a long while.
She thought she was seeing things as she picked her way across the common back to the boat. She was feeling a little lost without her mobile so perhaps her mind had conjured up friends? If it was an optical illusion it was a pretty brilliant one.
‘Surprise!’ the optical illusion called.
Eve stared at the two people standing towards the front of the boat. One dressed in a bright-blue duffel coat, fluffy hat with bobble on her head and a sheepish smile on her face, the other in a slate-grey cashmere coat and heeled boots, clutching a handbag to her chest as if a little unsure how to hold it.
‘Dais’, Ro-Ro,’ Eve said, feeling her face break into the most enormous grin. She couldn’t believe it. Marmite couldn’t believe it either, spinning and yapping at their legs, jumping up on Ro-Ro’s cashmere coat until Eve noticed her expression and rushed forward to sweep him away. She apologised all the way into the boat, suddenly aware of the smell of algae and wet dog.
‘Sorry, gosh, wait…’ Eve started patting the cushions, clearing half-empty mugs and her crumb-covered plate from breakfast into the sink.
Inside the tiny space there suddenly seemed no room to breathe, and as Eve raced about, putting the kettle on and showing them the bathroom and bedroom beyond, she felt a strange defensive feeling. She wished she had known; she might have put fresh flowers in a vase or been sitting waiting with a chilled bottle of wine. She wanted them to think this was all a wonderful idea but she could see Ro-Ro standing strangely suspended between the bathroom and kitchen, bag still clutched to her, looking around at the miniscule kitchen, taking in the drying underwear on a string in the shower, the damp shoes in a heap by the door, and almost tripping over Marmite’s food bowl.
‘It’s so small.’
Daisy, however, had already browsed the small bookshelf underneath the television that Eve still didn’t know how to turn on, had topped up the crackling remnants of the woodburning stove and had curled up with the orchid book on the bench.
‘There’s a flower in here called a Dracula simia that looks just like a monkey’s face.’
‘I know, the Orchis simia look like dancing monkeys. Cool, eh? Also, Dais’, go to page 78. You won’t believe it.’
Ro-Ro rolled her eyes. ‘Christ, you two. Right, where is the wine, and tell me why you have felt the need to abandon the real world, i.e. London, and come and live like a river rat.’
‘Very to the point.’
Ro-Ro shrugged and held out her hand to accept the glass that Eve had found.
‘I can see his penis!’ Daisy had turned the orchid book on its side.
‘I know, brilliant, isn’t it?’ Eve said, laughing at Daisy’s face. ‘An actual naked man. Nature is naughty.’
Ro-Ro relented, walking across to Daisy and snapping her fingers for the book, her face barely moving as she examined it. ‘Not very well endowed.’
‘Well, he is just a flower.’ Eve shrugged, feeling sorry for her orchid. ‘So are you staying the night?’ Eve asked them, propping up a fold-up chair that hooked onto the wall and settling herself into it.
‘I am.’ Daisy nodded. ‘If that’s okay?’ sh
e checked.
‘I can’t stay,’ Ro-Ro said in her booming voice, still standing, the top of her head nearly touching the ceiling of the boat. ‘Anyway, there is absolutely no room, how does anyone live like this?’ she asked in disbelief, holding out her arms to touch both sides of the boat. ‘You basically have to be a hobbit.’
‘I think it’s cosy,’ Daisy said quietly, eyes quickly returning to the orchid book.
‘Cosy, I suppose. Daisy told me she was coming down here and I wanted to stop by.’ Ro-Ro put her head to one side, which Eve knew to be her ‘sympathetic pose’, and pressed her lips together. ‘I hear you are escaping down here over Christmas. Totally understandable.’
Eve felt a flush of surprise. This was pretty empathetic of Ro-Ro. It didn’t last particularly long.
‘Anyway, I’m heading home for more wedmin. I’m getting Hugo to pick me up at Didcot, his mother is meeting us at the house as she wants to see where the cake will be set up and my mother is completely dreading her being there as the house is a state, boxes everywhere, so I need to be there to act as go-between. Weddings are soooo stressful.’ She mopped her brow in a cartoon gesture and Eve tried to look like she was nodding along, but she couldn’t help being reminded of her own wedding plans. When Liam had asked her, Eve had been keen to tell Ro-Ro quickly; she was engaged too and Eve thought she might have advice. She’d talked about swapping mood boards and promised her they’d go wedding dress shopping together.
None of it had really panned out, Ro-Ro hadn’t wanted to go to any of the sample sales Eve had earmarked, and then Liam and her had broken up and Ro-Ro had stopped ringing. Now she was walking up the aisle in less than two weeks and Eve was on a houseboat in the middle of nowhere with no man, no wedding and no mood board (Liam had taken his laptop; it was saved on there).
They sat and talked about Ro-Ro’s wedding plans, listening in mystified awe as she discussed the arrangements. It all sounded suitably complicated and Eve said a quick prayer of thanks that she didn’t have a role in it. Hugo’s sisters were bridesmaids, Ro-Ro had made a big fuss about it, but in truth Daisy and Eve had drifted apart from her in recent years. Eve secretly thought there was no way Ro-Ro would have entrusted her with any responsibility even if they had still been close. Woe betide the bridesmaid that failed to march in front of the wedding party scattering flower petals.