Offcomer

by Jo Baker

  Mrs. Rothwell opened the gate. Claire stepped awkwardly aside to let her pass.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you,” Mrs. Rothwell said. “I’m sure Jennifer will be delighted.”

  Claire nodded, lips folded in against her teeth. Mrs. Rothwell stood, smiling, waiting for her to go, and there was nothing for it but to turn and set off in the direction she had indicated.

  Claire followed the shore road. She walked warily, unsure of the ground beneath her. More than ever, the hills looked unconvincing, like they were painted onto canvas. The whole valley seemed to be made up of theatrical flats that could at any moment be lifted, shifted, whisked away. And the angle and camber of the road, the overhead segment of the sky all seemed to have, unnoticed, heaved a sigh and settled back ever so slightly different. She looked around her suspiciously. If it happened again, she wanted to catch it happening.

  A drystone wall ran along the edge of the road, between her and the backdrop. As she walked, Claire ran a hand along the wall, brushing her fingertips over warm stone, cool moss, flaky lichen. The wall seemed real enough. It was warm; it felt almost alive. It seemed to swell with breath, to pulse. She twitched her hand away, stuffed it in her pocket. Everything was wrong; everything was strange. She resisted the urge to run.

  She passed the head of the reservoir, followed the bend round into the dale. The road twisted out ahead of her, following the course of the beck. Half a mile ahead, it crossed the beck with a bump of a bridge, then hugged the far bank until it reached its terminus. A cluster of barns roofed with rusting corrugated iron, and the low, slated pitch of the farmhouse. Braithwaites’. By the bridge, a chalky track opened off to the right and crept up the steep hill. Gorse Cottage was at the end of the track. You couldn’t see it from the road.

  Claire hadn’t been to the cottage for years. The last time was, perhaps, that party, when Tom had first moved in. And that was what, six, seven years ago now. Jennifer had done Claire’s make-up that night and lent her clothes, peeling them off the floor and handing them to her; she watched herself in the mirror as she changed. Walking up together with beer bottles clinking in their bags, Claire had felt a cloud of Jennifer’s scent cling to her like a Ready-Brek glow. They had sat out in the garden as it grew dark and got dizzily drunk on Newcastle Brown, rolling their empty bottles away down the sloping grass. Later, Claire had thrown up in the bushes and fallen asleep on the sofa. She had long since stopped thinking about the uncomfortable, barely remembered loss of her virginity. It was just bumping into Nick that she didn’t like.

  The gravel rolled and skidded out from under her feet. The hill was steep. A sudden helix shift and it seemed as if she was crawling painfully down towards the sky. She became aware of a regular, echoing pulse. It was coming from up ahead, from the cottage. She could just see the wooden fence, silvered with age, and the end wall of the house. The noise grew louder. It sounded metallic, gritty. She rounded the last corner, came to the crest of the slope.

  Tom Braithwaite was sitting on his doorstep, a block of pale limestone between his booted feet, a chisel in one hand, a mallet in the other. His arm rose and fell, beating out the chimes that Claire had heard. Tiny flakes of stone flew into the air, dust hung in a cloud around him. He seemed absorbed, content. She stood watching, trying to work out what he was making. He must have sensed her: he looked up. The mallet stopped, suspended above the haft of the chisel. He smiled.

  “Well,” he said. He put down his tools, ran his hand over the curve of the rock. Claire came up to the gate.

  “Hi.”

  “Come in, come in.” He stood up, rubbed a hand through his dusty hair, then brushed off his dark jeans. “How are you? We weren’t expecting you.”

  We?

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “You’ll be after Jenny, then?”

  Jenny?

  “Yes.”

  He smiled again. His teeth, Claire noticed, were white and strong-looking. From breathing all that calcium dust, she thought.

  “She’s at work,” he said.

  “Ah,” Claire said, and glanced down at her hands.

  “At the pub,” Tom explained. “You can catch her down there. She’s not too busy, mornings.”

  This was all wrong.

  “Or you could wait. She won’t be too long. I’ll put the kettle on. Come in.”

  “No, no. Thanks.”

  Claire turned to go.

  “Well, you’ll most likely meet her on the road.”

  “Right.”

  “She’ll be glad to see you,” Tom called after her. “She’s been missing you.”

  This was all so wrong. Claire shivered.

  Out of sight, she slithered down the gravel track at a half-run, reached the shore road. Setting off along it, she found herself breaking into an anxious, rib-clutching trot, her feet slapping down hard on the tarmac, her chest raw. Jen was here, she was definitely here somewhere, and everything was out of kilter. At the dam, the road dipped down into the valley and as she ran she could see again the mossy pitch of Jen’s house; nearer, the pub’s slated roof glistened wetly. The cloud was breaking up, the rain had ceased. Striding stiff-legged and breathless down the last slope, her arm wrapped around her stitch, she felt an ache in her bones and a tightness in her throat and lungs. She hadn’t had a cigarette, she realised, since she last saw Jen, but for some reason she was desperate for one now. She stopped at the corner, leant against the wall. She coughed, spat, waited as the cramp in her chest eased. Association, she thought. I associate associating with Jen with smoking cigarettes.

  The front door was open. She slipped through.

  It was dark inside. Even after the dubious light of the summer afternoon, she had to stop and wait for a moment while her pupils readjusted. A slim figure, back towards her, was bending over a low table. An aerosol can was shaken, polish sprayed and wiped across the surface with a duster. Dark jeans, dark top. Hair caught up in a bun on the back of her head.

  “Jen?” Claire said, uncertain.

  The young woman straightened, turned.

  “Bloody hell,” she said. A half-second’s hesitation, then she came up to Claire, wrapped her arms around her and squeezed, almost lifting her off her feet, duster and spraycan still clutched in her hands. “Bloody Hell!”

  Claire’s arms were crushed to her sides, her cheek was pressed against still-damp hair. She closed her eyes, breathed in the clean smells of shampoo and furniture-polish and washing-powder. Her throat tightened.

  “Fuck, you’ve got thin,” Jennifer said, loosening her grip. She looked Claire gravely in the face. “You’re skin and bones.” She let her go, set her duster and polish down on the table.

  “Nah,” Claire grinned back at her, happy with relief. “Same as ever.” This was Jen. No question about it. Whatever Tom said, this was still Jen.

  “How long you back for?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Where’s Alan?”

  Claire shrugged. “There’s no Alan anymore.”

  “Well thank fuck for that. Did you take him out yourself or did you get someone else to do it? Should’ve asked me. I’d’ve done it for free. I’d’ve paid you.” Jennifer, grinning, put a hand on the round of Claire’s shoulder, shook her gently. Claire’s nose prickled. A moment’s silence, then Jen laughed.

  “How the fuck are you?” she asked, with another shake.

  “I’m okay.”

  “And how’s The Emerald Isle?”

  “It’s grey.”

  “We should come over and see you sometime.” Jennifer released her, moved across the room towards the bar.

  “You should. Of course. You should.”

  Jen lifted a hatch in the counter, slid through. She walked back down the bar’s length to face Claire. She smiled.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “Is it weird, being back?”

  “Yeah. It’s weird.”

  Jennif
er nodded towards the taps. “What are you having?”

  “It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

  “It’s early-ish, I s’pose.”

  “Are you having one?”

  “You bet ya. This is a celebration, you know: it’s not every day I have you back.” She rested her hands on the counter, businesslike. “What’ll it be? Kamikaze, Newky Brown? No Mitchells anymore. They went bust. I could make you a cup of coffee, of course, but I don’t think I will. I do do a nice pint of Guinness, though.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I pour a great pint! I can even do the shamrock thing.” Jennifer pulled a face. “So, what’ll it be?”

  Glancing up, Jen plucked a pint glass from an overhead shelf. Tom, Claire thought, didn’t know what he was talking about. Jen was Jen and hadn’t changed, and wasn’t, it could be safely said, Jenny. Maybe Jen was pleased to see her, but she hadn’t actually been missing her. Jen was always far too busy, far too happy to miss her.

  “So you’re working here now?” Claire asked.

  “I’m just about finished. You can see we’re not rushed off our feet this time of day.” Jen held the glass up. “You still haven’t told me what you’re having.”

  “Och, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  “ ‘Och?’ ” Jennifer, angling the glass under the Kamikaze pump, raised an eyebrow at Claire. “When did you start saying ‘Och’?”

  “Must have picked it up in Belfast.”

  “Och’s not Irish. It’s Scottish.”

  Claire shrugged. Jennifer handed her the beer, rummaged underneath the counter and fished out a packet of crisps. “Seabrook’s finest. Prawn Cocktail Crinkle Cut. Bet you can’t get those in Belfast.” She slid the packet across the bar. “Eat them. Put some weight on for fuck’s sake. You’re making me feel really lardy.”

  “Don’t be daft.”

  “No arguments. Jen knows best. You just take a seat over there near the fire, and I’ll be with you in a minute. Kick old Bonzo out of the way.”

  Claire, drink in one hand, crisps in the other, stepped over the sleeping lurcher and slid onto the fireside bench. So Jen was back here for a while at least, since she was working in the pub. That was clear enough. And whatever Jen did it was always the best possible thing to do. That had always been clear. Claire sucked the beer-foam through her teeth, eased open the crisp packet, caught a whiff of saccharine and salt. The facts jostled for position. She couldn’t quite make them settle.

  Jennifer came round from behind the bar, put down her pint, pulled back a stool and sat down. She placed her tobacco pouch on the table and began to roll a cigarette. Claire watched her face. There was something different about her. Her skin was clear, clean, tanned. There were the first hints of lines at the corners of her eyes. She blinked and Claire saw the crust of mascara on her eyelashes, and realised what had changed. Jennifer, who had worn foundation, concealer, powder, blusher, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, the lot, every day since she was fifteen, was now making do with what looked like a scraping of mascara and a smear of lipsalve.

  “You’re looking well,” Claire said doubtfully.

  Jennifer glanced up from her hands, smiled. “Thanks a lot. You look like shit. Are you going to tell me what’s up, or aren’t you?”

  “I’m tired?”

  “Bollocks. Tired doesn’t make you thin. Not eating makes you thin. Why aren’t you eating? If you’re worrying about the Alan thing, don’t. You did the right thing.”

  “I didn’t,” Claire said. “He dumped me.”

  Jennifer half laughed, shaking her head. “Fucking hell, Claire.”

  “Or at least, that’s what it felt like. I’m not really sure what happened.”

  “Someone else involved?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Well, there should have been. You could do with some fun, fuck’s sake.” Jen lifted the half-made cigarette to her lips, licked along the paper’s edge. She gave it a final twist, tucked the cigarette between her lips, lit it.

  “What about you and Tom?” Claire said. “Last I heard of it, it was just a fling.”

  “Oh, it was. Still is. Hope we’ll be flinging till we’re old and wrinkly and smell of wee. Best fun I’ve ever had.” A pause. She grinned at Claire. “No offence.”

  “None took.” Claire looked into her open packet, picked out a crisp, put it into her mouth. It stuck to her tongue and gave off a faintly suspect flavour. She swallowed. “I was up at the cottage,” she said thickly. “I saw him.”

  “He’s working on his carving. He’s gone part-time with Halls.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “We do okay. Just sold one of his sculptures. Rates needed paying.” Jennifer spoke quickly, over a held-back lungful of smoke.

  “Oh.”

  She exhaled. “His stuff’s beautiful. He doesn’t talk about it much, but when he does, you can’t help believing him. He knows what he’s doing and he knows why he’s doing it.”

  “Oh. Right.” Claire hesitated. “That’s great.”

  So that was it. Jen had fallen in love. She had fallen in love with Tom, and had decided to stay. Tom was an artist. He made her happy. It was unexpected turn of events, but not impossible: it kind of made sense. Claire picked up her glass, took another mouthful of beer, swallowed. The liquid seemed to go solid in her throat.

  “So you didn’t go to Birmingham, then?” she asked. “Didn’t fancy it after all?”

  “Oh no, I went.”

  “Oh,” Claire said. “Right.” She paused, reconsidered, shuffling her thoughts around again. “You’ve got some time off then? Up to see Tom, just helping out around the place here?”

  “Nope. Packed it in. Never going back.”

  Claire looked at her pint glass, reached out to set it more centrally on the beermat. Soon as it seemed like she’d got a grip, everything shifted sideways.

  “You’ll be off travelling before long, then?” she tried, after a moment. “Going together? You always fancied heading off into the wide blue yonder …”

  “No. We’re staying here. At least for the foreseeable.” Jennifer pressed her cigarette down into the ashtray’s notch, pushed her tobacco pouch across to Claire. “Sorry. D’you want one?”

  “Aye,” Claire said, reaching out for it. “Why not.”

  “ ‘Aye’?” Jennifer said. “I’ve never heard you say ‘Aye’ before.”

  “I must have picked it up in Belfast.” Claire tugged a paper out of its cardboard envelope, began teasing out tobacco along its length.

  “Bollocks. That’s local. You know that’s local.”

  “It’s Belfast.”

  “It’s from round here. You’re just being contrary. Learning to speak Lancashire when you’re blatantly living in Ireland.”

  “You’re no better. Ever since you went off to college. Your accent’s all over the place.” Claire lifted the paper, began rolling it between her fingers.

  “That time in Birmingham didn’t help,” Jennifer said, and sucked carefully on her cigarette. She paused to pick a shred of tobacco off the tip of her tongue. “When I started in November, just in time for the Christmas rush, I was sharing a flat with four Londoners. What with that and the customers all speaking Brummie, I kind of lost it. The accent, I mean.”

  “You must have been having a great time,” Claire said.

  Jennifer pouted, gave a half-shrug. “It was hard work. The place stayed open till three, then we had to tidy up afterwards. Stack all the chairs and tables so the cleaners could do the floors when they came in first thing. It’d be going four before we finished. Then we’d have a few beers, smoke a joint. Head home around six. Go to bed, sleep all day, get up in time to go to work. I didn’t see daylight for three months.”

  Claire felt her smile go fixed and twitchy. She glanced down at her hands, watched her fingertips as they rolled the cigarette. “But you had a laugh,” she said, lifting the narrow cylinder to her mouth to moisten the glue. “You had l
oads of friends. You enjoyed yourself. You had a great time.”

  “I couldn’t settle. I felt lost.”

  Claire’s smile stiffened. Her jaw clenched. Her hand, as it reached out for Jen’s lighter, looked odd and unfamiliar.

  “Birmingham’s a big place,” she suggested.

  “And ugly as fuck. Not that I ever saw it. Not by daylight.” Jennifer paused, took a deep drink. “I did have friends.”

  Claire scraped a flame from the lighter, drew on the cigarette. Tobacco tendrils glowed, shrivelled in the flame. The smoke hit her lungs. She shivered.

  “Because the club was new, we all started work there around the same time. So we were all kind of in the same boat. Most of us new in town, just out of university. And I was sharing the flat with work people, so we got to know each other quite quickly. But it was still kind of lonely. Everyone had their own thing going on. Everyone was kind of fighting their own corner, somehow. Nothing seemed reliable, or permanent. Well, it wasn’t, was it? I’m back here now.”

  “You needed a break. You missed Tom,” Claire said.

  Jennifer settled back, narrowed her eyes at the ceiling.

  She hadn’t missed him at first, she said. She was so busy, and for a while, there was someone else, one of the bouncers at the club. But it didn’t last, and when they broke up, it was pretty difficult. They still had to work together, and she had to try very hard not to notice when he picked up girls at the club.

  She hurt her back, lifting a stack of chairs. It got so bad that for a while she could hardly sleep. And she had stopped eating. At first, it was just there was no time to cook, no time to eat. Then she started throwing up anything she did manage to get down her. Which was mostly toast. Worst thing, she said, in the world, throwing up toast. Revolting. She didn’t think she could ever eat toast again.

  With her back gone, she was useless at work, so she took a week off sick, and came home, and slept for two days solid. The third day, when she got up, her back was a little less sore, a little looser. But she didn’t know what to do with herself. She felt twitchy, nervy; she couldn’t settle. She decided to go and see Tom. Up at the cottage he invited her in, made her a cup of coffee and they sat in front of his fire. They got on really well. Much better than over the summer. She had, she said, been a bit of an arsehole over the summer. All that crap about freedom and independence and her big plans. She spent the rest of the week with him. Did a lot of walking, as much as she could with her bad back. In the evening she’d lie on his hearth-rug with her back to the fire. The warmth seemed to help. At the end of the week she had to go back down to Birmingham. It was horrible. She was no sooner back than she started being sick again.