We reached the path that led to the top of the field.
‘He’s barking at the donkeys,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Yes, they’re lovely, aren’t they?’
‘Flora Shillingham told me she rescued them from the seaside. I wonder if they miss the sea.’
‘I shouldn’t think so.’
Shall we ask them? ‘Emily likes riding them.’
‘Really, how exciting.’
‘Only for her. I doubt the donkeys find it too thrilling.’
Now.
Now.
I stopped at the gate. Augusta stood there holding the latch. Jojo kept barking.
‘Quiet, Jojo, you’ll scare the donkeys. Jojo, shh!’
Come. On.
Sophie Rutherford climbed the gate and sat on the top of it, hair blowing in the wind. Augusta stared but Sophie couldn’t see her.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Rebecca, but it’s really best not to take my brother too seriously. Or Lucy. They’re always like that, when they get together. He likes the attention. I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.’
Both donkeys ambling over to us, ears forward, tails twitching, was any food on offer?
‘Well, I’m just the dog walker.’
‘Really? I think you’re a little more than that.’
She jumped down and walked over to pat the neck of a donkey, breathing into its ear. What a lovely donkey you are.
‘My brother does exactly what he wants to,’ she continued.
‘Always has. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt by that. Besides . . .’ She paused. ‘He has other commitments.’
‘What do you mean?’
Augusta was breathing cold air down my neck. Ask her. Sophie was now walking with the donkey across the field. She called back over her shoulder, ‘Why don’t you ask him?’
I wanted to get away from everyone. ‘Come here, Jojo, come on.’
‘Oh, leave him here with me, Rebecca, he’s enjoying himself. Ask my brother what he gets up to. It’s about time somebody did. He has no sense of responsibility. Pleases himself all the time.’
The wind caught her words and flung them away. I didn’t care about the dog. Not now. It’s nothing personal, Sophie, but I just can’t bear the way your hair swings in the wind. And you can leave me alone too, Augusta. Now.
I raced off up the path, around the back of the cemetery, behind the Rutherfords’ house. One was with the donkeys, the other was with him. Past the ancient graves I ran. Stumbling and sweating in the afternoon sun. I don’t want anyone, I don’t want you, Augusta, but she stood there, Come, little Buddey girl, come, and she beckoned me into her great wide wings.
No, Augusta. No! Leave me alone. This is my life.
I ran, she followed, I looked back to see, her wings unfolding. There was a small figure bent over the graves. Flora. Don’t think she saw me. I was running fast, a stitch coming. I thought of Algie—was he all right? Was he? This huge pull of energy pounded in my brain. It was making me run, I didn’t know what I was doing. There was nothing tying me to the ground. The afternoon seemed like years ago.
Jojo was chasing after me, good old Jojo, voting with his feet, didn’t want to stay with her, he wanted to come with me, racing ahead, ears back and waggling in the wind. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry, back through the gate, pushing open the heavy front door. Same stupid coat still on the stupid chair. No one in the living room. I raced up the stupid stairs.
Where is he?
Don’t you know?
You think I know him? He does what he likes. He has other commitments.
Odd sounds and giggling and laughing spreading through the house. Was that me? No one else was laughing now, were they?
That door—that one there.
Introduce me.
Two doors faced each other on opposite sides of the room. Paintings everywhere, I couldn’t see clearly, there were no lights and evening was drawing in. A door swung open. There was Alex, lying on the bed, paper and pencil in his hands, and there was Lucy Rutherford, lounging beside him, wine glass in her hand. An empty bottle of wine perched on the bedside table. He was drawing her when he had been drawing me.
Lucy’s eyes opened wide when she saw me standing there, my face like thunder. Cloud shadows racing across a field. ‘That didn’t take long. Where’s Jojo? Where’s Mummy?’
Mine.
No, Augusta. He’s mine.
‘She’s walking. In the field.’ No one cares where anyone is, don’t you get that, Lucy?
From the shadows she came. Her heavy wings, a bird, a crow, a flying thing. She was here now and she wanted him. This was her chance. The door slammed. Lucy was shouting ‘Fuuccckkk!’ She said, ‘It’s like it was before. What the fuck are you doing?’
I threw her bag and all her junk over the floor. ‘Get out, Lucy, now,’ I said.
Introduce me.
Augusta was there her hair curling around me, but I tried to shake myself free. Lucy jumped up from the bed. ‘Alex this is exactly what happened last time, she’s bloody bonkers. You shouldn’t let her in here.’
I opened the bedroom windows. Let’s have some fresh lovely air in here!
Augusta let go of me and knocked a painting from the wall.
‘Now do you believe me?’ said Lucy ‘She’s totally mad.’
‘Can everybody please calm down? What are you talking about, Lucy? What last time?’ said Alex March.
Alex was walking down the stairs, followed by me, followed by Lucy, who was saying, ‘She’s totally off her rocker.’
‘Let’s have a cup of tea or, better still, another glass of wine.’
‘Kick her out, why don’t you, Al?’ Lucy said, but I shot back, ‘You get out.’
‘Al, don’t just stand there, do something or I’m going to call the police,’ Lucy said.
‘Lucy, mind your own bloody business. I’ll sort this out, thank you. You’d better go. Now. I’ll call you later.’ He opened the door for her and out she went.
‘She’s totally fucking mad, Al, totally,’ she shouted back through the door, but Alex March had closed it firmly.
My legs felt strange. I didn’t belong here. This wasn’t my house. The man opposite was nothing to me. He grabbed two wine glasses and filled them both up.
‘Well now, Rebeccah Budde, whatever’s going on with you?’
Massive black feathers filled the room. She wasn’t going to stop me now.
His hands reached for my face. ‘What exactly is up with you? Come here, Rebeccah.’ He spoke tenderly to me.
All the feelings in the world were racing through me. The damp earth, the dripping night, wolves, words, I wanted everything to stop. I was all mixed up. I was dripping with desire, carrying the night and the day and all the unused energy and half-dreamed thoughts and half the sky and the thick night rain. Augusta. No. He is mine. I said this to her and I didn’t care if she heard me. I didn’t care what she might do. I drank a whole glass of wine in one go. Straight down my throat.
Alex March sipped his. ‘Whatever are we going to do with you? You get more and more interesting.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off his face, small flames danced in his eyes. I tried to touch them. They were burning my skin. I needed the fire to keep burning. She couldn’t reach me now, we were alive, we were real, we were flesh and we were bones. Clouds of steam rose from the kettle, higher and higher, filling the kitchen, the kettle screaming with the heat.
‘We don’t need that, do we?’ Alex March switched it off, put down his glass.
He explored the contours of my face with his fingers. Feeling his way around my eyes, running one finger down my nose, down my arm, unbuttoning my shirt, gently, gently. All the time I was watching his eyes, watching his face, so I could see it happen. He was dreaming and pulling me into his dream with his large sure hands. Flames flickered on his skin. He slid every part of himself into me, his tongue into my mouth, his hands over every part of my body, and it was
me, when I could stand it no longer, letting him set fire to my burning dream.
He said, ‘Come here, Rebeccah. Here.’ He removed my shirt, undid my jeans, he made undone the whole of me. ‘I knew you’d be like this,’ he said, ‘I knew you’d be like this.’
His arms, his hands, his legs, his mouth, fucked me on the kitchen floor. Every knowing part of him inside every unknown part of me.
Afterwards he stood me up, brushed me down, made me a cup of tea, kissed me gently on the lips. I laid my head on his shoulder, feeling once again his flesh and bones beneath me.
He said, ‘You okay?’ and I nodded.
I dressed and straightened up.
He touched the tips of my fingers with his as he walked me to the corner. ‘Sure you’re okay?’
My feet hardly touched the road.
‘Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’
I left him standing there. What had I done what had I done what had I done? Was this love? Or had something taken hold of me?
Closing Time
A week later, I stood in front of Mr Treadwell’s desk in the slightly shabby office where he’d interviewed me all those years ago. It was the last day of college for the term.
‘Keats? Absolutely, feel free to spend as much time with him as you like, Rebecca. Good idea to get a head start over summer.’
‘I’ve read “Bright Star”.’ Or, rather, someone read it to me.
‘Thoughts?’
‘It’s a lovely poem. A star isn’t just a star. I don’t understand how he finds such meaning in things.’
‘Subtext, metaphor and meaning. That’s the job of a poet.
To articulate their experience and allow that to speak through the work. After that, it’s all subjective, finding what speaks to you. Who you like or dislike.’
‘I feel like Byron’s playful, poking fun at people—especially in the Dedication. Some of his poems to his sister are really beautiful, though.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget he pokes fun at himself as well.’
‘I think Byron really fancied himself, and didn’t know when to stop. But there’s a real difference between his poems to Augusta and Don Juan. And I prefer the intimate, shorter poems. They’re real. Poignant. They get me here.’ I put my hand on my heart.
‘Wow. Poor old Keats then.’
‘No. Not poor old Keats. Sometimes his language is a bit old-fashioned.’
‘Context, remember, Rebecca. Understand the framework of the language of the nineteenth century, because that’s when he was living.’
‘Yes I know, but when I read Keats I can’t think of any better way to say what he has said. His words sink into me and stay there.’
‘That, Rebecca Budde, is the power of language. If I were you, I’d start with the odes. Sounds like you’re halfway there already. He wrote most of his best poems in a very short space of time. One concentrated burst of energy. If anyone should be feeling sorry for themselves, it would have to be Keats. No money, poor health, impending death, classic poet. I think you’ll really like him.’
‘Yeah, I think so too.’
‘Keep reading, Rebecca. That’s all you have to do. Maybe try writing something yourself. I think you could. Plus one essay, first week of next term. And of course, enjoy your summer.’
‘Thanks, Mr Treadwell. I will. And you.’
‘Cheers, Rebecca.’
Mr Treadwell saw what I might do, which was clever of him because I didn’t yet know that myself. I knew it was July. I knew I was avoiding Alex March, and I assumed he was avoiding me. Warm days, skies lazy and blue. I was back working at the pub. I needed the money. I needed the distraction. I didn’t glance in the direction of the manor house. I didn’t open the wardrobe door. I didn’t know what to say to Algie. I kept my eyes on the heavy white plates in front of me covered in glistening food. Every five minutes I was in and out of the swing doors which took me down to the sweet grass of England.
I hadn’t seen Alex March for days. For two whole weeks, but I wasn’t thinking about him now, was I? I was collecting the glasses and taking out plates full of food. The beer garden at the back of the pub filled up quickly with families and couples out for lunch in a nice old English pub.
‘Rebecca, take this. Come on, hurry up, they’re waiting.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t forget the mustard. Pickles in the fridge. Leave them out, we haven’t got time to keep putting them in and out, in and out.’
‘They’re on the table.’
‘Have we run out of cheese and onion crisps already? There’s a new box under the table.’
‘We need more glasses.’
‘Well get behind the bar and wash some up.’
I hadn’t noticed the group sitting at the table furthest away, close to the wild grass. Now full with dirty glasses the tub felt impossibly heavy in my hands. I wasn’t going near anyone I could see sitting there laughing, having a good time, but through the long grass there was a voice I recognised. A hand running through a head of dark hair. It was him, him. How well I knew that head, that voice. And it was her, Lucy Rutherford, and next to her a fair-haired boy who even sitting down was head and shoulders above her, and I’d bet I’d heard his voice before and seen the weight of his body on the bed above my head.
Sophie and Sebastian were there and in the middle of this fine summer tableau sat Alex March, a king with his courtiers, with one arm around the shoulder of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was eating a mouthful of crisps. Sipping the shandy.
My heart was beating uncontrollably fast. My stomach heaved and nearly threw itself into the plastic tub which was, by now, half killing me. What did it matter to me who she was? Alex March saw me standing there watching them. He turned and raised his glass to me. Walk, you idiot, walk. I headed straight for the swing doors.
His voice rang out, ‘Come and say hello!’ He could have been talking to anyone.
I was going to drop the tub. Instructions to self: keep walking. Sweat trickled down my face.
‘Rebeccah Budde!’ Words streaking through the sky, burning my shoulders. I could hear my name echoing around the pub. I had to shut him up. I was sweating over the plates. A pair of hands and a voice held the door open for me. He was far too close.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello, Rebeccah?’ That familiar voice. The weight of the plates was making my knees shaky.
‘I’m working.’
‘So you are. Come and have a drink after.’
I placed the plastic tub on the kitchen bench and started unpacking the dirty glasses and plates. My hands were sore. He stood there, staring at me with his dark eyes.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘How have you been?’
‘Well.’
‘Come and join us?’
‘I’m busy.’ You’ve got to be joking.
‘When you’re not busy.’
Amanda bustled into the kitchen, looking from me to him and back to me. ‘It’s mad out there. Come to give us a hand, Alex? Francesca’s back then?’
She glanced at me. ‘We need more ham. Get it out and I’ll slice it. How is Francesca then?’
I slowly unwrapped the large leg of ham from the fridge.
‘She’s great. Just telling Rebecca she should come and meet her.’
‘Meet who?’
‘His fiancée, Francesca. She lives in Italy, but pops over from time to time. Doesn’t she, Alex?’
‘Yes she does, absolutely.’
His fiancée. Of course. Absolutely.
Beads of sweat rolled down my face.
‘Pass me that please, Rebecca.’ Amanda gestured to the long sharp knife gleaming on the table with its freshly washed blade.
Alex’s dark curly hair flopped over his face and he put his hands in his pockets, leaned casually on the bench. Had he forgotten everything so easily? Had he forgotten the cold hard floor? His hands on my face? The slow walk home?
Amanda picked up the knife and I watched her carefully carve a thin slice of ham clean away from the bone.
‘You’d like me to come and meet your fiancée?’
‘Why not? She likes meeting my friends. Those who inspire me.’
‘She doesn’t speak English very well yet, does she, Alex? Bit of a struggle sometimes making sense,’ said Amanda, slicing more ham.
‘I haven’t finished your drawing yet, Rebecca. Come on over, later. Say hello. Have a drink with us.’
I picked up a glass half full of beer with bits of crisps and grass floating in it, intending to wash it.
‘Come on, Rebeccah, say yes.’ It was all so easy for him, standing there, in his summer clothes, with his beloved in the garden. ‘Jojo’s missed you.’
‘Poor Jojo.’ I threw what was left of the beer at his dark curls, at his brown eyes.
‘Rebecca! For goodness sake!’ Amanda handed him a tea towel.
He stood there wiping his face. ‘I probably deserved that.’
‘You’re still a customer, Alex. He’s a customer, Rebecca,’ Amanda hissed at me. ‘Alex, this will have to wait.’
He threw the tea towel at the pile with all the other dirty ones. I poured myself a glass of tepid water and stood at the sink drinking it.
‘I’ll take that as a no. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’ Alex March walked out of the pub kitchen.
‘It’s the heat, none of us are used to it,’ said Amanda. ‘He had it coming. There’s someone who’s never had to clear away the plates.’
‘I never knew he was engaged. Why didn’t he tell me?’ I drank the water slowly.
‘And spoil his fun? Come on, let’s get this place sorted. Rebecca, make sure we’ve got everything in.’ Amanda smiled at me. ‘I would have thrown this at him.’ She picked up a half-eaten pie from a plate and all the pastry crumbled through her fingers.
‘Next time I will.’
‘There isn’t going to be a next time, is there, my girl? Is there?’
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