The garden is a wild tangle of plants and brambles, a scruffy lawn crowded by overhanging trees and hedgerows. The blackberries hang like plump jewels from the thickets surrounding the vegetable patch where Ted has been digging. A robin, perched on the handle of his spade, takes flight as they approach.
‘I think Lucy has chosen rather a good weekend to celebrate her wedding,’ says Ted, dropping several plump blackberries into his bowl.
‘Why’s that?’
‘It’s the autumn equinox on Sunday, the point when our hemisphere begins to lean away from the sun, bringing shorter days and longer nights. Rather apt, don’t you think, to celebrate the last long day of the season, the last moment we lean towards the light, rather than away?’
Margot nods. ‘How very Lucy. I wonder if she knows.’ She moves along the hedgerow, drawn by a cluster of fat berries hanging on a nearby stem.
‘I can remember blackberrying with you when you were little,’ says Ted, after a moment of companionable silence. ‘I’d hoist you onto my shoulders so you could reach the juiciest berries,’ he adds, eyeing the prize fruit way out of reach on the brambles high above their heads.
‘I remember,’ smiles Margot, picking a berry and popping it into her mouth. She looks across at her father, at his stooped frame and grey hair and marvels at the thought of being small enough to sit on those shoulders, steering him by his ears like a biddable pony. It makes her chest ache to remember. ‘Eve always gathered the most. She was the most patient. Lucy would get bored too quickly, and you and I, we always ate more than we put in the bowl.’ She hesitates. ‘It was good, wasn’t it … back then?’
Ted nods. ‘It was good.’
‘We were lucky we got to spend so much time with you. Not like lots of dads. It was hard … when you left.’
‘I know you don’t understand, but Sibella is good for me. I love her. I hope you can see that?’
‘Weren’t you worried about Mum?’
He clears his throat. ‘Yes. Of course. But our relationship had broken down by then. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure your mother would be that affected by my departure. She was so wrapped up in her writing. I’m sure you remember? We had become two adults sharing living space. It wasn’t enough for me.’
Margot nods and feels that stirring in her chest again, that ache of longing – the feeling Margot is starting to associate with her return home – a nostalgic yearning for an unreachable past: her sisters a constant, effervescent presence; her father still living at home; and her mother … well, her mother still the same complicated, distracted woman, but all before … before. She swallows, the taste of blackberries souring on her tongue.
‘It was an act of self-preservation,’ Ted continues. ‘You girls were mostly grown. Kit and I weren’t making each other happy – hadn’t been for a long while – and I felt stifled, creatively. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’ve only felt able to write again since I moved here to be with Sibella. That’s not to blame your mother. That’s on me. My issues. I’m not proud of that.’ He clears his throat again, as if awkward at how much he has revealed. ‘What about you, love?’ he asks, changing the subject. ‘Is there anyone special in your life? A boyfriend?’ He coughs. ‘Girlfriend?’
Margot smiles. ‘There was someone … he’s just a friend though.’
‘Oh yes?’ Ted waits but Margot doesn’t know what to tell him. She’s certainly not going to share the details of her last confused encounter with Jonas. She turns away and busies herself with a blackberry bush, working her way down the hedgerow. How to make sense of that last night in Edinburgh?
It was the vodka, of course – always the drink – too much consumed on the same night Eve’s message had arrived on her phone. She’d read the text revealing Lucy’s last-minute wedding plan and flicked off the kettle, instead pouring herself a large drink – three fingers of vodka mixed with the last of the orange juice from the fridge. Then she’d taken her glass and the bottle to the living room where she had weighed up her options. Damn you, Lucy, she’d thought.
There was no doubt in her mind that it would be easier not to go. Not that Lucy or Eve would see it that way. She knew they would never forgive her for missing the Big Day. She’d been all but ready to send a carefully worded reply when Lucy’s message had come through, as if she had somehow, all those miles away, heard Margot mentally constructing her excuses. Please come. I need you.
Beyond the top-floor living-room window of Jonas’s flat, the Edinburgh skyline had glowered against a dusky sky, her gaze settling on the familiar brick outline of the old townhouses across the street, the spires of St Giles’s Cathedral jutting in the distance. Ever since that first afternoon when she had stepped from the train with just one rucksack on her back and no real clue of what she was doing or where she was going other than trying to put as much distance between herself and Windfalls as possible, the city had been a refuge for her. The beautiful, built-up cityscape couldn’t have been more different to the landscape of home, with its soft greenery, its swaying trees, the rushing river and birdsong. Could she step back into that place and hold the pieces of herself together? Was she ready? Could she navigate her way through a few days with her family and leave unscathed?
Finding it impossible to ignore Lucy’s request, she had downed her drink and opened her laptop to research the train times and connections from Edinburgh to Bath. By the time Jonas had returned home a couple of hours later, staggering in under bags of camera equipment, she had already booked a return ticket and made a serious dent in the bottle of vodka.
‘You’re back,’ she’d said, struggling to sit upright on the sofa, aware how drunk she was. ‘How was it? Switzerland, wasn’t it?’
‘Great. Terrible flight home though. Turbulence. I could do with one of those.’ He’d nodded at the vodka bottle.
‘Be my guest.’
Jonas had retrieved a glass from the kitchen and slumped next to her on the sofa. Margot had studied him with a sideways look. He’d caught the sun while away and the blonde stubble on his jawline glinted gold in the lamp light. He’d downed a shot, neat, then reached into his battered leather jacket. ‘I brought you a gift.’ He’d pulled something small, wrapped in a brown paper bag, out of the pocket.
Inside, she’d found a key ring, a plastic cuckoo clock dangling from its chain. ‘Wow, that’s …’ She’d struggled to find the words. ‘Really …’
‘Kitsch?’ He’d grinned at her. ‘Pull the chain. Go on.’
She had and the tiny ornament had cuckooed at her, surprisingly loudly. She’d laughed. ‘I love it. Thank you.’ Leaning back as he’d topped up their glasses, she had studied him more closely.
There was no denying that their relationship had changed over the past year, from that polite first meeting when she had answered the ‘room to let’ sign on the library noticeboard. On the phone, he had told her that he was looking for someone ‘quiet and easy-going’ to share the rent and bills on his home. She had gone round that evening to inspect.
‘What do you do?’ he’d asked her, as she’d stood in the doorway to his spare room, staring around at the sparse furnishings.
‘I work in the library.’
‘You’re a librarian?’
‘Kind of. In training. I’m general dogsbody … though I run the kids’ story times,’ she’d added, trying to find something she could share with him that would make her sound a little less flaky, a little more responsible and reliable as a potential flatmate.
She’d noticed he spoke with an accent, the words leaving his mouth in an offbeat rhythm, his vowels containing an unusual, almost musical lilt. Scandinavian, she’d decided, with his dishevelled blonde hair, olive skin and blue eyes. He was tall too, with the sort of strong hands that wouldn’t have looked out of place swinging an axe in a forest. In the kitchen, she’d eyed a photo tacked to the fridge of a striking blonde woman sitting beside a lake, a flare of sunshine caught in her hair. The family resemblance was obvious. ‘Your mum?’<
br />
‘Yes.’
‘She’s lovely.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Did you take it?’ she’d asked, having already clocked the bags of camera equipment lined up in the hall.
‘Yes.’ He’d hesitated. ‘She died five years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t look like a kind-of-in-training librarian,’ he’d said, eyeing the ink on her arm and clearly trying to change the subject.
She’d shrugged. ‘Well I am.’ She’d felt momentarily disconcerted – self-conscious about what he might see standing opposite him: a slim, dark woman in torn black jeans with a severe bob and furrowed brow.
But whatever he’d seen obviously hadn’t caused him too much concern. ‘When can you move in?’
She had hesitated. He seemed friendly enough and looking around at the flat’s neat interior and at the Edinburgh rooftops glistening beyond the window, she knew it was a damn sight better than the hostel she had been camping out in. More comfortable – more private – and, best of all, almost affordable now that she had regular work at the library. ‘Next week?’
At first she’d kept out of his way, hiding in her room, avoiding the lounge whenever he was home, scuttling to and fro between the small bathroom and kitchen. Truth be told, she’d been a little suspicious of his good looks and glamorous-sounding job. ‘A photographer,’ he’d told her, confirming her guess. ‘Editorial portraits and the like, for magazines and media agencies. I’m often away on shoots. You’ll hardly see me.’ But after a couple of months, he’d knocked on her bedroom door. ‘Listen, Margot, I know I said I wanted a quiet flatmate, but I didn’t mean invisible.’ He’d waved a bottle of red wine at her. ‘I don’t like to drink on my own. Would you like a glass?’
Their friendship had grown, slowly, carefully, with the odd glass of wine and the occasional shared meal perched on the sofa, or a box-set binge on one of his rare weekends off. She liked him. She liked how he always asked her about her day, how he hadn’t seemed at all fazed when he’d found out who her mother was, and how he hadn’t been afraid of the silences that fell in their conversation. He didn’t race to fill the space, but let the conversation settle, with their thoughts. She liked how he sometimes showed her his work, scrolling through images on his computer screen, asking her which ones she liked best, as if her opinion mattered to him. ‘You have a good eye,’ he’d told her. ‘There’s a creative side in you wanting to break free.’
‘I once thought I’d like to be an actress,’ she’d said, surprised to hear the words leaving her mouth.
‘What changed?’
She’d shrugged. ‘I suppose life gave me a reality check.’
‘It’s not an easy industry to crack,’ he’d agreed, and she hadn’t said any more on the matter.
Placing the cuckoo-clock key ring onto the coffee table between them, she had smiled at Jonas. ‘Thank you.’
‘Want to hear something strange?’ he’d asked, taking a big glug of his vodka, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa.
‘Always. I like strange.’
‘I missed you.’
She’d laughed. ‘That wasn’t what I was expecting you to say.’
‘I know.’ He’d held her eye and Margot had been the first to look away. His eyes were so blue and his mouth seemed so … so close.
‘Margot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it just me?’
‘Is what just you?’
He’d raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you going to make me spell it out?’
She’d hesitated, and then, as if driven by some magnetic pull, she had leaned in and kissed him.
‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked, pulling back to search her face and Margot had nodded and kissed him harder, proving to herself as much as to Jonas that yes, she was sure.
They had undressed quickly in his bedroom, a tangle of clothes and limbs and for a while, they had lost themselves in the sensation of each other. He was so known to her now, and yet so physically unknown. A surge of longing rose up in her, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for a long time. She felt it building: a need to be close, to be touched, to be seen. She didn’t think about their friendship or the complications of them sharing a flat. She gave in to the moment.
Only with the rising desire had come the sting of something else. She’d opened her eyes and tried to focus on Jonas – her friend – kissing her. But the sting was unfurling into something dark and miserable, wrapped in the rank scent of rotting apples and fetid earth. Something dark was seeping out of her and stealing the moment and she couldn’t stand it. Margot had thrown her head back and moved Jonas’s hands to her throat. She’d clamped them around her neck and squeezed tightly. Jonas had held her for a moment before pulling his hands away. She’d guided them back. ‘Do it,’ she’d said. ‘I want you to.’
Jonas had frowned. ‘Margot,’ he’d said, her name soft and low, a warning.
‘Please,’ she’d said. ‘Do it.’
‘Margot. I’m not going to hurt you.’
She’d studied him, her gaze meeting his in the darkness, the fleeting pressure of his fingers on her throat still prickling against her skin. She’d looked away. ‘Well, that’s killed the mood, hey?’ she’d said, sitting up and reaching for her T-shirt.
‘Come here,’ he’d said, pulling her back to him. ‘It’s OK. Let’s lie here for a bit.’
And so they had, the two of them lying on his bed, his fingers tracing the ink on her arm. ‘What does it mean?’ he’d asked.
She’d stared down at the tattoo. ‘Nothing.’
He had stayed quiet for so long that she’d thought he’d fallen asleep, until he’d spoken again. ‘What was that about, Margot?’
‘It was nothing.’
‘Nothing. Like the tattoo.’
No, she thought. Nothing, like me.
‘There’s something about you, Margot. You act so dark and angry. You hide so much of yourself. Yet I see something else in you – a light – that’s trying to escape.’
‘I don’t think you should trust what you’re seeing.’
‘But I do, Margot. I have to. It’s my job. Seeing. Revealing. Exposing. The best photographers always find the light.’
In the darkness of his room, she had lain with her head on his chest. His breathing had reminded her of an ocean tide, rising and falling. A car had driven past on the street outside. There had been the sound of a bottle smashing. A high-pitched laugh. For some reason her mind had returned to the image of Jonas’s mother tacked to the fridge in the kitchen. The thought of that blonde, glamorous woman made her feel deeply uncomfortable – so opposite, so golden, so wholesome-looking. A man like Jonas couldn’t be with someone like her.
She’d closed her eyes and tried to match his breathing – tried to fall sleep beside him – but his arm had lain heavy across her, the hot press of his skin on hers, the weight of it growing uncomfortable. Eventually, she’d given up, slipping out from between his sheets and retrieving her scattered clothes. She’d packed a bag, scribbled a brief note and left at dawn, taking the first train from Edinburgh, the first beats of her hangover rising with the sun.
Standing in Sibella’s overgrown vegetable garden, with the hedgerows rustling and the distant sound of cattle lowing echoing across the valley, that city – the flat, Jonas – all seem a world away. Margot sighs. She likes Jonas – a lot – and his home and his friendship have been something of a haven to her over the past year. Only she’d gone and messed that up now with their clumsy encounter. The Queen of Self-Sabotage. The only way she could see to salvage the good thing it had once been was to steer them back onto familiar territory. Landlord and tenant. She had to hold him at arm’s length, the way she held everyone else.
Pushing thoughts of Jonas away, she looks down at her bowl and sees that it is almost spilling over with blackberries. Her fingers are stained a deep red with the juice. A little further away, Ted has also filled his bowl. ‘Not
sure I can pick any more,’ she calls. ‘Leave the rest for another day?’
Ted nods and they turn back for the cottage, but before they get to the stable door, she feels her father’s hand on her arm. ‘Margot, hold up,’ he says, his voice serious.
‘What?’ She turns, startled.
He seems to steel himself. ‘There’s something I need to know.’
‘What?’ she asks again.
‘Why did you do it?’
Margot freezes, the blackberries held before her.
‘Why did you burn it? All that work, years of it spent on that last blasted book, gone up in smoke. Do you know what that did to her? Personally. Professionally.’
Margot holds her father’s gaze for a moment before looking away.
Ted sighs. ‘I don’t understand. I know you’re not a bad person, but it seems so … so malicious.’
Margot swallows. Not a bad person. Of course he wants to believe that.
‘If you were upset at my leaving you both, why punish her? You could have come here, set fire to my work. God knows,’ he says with a grim laugh, ‘at that point in my career, you’d have been doing me a favour. Whichever way I look at it, it doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I don’t suppose it does.’
‘Tell me. Help me understand.’
She lifts her head. She can see the confusion in his eyes, the sadness and something else … is it fear? Fear, perhaps, of who she is – of what she is capable of? Fear that she isn’t the daughter he thought she was? Fear that he might not know her at all? At the sight of it, she feels something shift inside of her. She cannot tell him. She cannot tell any of them. She turns away.
Perhaps sensing that the moment is lost, that she has withdrawn, Ted sighs. ‘Come on, we’d best get back to Sibella.’
She nods, grateful that he isn’t going to press her further.
As they walk back to the house, a question comes to her. ‘Are you happy for Lucy?’ she asks, curious as to what their father’s opinion might be of her sudden race down the aisle. ‘Do you think she’s making a good decision?’
The River Home : A Novel (2020) Page 12