The River Home : A Novel (2020)

by Richell, Hannah

  Kit grabbed another boot and hurled it at Ted. ‘Marriage? You fucking bastard. After all these years—’

  Margot couldn’t bear to witness any more. She left them, blocking out the shouts and thumps as more shoes followed in quick succession. She headed into the house, dragging her school satchel up to her room and flopped onto her bed where she turned her face to the wall.

  Now you girls are grown up. Her mother’s words echoed in her ears. Was she grown-up? She’d been having periods for a couple of inconvenient years, and her breasts, though disappointingly small, had definitely grown. They’d had the sex talk at school and she’d heard the whispers and giggles from some of the girls about Tanya and Darren going all the way at a house party last month. But Margot hadn’t even kissed anyone. She’d tried to imagine what it might feel like. She’d watched from the shadows at a summer disco as a group of her friends had played spin the bottle, girls strutting confidently across the circle to plant long, open-mouthed kisses on some of the boys from their year. But to Margot it was all a little unappealing – frightening, even – and somehow tied to that sense of discomfort and shame she had felt when she’d first realised her mother’s books were judged by some as little more than ‘smut’.

  She had read one last year. She’d stolen a paperback edition of The Dreamcatcher, the third of the Tora Ravenstone books, from the shelves now lining the walls of her mother’s riverside studio and had raced through it in three late-night clandestine readings over Christmas; no mean feat given the hefty size of the book. She had found it extraordinary: a whole, fantastical world peopled with imaginary characters that had sprung from her mother’s head. She had loved the heroine – her courage, her spirit, her drive to do the right thing in a world ruled by outlaws and violence – and had been drawn into the quest. And then the dashing, misunderstood warrior Aeron had arrived on the scene, Tora’s great love, and Margot had understood why her friends would smirk whenever her mother came up in conversation, and why copies of the book were stowed away in school backpacks and passed furtively from pupil to pupil. What those characters did to each other! It was an education in itself. Margot couldn’t stop reading, turning the pages with increasing speed, feeling an uncomfortable mix of shock and interest and strange twinges of warmth spreading through her as she read on and on late into the night.

  The morning after she’d finished the novel, she’d sat studying her mother over breakfast. The reading experience – the sheer excitement of the story and the appeal of Tora – still remained, but were now mingled with a new and complicated understanding. Her mother had written those scenes. They had come from her mind.

  ‘What is it?’ Kit had asked her, looking up from her coffee. ‘Why are you staring at me like that?’

  Margot had considered her words carefully. It would have been easier not to say anything, but she’d suddenly found herself blurting out, ‘I read one of your books.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Kit had smiled. ‘Which one? Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘The third.’ She’d hesitated. ‘The one with Aeron.’ She’d blushed as one of the more heated scenes between Tora and her lover returned unbidden in her mind.

  Kit had nodded, her smile widening. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It was, well …’ she struggled to find the words, ‘… kind of rude.’

  Kit’s laughter had erupted like Coke fizzing from a shaken can. ‘Yes, my darling,’ she’d said, as soon as she’d composed herself. ‘I suppose it must have seemed a little colourful.’ She’d eyed Margot keenly. ‘You know, it’s natural to feel curious about these things at your age, and to feel a little self-conscious too. Your body is changing. Hormones are raging. It can be a confusing time.’

  Margot shook her head. ‘No,’ she’d said firmly. ‘I’m not confused. I just think it’s … gross.’

  ‘Well, I doubt you’ll feel that way for long. You’re growing up fast. It’s normal to be interested in the opposite sex, to be curious about your body, about masturbation and—’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Margot, it’s only natural. Your body is something I hope you will learn to feel proud of, to enjoy. Sex can be a beautiful, transformative thing. All I ask is that you respect yourself, and take precautions. But fancying boys – or girls – desiring sex … it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s part of your biology.’

  Margot hadn’t been able to meet her mum’s gaze. Her cheeks had flushed bright red. ‘This is too embarrassing. Stop, please.’

  Kit had thrown up her hands with another laugh. ‘Fine! But I bet one day you’ll look back at this conversation and realise I was right. At least, I very much hope you do. Sex between two people who love each other is a gift to cherish.’

  Margot had shaken her head and pushed her chair back from the table. ‘I think I can hear Lucy calling.’ She hadn’t been able to leave the kitchen fast enough.

  Margot sighed. Outside, she could hear low thrum of her father’s car engine starting, audible over the sound of her mother’s shouts. Why was he doing this? He had said that Sibella saw him. She didn’t like to think of her dad with Sibella, but his words had hit home. What she wanted to do was stomp back outside and ask her parents ‘who sees me?’ For at that moment, she had never felt more invisible in her life and lying there on her bed, she felt a very long way from what she’d ever imagined ‘grown-up’ would be like.

  It was a quiet and hellishly slow weekend. A removals van arrived the following morning and two men, supervised by a grim-faced Ted, came and whisked clothes, books and Ted’s large oak desk from the house. Spaces opened up at Windfalls – gaps both physical and emotional – that her father and his belongings had previously occupied. The voids hurt. Margot tried to avoid them, spending the weekend tactfully revolving around a quietly distraught Kit.

  It was a relief to escape back to school on the Monday morning and her mood improved greatly when Mr Hudson announced the cast list as the bell rang to end the day. ‘Well done,’ he said, handing Margot a script. ‘There’s a lot of work ahead, but I’m excited to see what you can do … Juliet.’

  Margot couldn’t believe it. She walked home from the school bus stop glowing with pride, the emptiness awaiting her at home forgotten for a short while, until she entered the back door and saw all over again the absence of coats on the once over-burdened pegs. And by the back door now, just her own muddy boots and a moth-eaten pair of her mother’s velvet slippers. She placed her school shoes next to the slippers before going to the fridge and pouring herself a glass of milk. Cheers, she toasted herself. Her mother would be writing in the studio, lost in her private world. No point attempting to share her good news. Instead, Margot pulled the script from her school satchel and found a patch of sunshine to curl up in the drawing room as she began to mark her lines on the script with a yellow highlighter.

  Lucy congratulated her on the phone that night. ‘I knew you’d get a good part. You’re a natural. How’s things at home?’

  ‘Quiet.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is it strange without Dad?’

  ‘Yes, but in some ways it’s better than the constant rowing. Mum’s in denial, burying herself away down in the studio.’

  ‘She’s still deep in the final book?’

  ‘Yes, working all hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must feel lonely. Why don’t we meet in Bath after school tomorrow?’ Lucy suggested. ‘I’m almost finished packing. I should have a relatively clear day before I fly out. We could go shopping. I’ll buy you a hot chocolate, shout you a cake at that cafe you like.’

  ‘I can’t. First rehearsal’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ she said encouragingly. ‘That will keep you busy. How’s Romeo? Is he hot?’

  Margot laughed. ‘No. Jamie Kingston is three inches shorter than me and has terrible acne. The new drama teacher seems nice, though. He’s not like the other teachers,’ she added, by way of explanation. ‘He seems to like the students, for starters.’ It helped, Margot thought,
that he was at least fifteen years younger than the rest of the faculty. His classes were fun and full of energy and he always seemed interested in his students’ opinions. His more modern reimagining of the Shakespeare play had got the whole cast fired up.

  ‘Great,’ said Lucy. ‘A good teacher can make all the difference. Who knows, I might have passed my exams if I’d had some good ones. Look, Margot, I know it’s tough for you stuck there with Mum, and her so busy with the book, but keep your head down, work hard, throw yourself into the play and I’ll be back from Kerala before you know it. The yoga course is only three months. And you’ve still got Eve, right?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ said Margot. They both knew that Eve had disappeared into a vacuum, setting up home with Andrew and looking after their new baby daughter.

  ‘It will be OK. I promise.’

  Margot hadn’t answered, afraid that if she spoke, the only words that would leave her mouth would be a plaintive, ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me.’

  In the coming weeks, Margot immersed herself to some extent in her schoolwork and, more wholeheartedly, in the play. She found it easier to ignore the gaping holes at home – the crushing loneliness, the boredom – when she was learning her lines and rehearsing scenes. She filled the void with the camaraderie of the cast and the kindness of Mr Hudson.

  ‘Think about the words, Margot,’ Mr Hudson coached her at one of their after-school rehearsals. ‘Think about their meaning. Try to feel what Juliet is feeling. She’s young and in love for the first time. There’s an innocence to her, yes, but also an exuberance. I want you to try to convince us, the audience, of her love, her longing.’ Mr Hudson spoke with such passion, his green eyes sparkling as he enthused over the script.

  Margot looked over at her Romeo – Jamie Kingston busy stamping on an empty juice carton with his friends, kicking it into an imaginary goal. She wanted to please Mr Hudson, but convincing a room full of people of her love for Jamie was going to be a stretch. He was annoyingly unfocused in rehearsals and hadn’t bothered to learn any of his lines yet.

  ‘I know it’s not easy when some of the other cast members aren’t taking the play as seriously,’ the teacher had added, following her gaze, ‘but I see something special in you. You have talent, Margot. You deserve this part.’

  Margot nodded and wished her cheeks wouldn’t blush quite so furiously.

  Midway through the term, Ted issued a tentative invitation for Margot to join them for tea at Sibella’s house after school. Margot wasn’t keen, but her father had pleaded with her to give Sibella a chance, and of course, if she went, she could ask him face-to-face to come to her play.

  It was an awkward encounter. She felt traitorous walking up the lane to the house and realised as soon as she stepped into the kitchen that she didn’t want to know about her father’s new life. It was easier to block it from her mind than picture him with a new woman in this strange, cluttered cottage perched on the far side of the village. Margot didn’t want to sit at Sibella’s table, eat her food and play happy families with them both when she knew that across the valley, her mother sat alone at her desk, the rooms of Windfalls echoing with absence.

  ‘I’m vegetarian,’ she said, eyeing the plate of shepherd’s pie and vegetables Sibella had placed in front of her.

  ‘Oh,’ Sibella said, her cheeks flushing red. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘Since when?’ asked Ted, looking at her in surprise.

  ‘Since you left.’ She held his gaze, daring him to be the first to look away.

  Ted nodded, understanding dawning. ‘Fine. I’ll make you some toast.’

  ‘Oh, we can do better than toast,’ Sibella said quickly. ‘I’ll rustle up something else.’

  ‘No. Toast is fine,’ said Ted, sharply.

  Margot shrugged, smarting a little at her father’s obvious anger. Why was he taking her side? How could he know she was lying? For all either of them knew about her these days, she could have turned vegetarian.

  The stilted conversation continued as Margot told her father about the play. ‘Tickets go on sale next week. Will you come?’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. If I’d known sooner I might have been able to make arrangements, but I’ll be up in London that week for castings. Nigel wants me at the auditions. It’s all gathering pace at a rather exciting rate.’

  Margot sank down in her chair. Of course her father’s new play was more important than a silly school production, but it still felt like another rejection.

  Sibella cleared her throat. ‘I could come?’ she suggested. ‘I mean, I could … if you’d like me to?’

  Margot shook her head. ‘No. It’s OK. Mum will be there. I think it’s best you don’t.’

  ‘Oh. Of course,’ said Sibella, and Margot took a small amount of satisfaction to see her cheeks flush bright red.

  They were all relieved when Margot pushed her chair back from the table and made her excuses to leave.

  Two weeks before the production on an overcast Saturday afternoon, Mr Hudson invited the whole cast to his house to watch the Baz Luhrmann adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. He let them into his modern townhouse in one of the new cul-de-sacs on the edge of town, a tidy sandstone house with a black front door and a red Ford Focus parked in the drive. Mrs Hudson, his pretty wife, her belly huge with the late stages of pregnancy, buzzed around in the background offering biscuits, squash and cups of tea as they all squeezed into the lounge, perching on sofas and sprawling on cushions on the floor. It had been a fun afternoon, until the scene where Claire Danes and Leonardo DiCaprio kissed in the lift at the Capulet’s masked ball. Margot had felt her face flush as the whole cast laughed and jeered. She glanced across at Jamie, who wore an equally pained expression. Would they be expected to kiss like that?

  After the movie, as the rest of the cast trooped down the drive, Mr Hudson called her back. ‘I saw your face earlier. You needn’t worry or feel embarrassed. There’s plenty of time to go over the balcony scene. Have you and Jamie found a moment yet?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s been busy with football practice and … er … homework.’ She blushed. ‘Or maybe he doesn’t want to kiss me,’ she added, trying to make a joke out of it.

  ‘Rubbish. You’re a pretty girl. What teenage boy wouldn’t want to kiss you?’

  Margot blushed and buried her hands deep into her pockets.

  Mr Hudson leaned closer, smiling kindly. ‘Have you kissed anyone before?’ he asked, his voice low.

  It was as if he could read her mind. She shook her head, embarrassed.

  ‘You’re worried?’

  A nervous giggle escaped her lips. ‘Of course. I have to kiss Jamie onstage in front of the school. In front of my family.’

  ‘You don’t like Jamie?’

  ‘I like him, I’m just not sure I want to kiss him.’

  ‘What you need to remember is that it’s not Margot kissing Jamie, is it? It’s Juliet, kissing Romeo.’

  ‘Yeah. I know.’ She knew what he was trying to say, but she also knew that it was her – Margot’s – lips touching Jamie Kingston’s … in front of the whole school. It didn’t matter what Mr Hudson said. Everyone knew that.

  Mr Hudson smiled again. ‘Put yourself into the character of Juliet. She’s a girl blossoming into a young woman, feeling all the powerful emotion of first love. Or perhaps you just need a little practice. Take the pressure off. Disassociate.’

  She let out that high laugh again. ‘My friend, Amy, says you can practise on your hand. She told me to make a fist and kiss the curled-up thumb and forefinger.’ As soon as she said it out loud she felt embarrassed.

  But Mr Hudson didn’t laugh. Instead he made a fist with his hand. ‘Like this?’

  She nodded. ‘Stupid, right?’

  Mr Hudson shrugged. ‘Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take,’ he quoted. Before she understood what he was doing, Mr Hudson pressed his curled hand to her mouth. Her lips brushed against his warm skin. She froze, then turned her face
away and blushed an even deeper red.

  He laughed. ‘Oh Margot, you’re a sweet kid.’

  ‘I’m not a kid,’ she said quickly, mortified.

  ‘No, of course you’re not.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘Sorry. Sweet sixteen.’

  ‘Almost sixteen,’ she corrected.

  ‘Do you know how old Shakespeare’s Juliet is?’

  Margot shook her head.

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘Oh.’ Margot’s eyes widened. ‘Wow.’ She didn’t know whether to be shocked or embarrassed. If Juliet, at thirteen, could fall in love and marry Romeo, she must be a real prude to not want to kiss Jamie Kingston.

  ‘Yes.’ Mr Hudson nodded. ‘Society today would consider her a child still, but Shakespeare understood. He saw a girl on the cusp of womanhood.’

  She didn’t know what to say. This was all new terrain for her, talking about love and kissing with a teacher. She was so inexperienced. She worried Mr Hudson would regret casting her as Juliet. Margot glanced away down the drive. Everyone had left. She’d be walking home on her own.

  ‘It’s all about trust. As a cast and crew, we have to build it between each other. We have to work to make each other feel comfortable, to break down our barriers. A few more rehearsals with Jamie and I’m sure you won’t be feeling so nervous.’ He hesitated. ‘You want my advice?’ he asked, after a moment.

  She nodded, hoping he was about to tell her that there was no reason for her to kiss Jamie Kingston, not if she didn’t want to.

  ‘If Jamie isn’t your idea of Romeo, close your eyes and think about kissing someone you do like.’ He smiled. ‘Is there someone?’

  Margot shook her head. ‘I … er … no. I don’t think so. I’ll have to think.’

  He smiled again. ‘You’re lovely. Don’t worry, Margot. You’re going to make a wonderful Juliet.’

  She thought of all the other students in the play who would have been better for the role. ‘Perhaps someone else—’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘We’ll have none of that self-doubt. You’re perfect for the role. We need to work on building up your confidence.’