Cold Comfort

by Isobel Hart

  “Oh, fine. Busy. Mr Somerville’s son came home from school today for the summer, so I had to get his room sorted and let the cook know what to make for their supper.”

  “What’s he like?” I asked, intrigued to know more about the boy.

  “Oh, I don’t really know. He was only in the house about five minutes before he ran out into the garden. I thought you might have seen him.”

  “No,” I told her, crossing my fingers for the second time. I hated lying to Mama – I’m not even sure why I felt I needed to. “Mama, what’s a slut?” I suddenly asked, remembering the word Hardy had used earlier.

  “Delilah!” Mama exclaimed. “Where on earth did you hear that word? At your age!”

  “At school,” I replied, keeping my answer deliberately vague. I’m going to go to hell for all my lying, I thought.

  “It’s not a kind word,” she explained. “It’s used to describe a girl who’s casual about the number of boyfriends she has,” she went on, continuing to press the cloth against my head. Mama had always been very open with me about things to do with relationships and boys; always willing to answer any questions I had. They taught us all this stuff at school, but it was never quite enough. I wanted to know more. I was lucky I could talk to her about it.

  “Why isn’t it a kind word? Why does it matter if someone is casual about boyfriends?” I was genuinely curious. She’d told me sharing a special connection with someone that way was a wonderful thing.

  “Some people don’t think you should have lots of boyfriends. They judge others that do, and they use words like ‘slut’ to make them feel bad.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think we shouldn’t judge other people. You never know why people make the choices they do, and who are we to decide what is right or wrong? We all have to live our own lives, Delilah, and not spend time worrying what other people think. If you think someone is special enough to you that you want to share a close relationship with them, then it shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks about it, or however many other people you have or haven’t shared that with before. Try to make your own mind up about people, and don’t use words like ‘slut’ to describe them. Try not to judge.” She looked sad for a moment, and I wanted to ask if people had judged her, but I didn’t want to make her even sadder.

  “How old is he?” I asked, changing the subject again.

  “How old is who?”

  “The boy who came home today. Why does he go away to school?”

  “He’s ten. He’s called Hardy, and he goes to boarding school.”

  “Why does he go to boarding school? Doesn’t he miss his Mum and Dad?”

  “I don’t know, darling. You’ll have to ask him if you see him. His mum lives in America, but he’s here for the summer, so maybe you’ll bump into him.”

  She pulled the cloth away from my head. The bleeding had stopped at last. My head felt sore, and I had a headache. So by the time I’d had a light supper I was ready for bed, despite it still being early. I felt excited as I lay there waiting for sleep to take me, excited to see the boy again the next day.

  *

  School was horrible. Everyone teased me about my black eye and cut. My teacher asked me three times how it happened. I told her the same story I’d told Mama, but I wasn’t sure if she believed me. I also didn’t tell Emily about the boy. It was the same as with the trapeze; I wanted to keep him all to myself. She’d been really annoying all day – as if she could tell I was keeping some sort of a secret and was annoyed with me because of it. By the time her mum pulled up by our gate to drop me off I couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  I ran down the drive and into the cottage, grabbed my biscuits from the plate and stuffed them into my pocket. Then I gulped down my milk before I sprinted back out into the garden. As I pushed through the bushes again I felt nervous, wondering if he’d be there. My breath caught as I saw him. He was sitting on a log reading a book, the dappled sunlight catching the lighter parts of his hair and making it shine. He looked up as he heard me coming.

  “You took your time,” was all he said. He stood up, stuffing his book into his jacket pocket as he walked right up to me before taking a hold of my chin and peering down at my eye. “You’ve got a right shiner.” He had a very posh accent, so the way he said it sounded funny. “What are you smiling at?” he asked, frowning.

  “A raight shynaa,” I parroted, trying to sound like him. He grinned, and his whole face changed. The dimples in his cheeks returned. I liked them.

  “Cheeky,” he scolded, but I could tell he didn’t mean it. “Well, what do you want to do?” he asked. I just shrugged. “Can you climb a tree?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve never tried, though,” I whispered, feeling shy for some reason.

  “Well, let’s give it a go then.” He led me over to a carefully chosen specimen and showed me how the position of the lower branches made it possible to climb. Then he stood and coached me from the ground as I slowly crept up through the branches. “Don’t look down,” he bellowed when I made the mistake of glancing to see how far I’d got, but it was too late and I froze. Within moments he was up there beside me. “You can do it,” he assured me. “You’re strong for a girl. You didn’t even cry when you fell off that trapeze.” With his help and encouragement I scaled the rest of the way until we were both sat at the very top, side by side on the branch. I was filled with a sense of achievement. “I told you that you could do it.” He sounded so certain I couldn’t help but believe him. I felt a warm glow at his encouragement and passed him one of the biscuits from out of my pocket, which he accepted with another smile. We sat there munching on them in silence, perfectly content.

  “Next time wear trousers,” he suddenly said. “It will make the climbing much easier.” He paused, thinking. “I think we should build a treehouse down there,” he announced, pointing at some of the lower branches. I knew for some reason that, because he had decided it, it would happen. “I’ll get some wood from the shed, and hammers and nails, and we can put it across there,” he continued, pointing to where the branches jutted out horizontally. They created enough of a platform that it might be possible. “Then we can launch the trapeze from here,” he added, pointing to where a branch stuck out above the platform branches, not far from where we sat. “We could make something to tie it to. If you’d like?” he finally thought to ask me. I nodded, secretly delighted that he was at all bothered with what I’d like. “So definitely wear trousers,” he insisted again, and this time it wasn’t a suggestion.

  At tea time that evening I told Mama that I’d met Hardy and that we’d been playing together. “That’s good,” she said with a smile, looking a little bit sad again. “It will be good for him to keep out the house, out of his Dad’s way.”

  “We’re going to build a treehouse,” I informed her.

  “A treehouse? Well, be careful, won’t you? I don’t want you hurting yourself again.”

  “Hardy will look after me,” I assured her. As I said it I somehow knew it to be true.

  *

  After that day a routine began. Each afternoon, as soon as school finished, I would meet Hardy down in the glade and we would work on the treehouse. He did most of the climbing and hammering, and I passed him everything he needed. Once I broke up for the summer holidays I spent the whole day down there. Hardy seemed pleased he had me to himself all the time now. A couple of times Emily had called asking me to do things with her, but I always told her I didn’t want to. I knew she wanted to know why, but I just didn’t want to tell her.

  We were making good progress; the main lower platform had been built and it seemed sturdy. As I sat there handing Hardy nails, we both heard a voice calling for him that I didn’t recognise at first. He froze, and I watched as his easy confidence drained away.

  “Hardy,” the voice bellowed again, and I realised I did recognise it. It was the man who lived in the big house. His father.

  “I have to go,” he whi
spered to me, his face pale, eyes haunted. I just nodded at him as he began to slither down the trunk. I followed silently, somehow instinctively knowing to hold back in the shadow of the bushes while he emerged and walked over to where his father stood waiting, hands on his hips.

  He started to shout as soon as Hardy reached him, even though Hardy was right in front of him. “Where have you been, you stupid bloody child? Your tutor is here. You knew he was starting today. You’ve made people disturb me from my work just to find you, you worthless piece of shit. If you weren’t so stupid in the first place, you wouldn’t need a fucking tutor. Fucking stupid like your mother,” he said. I was shocked. I’d never heard a grown-up swear at a child before.

  “She’s not stupid,” Hardy defended his mum. Instantly the man’s hand swept down and cuffed Hardy hard on the cheek. I gasped with shock at the sight of a grown man hitting a boy. My mother had never laid a hand on me, however difficult I’d been. My hand immediately rose to cover my mouth and stifle the sound. I knew it wouldn’t help Hardy for the man to see me there, to know he had been playing with me, and I didn’t want to make things any worse for him. I stood there in silence as Hardy hung his head, wiping away a tear from beneath his eye in an angry, sullen gesture. I hated the man even more now than I already had.

  “I told your fucking mother you could stay here as long as you didn’t cause me any trouble. This is trouble. Get your sorry self inside and see if you can absorb at least something intelligent into that dense head of yours before I send you to spend the summer with my own mother.” Hardy looked up at that, the colour once again draining from his face. Clearly there was a fate worse than spending time with this man if his expression was anything to go by. He turned and ran past his dad, sprinting towards the house. I watched until he disappeared from my sight.

  His dad didn’t immediately follow but just stared after him for a long moment before turning to peer towards the bushes – exactly at the place where I was standing. I froze every muscle, glad that today at least my clothes were dark, as I hoped I would be able to blend into the shadows and avoid detection. The thrum of my heart pulsed loudly in my ears as I held my breath, praying he couldn’t hear me. For a moment his muscles tensed and I thought he might move towards my hiding place, but then he seemed to reconsider and straightened, turning back towards the house. Relief immediate, my knees sagged, and I crumpled to the ground beside the brambles, sitting there in the shadows for a full five minutes before I felt strong enough to make my way back to the cottage.

  *

  Hardy and I never talked about his father. I knew he wouldn’t want to know I had seen him being hit. He was too proud. I didn’t think it was the only time his dad had hit him either. A few times since then I’d seen bruises on his body that weren’t caused while we were building the treehouse. Especially on the hot days when he took off his shirt. Since that first day he’d had to go in for tutoring for a couple of hours every morning, while I carried on working, but he’d always come back out afterwards to find me.

  We did talk about his mum occasionally. “Why does she live in America?” I’d finally summoned the courage to ask as we hammered the final nails in to the roof. He knew I was talking about his mum. He’d already mentioned that she lived there.

  “She moved there when they split up.”

  “Are they divorced?”

  “Yeah, years ago. Can’t say I blame her. He’s horrible.”

  “So why are you here and not with her?” Mama always told me I was too nosy. I asked questions before I thought about how they might make the other person feel. I didn’t mean to. It was just that, when I wanted to know something, I asked. He looked at me for a long moment before answering.

  “She’s getting married again,” he said and stopped. He seemed to think those few words would explain everything, but now I was even more confused.

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Why aren’t you with her?”

  “She didn’t want me there. Thought I’d get in their way and spoil their honeymoon.”

  For once I was struck dumb. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The idea of a mother thinking her child could be in the way was completely alien to me. Horrific. Something about my expression must have communicated what my mouth seemed unable to, because I watched as his face closed down.

  “Where’s your father?” he suddenly asked. I’d never spoken about him. I had told Hardy about Mama a lot but had never said anything about my dad.

  “He left us,” I explained.

  “Didn’t he love you anymore?” he asked. It hurt to think of it like that, even though it was probably the truth.

  “He had another family and left to live with them. He didn’t want us anymore.” It had always upset me to say the words out loud. I never liked to talk about him, but I wasn’t trying to hide it. Hardy didn’t look at all surprised by my words. I think he’d already guessed it was something like that – something sad. And then I realised he had wanted to hurt me. He’d deliberately asked about something he knew would upset me because he wanted to hurt me like I’d hurt him. I guessed now at least I knew what it felt like when people asked questions without thinking about the other person’s feelings.

  I stood and started to climb down the tree. I didn’t want to spend any more time with him today.

  “Where are you going?” he barked, sounding a lot like his dad.

  “Home,” I answered shortly.

  “You can’t. We’re not finished yet.” He sounded cross with me. Well, I was cross with him too.

  “I can. You’re not the boss of me,” I told him once I reached the bottom, hands firmly on my hips. He smiled like he was amused by my words, which just made me more cross, so I walked off, ignoring his shouts from behind me. I didn’t look back at all until I was safely inside the cottage and hidden behind the net curtains.

  I could see him standing for a long time at the edge of the bushes and staring at our house. He looked confused.

  Chapter 3

  The very next day I met him again as if nothing had ever happened between us. I could tell he wanted to talk about it again but didn’t know how. I just wanted to get on with painting the inside of our house. He had arrived with some beautiful yellow paint, having finished putting the roof on after I had left. The house was nearly finished, and I loved it.

  I sang as I painted; it was a Simon and Garfunkel song that my Mama loved and played all the time at home so I knew all the words. It wasn’t until I paused to refill my paintbrush that I realised Hardy was staring at me. “What?” I asked, annoyed by his stare.

  “You have a nice voice.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Thank you. I like music and singing. If I can’t join the circus, I think I’d like to play music. I’ve always wanted to learn the guitar.”

  “Well, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t have one, and we can’t afford it yet. Mama says maybe next year I can borrow a guitar and then I can start lessons. We don’t have much money – well, we didn’t until she got the job here. It’s getting better, though,” I said defensively. It felt disloyal to say anything bad about Mama. She had always done her best for me. He nodded and didn’t say anything else, but I could feel him watching me every time I started singing again. I decided to stop.

  “Don’t stop. I like it,” he said quietly. He didn’t seem like he was making fun of me. Finally I nodded and started to sing again.

  When we finished that day he thanked me. I wasn’t entirely sure what for – we were just doing the usual treehouse work. Then when we reached the usual point where our paths split, he leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead. I just stood there watching him run off in the direction of the big house, my fingers touching the place his lips had touched me.

  *

  “I leave in a week,” he told me one day when August was almost at an end. The treehouse was done; we’d spent the remaining summer days sitting inside it reading when the weather was bad, or, on the warm da
ys, swinging on the new, improved trapeze he had built for me. It launched from our platform. Every day, since that first time, he asked me to sing for him.

  “Already?” I despaired. I liked having him around to play with. I knew from what he’d told me that it might be ages before he came back again. He tended to spend all his holidays with his mum in California, or with school friends. I’d gotten used to having him around, and I was going to miss him. I’d known it would happen, and Mama had been warning me it would be soon, but it still felt sad. “Not before my birthday,” I insisted. He looked up, surprised.

  “When is your birthday?”

  “Thursday. Mama told me I could go to the cinema with a friend. I wanted to take you. Will you come with me?”

  “I don’t know. I guess, if I’m allowed.” He seemed uncertain, but I could tell he wanted to.

  “I’ll get Mama to ask your dad,” I assured him. “She’s good at asking people nicely. I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

  “I don’t know,” he said again. “I hope so.” He looked kind of wistful.

  “He will,” I said with more certainty than I felt. “He has to. It’s my birthday.”

  “What do you want?” he asked. I was confused what he meant. “For a present,” he clarified. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, nothing, thanks. Just for you to come with me to see The Princess Diaries 2.”

  “Princess Diaries 2? Jesus, really?”

  “Don’t swear, it’s rude,” I automatically replied. “Anyway, it’s my birthday, and that’s what I’d like to see. Please?”

  He smiled at me – one of the ones with both dimples showing. “Anything for you, Delilah.” His words made me feel warm inside.