‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘I shouldn’t have gone off on one. It’s why James hates coming to the pub with me. Once I get stuck on something, I can never let it go.’
‘I can see what he means …’ I grin, but I’m relieved. ‘I won’t make the mistake of talking politics with you again.’ Yan frowns for a moment and then grins back. ‘I brought a peace offering.’ I pull a can of beer out of my pocket as we walk back to the rock. There is just enough room for both of us to perch, though the surface of the stone is cold and hard. The air is still warm, the water ruffles the beach with gentle splashes on the shoreline.
‘It wasn’t just the politics,’ says Yan. ‘I’m just angry. I thought I wasn’t but I am.’
‘About?’
‘This.’ He stamps his heel down on the surface of the sand, creating a deep print as he moves his foot away. The impression quickly fades as it fills with water, as if he had never made the mark in the first place. ‘We’re young. All of us. Even Margaret. We’re too young for our lives to be over, like this. As quickly as this. I’m only thirty and I haven’t even got started yet. It’s such a waste.’
There’s nothing to say to that.
‘I’m sitting down here,’ he says, ‘thinking it’s so fucking unfair. I’m looking at the moon, the waves splash, you come and throw your stupid stones. It’s peaceful, and beautiful and the anger just evaporated … I can’t quite describe it. Just for now, I don’t feel quite so angry. Though I’m none too happy either.’
‘That makes sense.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘Brooding, to be honest.’
‘About what?’
‘Things I could have done differently.’
‘We’ve all got a few of those. Want to talk?’ I am tempted by his interest. Of all the people here, I would probably choose him as a confidante. There is something trustworthy about him despite, or maybe because of, his passionate rants, and dopey love sick eyes. But I can’t imagine how I might begin – and if I did, he would probably hate me for it and tell the others. They’d take Seren’s side and kick me out. I don’t think I could bear that.
‘Don’t mind me,’ I say. ‘Just stupid nonsense …’ I kick a stone at my feet, and add, ‘You know what’s weird?’
‘Other than the situation we’re in?’
‘We’re never going to experience cold again. Real cold, I mean. Winter cold when the outside pipes freeze. November cold, when the wind chills your bones. January cold, when the snowdrifts are so deep snow fills your boots. We’ll never know that feeling again, ever.’
‘I hate the cold, can’t say I’m too sorry about that.’
‘I’ve been trying to imagine it. But I can’t. Even though it’s getting cooler now, it’s not like winter time. I can’t remember what it’s like to feel really,really cold.’
‘Miserable is what it’s it like,’ says Yan. ‘The flat is like an icebox because the central heating is on the blink and the landlord hasn’t been round to fix it. You put on every last jumper and your old balaclava, and you are cold still. In the end you get into bed with your laptop and a ton of DVDs and a bottle of whisky and wish the weekend away till you can get back to work where it’s nice and warm and your feet aren’t turning blue.’
‘If you put it like that …’
‘Believe me, if there are any blessings in this – and I am clutching at very tiny straws here – at least we’ve had warmth, sunshine and moonlight on the water. Speaking of which …’ While we have been talking, the tide has been coming closer, the sea is beginning to splash up to the rocks.
‘I could do with another beer.’ I put the empty can back in my pocket. A pointless gesture – it could be floating anywhere tomorrow – but I still don’t want to be responsible for littering the beach.
‘Race you,’ says Yan, lumbering off before I have a chance to get going. He is back by the tents before I have even made it halfway up the slope. He plonks himself down besides Margaret. I wish he hadn’t, I’m not feeling as forgiving as he is, but he hushes me when I try and say that. Shelley is still singing.
A North Country maid up to London had strayed,
Although with her nature it did not agree.
She wept and she sighed and she bitterly cried,
‘I wish once again in the North I could be.’
People can be astonishing. Earlier James comforted us with familiar tunes and a reasonably competent voice, but Shelley’s singing is of a different order. She could be a professional. I can see the others are as surprised and entranced as I am. I’ve judged Shelley too quickly. I thought because she was dressed up like a doll, and hanging on to Harry, that there was nothing to her. Clearly I was wrong.
‘Oh the oak and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.’
The song makes me ache with longing for times past. For evenings watching telly with Seren, when we did nothing more dramatic then discuss an episode of The Wire. Walking holidays in the Lake District. Dinner in our favourite Italian. If I hadn’t been discovered, I might have escaped all this. I might be out in a wine bar, talking in hushed voices with friends of the horror that is about to come in the place where I used to holiday. If I hadn’t been discovered, I might have been able to, extricate myself, and carry on with our lives. But instead, I am here, among people I hardly know, and there is nothing I can do to change it. A film of water forms over my eyes. I blink it away, wishing I was home, in my own country, with Seren to hold and protect me. But I don’t have one. I lost it, a long time ago.
Yan
I don’t know what was worse. Discovering Margaret had a hand in the closure of the volcano unit, the humiliation in realising I never had a chance with Poppy, or the fact that Poppy’s politics are so despicable. The two people I’ve had most affinity with today, the two people I’ve been relying on to get me through this, have let me down. I can sort of forgive Margaret for her part – she must have been in a horrible situation – but I can’t understand why she didn’t tell me about it when we were alone. I’d have understood it more if she’d explained. As for Poppy, I was stupid to get my hopes up – I never have success with women – but that’s not what’s killing me now? How can I be friends with someone whose views are the polar opposite of mine?
The anger holds me tight as I sit gazing at the water. The sea is fast approaching, wave upon wave is invading the shore, rapidly overcoming the sand. I know this beach; once the tide reaches the top of the little slope on which I’m sitting, it will be rushing round these rocks in no time. I’ll have to shift soon, but for now I am unable to move from this spot.
I’ve been here a while when I sense some motion behind me. Perhaps one of the others has come in search of me. I am not in the mood to be talked round. Mum always said I could sulk for England – well, if tonight isn’t the best time for having the biggest sulk ever, I don’t know when would be. The person doesn’t acknowledge me but walks to my right, head down peering at the ground, picking things up. It is only when she pulls herself upright, I see it is Poppy. The last person I want to speak to. I ignore her, focus instead on the black water in front of me, its forward movement as inescapable as the hours ahead. A single moonbeam lights a path across the waves. Above me the moon has dwindled from the enormous globe of earlier to a silver, round ball, no less beautiful. In front of me the waves crash and break on the shore. Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Poppy has crouched by edge of the sea and is flicking stones in the water. I turn my head away, but I can still hear the pebbles landing with tiny splashes to the side of me. Ahead I hear a louder splash. To my delight, I see a seal in the water. It must have been lying so still on the rocks I thought it was a stone. It is bobbing in the waves in front of me. I slip off the rock and walk towards it, paddling into the sea until the waves splash over my knees. I barely notice the chill of the water, drawn as I am to the brown eyes of the animal in front of me. It do
esn’t seem to be afraid, just sizing me up. Is it under a death sentence too? Will the wave dash it against the rocks or the cliffs? Or do animals have a sixth sense about these things? The seal looks away and then dives for fish; perhaps it will dive at the right time tomorrow and so save itself.
A wave splashes over my crotch. The tide is coming even faster than I expected, washing away the sand and, with it, my anger. It occurs to me that I might, perhaps, have over-reacted. People are more than their politics aren’t they? Poppy is still skimming stones. I decide to join her, collecting pebbles, crouching, throwing, watching them bounce off the waves, in silent communion as we did when we surfed earlier today. Only this time I do it knowing there is no hope of romance, no chance that she will ease my pain that way. I’m surprised to discover that I no longer feel disappointed by this. My crush was just that, a stupid crush.
I grunt in appreciation at Poppy’s successful ten-bounce skim, which she takes as an invitation to talk.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She seems sincere; she is sincere. It’s not her fault I got her so wrong. And really, why the fuck should politics matter now? It’s not like any of us are going to be able to change anything ever again.
‘I shouldn’t have gone off on one. It’s why James hates coming to the pub with me. Once I get stuck on something, I can never let it go.’ I have never admitted this to anyone before. Not even to myself. Perhaps that’s been part of my problem: I’ve always put winning an argument above friendship.
She has brought beer and, presently, we are sitting companionably on the rock, sharing our anxieties until the beer runs out. We race each other back to the campfire. Things have moved on since I left. James is holding Nikki in his arms. Margaret is sitting nearby in a chair, seemingly forgiven. Shelley has the guitar and is singing:
‘Oh the oak and the ash, and the bonny ivy tree,
They flourish at home in my own country.’
The song reminds me of the Polish folk tunes Mum used to sing – mournful, but somehow comfortingly familiar. I slip next to Margaret, not wanting to break the atmosphere. Poppy slides beside me and we listen in appreciation till Shelley finishes. Everyone claps.
‘That was gorgeous,’ says Margaret.
‘Where did you learn to sing like that?’ I ask.
‘My dad used to be in a folk band. When I was little he used to let me sing along with him …’ Shelley says, ‘But then we moved to London. And I stopped.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. I was mad with him for making us move. And everything was so different in London. My sister and I, we weren’t cool. Our clothes, our accents, our attitudes were all out of place. Folk singing was definitely not cool. It was all right for Alison. She’s brainy. She never cares what people think of her. But I’m not clever and had nothing to recommend me except a voice that sounded wrong and a poor grasp of fashion. So I dropped the singing, learned to speak south London, and developed clothes sense.’
‘Didn’t you miss it?’ Poppy asks.
‘Not really. There was too much going on. Dad was on my case for a while till I started dating boys, and then that was all he’d talk about. After that, I met Harry and … well, he wasn’t exactly the folk singing type. He was pretty rude about Dad, actually.’ Shelley sighs, ‘I should have realized then, when he was so disrespectful. I should have known that I was wasting my time with him. But I always felt Dad and Alison were ganging up on me. I know they didn’t mean it, but after Mum died, I also felt they looked down on me. Harry told me I was beautiful and made me feel special. So I took his side … Now I feel my whole life’s been a waste.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘That voice isn’t a waste. Not right now, not tonight. Sing us another.’
The others nod in agreement. Shelley picks up the guitar again and tunes the strings. Margaret turns to me.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’
‘For not telling you earlier. About my job. I was too afraid …’
An hour earlier I would have been too angry to listen, but now I just nod, and when I tell her it’s OK, I realize it actually is. The talk with Poppy, Shelley’s singing have reminded me why I came here in the first place. Life’s too short for arguments isn’t it? That sentiment has never felt truer than tonight.
Shelley begins to sing again
The water is wide, I cannot get o’er
Neither have I wings to fly.
Give me a boat that can carry two,
And both shall cross, my love and I.
I lie down. James whispers to Nikki and she grins and stands up with him. They walk off towards the cliffs. Earlier I would have resented them, envied James for always falling on his feet, but now I watch them go without bitterness.
I put my hand in some soft bush
Thinking the sweetest flower to find
I prick’d my finger to the bone
And left the sweetest flower behind.
All at once an image of Karo comes to mind. Aged nine, playing in the back garden on a summer’s day. Why am I thinking of her? Oh yes. The rose. The day she tried to pick a rose, but pricked her thumb instead. The blood swelled in a large, red globule and she screamed at the sight of it. Screamed and screamed, despite my warning that Mum would not want to be disturbed from the nap she had taken to having ever since Dad left. I was right. Mum came out, red-faced, shouting it was just a little prick, what was all the fuss about? How was it that her Karolina, such a big girl, could be such a baby? She would have to deal with far worse things than a cut thumb. And Karo had cried and cried as the blood trickled down her thumb and Mum had dragged her indoors, cleaning the wound and scolding, scolding all the time. Was it then that Karo’s problems had begun? She was always more sensitive than me, feeling every slight, every harsh word, ever tease. As we grew older and Mum’s problems became apparent to us both, we worked out different coping strategies. Where I developed a defence mechanism of belligerence mixed with indifference, Karo retreated into frenzied study, her eyes on Oxbridge to the exclusion of all else. My clever, wounded sister, making her escape to the golden city where there were no mothers in darkened bedrooms smelling of alcohol and unwashed sheets and all she had to do was learn. If only, the reality had matched the dream …
I lean’d my back against an oak
Thinking it was a mighty tree
But first it bent and then it broke
So did my love prove false to me.
Karo … My eyes prick with tears. Ten years haven’t dulled the sense of loss, of a life incomplete without the sister I should have saved. Why hadn’t I seen it coming? Her emails and texts were cheerful enough, but when I visited, hadn’t I had a sense that all was not well? The bags under her eyes, the nervous energy, the clumsiness. I’d put it down to lack of sleep, too many parties, and she hadn’t suggested anything otherwise. I should have seen it for what it was, the stress of living up to the perfection she always demanded of herself. On that last night, when she needed me, I missed her calls. She’d tried to lean on me, but I wasn’t there, and she broke.
My betrayal was nothing on Mum’s. Not content with ruining our teenage years, she’d given Karo nothing but grief whilst she was away. Ringing her constantly, Karo, Karo when are you coming home? And when she did, expecting to be waited on hand and foot. Something she never asked of me. Worst of all, when Karo died, she turned back to the God she’d ignored for years, declaring suicide was a mortal sin. She refused to have anything to do with Karo’s body, leaving it to me to sort out the funeral. I had to take out a loan to pay for it, deal with distraught friends and family, tried and failed to trace Dad, all while Mum’s door was shut in my face. At one time I didn’t think I would ever forgive her for it, but when she moved back to Poland we settled into an uneasy tempo of occasional visits and phone calls. It’s why it has been so hard to call her tonight. Our relationship is so damaged, it is difficult knowing what to say.
The song finishes.
‘Bed? So soon?’ Poppy says. ‘The night is still young.’
‘I’m bushed.’ I give her a hug, careful to ensure it is within the bounds of friendship, offering no more. ‘Thanks for today. It’s been …’
‘Yes.’ She gives me a peck on the cheek. I nod goodnight to the others, enter the tent, and jump into my sleeping bag fully clothed. I’ll feel grimy in the morning, but who cares? I pick up my torch and take up the book. Soon I am absorbed in the life of an alien trying to be human. Outside I am vaguely aware of the voices of the women murmuring in the night, the ruffle of breeze on my tent, but soon the story takes over. As always, when I have a book in my hand, the anxieties of the world recede.
Margaret
I could murder Harry, I really could. Throwing that comment into the group as he left, getting everyone riled up. Then, before I had a chance to work out what to say, Yan had found the website, worked out it was me and everything fell apart.
‘You were responsible for this?’ he said.
‘What?’ said Poppy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘If I’d known …’
‘But you must have,’ said James. ‘Before cancelling it you must have had all the information.’
‘It wasn’t that simple,’ I said. They were having none of it. Poppy, James and Yan all vied with each other to shout at me the loudest. Only Nikki didn’t join in; she moved away from James and touched my arm, saying she understood. Bless her for being on my side.
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