by Sarah Lawton
‘This is awesome,’ he told me, immediately nosing into everything like a magpie, picking things up and inspecting them from end to end before getting into something else. ‘The light is amazing.’
‘That was the plan.’ I was pleased that he immediately grasped how I had put it together. ‘I can’t draw unless I have natural light. I’m a snob.’
‘Who can?’ he asked me. ‘It’s hard to catch shadows without the light.’ He’d brought his portfolio again and I hoped there might be new sketches in there to look at.
‘I thought maybe you might like to start with one of your sketches and pull a little bit of colour in from there?’
‘It always looks like a cartoon if I try and add colour,’ he griped good-naturedly. ‘It just doesn’t look natural.’ He put the folio on the workbench and opened it, fanning out the work inside it.
‘Start with muted colours and build up,’ I suggested, picking out one of his beautiful fox sketches. It looked like a work in progress and he hadn’t done much shading, just careful quick lines that captured the crouching intensity of an animal poised to run. ‘Do you want to try the paints? This would look lovely with a wash of colour.’
I got out some old watercolours and palettes and told him to go and get himself some water from the kitchen. He came out of the house carefully carrying two jam jars of water – he’d spotted the stack obviously, and was clever enough to bring two at once. The look of concentration on his face reminded me of Vi when she was little, trying to tie her shoelaces. I felt myself warming towards him, and I wondered why it was he had disconcerted me so much before. I still couldn’t remember who he reminded me of, and so decided it wasn’t anyone, that I was imagining it. I put it out of my mind.
We settled easily into our work, engrossed in what we were doing. I had opened the doors of the studio wide in an attempt to let the air in, but there was no breeze to be found and I felt more than one slip of sweat trailing down my neck. Alex looked as cool as he always seemed to, but he must have been feeling it because in one quick motion he pulled at the material of his top and lifted it off his torso, screwing it up and using it to rub at his face and neck. I couldn’t help but look at him with an appraising, artist’s eye. He was superbly formed, with a perfect dip of muscle above his hips which edged above the denim of his shorts. He wasn’t overly muscled, I doubted he was a gym bunny, but I could see a natural definition on his flat stomach and his arms were not thin. I imagined he had a wiry strength. He could probably lift me easily.
That errant thought made me jump, and I realised that there was an eye peering at me past the white of his top, and half a crooked smile, too.
‘Checking me out, Rachel?’ he teased, and before I could answer he absolved me and my blushes. ‘Don’t worry, I do that all the time. Stare at people. It’s a sketcher’s habit, isn’t it? There’s a bloke at work, he has the most amazing curly hair. I’m always looking at it, it makes my fingers itch wanting to try and draw it. He probably thinks I fancy him.’
‘I know what you mean. I always want to draw my daughter. I’m always staring at her, too. She hates it.’
‘You don’t look old enough to have a daughter. You barely look older than me.’
‘Oh, flatterer. I’m old enough to be your mother.’
‘You’d be a young one – I’ll be twenty next year.’
We settled into another comfortable silence – I was glad he wasn’t a chatterbox – and worked side by side for a while. I don’t think he really needed my expertise so much as my encouragement: he had an incredible natural talent. Colours are always tricky, though. We were talking about blending techniques when my phone buzzed again and I picked it up. It was a message from Steve. Just one line. Call me.
Warning pheromones started bursting in my body. Something was wrong, I could feel it. I don’t know how, but I knew. Swallowing against a suddenly dry throat I took my phone outside and called him.
‘Steve? What’s happened?’
‘Oh, sweetheart. Are you at home? I’ve got some bad news.’ I felt tears prickling at the back of my eyes and my throat felt tight as he continued. ‘I’ve just heard – you know Tilly Beaumont’s brother, Tristan?’
‘Yes, of course I do. He takes Vi to school sometimes with Tilly.’
‘He’s been in an accident in his car. He didn’t make it, Rach. He lost control of his car and crashed. His brakes must have gone or something, I don’t know, it was such a shit heap!’ He said the last bit angrily, and I felt the same way. He was only seventeen! How could he have been gone, just like that? I’d seen him on Friday sitting by the green. I was hollowed out by shock, eviscerated.
‘Oh god, poor Tilly and her mum and dad, they must be devastated. How did you find out?’
‘Geoff came in. He saw the police leaving the Beaumonts’ house, and he knows one of the detectives, who told him. Bob’s just gone past. He must be on his way to get Tilly from school to tell her.’
I felt a bit sick that I must have known about her brother before she did, and I immediately started to worry about Vivian. Would the school tell them straightaway – should I go and get her? Would they come home? I said goodbye to Steve and I walked back into the studio, where Alex was still painting. He looked up and I knew he must have been able to see on my face that something was wrong and it occurred to me that maybe he knew Tristan – they would be about the same age. I felt a pain in my chest that they might be friends and now I would have to tell him that Tristan was dead.
‘What’s wrong, Rachel?’ he asked, putting down his brush and walking over, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ve heard some bad news, Alex. Do you know Tristan Beaumont?’
‘No. I don’t think I’ve met him yet. The name is familiar, though—?’
That small pang of relief was the thread of feeling that caused a cascade of sudden grief for Tristan, who I’d known since he was a gangly, cheeky eleven-year-old; for Tilly, who had lost her brother; for his lovely, lovely parents, and I couldn’t stop it rushing out.
‘He’s dead. He’s been killed in a car accident.’ I choked the bitter words out and then the tears followed them.
Alex went distinctly pale, then stepped toward me and wrapped his arms around me. He was so tall that my head fit into the dip beneath his collarbone and he held me silently as I wept, one hand tentatively stroking my hair. I let him do it for a minute, breathed in his scent, before I gently pulled away; it felt inappropriate, I barely knew him.
‘I’m sorry. I think I’m going to have to go and get my daughter from school or something, I’m not sure; I need to call them. Can we pick up the lesson another time, I don’t know – I’m so sorry.’ I repeated myself and wiped my cheeks and he looked at me with his sea-storm eyes, his face taut with concern, with shock, something.
‘It’s fine,’ he said quietly, reaching out to cup my shoulder and squeeze it gently. ‘I’m so sorry, too. I know what it’s like to lose someone too soon. I feel awful for his family. I hope your daughter is okay.’ He turned away and gathered up the things he was using and took them back into the house. I stood there, useless for a long while, still unable to take in what I’d just heard, before I walked into the house too. Alex had gone already, but I noticed that he had washed up the mugs and the palettes from the painting, and his small kindness touched me.
I picked up the phone and dialled the school number. Mrs Brondsbury the school receptionist picked up after several rings, and I could hear from her voice that she’d been crying. Not wanting to upset her further – it was such a small school, she must have got to know them all so well, watched them grow – I quickly explained that I’d heard the bad news and I wanted to know what they were planning to do, if they were going to tell the kids or send them home.
‘We’re going to pull them into an assembly in an hour,’ she replied, tears in her words. ‘We’ll have to tell them, and we’ll offer to get them in with the school counsellor if they need it. This
is so awful, I’ve known that boy since he was a naughty wee scrap. We’ll let them go home early if they want to, afterwards. Was Vivian close to him?’
‘I don’t think so, not recently,’ I replied, ‘but she’s very close to Tilly, and he would give them lifts to school and whatnot. It’s going to hurt, I’m sure. So I should just wait here?’
‘Yes. Just wait there, she’ll be home.’
Vivian
Tilly’s dad came in to school and took her out of our classroom.
‘What’s going on?’ Molly whispers to me, as the teacher closes the door behind them.
‘I don’t know. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough, though.’ This is all very exciting.
‘I hope she’s all right. Bob looked awful.’ Her pretty face creases with concern.
As I thought, we all get hustled into an assembly after lunch. Mrs Barker is standing on the stage in the hall. All the college kids are here too, which is unusual. It’s stuffy and tight in here, with dust motes dancing in the sunlight that streams through the windows. I watch her as she clears her throat and takes a deep breath, clasps her hands in front of her.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you all that I have some very sad news.’
There’s this weird collective intake of breath, and I can almost feel everyone’s pulse pick up, smell the sweat that’s springing up on their bodies. It’s completely silent and still in the room, but swollen to bursting at the same time.
‘We have learnt this morning that Matilda Beaumont’s older brother, Tristan, was killed in a car accident on his way to work today. We realise that many of you knew Tristan, and because this is a tight community, we are all going to be greatly affected by this tragic loss. Please, please know that any of you can come and speak to a member of staff if you are struggling. We will be arranging for counsellors to be available for you, but for now we feel that as long as there is someone there and if any of you want to, that you can go home to be with your families.’
Shock blows around the room, people reel back in their seats. Lots of the girls start to cry – Chloe is being ridiculously dramatic, sobbing and wailing, even though she didn’t even like Tristan as far as I’m aware – and the boys are all pale. They are all frightened. Death can come for anyone, it doesn’t care how old you are. I can feel myself trembling.
Serena has gone an awful green-grey colour, and Molly is silent, her eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Come on,’ I tell them, ‘let’s go.’ I have to get out of this room.
We’re walking out of the hall when I spot Alex. I realise I didn’t see him in the assembly, he must have slipped into the back, and I’m going to ignore him but as I walk past he grabs my arm.
‘I’ll come and see you later,’ he murmurs, and then he’s gone.
Molly watches this exchange with a black look on her face, tight-lipped. He’s intruded on our private moment.
We make our way out of the school, out of the claustrophobia of everyone else’s emotions spilling everywhere. It’s hot and sunny, and the sky is blue. It’s weird that Tristan is cold and dead when everything else is so alive and bright. You’d think the birds would stop singing or the breeze would stop blowing, but nothing’s changed out here.
Serena is crying now, without sound. Tears are running down her face and dripping on to her shirt. We all say we are all best friends, but I know she likes Tilly the best, and I think that she must be feeling her reflected grief as well as her own pain. I wouldn’t know, personally. Molly stops and grabs her in a hard hug. I put my arms around both of them. This is going to bring us all back together after the mess Molly made of everything, I know it. And I’m certainly not going to miss Tristan or his disgusting, grabbing hands.
‘I can’t believe it,’ whimpers Serena, her voice thick with snot and tears. ‘Tilly could have been in that car, too, if she hadn’t come to mine to revise yesterday. We’re not usually allowed sleepovers on Sunday, but we begged. I can’t believe it.’ Her voice trails off as the significance of this sinks in. I hadn’t even thought about Tilly possibly being in the car. She must have had a fairy godmother looking out for her today.
There’s a heavy quiet over us as we walk slowly away from school, towards my house. I think about asking them to come in but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t cope with all the brewing emotion, the tears, the wailing, the mucus. I don’t like it when people aren’t in control of themselves, it stresses me out. Mum is always too emotional. She’s going to be awful when she finds out about Tristan. I decide just to get that over with and, after another uncomfortably long hug with Molly and Serena, I go in to the house.
Mum is sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing, hands in her lap. She must know already. This bloody village!
‘Vivian, darling, oh god, are you okay?’ She jumps up out of her seat, and starts to hug me and pat and clutch at me, like she’s checking me for holes. I let her do it even though she knows perfectly well that I don’t like it.
‘I’m okay, Mum, I wasn’t close to Tristan. I’m more upset for Tilly, and Serena is taking it really hard, too. We don’t know what to do for Tilly.’ I manage to gently remove her hands and get her to sit back down on the sofa.
‘You can’t do anything, darling. Nothing is ever going to make this better for her. You just need to be there for her.’
‘Okay, Mum.’ I think to ask, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, darling, I will be, of course. I just feel so awful for Tilly and Bob and Maureen. And you were in that car last week! I can’t bear it.’ She catches her breath, her hands at her face.
‘Mum, please, don’t get yourself upset – I can’t cope with it when you’re upset.’
‘I know, I know – I’m sorry. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll go and put the kettle on and make us some tea.’
I can hear her crying in the kitchen, but I don’t go in. I don’t know what to say to her when she gets like this, without getting angry at the pointlessness of it all, and I can’t let her see me angry.
She’s on at me again when she comes back in, sitting down too close to me: ‘Vivian, are you sure you’re okay?’
I shuffle up the sofa away from her. ‘I’m fine, Mum, I told you. I didn’t even like Tristan.’
‘What?’ The look on her face makes me realise that wasn’t the right thing to say, even though it’s the truth.
‘I didn’t like him.’ I say it again anyway, mutinous.
‘That, that isn’t really the point, Vivian.’
‘I already told you, it’s horrible for Tilly, but I don’t really care that much because he wasn’t very nice to me.’
‘So he deserves to be dead? Because you didn’t like him?’
I just roll my eyes. She’s such a drama llama, it drives me insane. He practically raped me, I’m not sorry he’s dead and I won’t say otherwise, not to her anyway.
‘He was seventeen, Vi, he had his whole life ahead of him!’ Tears are running freely down her face now, her stupid nose is pink and I can’t bear it, can’t bite quick enough to keep the words in.
‘Why do you make everything about you? He was my friend’s brother – this isn’t about you! Just shut up!’
She reels like I’ve slapped her, but she does shut up at least, and we sit in silence. I put the television on and pretend to watch it.
The afternoon and evening drag. It’s so uncomfortable. I can see the words that Mum is desperate to say to me itching under her skin, but she bites her lip. I’m older now, I know how to look after myself. I can handle this, obviously. But I don’t think she can. It’s always about her. Blaming herself for everything – she loves it. She thought everything that happened in London was her fault, how bad it got without her even noticing because she was so wrapped up in her crappy career. If she knew the whole story her fucking head would explode. It’s not long before a glass of wine appears, the bottle tucked down the side of the chair for easy access. She didn’t used to drink so much: that’s a hangover from back th
en, too.
Eventually, I tell her I’m tired and want to go to bed. She asks me if I want to sleep in with her, but I can’t imagine anything worse than her tossing and turning and kicking and breathing on me all night under the pretence that it’s comforting for either of us. I want my own bed, my own room, my clean space.
I’m finally in there, tucked away safely from her histrionics and thinking about everything that has happened and what might happen next when something flies in through my open bedroom window and lands right on me. I jump up, terrified it might be a moth – I hate moths, nasty dusty dirty fluttering things – but when I turn the light on I see a pebble on the bed.
Alex is outside my window. He waves and I put my finger to my lips – Mum is still awake. I want to sneak out but he’ll have to wait. She’s had most of two bottles of wine tonight, bloody alchy, so I can’t imagine she’ll be awake for much longer. He points to the back of the garden, then goes and climbs into the hammock. He’s a lot better at it than Mum is – she always falls out the other side at least twice. I watch it swinging gently for a minute, nursing the small excitement inside, before switching off the light and climbing into bed. I hear Mum coming up the stairs and the door of my room swings open quietly – I oil it so it doesn’t creak – and she shuffles in. I force myself to relax and breathe deeply and not react when she reaches out and smoothes my hair, her hitching wine breath swarming all over me. Eventually she shuffles back out and stumbles around the bathroom and into her own bedroom.
When she finally goes to sleep – goes quiet, at least – I creep out of the house. I skip the second-to-bottom step that creaks and walk the edge of the hallway for the same reason. It’s exhilarating after the depression of the day, sneaking out. He must like me. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t really like me. He’d avoid me, people always avoid grieving people. Misery is catching, it seeps everywhere, sticks to everything, makes it dull.
The hammock is swinging slightly and the ropes are rasping on the branches. I can make it out because the moon is so bright tonight, it catches the shapes of the garden, plays tricks with them. I run to the hammock before I freak out completely, even though I know perfectly well there isn’t anything there except us, shadows and heat.