by Sarah Lawton
‘You’ve got it as well,’ I tell him, wiping my eyes and laughing.
‘Got what? Hay fever?’
‘Oh, maybe, no, I thought it was the sun? The light makes me sneeze. It’s a genetic thing – photic sneezing. My tear ducts are a bit wonky and when the sun makes my eyes water a bit goes the wrong way and makes me sneeze.’
‘Ah, I do have that! I thought everyone did it. I thought it was your eyes protecting themselves from the light. You can’t sneeze with your eyes open.’
‘In case they fall out?’ I laugh. ‘Nope. We’re special. Apparently you have a fifty per cent chance of getting it from your mother. Does your mum sneeze? Mine does.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
I notice his mouth press when I mention his mother, so I make a note not to ask him about family any more. What do I talk to him about, though? It’s not going to be easy, even following up on the world’s most boring sneezing conversation.
‘How has your day been?’
‘Fine. Great. Everything going to plan.’
‘What plan?’
‘Ah, wouldn’t you like to know!’ He slings his arm around my shoulders again, pulling me to him before dropping his hand to mine and gathering it up.
I don’t like it when people have secrets. I want to know about everything. I don’t mind if people still think they have secrets after I have found out about them, though. That’s just useful. I’m still not sure what else to do about Molly’s secrets. At least Tristan’s can’t hurt me any more. Us, I mean. Tristan’s name in my mind seems to have transferred itself to Alex’s mouth, and he asks me about him.
‘How are you feeling? About the accident?’
‘Awful, it’s so sad. He was only seventeen.’ I find my mother’s words coming out of my mouth: something tells me they are more palatable than my own thoughts, which are basically I wish everyone would stop fucking asking me. I don’t see the point of grief: everyone dies eventually.
‘It’s all right if you don’t care, you know.’
‘What? Of course I care. That’s a weird thing to say.’ It is weird, but it also makes me feel good, because of course I don’t actually care that much and am just waiting for everything to go back to normal. It intrigues me to think he might go against the grain as much as I want to.
‘Well, you told me, didn’t you, what he did to you the other week. That was well out of order. Maybe bad things sometimes happen to bad people, too.’ He’s looking at me as he says this, and he looks… I don’t know. I find it hard to tell how other people are feeling sometimes. I’m not sure what he wants me to do so I don’t reply.
We walk out of school as the bell rings for the end of the day, and gravitate to the tree where we first spoke. The trunk is broad enough for us both to sit back against the rough bark. We are holding hands and mine is starting to feel sweaty and I don’t want to feel gross so I take it back under the pretence that I need to tie back my hair using the bobble that’s currently digging into my wrist. Alex leans over and kisses the patch of skin behind my ear I’ve just exposed, then the inside of my wrist where there’s a red line, and a live wire shoots right through me. I want to feel his hands on me, which is troubling because I don’t like being touched. I can only think that my attraction to him, his mystery, is overcoming my natural inclinations about germs and romance and things. Even I am not immune from biological urges it would seem.
I don’t know if he’s pretending not to notice the effect he’s having on me, but I’m exasperated when he turns away, leaning back and closing his eyes. I take the opportunity to study his face. Nothing is out of place. Usually when you look at someone for long enough, you start to spot flaws or anomalies – something. Molly has a freckle on her lip line that fractures their shape. Serena has a cowlick that means her hair never falls straight, however much she attacks it with products. Tilly’s nose has a scarred bump in the middle from when she went over her handlebars after her bike chain fell off when we were kids. She’d been mean to me all that day, I remember. There was blood everywhere.
I’m looking and looking. I have an eye for detail, I notice things, but his face is just perfect. He’s got thick – but not too thick – eyebrows that don’t have any nasty stray hairs in the middle, or on his brow bone. They are lighter than his hair, more brown than black. He’s got eyelashes that would put mascara out of business if girls had them. I trace the lines of his face with my eyes, follow creamy smooth skin over his cheekbones. No nibbled dry patches on his lips. Even though his hair is dark, his skin isn’t. He’s got the same sort of tone as Molly: lightly tanned, but in a blond person kind of way. I could look at his face all day, but the best part of it is currently hidden under shut eyelids, delicate and pale with a fine tracing of blue: ink dropped into milk.
‘Vivian, are you staring at me?’ He speaks in an amused, low rumble and one green-gold eye pops open looking right at me, caught in the act. I open my mouth, but my words aren’t working, and then he puts his hand behind my neck and pulls my lips to his and it doesn’t matter any more.
* * *
I walk in through the back gate of the garden thinking of nothing but a cold shower. The short walk through the woods back from school has left me with a tickle of sweat on my lower back and more gathered at the place where my hair meets my neck. I feel dirty, and sticky. Alex didn’t seem to mind the heat, he never looks anything but chilled. He didn’t walk me to the gate because he had to go back and get something he forgot from college, but that was fine because I don’t want Mum to know about him. I know she’ll think he’s a complication that I might not be able to handle, but I’m practically a grown-up now. I’m nearly the oldest in the year: I’ll be sixteen in a couple of months. He kissed me again before he went, and it made me want more of him.
I see Mum in the studio and before I can sneak past she spots me too and waves me in. Ugh, I just need a shower! She catches me in a sweaty hug, and I can’t help but shudder with disgust. She notices, and lets me go with a pathetically forlorn look on her face.
‘Hello, darling. How was it? Were the girls there?’
‘No. Hardly anyone was. It was fine, though, I just revised. I think they are just going to drop some of our exams, or push some back. It doesn’t matter to me, anyway.’
‘Not everyone is like you, Vivian.’
I look at her as she says this, surprised by the snap in her tone, but her eyes have drifted back to her painting. She’s used my face again for the girl in the book. She always does. Her paintings sell really well because people want the illustrations or the cover art as prints, and I hate it. I don’t want my face on the walls of strangers’ houses. What might my painted eyes be seeing? At least she’s changed my hair, though I expect that’s because of a description in the book rather than any effort on her part. I look ridiculous with that massive, braided mess. Are those bells? Imagine having bells in your hair – everyone would be able to hear you coming.
‘Mum! It looks like me again! I asked you not to!’ I hate the whine in my voice, but this is a conversation we have had several times and she still does it.
‘Sorry, darling. I can’t help it – you’re always the first face in my mind.’
‘Well, can you paint me out of it, please? Gross. I need a shower.’ I notice a different painting set up on an easel. ‘I like that fox, is he going in the book?’
‘Ah, no, that’s a different project.’
‘It’s really good. He looks like he’s going to jump off the paper.’
I manage to make my escape and run for the bathroom. I wonder if Alex will come back tonight? At least I finally have his number. I’ll have to think of something clever to text him. Something to make him want me.
Rachel
I don’t know why I didn’t tell Vivian about Alex coming over. I wasn’t sure if he went to the school or not – he changed the subject when I asked him – and frankly I thought she might be embarrassed if she knew a boy from school was coming for lessons.
I imagined they would bump into each other soon enough anyway, in such a small place. Alex was handsome enough to be noticed wherever he went.
I suppose a small part of me just wanted something new for myself. Everything I did was centred around Vivian, her and her feelings. I had given everything up to look after her properly, but maybe it was time I had something too. It was nice to have a new friend, unconventional as it may have been, considering the age gap. There weren’t any other creatives in the village either, so to have someone to really talk to about something I loved without having them look bored enough to cry was a real treat. I was thinking of all the different artists I wanted to talk to him about, the books I could lend him. I had flights of fancy about going to his first exhibition, wandering around with a glass of champagne and telling people that I had helped him when he was a young man. He was capable of a career as a painter, I could see it in him already. It distracted me momentarily from thinking about Tristan, but unfortunately that didn’t last.
I had meant to go to the supermarket before Vivian had got home, but Alex hadn’t left until two and it had slipped my mind, the distinct lack of any sustenance in the house. I called up to Vivian that I was heading out and asked her if she needed anything and got the usual noncommittal grunt in return. She would probably text me something when I was in the car on the way home and then be furious when I turned up without it. Well, she had legs, so she could get herself to the bloody shops on the bus if she needed something. I was getting more annoyed with her by the day.
I’d managed to choose the wonky trolley as always at the shop, and was trying to unfold my shopping list one handed when I banged into someone by accident.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry…’ Then my words dried up. It was Maureen, Tristan and Tilly’s mum. I felt sorrow like a stone plunge into my stomach, closing up my throat. I didn’t know what to say to her, though I desperately wished I did. I could barely cope with the burden of my own issues and always went to pieces when confronted with the raw and bleeding aspect of someone else’s emotions.
‘Maureen, I…’
‘Don’t, Rachel, please. It’s fine. I wouldn’t know what to say to me, either. I don’t even know what I’m doing here!’ She gave a short, almost hysterical bark that was nearly a laugh, nearly a scream. ‘I forgot my list. I forgot my bags. I can’t remember where I’ve parked.’
‘Oh, god, Maureen, can I help? Can I give you a lift home? Maybe Bob could come and get your car later, I could bring you some shopping…’
‘He’s a mess, Rachel. He’s completely destroyed. He’s lost his boy, our boy!’ Pain ravaged her voice, ripped at it with cruel fingers. Tears spooled in her eyes, spilling at the first blink down her plump red cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!’
‘Please don’t say that, Maureen, please, let me help, let’s find your car, I can drive you home and I’ll come back for mine. Come on, darling.’
I abandoned my trolley and she let me lead her out of the aisle and through the gust of air conditioning by the door, into the still baking, glaring sunshine. I had to hold her elbow and gently guide her steps; she was blind with tears. I gave her a tissue from my bag but she just clenched it in a white-fingered fist and let them run down her face, quiet but wrenching sobs shaking her shoulders. I couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat. There weren’t many cars in the car park, but I knew their car and it was easy to spot: a huge, bashed-up, ancient Land Rover. I had no idea how the hell I was going to drive it but Maureen wasn’t in any fit state to and I couldn’t speak to call Bob.
I had to take her handbag and get the keys out, help her climb into the cab. I don’t think she knew where or even who she was by that point; she wrapped her arms around her waist and bent herself double, making small noises full of hurt. I felt every one. I managed to get her seatbelt on her and I started the car, the clutch stiff beneath my foot. A small, irreverent thought wormed its way into my brain, that Maureen must have a left thigh of steel, and for one horrifying second I thought I would laugh, but it whipped itself away as quickly as it arrived. I stalled at the lights on the way into the village but eventually made it to the turning off the high road where the chippy was, the forlorn ‘Closed’ sign hanging askew in the door. I don’t know how I got her out of the car, or to the door. It burst open as we arrived and Bob stumbled out, whey-faced and wild.
‘Mau, Mau! Where did you go, where were you?’ Behind him was Tilly, ashen. She looked up at me and attempted to smile but failed utterly, merely twisting her face. Maureen just staggered past them and up the stairs, followed by her husband. I had to pass the car keys and Maureen’s handbag to Tilly who took them silently from me and went slowly up after them, leaving me to shut the door as quietly as I could manage.
After I left them I had no idea what to do with myself, so I walked over to the pub in the hope that Steve would be in the bar. Thankfully he was. He took one look at my face and jumped up from behind his laptop and pulled me into a hug.
‘Darling, what’s happened? You look awful.’
‘I saw Maureen at the supermarket. She just fell apart in front of me. I had to bring her home in her Rover – I don’t even know if that was legal! I was probably driving it illegally, the police will have to arrest me!’ I tried to laugh, but it burnt on the way out into a sorry squeak.
‘I’m assuming you’ve left your car at the supermarket, then?’ he asked, voice muffled by my hair as he gently rocked us from side to side. I nodded onto his warm shoulder, which was more than a little dampened by my onslaught.
‘Come on then, trouble, let’s go and get you your car back.’
‘And some food?’
‘Don’t push it, darling, you know I get all mine delivered. I can’t stand the supermarket, everyone shoving around like sheep, desperate for the last packet of Hobnobs. It’s like the apocalypse in there. Deranged.’
Steve always made me feel better and he did lift my spirits temporarily as he drove me back to the shop and, despite his protestations, came in with me while I bought some bits, talking to nearly everyone who walked past us. Steve was a village ‘lifer’ as he put it, and as the owner of the only pub, he probably knew every single person who lived in a ten-mile radius. As well as my own shopping I bought some extra milk, tea and bread – basics I thought the Beaumonts might have run out of, plus some things they could cobble an easy meal out of.
Steve noticed, sharp-eyed as ever. ‘You’re a sweetheart, you really are,’ he said, arm around my shoulders. ‘How is Vivian getting on? Is she coping? I hope this all isn’t going to set you back.’
‘What do you mean, set me back? Set me back where?’ I had never told Steve about what had happened in London.
‘Sorry, love, I don’t mean anything by it. But you were always so wound up over Viv before. You wouldn’t let her out of your sight.’ He looked embarrassed, but I knew perfectly well what he was getting at, and he had a point.
He thought I was paranoid about her safety, I was worried about mine too: I had felt a threat hanging over us for days now, but I didn’t know what it was, only that I was out of sorts and nervous.
‘I think she’s going to be okay,’ I offered, wondering again if that was actually a good thing. ‘I’m worried for Tilly, though. I can hardly bear to think about what she must be feeling.’
Steve just gave me a wan smile, and we went to the tills.
After Steve left me in the shop car park with another one of his firm hugs, I put the shopping in my boot and I drove back to the chippy. I rang the doorbell. Tilly answered, her eyes raw and red, and I silently gave her the shopping bags. She took them with another small twist of her mouth and shut the door. By the time I got home I was crying again myself. I knew what that pain felt like. I knew it would never leave them, only hide itself in small spaces of their hearts like a cancer.
I didn’t sleep that night.
When Vivian was in the hospital I had asked my doctor to prescribe me sleeping tablets because I hadn’t been ab
le to close my eyes without seeing horrific images. I’d wandered around my empty house, devoid of my mother and Vivian, alone with my thoughts and ever increasing paranoia and fear. The pills had given me a temporary respite from it, wiping out the day and smothering me with a chemical blanket. They didn’t stop the exhaustion, but at least the intrusive, dark, night-time thoughts, the guilt and the fear, had been banished.
I hadn’t needed them for years. I’d thrown away the last few I’d had in a fit of optimism the year before. I wished now that I’d kept them. I lay in my safe bed, in my safe room, my safe home, but I wasn’t safe from myself. I wasn’t safe from the scratching, hissing torments that crawled through the gaps in my subconscious, twisting every positive thought I’d ever had. I had let Vivian get in that car. I had known that car was dangerous. Why had I never said anything about it? What if she had been in the accident? I had failed, again, as a mother. I couldn’t protect her. I knew I was feeling sorry for myself, hijacking another family’s sorrow, making it all about me. I was one of those awful, weak people who can only cope with grief by causing themselves more pain.
I drifted off as light began to creep into my room, and what little sleep I had was full of screaming brakes, wet roads, neon lights and the sound of a child, crying on a staircase.
London
The house was silent.
‘Hello?’ called Rachel, as she pushed open the door, tugging her key out of the lock and putting it back in her bag. ‘Mum?’ Everything was still, she could feel that the house was empty. She pulled out her phone, but there was no message. Not that her mum was particularly good at texting; the mobile Rachel had bought her was probably switched off and abandoned somewhere in the house like it usually was. No note in the kitchen.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled as she moved through the downstairs. No sign of Vivian’s school bag. They must have gone somewhere after pick up. But it was late, nearly bedtime. Past bedtime, said the snide voice in her head. You timed it on purpose so you didn’t have to do it. She picked up the landline to call Carol, but then spotted her mum’s mobile sitting right next to it, and swore under her breath. For want of anything else to do she went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine and pouring herself a large glass, which she carried through the front room and drank standing up, watching out of the window. The nights were drawing in.