by Diana Finley
Just as I thought, the car rental boys don’t even ask to see my driving licence, or else I’d have had to show them the one I’d found on the ground in a Sainsbury’s car park a while back. If they’d known about that, and that I’d hardly ever driven a car in recent years, they might not have been so happy to let me drive off in their miserable old Skoda! Bunch of cowboys.
***
The night before Barry and I are due to meet, I lie awake half the night, worrying about the drive, only finally nodding off at about four in the morning. Then I sleep on until the alarm wakes me at half past eight. I sit up with a terrible start, my heart thumping.
Calm down, Robbie, man … relax … relax … I keep telling myself. Plenty of time to get there.
I don’t put on my best new trousers and jumper – no point, it could get muddy in the Cheviots. I’d found a good pair of trainers at the Oxfam shop that fitted. The woman in there knows me well; she let me have them reduced to two quid. They don’t look too tatty; in fact, they look nearly new – quite a smart grey with a black flash – but they’ll be no good at all if it’s wet and boggy up in those hills.
Just as well I’ve no eggs or bacon left – I’ve no appetite, I’m that excited. I force a quick piece of toast and jam and a mug of tea down me, and I’m done. Luckily I’d written out the route in detail the night before – when I needed to turn, all the road numbers and villages I have to pass through – it took me hours. The librarian had shown me how to do it, following the map, and I soon caught on. I feel well proud of myself. I haven’t done stuff like that since I was at school.
I do a quick check around the cramped, fusty little flat, and make sure I’ve got everything I need.
The hire car is still where I’d left it, thank God. In this area, there’s always a chance someone might have slashed the tyres – or even nicked the car.
I sit quietly in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel, until my heart slows down, and my hands stop shaking. It may be five years since I last drove, but surely, I tell myself, you never forget – it’s just like riding a bike … only faster.
‘Get a grip,’ I mutter. ‘Deep breaths; in – out, in – out.’
I put the key in the ignition and turn it on.
‘Slow and steady, Robbie man, slow and steady,’ I say aloud as the car edges forwards. ‘You don’t want them boys in blue after you.’
***
It doesn’t take long to leave the city behind – urban congestion replaced by woods, fields, and rolling open spaces. A feeling of freedom and excitement sweeps over me.
The reception on the car radio starts to fade out the further north I drive. Never mind, I’m not much bothered about that. No need for music or chatter; there’s so much else to experience and I’m enjoying myself. There isn’t too much traffic on the roads, especially after I turn off the main A1 onto the narrower country roads. Only about half an hour outside the city and the whole world has changed. It’s mid-spring; a few fields are still brown earth, with neat plough lines and channels, as if a giant in a tractor has run an enormous fork carefully up and down, up and down. But most of the fields are showing a green tinge, where some crop is starting to grow, even though I’m too far away to tell what it is.
The sun is shining in a pale blue sky. Puffy white clouds drift across the sky, like in a kid’s picture book. There are sheep everywhere – and tiny lambs following their mums about in the lowland grass fields close to the farms. I pull into a lay-by for a while to watch them. I notice how the ewes keep a careful watch on their lambs if they stray. Must be a natural maternal instinct, I think, to watch over your babies. Even animals are seriously distressed to be separated from their offspring. How did my mum cope, I wonder?
There are cows and horses too in some of the fields, standing motionless as toy animals. They look so calm and peaceful, as if contemplating the purpose of life. ‘Take you a long time to solve that mystery, guys,’ I mutter.
High above the road, some sort of hawk is circling slowly, looking for prey. I love the country, yet I’ve not been out of the city for ages. When was I last away from the built-up area? Must have been years and years ago, probably when I was living with Len and Betty.
Thoughts of the countryside set my mind drifting to my time with Len and Betty. I can still picture their faces like they’re right in front of me. They were so nice; they were the best. It brings a lump to my throat to think of them. I remember how they used to take me out to run about in woods or have picnics on the beach. Sometimes they even took me to visit friends or relatives of theirs for tea. The special thing about Len and Betty is they gave me choices. First time in my life I’d ever had choices. All right, they weren’t huge choices, but they mattered so much to me.
‘What do you want to do today, Robbie? Want to come down the allotment, help me dig some taties?’
‘What kind of cake d’you fancy, pet – chocolate or jam?
‘Want to give this mix a stir?’
‘Shall we cycle down the coast today, or the river?’
Gently asking my opinions, never just barking orders at me like I’d been used to. It was the first time I experienced being regarded as a member of a proper family. Of course, Len and Betty had their own family: two middle-aged sons, Harry and Bob, and a daughter, Shirley. There was a tribe of grandchildren too – younger than me, many of them. At first I was wary of them, and a bit jealous too, truth be told. I wanted to be their only kid, and special, but they all included me in family discussions and get-togethers. They made me one of them.
They weren’t scared of teenagers like most of the foster carers; they really liked me. I could tell. They actually liked talking to me, and – something that I thought was amazing – they listened to me. They were so affectionate, I couldn’t help but respond. Len would call me ‘Laddie-me-Lad’ and Betty called me ‘Pet’ or ‘Robbie-Pet’, or sometimes ‘Darlin’’. Len would give my shoulder a squeeze or ruffle my hair, and Betty was forever giving me hugs. Of course, I’d sometimes pull away and say, ‘Give over’… or ‘geroff’ in a gruff voice. Well, you had to act tough, didn’t you …?
But really I loved their affection. It was like how I imagined grandparents might be. Should be. I would have happily stayed with Len and Betty for ever. Maybe I wouldn’t openly admit it, not even to them, but I really hoped they might adopt me – be my mum and dad for real, even though I knew they were too old. But it just wasn’t to be. It was better not to think too much; so often I just ended up in a sad place. Maybe, just maybe, at last I’m going to be part of a real family soon.
I force my thoughts away from the sadness, and back to my journey. I check my directions. Still heading the right way. The little car struggles up and up for some time, climbing a tiny narrow road up into the Cheviot hills. The narrow road morphs into an even narrower stony track, making the wheels grind and crackle. Surely it can’t be much further? We seem to be climbing for ever, not getting anywhere – except higher.
Suddenly, there it is – the small car park, all on its own, miles from anywhere – just as Barry described. From here, I know I’ll have to walk about three miles even higher up into the hills. Phew, hope I’m up to it.
I stop the car and look around. A cluster of ash trees mark one edge of the car park. They lean eastwards in unison, like a row of dancers momentarily striking a pose. Three other cars huddle under the shelter of the trees. Opposite, the hill falls away steeply towards the expanse of the valley below.
With the engine switched off, the only sound is the shrieking of the wind. As soon as I try opening the car door, a fierce, bitingly cold blast nearly knocks me over. Dark clouds scud rapidly across the sky, briefly shutting out the sun. I quickly slam the door shut. In the relative warmth inside, I struggle to put on my jumper and then my fleece. Old and slightly moth-eaten though it is, it will offer some slight protection from the cold.
I sit back and start the engine again, steering the Skoda in an arc to nestle
beside a blue Peugeot. Next to that is a slightly battered Fiesta, and beyond it, a shining black Golf. That’s got to be Barry’s hire-car, I think, typical of him.
I’ve packed a couple of sandwiches, two cans of beer and a bottle of water in a carrier bag, along with a thin nylon anorak in case of rain, the map Barry had given me, and all the money I have left. It’s nearly midday according to the clock in the car. I decide to have one of the sandwiches and a can of beer before setting off, just to give me enough energy for the long steep walk ahead. I’ll share the other can with Barry when I reach him. I try Barry’s mobile number to let him know I’m on the last stretch, but predictably, there’s no signal up there.
Remembering Barry’s instructions, I lock the car and make for the footpath marked with a blue arrow. It doesn’t look inviting; the land is covered in scrubby grass and patches of heather, some thorny broom bushes – and ahead, the steep, rocky pathway.
***
After two hours of walking, I wonder whether Barry would struggle with the climb too. Especially as he’s clearly in poor health. Is he really up to such a rigorous walk?
My feet throb from the constant impact of the stones on the flimsy soles of my trainers and my thighs and ankles are aching with the unfamiliar effort of clambering up rocks and the steep, uneven inclines.
Serves you right for not keeping yourself properly fit, Robbie, I think grimly. The bitterly cold wind cuts through my fleece, instantly freezing the sweat gathering on my back. I’m worrying more about Barry, so I try the mobile again, but there’s still no signal.
I don’t encounter any other walkers – nor any other living creatures for that matter – except the occasional small cluster of sheep, who bleat in surprise at seeing a human being, and the odd rabbit scampering away in panic.
By two o’clock – Barry’s planned rendezvous time – I’m exhausted. It’s only knowing that the meeting place must be nearby that keeps me going for the last fifteen minutes or so.
At last, the hill levels out into a domed, grassy area. So even and symmetrical is the circular curve of this summit that it appears almost carved by human hands, although I know it must have been created by thousands of years of constant, harsh weathering. I also sense immediately that this is the right place. It’s clearly the end of the path.
I stand for a few minutes in the centre of the hump, my legs trembling, my heart thudding in my chest – partly from the effort, partly from some anxiety about seeing my brother again. I turn my body slowly around on the spot, examining every view of the 360-degree circle. Where is he? Surely he wouldn’t have given up and gone, just because I’m a few minutes late? Anyway, he would have passed me on the path if he had decided to go back to his car – there was no other path.
I walk in a circle through shrubby undergrowth: heather, ferns, and gorse. A pair of grouse rise out of the heather in alarm, giving me a right fright, calling their strange cry, just as I remember Len describing to me years ago: ‘Go-back, go-back, go-back …’
‘Well, I’m not going back’, I tell them crossly. ‘Not after all the bloody effort of getting here!’ I sit on a rocky outcrop to rest for a minute.
Still no sign of Barry. Surely he should be here by now. Irritation starts to gnaw at my insides. Is this Barry’s idea of a joke? I grit my teeth and shake my head, trying to expel the thoughts. We were getting on so well. I sit on a slab of rock.
It’s only now that I begin to realise just how important this brother of mine has become to me, how much I want to see him again, and above all, how much I want to get to know my mother. A sudden longing for her, for my family, tears painfully at my heart.
The feeling is almost unbearable. Barry has clearly decided not to pursue our relationship any further. He obviously doesn’t like me as much as he made out. Why would he? I feel like weeping. But I stand up and shake myself.
‘Pull yourself together, Robbie, man,’ I say out loud. After all, what does it really matter? I hadn’t even known about my brother’s existence for all those years before our meeting in Durham only about two months ago, and it hadn’t bothered me then. Never gave it a thought. Why should it matter now? Yet … it does matter. It matters a lot.
I do one more circuit, my steps growing heavy and weary. Just as I approach the point where the footpath reaches the grassy summit, something catches my eye. Further down, almost hidden in the heather, I see a dark, bluish colour. Is it a carrier bag, or perhaps a rucksack?
I walk towards it, stepping carefully over the heather bushes, which threaten to trip me with their hard, twisty stems. The dark blue object grows larger as I approach. It begins to take shape … the shape of a jacket: a navy blue jacket. I creep cautiously towards it, my eyes struggling to take in the reality of what they are seeing. Not just a jacket, but a man – a man wearing a jacket. It’s definitely a man.
Lying sprawled on his back on the ground, gazing heavenwards with open, sightless eyes, is my brother, Barry.
Chapter 32
2004
Robert
I stare at the lifeless body of my brother.
Barry is lying on his back, one arm bent, his fingers clutching the strap of an expensive-looking rucksack, the other arm thrust up behind his head. The navy blue jacket – the Barbour he’d worn at our previous meeting – is open, revealing what looks like a grey Shetland wool jumper, with the collar of a checked shirt just showing at the neck. Instinctively, my hand moves up to my own neck, as if in an involuntary gesture of empathy, or perhaps just horror at what I’m observing. My breath comes in rapid pants, as if not enough oxygen is reaching my lungs. My whole body is trembling. Sweat trickles down my spine. All strength leaves my legs; they give way beneath me and I sink to my knees on the damp ground. Such great sorrow compresses my whole body that I am overcome with shaking.
‘Barry …?’ I whisper. ‘Barry? Barry, please …’
There is no reply. Of course there is no reply. I’ve never seen a dead body before, but anyone could tell he’s no longer alive. I creep a few inches nearer and crouch by his side. I look into my brother’s face. It bears no sign of pain or struggle, which is a relief to me. Barry looks calm and peaceful. His face is smooth, free of lines. His mouth even seems to turn upwards faintly, as if smiling just faintly.
Despite being drawn and haggard, perhaps from the drugs, Barry’s face is slightly smoother, less rugged than mine, I notice, at these close quarters. Perhaps it’s just the effect of a comfortable life? All traces of the beard removed, I admire my brother’s close, clean shave, that sleekness again; it’s a perfect finish – unlike my own uneven stubble, the result no doubt of always having to use cheap razors.
His hands are clean and well-manicured: perfectly trimmed nails, neat, even cuticles.
I reach out and hesitantly touch Barry’s hair. Just like mine, it’s chestnut-brown, with the first streaks of grey at the temples. But unlike my straggly, greasy hair, Barry’s is silky smooth, conditioned, cut to perfection – a soft wave above the ears and over the forehead. It is clearly an expensive cut, but a traditional style, which is somehow both gentle, yet masculine. It strikes me that Barry is a very handsome man. But, despite looking exactly like him, it has never crossed my mind to consider myself good-looking or handsome, nor do I believe anyone else has ever thought so either.
I kneel there, next to my twin brother, and sigh. A deep sadness settles heavily over me like a dark raincloud.
What am I to do now? What the hell am I going to do??! Just when I was looking forward to having a brother in my life, for all the years to come, Barry has been snatched away from me. And what about my mum? What about Marie? How can I meet her if Barry’s dead? It seems desperately unfair.
It’s not fair! I feel like wailing, like a disgruntled child promised a treat, only to have it whipped away. It is as though a dark, damp blanket has wrapped itself around me, a blanket not of comfort but of loneliness. A heaviness, a tightness, rises in my throat, and my eyes well up with tears.
Perhaps I should make my way back to the car park and down the hill to call the authorities from the nearest village. But who would I ring? I wonder if anyone would even believe my story? That I just found him here. Me with my dubious background, and an envelope full of money in my pocket. The skin on my back crawls at the thought of leaving him here all alone. But if I talk to the police, who knows what could happen to me. What assumptions might they make? What can I do?
I feel utterly alone and desperate. I can’t think straight.
Then an answer comes to me. There is something else I could do, something makes some sense out of this situation. Perhaps it’s even what Barry meant me to do in such circumstances. Is this perhaps why he asked to meet in such a remote and lonely place? I stand up and listen, then walk back up to the mound and look around. There’s no doubt about it; we are completely alone. I return to his body.
I hesitate for a few moments, wondering if I can really do this. Then slowly, gently, respectfully, I begin to undress Barry, careful not to twist or distort his limbs. First, the navy blue jacket. I slide Barry’s arms out of the sleeves, and ease the back from under his body a little bit at a time.
‘Lucky we’re both thin, Barry,’ I whisper to him. ‘You’re not too heavy, are you, mate?’
I place the jacket to one side on the heather, folding it carefully to keep any damp off the inside. Next, the grey Shetland sweater. That’s a bit more of a struggle. It fits his body closely, but at least the wool is soft and pliable, allowing me to pull the sleeves off without too much difficulty. Then I have to work Barry’s head out of the neck opening, pulling it over his chin first, and then lifting his head while easing that too out of the opening. I hold my brother’s head on the palm of one hand – I’m astonished at the weight of it – but I manage to extricate it in the end. The checked shirt is easy enough; it has buttons from the collar to the hem. It’s made of some sort of brushed cotton material. I stroke its softness against my cheek, feeling it catch slightly on my stubble. Beneath the shirt, Barry is wearing a white T-shirt vest of the finest, silkiest material I have ever felt. I bend down until my mouth is closer to Barry’s ear.