Two-Hundred Steps Home Volume One

by Amanda Martin

“Of course. You are always welcome...”

  Claire tried not to snigger and then not to curse as her mother continued.

  “…Not this weekend though, your father is playing golf and I’m on shift at the shop.”

  Well by the weekend I’ll be in some Northern Province so that’s not a problem. “I was actually thinking of tomorrow.”

  “Why? What’s happened? Why aren’t you at work; are you sick?”

  Claire could just imagine her mother’s reaction if she were to suggest coming to stay while infested with germs. There was an intake of breath down the phone before her mother added, “Don’t tell me you got laid off?”

  “No, Mum. Besides, Directors don’t get Laid Off.” Claire hoped her mother hadn’t discovered an unprecedented interest in her daughter’s career. “I have a new assignment that means I’ll be travelling a great deal for the next few months. I thought it would be nice to come home for a short visit first, as I’ll be out of reach for a while.”

  “Well, if you want to I can make up the spare room. How long will you be staying?”

  Claire tried to ignore the lack of enthusiasm and focus on the question. “Only until Friday morning. I have to be in Berwick by bedtime.”

  “Berwick-Upon-Tweed? Why on Earth do you want to go all the way up there? It’s practically Scotland.”

  Claire stifled a sigh. “It’s part of the assignment, Mum. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  “What time will you be here? Only I have a hair appointment at ten and a WI meeting in the afternoon.”

  “Mum I still have a key. I can let myself in, if that’s okay with you? If it’s too much trouble I can go visit Ruth instead.”

  “I will not have you bothering your sister when she’s poorly. Come to us.”

  When did Ruth become the golden child? Claire thought back to when they were all living at home. Ruth was always the one in trouble, needing to be collected from the police station or A&E, while Robert and Claire were home finishing assignments.

  “Okay Mum, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Claire hung up the phone then scrolled through her contacts trying to decide whether to ring a friend to suggest a late drink or just call for takeaway. She looked at familiar names but for some reason none leapt out as someone she wanted to spend her last night in Manchester with.

  “Hello, yes, can I order a Number 27 please?” Claire laughed, “Yes, it’s Claire. Okay, that’s great, see you in twenty minutes.”

  Claire hung up and got out her iPad. Soon she was engrossed in shooting birds from a catapult, trying not to dwell on the journey that would start when she closed her front door for the last time in the morning.

  ***

  THIRTEEN

  “Just start, you stupid stinking heap of junk!” Claire smacked her hand against the steering wheel, then winced as pins and needles shot up her arm. It felt like the wheel was made of iron rather than the cushioned leather she was used to.

  “Don’t cry, don’t cry.” Claire inhaled deeply and stared out of the chipped windscreen. She was still parked outside her flat. No one had towed the car away in the 24 hours since the Skoda had arrived to replace her company Audi and so she had no choice but to use it to drive to her parents before heading up to Berwick to start her assignment.

  Claire dropped her head back against the seat, wincing again at the hardness of the headrest. She had never been in a car with fewer comforts. She tried to recall what the man in blue overalls had told her. The words manual choke floated into her head, although she had no idea what they meant. Claire fished out her iPad and typed the words into Google. She scanned through the information on ehow and began searching around the steering wheel for something that looked like a lever she could pull. She found it eventually near the handbrake and yanked it out. When she turned the key this time, the engine spluttered into life with a throaty roar more suited to a tractor than a tiny tin-pot car.

  Claire looked out the window, hoping none of the neighbours were watching. Even though she wouldn’t be back to the street for a year she didn’t really want anyone to question why her shiny company car had been traded for this East European relic.

  Claire managed to find first gear, after a quick tour of third and fifth. The gear stick was a giant baton, like a cheerleader might twirl, and the distance between the gears could be measured in inches. It had been months since Claire had driven a manual and that had been a hire car. Bunny-hopping down the street nearly gave her whiplash as she tried to find the bite on the spongy clutch.

  Claire headed out of town to the motorway, weaving through morning rush-hour. What possessed me to leave this early? Idiot. The truth was Claire didn’t know any other way than to get up at 5am.

  Traffic ground to a halt as they approached a roundabout and Claire could hear the engine growling at her. Looking around helplessly she realised she hadn’t pushed the choke thing back in. She was sure ehow had said something about it only being needed for a few minutes and she’d been driving for twenty.

  Damn this car.

  She inched forward in the traffic wishing that she could get anything other than Commercial on the ancient radio. After the third advert for PPI Claims she turned it off and tried not to worry about the sounds coming from the engine behind her. She glanced in the rear mirror and saw something fogging her view even though the way was clear in front.

  What…? Is that mist?

  Claire turned to look over her shoulder. There was steam pouring from the boot. That can’t be good. She looked down at the dash and saw that the temperature needle was thrusting at the red. Bugger. Claire searched around to see if there was a way out to the hard shoulder, or better still a service station, but there was just stationary traffic all the way to the roundabout. Double Bugger.

  Claire coaxed the car onto the roundabout and down to the motorway, praying they would make it to Knutsford services before it conked out entirely. The cars around her hemmed her in like a pack of lions surrounding a sickly calf. The horns started as she crept down the slip-road, not daring to go above twenty.

  She was practically sobbing with relief by the time the Skoda crawled into the petrol station. Climbing out of the car Claire resisted the urge to kick it. If there had been a tree branch handy she could quite happily have bashed the bonnet like Basil Fawlty.

  “Problem love?”

  Claire looked up to see a kind face twinkling at her from beneath a motorbike visor. An elderly gentleman in a black leather jacket with a red scarf around his neck was just putting the petrol cap back on what looked like an old police bike. He pulled the disposable gloves off his hands and walked over to where she was slumped against the car.

  “Overheated?” The man looked to where steam was still pouring out the back of the car.

  “I guess.” Claire shrugged. “It’s not my car; I normally drive a 2011 Audi.”

  “Ah, I imagine you’ve been having fun with this then.” She looked up to see if the man was being sarcastic but it seemed he genuinely meant it. Maybe if you ride a motorbike then even a Skoda seems comfortable. Claire never understood the appeal of being out in the cold and rain when you could be nestled in a heated leather seat.

  “Did you turn the fan on?”

  “The what?” Claire watched as the man reached into the driver’s seat and pulled a lever. The boot popped open and he went round to inspect the engine. His voice was muffled as he spoke from the depths of the car. “These old things often have a bodge for the fan. A manual switch under the dash.”

  Claire walked closer so she could hear him better. She had learnt her lesson about paying attention. “You need to flick it on in traffic but remember to turn it off when you’re parked otherwise you’ll flatten your battery.”

  He looked around the forecourt and located a bucket of water, then pulled on his large leather gloves and twisted off some part of the engine. A plume of steam whooshed out and the man leant away before turning back to pour some water into the hole.
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br />   “You’ll need to take it steady but I don’t think you busted anything. Are you a member of the AA?”

  Claire looked puzzled. What did Alcoholics Anonymous have to do with her car overheating? Unless he was worried she might turn to drink in her anger and shame.

  “The AA? Breakdown cover? I recommend it if you’re not used to driving an old car. Temperamental things. Need love and care.” He stood up and slammed the boot shut. “Bought my daughter one of these when she passed her test and she ended up taking the carburettor off when it broke.” He beamed with pride as if he could imagine nothing finer than a daughter who would get her hands dirty.

  Claire looked down at her perfectly manicured nails and wondered if her father would be proud of her if she turned up at home covered in oil. Her mother would freak.

  “How do I get AA?”

  ***

  FOURTEEN

  Claire parked around the corner from her parents’ house and turned to contemplate the rucksack on the back seat. Taking it in with her was going to raise questions, but leaving it in the Skoda was tantamount to putting a sign on it saying “Steal Me”. Even in this part of Cambridge there were bound to be people handy enough with a wire coat-hanger to break in.

  She pulled the tiny silver handle to open the door. I could probably break in myself if the need arose. Maybe I should start carrying a piece of wire in my handbag. I’m bound to lock my keys in at some point.

  She pushed down the lock and checked she was holding the keys before slamming the door shut. One of the quirks of this particular car was that it wouldn’t lock from the outside. I miss my beep-beep button already and it’s only been a day.

  Claire opened the front door to her family home only after ringing the bell to see whether anyone was in. She wasn’t surprised to find the house empty. The journey had taken much longer than expected and her mother was probably already at her WI meeting. Her father was rarely in during the week. Despite taking retirement he kept himself busy during normal working hours, as if the groove made by fifty years of work was so deep he could do nothing but run along the same path.

  She looked around the hallway and lounge, trying to tell if anything had changed. It was unlikely. If her father’s groove was created by time spent in a suit and tie her mother’s ran between her charities and the WI. Home decoration and interior design had never been her thing. Claire supposed a house of magnolia and pine was better than frills and flowers everywhere but it did make the place feel cold. When they were little there had been a few photographs of her and her siblings around the place, the odd painting tacked to the wall. Now the pictures were as bland as the furniture.

  Claire shivered, cursing herself for forgetting to unpack a cashmere from the rucksack. The house was always several degrees colder than was comfortable. Another quick yell confirmed that the house was empty. Walking through to the kitchen, Claire headed for the kettle, hoping her mum had thought to put some semi-skimmed milk on the sign for the milkman. There was a note by the kettle. Mum does at least know me that well, Claire thought with a smile.

  “I bumped into Kim at the supermarket and mentioned you were coming home for a few days. She said to call her if you fancied a drink.”

  The note was written in beautiful curling handwriting on a piece of pink paper torn from a notebook. Claire stared at it, wondering if she was feeling strong enough for a night out with her oldest friend. Nothing cuts through your life to the core like an hour spent with someone who has known you since you were five.

  Claire poured steaming water into a large mug and gave the teabag a prod, watching the rich red-brown colour spread out like spilt blood. She was conscious of a strong pulling sensation somewhere in her chest. It was the lure of the Maldives; of empty sandy beaches and no one having any idea where she was.

  ***

  FIFTEEN

  “Claire, over here!”

  Claire looked round the half-empty pub for a familiar face but nothing jumped out. She was casting her gaze back across the bar when she saw a hand waving from a dark corner.

  “Kim, there you are.” Claire made her way through stools and tables to reach her friend. “Your hair! My God, I didn’t recognise you.”

  She bent over to kiss her friend’s cheek before sliding in next to her. Her eyes fixed on the bright red points sticking up from her Kim’s head. “I don’t know what’s more dramatic, the colour or the spikes.”

  “I know, wicked isn’t it? Mum hates it…” She giggled like a little girl.

  “Kim, you’re not sixteen anymore you know: pissing off your mum doesn’t need to be your primary concern.” She laughed, but in truth she was shocked. Kim’s hair had always been a beautiful blonde. It was the reason they met.

  Claire remembered it, even now. She had crossed the playground on their first day at primary school and asked if she could touch Kim’s hair. It had been soft, like a fairy princess’s. Claire had tugged at her own thick brown locks in disgust. Now Claire stroked her dark straight hair and marvelled at her friend’s bravery.

  “Oh I didn’t do it just to annoy Mum, although that’s always fun. No, I’m in a play, it’s part of the costume.”

  “Is it a wig?”

  “Nah, they offered one but where’s the fun in that?”

  Claire laughed at her friend. “Shall I get drinks?”

  Kim nodded. It was an unspoken rule between them that Claire got the drinks. Kim had been an actress since University and had yet to secure anything that paid more than a pittance, while Claire’s work had always been well remunerated.

  “So, what’s the play?”

  “Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’m playing puck.”

  “Hey, that’s great. I thought puck was normally a boy?”

  Kim smiled cheekily, looking every inch the playful character. “There’s no ‘normally’ in Shakespeare. You’ve got to remember they were all originally played by men.”

  “Talking of men, how’s yours?”

  Kim flushed and grinned. “Hot, hard, handsome.”

  Claire felt a pain under her rib cage at the look on her friend’s face. Kim had been engaged to her fiancé Jeff for two years. They were waiting for more affluent circumstances before they got married. The girls hadn’t seen each other for months, not since Michael, although they were linked on Facebook. Claire tensed, waiting for Kim to start the twenty questions. She stared at her drink then flicked her eyes up to her friend’s pale pixie face.

  “Your mum told me you were starting a new assignment.” Kim gazed at Claire over her glass and they shared a look which said they knew what wasn’t being discussed. Claire smiled gratefully then took a gulp of her G&T before taking in what Kim had said.

  “Mum said that? Blimey, I thought she never listened to a word I said. Wonders never cease.”

  “So, come on, what’s the assignment? What drags you out of Manchester mid-week to visit folks and old friends? Not that you rang me…” She raised an eyebrow in mock censure.

  “Sorry Kim, my head’s been all over the place. I only decided last night that I was going to come home today.” Claire paused, trying to decide how much to say. Even though they had known each other for over two decades, she and Kim hadn’t been close all that time. When Claire had been sent to public school the girls had drifted apart. They’d got back in touch during their University years and caught up for drinks when Claire was in Cambridge, which wasn’t often.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Kim didn’t sound put-out, just genuinely as if she didn’t want to press her friend for information. Claire thought about the people at AJC she had regarded as friends. Maybe there’s more to friendship than sharing a taste in shoes and handbags. And hairstyles, she added, glancing at the pillar-box red locks shining above Kim’s face.

  “They’re trying to make me resign.” It was the first time Claire had said it out loud as if it were fact. She was gratified to see the horror on Kim’s face.

  “How? Why?�
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  “The how is easy, I’m not so sure about the why.” Claire took a deep breath before launching into the tale of her last few weeks, right up to buying her new boots. She angled her foot out from under the table. “Gorgeous aren’t they?”

  “I’d rather have the £130 quid!” Kim laughed. “I could buy some fake Uggs for a tenner and pay two weeks rent with the rest.” She let her cheeks fall into an approximation of a serious expression. “So, you’re taking on the assignment then?”

  Claire hadn’t told Kim about her Maldives plan. She didn’t want Kim to think of her as a quitter. “Yes, I’ll be driving up to Berwick on Friday.”

  “Wow, you’re so brave. That’s about as far out your comfort zone as me putting on tights and heels and tip-tapping into your office to sit at your desk.” She grinned at the mental image and mimed typing at a computer. “Would it suit me?”

  Claire laughed too, feeling some of the tension leave her face and shoulders. “You’d be brilliant. You could give Polly, Molly and Sally a run for their money.”

  “What are they, the office cats?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Make sure you stay in touch. I don’t get to see much of the country unless it’s the inside of a theatre. Post pictures.”

  “That’s part of the assignment. Not that I’ve given it much thought. I suppose I’d better think of a blog name, a Twitter handle, all that bollocks.” She took another swig of G&T. “What should it be? My boss is trying to hound me out?”

  “How about Posh Girl Goes Camping?” Kim sniggered. “Not that it’s anything like camping. Most of the rooms are en-suite these days.”

  “How about Around England in Thirty Starbucks?” Claire thought about her budget. “Not that I’ll be able to afford them anymore.

  “Have Helly Hansens, will travel?”

  “Now you’re being silly! No, nothing’s really grabbing me.”

  “You’re an Advertising Guru, surely you can think of something?”

  Claire sighed. “Apparently I’m not a very good one. Advertising is all about promotion, but who wants to read about my slumming it in hostels for a whole year? I bet Happy Cola had nothing to do with it, it’s all just a sham cooked up by Carl.”