by Wendy Clarke
For, staring up at me, is Ria. The last photo taken of her when she was still happy. She’s smiling into the camera, her long dark hair falling over her shoulders, and she looks carefree. For twelve years, I’ve refused to let myself look at her, but now that I have, it’s like a shot to the heart.
The front door slamming makes me start and the other items in the envelope fall onto the floor. I hear Beth’s voice calling me and I look at the half-open door, my hand frozen in mid-air. But, as I hear her footsteps on the stairs, I come to my senses. She mustn’t see all this. Gathering everything up, I stuff it back into the envelope, then shove it back into its hiding place. The floorboard bangs into place and I’ve just time to grab Scott’s T-shirt from the bed as Beth pushes open the door.
Eight
Beth
‘What are you doing?’
Beth dropped her school bag onto the floor and stared at her mum. She was kneeling on the floor, one of Beth’s dad’s T-shirts clutched to her chest. Behind her, the door of her wardrobe stood open, and, inside, Beth could just see a pile of shoes and bags that had been shoved up against one of the sides.
Reaching behind her, her mum pulled the door closed. There was a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and she looked as though she might be about to faint.
‘There you are.’ Her smile was bright. Forced.
‘Are you okay?’
Beth watched as her mum ran her fingers through her hair, dragging it away from her face and wiping her brow with her sleeve.
‘I just came over a bit dizzy, that’s all.’ Easing herself up from the floor, she began folding the T-shirt. When she had finished, she placed it on the bed, laying her hand over it as though it might float away. ‘Anyway, don’t worry about me. How was school?’
Beth picked up her bag again and lifted it onto her shoulder. All the way home on the bus, she’d been planning what she was going to say to her mum. Imagining them sitting at the small table by the window with mugs of tea in their hands and the fells falling into shadow beyond the window. She’d tell her all about Carina and how much she hated the school, and her mum would lean over and hug her and tell her that she’d sort it. That everything would be all right. She could move to Lakeside Comprehensive in September and they’d all live happily ever after.
It wasn’t going to happen, though. It was all in her head. Gone were the days when, after she’d come home from school, they’d sit together in front of a TV programme neither were that interested in, mugs of tea in their hands and the empty wrappers of Penguin biscuits in their laps. It had been an excuse to chat about Beth’s day, picking over the parts that hadn’t gone well. Celebrating, with a clunk of china, the parts that had. Now, it seemed her mum didn’t have time for her between making her precious jewellery and jumping whenever her phone rang. God, it was like their family was going crazy.
‘School was fine.’
She turned away and crossed the landing to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. The bed creaked as she threw herself onto it and tried to empty her mind of everything that had happened that day. But it was impossible. However hard she tried, the pictures kept coming back into her head, making her stomach twist and clench at the memory. She’d never rid herself of the sheer hell of being the butt of the joke once again. Could you die from shame?
Rolling onto her side, she stared at the wall. Inside a glass clip-frame was a picture she’d made a few years back – a brown and black collage of birds of prey, cut out of the nature magazines she’d liked to read when she was younger. She’d begged her mum for a subscription for her birthday and, each month when the magazine had arrived, had pored over its pages, tearing out her favourites and keeping them in a folder. She still had that folder somewhere.
Now she looked at the collage through half-closed eyes. Her mum had never liked it, although she’d never said why. She hadn’t wanted her to put it on her wall, but Beth had managed to persuade her. Most of the birds were in flight, their wings interweaving and overlapping to give the impression of motion. It made Beth feel restless, her small bedroom too cramped.
A glance at her bedside clock showed her it was four thirty. There would still be a few hours left of daylight. Pushing herself up, she loosened her tie, then dragged it off and threw it into the corner of the room along with the hated maroon jumper.
She was just pulling on her hoodie when she saw a carrier bag on the floor bedside her dressing table. She hadn’t noticed it when she came in. Picking it up and looking inside, she confirmed what she already knew. It was the bag of walking clothes she’d stuffed into the hedge and forgotten to bring in. Her mum must have found it and put it in her room. Would she be able to tell from it that Beth had been bunking school? Walking the fells when she should have been in class? Knowing there’d be questions asked later, Beth wracked her brains for a reason she could give for why the bag should be in the hedge, but could think of nothing. Shit. Why had she been such an idiot?
Emptying the bag onto the floor, she stuffed the dirty clothes into the washing basket, then picking up her walking boots and rucksack, tiptoed to the door. Pulling it open a crack, she looked across the landing to her mum’s bedroom. She had her back to the door and was folding down the airer.
As quietly as she could, Beth crossed over to the stairs and went down. When she reached the living room, she hesitated. Should she tell her mum what she was doing? Deciding she should, she called up the stairs.
‘I’m going out for a walk, Mum. I won’t be late.’
Without waiting to hear her mum’s answer, Beth shoved her feet into her boots and went outside, leaning against the wall of the workroom to do them up. Walking behind it, she unlatched the gate in the fence and went through. The narrow path that ran along the back of the terrace, and the lower slopes of the fell that rose up behind, were in shadow, the cottages blocking out the sun. Only the top of the fell was in sunlight and, when she shielded her eyes, she could just make out the dark mound of the slate cairn at the top, silhouetted against the blue sky.
Zigzagging up the hillside was a stony track and it was this path that Beth chose to take. Being careful not to slip on the loose stones, she climbed the slope until it met up with a larger path. Either side of her, the grass had been cropped short by the sheep that grazed there, but by the sides of the little beck that trickled down the hillside, it was as long and straggly as a mare’s tail.
Below her were the slate roofs of the miners’ cottages, her home for the past nine years. Although she had only been six when she’d moved to Church Langdon, she could still remember quite clearly the featureless, purpose-built flat in Carlisle where they’d lived before.
Each morning, when it was school time, her mum had taken her by the hand and led her across the communal landing to the lift that smelt of piss and cigarette smoke. She had been frightened of that lift. Scared it might drop.
One day, as they’d waited for it to come up from the ground floor, the door to one of the other flats had opened and a woman had come out with a child of about her age. How desperately she’d wanted to say hello, to have her as her friend, but her mum hadn’t let her. Instead, she’d put her arm around her and ushered her into the lift as the doors slid open. As she’d watched the numbers above the metal doors change from 5 down to G, she’d shouted and said her mum was mean, but her mum had told her that she must never talk to strangers. Even then, she’d thought it an odd thing to call their neighbours.
The other thing she remembered was the noise of the traffic that had passed by her window day and night, and the laughter and shouts from drunk youths as they had rolled out of the pub at the end of their street. Beth closed her eyes. The only thing she could hear now was the bleating of a lamb higher up the hill. It made her feel even more lonely, if that was possible.
Climbing higher, she felt the muscles in her legs begin to work and the tension in her body ease. It was a beautiful afternoon, the sun disappearing behind the clouds only to break out again, turning the
bracken-covered slopes to gold. The climb was steep and soon Beth’s breathing became more laboured. She stopped and took off her jacket, looking across the tops of the houses to the valley which spread out beyond the village. It was divided up into a patchwork of shapes by drystone walls and looked like a picture in a children’s book. There was the campsite, and further on she could see two farms and the white bulk of the hotel where a lot of her dad’s clients stayed, but this all disappeared from sight as the path bent around the fellside.
Now the rock-strewn track took her through a gap in a drystone wall and over the little beck before beginning its long climb to the top of the fell. Just one last ascent, past the old slate-miners’ bothy, and then she’d have reached the cairn at its summit. She’d found it by chance the previous summer, at the highest point of the ridge where the hill flattened out. Apart from Temple Quarry, it was one of her favourite places.
The final scramble to reach it was over shattered and jagged rocks, but she was used to it. Arriving breathless at the top, she stood with her hands on her hips and gazed out at the ring of mountains that formed a natural amphitheatre for the lake that lay below. She took off her rucksack and sat with her back against the rough stones, stretching her legs out in front of her. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze on her face. It was just her and the sky and the clouds. Up here there was nothing to stop her believing she was the only person in the world.
‘Hi there!’
Beth’s eyes flew open. Coming up the hillside was a man. He was dressed in combat trousers and a faded navy T-shirt, the camera he had around his neck banging against his chest as he walked. When he got closer, he raised his hand in acknowledgement and Beth felt a twinge of irritation; she’d been hoping to have the place to herself.
It was as if he’d read her thoughts for, as he reached the cairn, he smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. Didn’t think anyone else would be up here today. I’ve got a godawful hangover and I thought the walk would do me good. Can’t say it has, though.’
Without moving, Beth studied him. He was older than her by a few years and, unlike her dad’s full beard, his was just a few days of sandy growth. His long hair was pulled back from his face in a ponytail and his blue eyes were accentuated by his tan. It was obvious he didn’t work in an office.
‘Are you a photographer?’ She nodded towards the camera that swung from his neck.
The man smiled. ‘Bit of a giveaway, isn’t it? Yes, I’m freelance. Travel journalism mostly, but I’ve been known to turn my hand to other things if I’m desperate. Once photographed a woman’s Pekingese for three hundred quid… Now that was a story.’
Taking his rucksack off his back, he rummaged inside and pulled out a lens which he fitted onto his camera. ‘Do you mind if I take some photos? It shouldn’t take long, then I’ll leave you in peace.’
‘I don’t mind.’
As he lifted his camera, Beth wondered what her mum would think of her sitting at the top of the fell, talking to a strange man. She knew she ought to feel nervous, but she didn’t. Instead, she watched him stand with his legs astride, the muscles of his forearms working as he twisted the lens, wishing she’d tied back her unruly hair. She must look a sight with her winter-pale skin – make-up was frowned upon at Lady Edburton.
She had expected him to take lots of photos, but instead he lowered his camera again and stood looking out across the valley. Waiting for something. Then, as if conjured up by his presence, high in the sky Beth saw a peregrine falcon. It rose on the thermals and glided effortlessly with wings spread wide, silhouetted against the blue. Aiming his camera at it, the man clicked the shutter again and again.
Why was she just sitting there? Bending to her rucksack, Beth unzipped it and pulled out her sketchbook and pencil and started to draw. Her fingers worked fast, capturing the essence of the bird – the power in its wings and its perfect symmetry. She wasn’t aware that the man had stopped taking photographs. She wasn’t aware of anything, just the way the pencil felt between her finger and thumb. The control she had over it.
‘Bloody hell, you’re good.’
His shadow fell across the page and she looked up to see him scrutinising her work.
‘It’s okay, I suppose.’ She felt embarrassed. It was the second compliment she’d received today about her work and she was unused to it.
‘Don’t put yourself down. You’ve got some serious talent going on there. May I?’
Shyly, she handed him the book and waited as he flicked through it. ‘They’re just sketches I do when I’m out.’
He nodded. ‘Are you at art college or something?’
The fact that he presumed she was older than she was pleased her, and she thought carefully about how she should answer. Saying she was at art college would be a lie too far but that didn’t mean she couldn’t bend the truth a little. Even though she’d never see him again, she didn’t want him thinking she was just a silly little girl.
‘No, but Art’s one of the subjects I’m taking for my A levels.’ There was no need to mention the school she attended; he would probably think she was at sixth-form college and she certainly wasn’t going to put him right.
He nodded. ‘Local, then?’
‘Yes. I live in Church Langdon.’
‘I know it. In fact, I’ve got my camper van parked in the farm campsite for a few weeks while I do some freelance work. It’s a pretty place. I photographed the church for a promotional leaflet last year.’
‘You live in a camper van?’ Beth tried to imagine it. It would be even smaller than their Carlisle flat.
‘For most of the year, yes. I like the van. It gives me freedom. I can come and go as I please. Stay in a place for as long as I like, then piss off again.’
Beth put her drawing book and pencil back in her rucksack and zipped it up. While they’d been talking, the falcon had disappeared from view and the sun had sunk behind the mountain, turning the valley below to monochrome.
‘I ought to be getting back.’ Her dad would kill her if she was still out on the fell when it grew dark. She’d grown up to his horror stories of what could happen if you couldn’t see the path. How something as simple as a sprained ankle could leave you stranded, and how quickly hypothermia could set in if you were immobile.
‘Do you want me to walk you back? I can come up here another time and finish these off.’
‘No, don’t worry. It’ll be quicker on the way back.’
‘Cool. I actually came up here to catch the sunset. The falcon was a bonus.’
Beth thought she could detect a note of relief in his voice. After all, why would he want to cut short his photography session to see her safely back? It wasn’t as if they even knew each other.
‘The best place to see them is at the old quarry on the other side of the valley. It’s a magical place.’
He looked at her with interest. ‘Is it now?’
‘Well, I think so.’ She’d never told anyone else it was where she liked to go, and she wondered if she had been wise to do so now. Picking up her rucksack, she swung it onto her shoulder. ‘Anyway, I’d better go.’
She said goodbye but he didn’t answer. He’d already turned back to the valley, his camera pointed towards the mountain peaks, where the sky behind was now streaked with orange. Instead of replying, he raised his hand in a form of salute, his mind now focused on his task.
It was only as Beth picked her way back down the hillside, as the sky darkened to the west, that she realised they’d not even exchanged names.
Nine
Leona
I lift the plastic crate onto the trestle table and start to unpack the boxes. I’ve brought with me some necklace stands and some black velvet ring cushions. The earrings I’ve chosen to keep in their boxes at the front of the table. As I open the lid of a small, square box and take out the ring that’s nestled inside, I can’t help wondering about Beth. When she’d come home from her walk last night, her eyes had been bright and her cheeks flushed, feverish e
ven. I hope she’s not coming down with something.
The craft fair at the Kelsick Centre in Ambleside isn’t going to make me a great deal of money, my commissions bring in more, but I’ve always enjoyed doing them. I like the bustle in the hall at eight thirty when the sellers start setting up: the sound of boxes being ripped open and metal table legs being unfolded. Most of the stallholders know each other well and I smile as I see a hand wave or a name being called. It makes me feel as though I’m involved, even though I prefer to keep myself to myself.
The time I like best, though, is when the customers arrive, pushing through the doors at half past nine. It’s as if they think by waiting a minute longer, they might miss out on something. I love to see the look on the women’s faces, and the resignation on their husbands’, as they pick up a necklace and hold it up to their necks. They’ll look at themselves in the mirror I’ve placed on the table and I’ll tell them how much it suits them. Nine times out of ten, after turning the small label over and looking at the price, they’ll reach in their bags for their credit cards. Witchcraft, Scott calls it. I like to think of it as good salesmanship.
The stall next to mine has a collection of wooden carved bowls and spoons, and the man who has the pitch is polishing an apple made of beech until the wood gleams in the strip lighting.
‘Reckon we’ll be having a good turnout today,’ he says, without taking his eyes off the polishing cloth.
I push a silver ring, twisted into a love-knot, into the slot in the black cushion and nod. ‘Yes, it’s been well advertised.’
‘They’ve got the urn on already. Fancy a coffee before the mob rolls in?’ He puts the cloth down and looks at me expectantly.
