Five Years From Now

by Paige Toon

  ‘She grew up and we let her go.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘She?’

  I smile and nod. ‘She came back a few times after we set her free, but after that, she disappeared, until…’ I pause for dramatic effect, ‘the following spring she appeared with ten ducklings!’

  ‘No way!’ He’s delighted, and I don’t know why I was so hesitant to talk about this before.

  ‘Yep, she wandered straight into the house with them – I couldn’t believe it! I’m sure it was her.’

  ‘It must’ve been! Did she keep coming?’

  ‘Only for a few weeks. I’m afraid she was a terrible mother. Her ducklings kept dwindling until she only had about three left.’

  ‘Vian!’ Dad calls from up at the house, and I’m not sure if it’s his voice or the news about the ducklings that makes Vian grimace. ‘Bath’s ready!’

  Vian closes his eyes and hooks his hands behind his neck, not making any move to leave.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask him.

  He sighs heavily, and when he speaks, he sounds resigned. ‘It’s the way you guys say my name.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dad, my friends, everyone – they call me Van.’

  I pull a face. ‘Van? But your name’s Vian.’

  Again, he winces. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Now, it’s Van.’

  ‘But… why?’ I don’t understand. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Years,’ he replies, and my mind presents me with a mental image of the ‘V’ that he signs his postcards with. When did that start? ‘Dad called me Van when I first went over there. It stuck.’

  ‘But… But…’ I splutter again. ‘That’s… No! Your name is Vian, not Van!’ I screw up my nose.

  ‘I like Van.’ He’s not only defensive, he’s angry.

  I take a step backwards, part of me afraid of the hostility radiating from him, and another part feeling a thrill at the force of his glare. Now he’s familiar to me.

  I shake my head, unwilling to give up on this. ‘Can’t you be Vian to us?’

  ‘No,’ he replies firmly. ‘My name is Van. Are you going to break it to your dad, or am I? Because it will really piss me off if you don’t call me that.’

  My insides blaze with unexpected fury. I stalk past him and up to the cottage.

  Why didn’t he correct his dad? How could he let it slide? Isn’t it bad enough that so much changed after he left? Why would he want to lose his name, too? He’s already like a stranger to me – this makes it even worse.

  ‘Vian is a beautiful old English name,’ Dad laments with a frown. ‘It’s very unusual.’

  Vian rhymes with Ian. Van rhymes with, well, van. I know there’s only one letter in it, one syllable, but they feel completely different to me.

  Dad and I are sitting in the living room, quietly talking, while Vian – Van – is in the bathroom.

  ‘Vian, Van,’ I say out loud, trying on the accent that I’ve picked up from religiously watching Aussie soaps. ‘Don’t chuck a mental, Van. I suppose they do sound more similar with the Australian accent.’

  Dad pats my knee benevolently. ‘It is his name.’

  The bathroom door clicks open and Vian emerges in a cloud of steam. His dark hair is dripping water onto his orange T-shirt, making it look as red as blood.

  ‘Do you want a hairdryer?’ I ask.

  ‘No, it’s all right.’

  ‘Don’t catch a cold,’ Dad adds.

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  ‘How about I make a fire, then?’ Dad suggests. ‘We could have a mince pie, Nell?’

  ‘Okay.’ I take my cue to leave, not meeting Vian’s eyes on my way out. I’m surprised when he joins me in the kitchen a moment later.

  He leans back against the counter, his knuckles white as he grips the countertop on either side of his hips. I don’t know what to say so I choose silence as I switch on the oven to heat the mince pies and set about making more tea. He’s so quiet as I wait for the kettle to boil that I wonder if he’s still there. Curiosity gets the better of me and I shoot a look at him. He’s staring at the floor and he seems so exhausted and full of misery that I’m hit with remorse.

  He glances up and meets my eyes.

  I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, but he speaks first.

  ‘It reminds me of her,’ he explains. ‘Mum. Every time you or your dad say my name, I think of her. You three were the last people to call me Vian.’ He hangs his head.

  I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but I can’t. Instinctively, I walk over and stand, flush to his side with my back against the counter.

  ‘Vian died with her,’ he whispers as my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I’ll try to remember to call you Van,’ I mumble, resting my cheek against his shoulder and adding more splashes of blood-red to his shirt.

  I feel as though I’ve lost my childhood friend all over again. I’m grieving him.

  The next day is Tuesday, four days before Christmas. I come downstairs at seven o’clock – the crack of dawn for me when it’s not a school day – to find Vian lounging on the sofa, his long legs dangling over the end and his bare feet tangled up in Scampi’s black and white fur. He has a book in his hands and a CD Walkman resting on his stomach, the tinny strains of INXS’s ‘Kick’ playing out of his headphones.

  Scampi’s bushy tail thuds on the carpet at the sight of me.

  ‘You’re awake!’

  ‘I’ve been awake for hours,’ he replies with a wry smile, putting his stuff on the floor and propping himself up on his elbows.

  I feel slightly self-conscious in my pink-and-white polka-dot PJs and fluffy slippers, especially when I see that he’s already dressed. I’m sure my hair looks like a yellow bird’s nest.

  ‘Have you had any breakfast?’

  ‘Your dad got me some cereal.’

  ‘Are you still hungry? I’m a whizz at omelettes.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ He sits up properly and swings his legs around to the floor, reaching for his discarded socks and pulling them on.

  The shower is running. I knock as we walk past the bathroom, calling to ask if Dad wants to join us.

  ‘Yes, please, I’ll be out in a minute,’ he calls back.

  We only have the one bathroom – the bane of my life – so we’ve both learnt to be quick.

  Scampi follows us through to the kitchen, his nails clip-clipping on the floor tiles.

  ‘Do you think he remembers me?’ Vian asks, kneeling and rigorously scratching behind the dog’s ears. Scampi pants with happy contentment and then flops on the floor, upturning his belly.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I say to be kind, although in truth I’m doubtful. If I think that Vian looks and sounds like a stranger, I can’t imagine how Scampi might know who he is after almost five years. He’d be friendly like this with anyone.

  ‘We thought we’d go and get a Christmas tree today,’ I tell Vian, cracking an egg into a bowl and reaching for another. Usually we’d have the house Christmassified at least a week before now, but we held off for Vian because we thought it might be a nice thing to do together, to get us in the festive spirit.

  ‘Dad and I never bother with trees and tinsel,’ he confides, sitting on the floor and drawing one very blissed-out dog onto his lap. ‘It’s too much of a hassle to take it all down again. Plus we’ve been hectic at work.’

  ‘What’s prawn fishing like?’ I ask, because I really have no idea.

  ‘Full on,’ he replies.

  ‘I mean, how does it work? What do you actually do?’

  ‘We shoot the nets out at sundown, and the second it’s sun-up, we’ve got to get them up straight away. Then we separate the prawns from all the other rubbish, box them up and snap-freeze them. I’ve sometimes gone eighteen hours without sitting down, and I might only get three hours’ sleep before I’m back at it again the next day.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ I exclaim. ‘How long does that routine go on for?’

  ‘We were away for se
venteen nights on our last trip.’

  ‘Seventeen nights?’ I’m astonished. I had no idea he was out at sea for that long.

  ‘It takes a day to get out and a day to get back. But we get a lot of time off, too. You can’t trawl for prawns when there’s a full moon, as they all disappear.’

  I’ve stopped making breakfast because I’m too absorbed in what he’s saying.

  ‘Is it ever scary?’ I ask, settling myself on the floor opposite him.

  He shrugs. ‘Can be, if one of your nets hooks up on a rock or whatever. The whole boat leans right over and you can capsize in bad weather. We’ve hooked up a car before.’ He grins. ‘A Volkswagen Beetle off the coast of Whyalla. Some fishermen had dumped it to create an artificial reef. They marked it on their GPS so they could find it again, but obviously we didn’t have it on ours.’

  ‘That’s nuts!’

  ‘Yeah. The worst thing is the seasickness. We trawl in the Spencer Gulf, and when there’s a strong wind against the tide, you get really short, sharp waves. You’re thrashed around more than you would be in the middle of the ocean. Then there’s the crabs that pinch and the fish that sting – your whole arm will be throbbing, all the way up to your armpit. It’s excruciating, but it doesn’t matter if you’re vomiting or have the shakes – you’ve got to keep on working throughout all of it.’

  ‘It sounds absolutely horrible!’ I can’t believe he’s doing all this and he’s only fifteen!

  He chuckles. ‘Yeah, it’s hard work.’

  Dad walks into the kitchen and starts with surprise at the sight of us both sitting on the floor.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yep!’ I jump to my feet. ‘Vian’s been telling me–’

  Vian’s smile dies on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say contritely. ‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to calling you Van.’

  ‘Try,’ he pleads.

  ‘Don’t you have a warmer coat?’ Dad asks as we’re leaving the house.

  ‘Just this one,’ Vian replies. He’s wearing the same outer-wear as yesterday.

  Dad frowns. ‘You’ll be freezing. Let me see if I have something that’ll fit.’

  Vian rocks on his heels as we wait outside the cottage. He’s wearing scuffed black boots.

  ‘How was the annexe?’ I ask, making conversation as his attention drifts towards the door. ‘Was it warm enough?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’ He swallows. ‘When did you clear it out?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago.’

  He shoots me a sharp look. ‘Only a couple of weeks ago?’

  I nod. ‘It’s been locked up since…’ My voice trails off. ‘We only did it up for you.’

  He’s taken aback.

  Dad returns with a long, grass-green scarf and his old Barbour jacket, saying out loud that he hopes the extra layers will be enough. ‘Oh, gloves!’ he exclaims, hurrying back into the house.

  Vian wraps the scarf around his neck. ‘Is this yours?’ he asks me.

  ‘Because it’s green?’ I smile, feeling a little funny inside. I shake my head. ‘No, it’s Dad’s.’

  He nods and pulls the jacket on over his denim one. ‘I remember this,’ he says. ‘It looks too big for your dad now.’

  ‘He’s shrinking in his old age,’ I whisper jokily, trying to ignore the pang of worry that follows. He’s only fifty, but sometimes I think he looks closer in age to Ellie’s grandfather than to her father.

  That afternoon, we play festive music and decorate the house. The smell of fresh pine mingles with the scent of mince pies heating in the oven as we hang ornaments on the tree and drape garlands from the curtain rails. But all attempts by Dad and me at camaraderie are falling flat, and eventually Vian asks if we’d mind him going to his room for a rest.

  ‘Do you think it is just jet lag?’ I ask Dad with concern as we sit at the kitchen table, our mince pies untouched.

  ‘I don’t know, Nell,’ he replies heavily. ‘I wonder if we should get it out of the way.’

  When we cleared out the studio, we kept all of Ruth’s things that Vian might want – her paintings, her art materials, even her old smocks. It’s all right there, under his nose in the annexe, locked in the built-in wardrobes. We’ve been waiting for the right time to show him.

  I drag myself into the hall and pull on my shoes. It’s only a few metres to the annexe, but I feel chilled to my bones as Dad knocks on the wooden door, neither of us saying a word.

  ‘Come in,’ Vian calls.

  He’s lying on his bed, but sits up when we enter.

  Dad takes the lead in explaining, and as he gets out a small key, Vian’s eyes dart to the wardrobes. He’s racked with tension and half covers his face with his hands as he hunches forward and stares, waiting for the contents to be revealed. And then I see his nostrils flare and his eyes widen as the astringent smell hits him full force. Previously muffled by the scent of freshly painted walls and new carpet rugs, now the aroma that was once so familiar to us as children is completely overwhelming. Vian’s bottom lip begins to tremble and his eyes fill with tears as he stares at the stack of canvases propped against the wall. The one at the front is of us – him and me – building a sandcastle at the beach. It’s more realistic than most of the pictures Ruth used to paint, but still has elements of her trademark abstract style in the bold streaks of rock, rich in greys and browns, and the graduated colour of the water, beginning with brilliant aquamarine by the shore and ending in emerald-green further out.

  We were about seven when Ruth painted it, and I still remember the yellow swimming costume that I wore, right down to its frills around my chest and legs. Vian is wearing pale-blue shorts and is bare-chested, his skin golden and his dark hair coming almost to his chin. It was the way he wore it then, before he had it all cut off the following year. It’s not dissimilar to how it is now.

  ‘Do you want us to leave you to it?’ Dad asks.

  This goes completely against my natural instincts, but before I can intervene, Vian nods, tearfully. I watch with a swollen throat as teardrops slip from his eyes and run down his nose. He doesn’t look at us as we walk out the door, even when I hesitate. I want to go to him so badly, but Dad draws me away.

  ‘He wouldn’t want us to see him cry,’ he murmurs as he closes the door behind us.

  How would he know?

  As I lie in my own fog of misery on my bed, it occurs to me that maybe Dad’s the one who can’t handle seeing our grief. He has also retired to his bedroom and for once our tiny cottage feels like a mansion.

  Vian doesn’t emerge for dinner and when Dad finally agrees to let me check on him, I find him curled up and fast asleep under the covers of his bed.

  At some point in the night, I bolt awake to hear a door opening downstairs. Without another thought, I leap from my bed, hoping to catch Vian before he returns to the annexe. I’m too late. The front door is closed, the bathroom empty and the cistern filling.

  My eyes are stinging and my body feels weighted with exhaustion, but I don’t even stop to put shoes on before running out the front door and rapping on the door to the annexe.

  Vian opens it a moment later, wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt with a neon graphic on the front.

  ‘Hi!’ He’s taken aback.

  ‘Can I come in?’ I hop from foot to foot on the freezing paving stones.

  He looks down at my bare feet with alarm and opens the door wide.

  ‘You’re dressed.’ I shiver as I pass into his room. It’s lit only by his bedside lamp.

  ‘I wasn’t going back to sleep,’ he replies.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Three thirty.’

  ‘Shit! Really?’ I hug myself to keep warm, but my teeth are chattering.

  ‘Get under the covers,’ he instructs with a frown, flipping them back for me.

  I don’t need to be told twice. I snuggle under the warmth of his duvet, pulling it up to my chin. A glance to my right reveals that the wardrobe doors are clos
ed again.

  Vian sits on the end of the bed, bringing my attention back to him. ‘What are you doing up?’

  ‘I heard you in the bathroom. I was worried about you.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ he says simply.

  My eyes drift again to the wardrobes. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No,’ he whispers and I sharply meet his gaze. ‘But people don’t tend to want to hear that.’

  ‘I do,’ I say quickly. ‘You can talk to me about anything.’

  ‘Still?’ The look in his eyes is heart-rending and suddenly I see in him the boy that I grew up with, the boy who used to be able to confide in me, and vice versa.

  ‘Definitely.’ My nose prickles. ‘I haven’t changed.’

  ‘We all change,’ he says wearily.

  ‘At our cores, we’re the same.’

  He bites his bottom lip and looks down. ‘Maybe.’

  There you are, Vian…

  ‘Do you still paint?’ I find myself asking.

  He shakes his head. ‘Not since Mum died.’

  ‘But you were so good at it!’

  ‘I was ten,’ he states.

  ‘Yes, but even your mum said you were talented.’

  ‘She was my mother, she had to say that.’

  ‘No, that’s not true,’ I insist fervently. ‘Dad thought you were talented, too. I still have your Fudge and Smudge stones – do you remember?’

  ‘I noticed they’re not on your windowsill any more.’

  I cringe. ‘I put them away a couple of years ago. All of my friends were doing up their rooms and, I don’t know, they seemed a bit… immature.’

  He grins at my discomfort. ‘Don’t worry, I get it. Do you still write?’

  ‘Not about Fudge and Smudge.’

  He frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘That was our story,’ I say. ‘It reminded me too much of you.’

  He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Your fingers are ice-cold!’ It detracts from the unfamiliarity of his hand in mine. ‘Get into bed, too.’

  He hesitates, but does as I suggest. We lie side by side, our heads on our pillows, facing each other. We probably lay like this a thousand times as children, and I keep that fact in mind as I try to get accustomed to this new ‘Van’, hoping he’ll fill the place in my heart that Vian did.