Five Years From Now

by Paige Toon

  I haven’t told Dad about our nightly meetings. I suppose I wanted Vian and me to have a secret, like we used to have as children. But I do wonder what Dad would say if he caught me coming out of the annexe in the early hours of the morning.

  Down the corridor, I hear Dad’s bedroom door open.

  Well, that’s that, then, I think with relief. I can’t go to the annexe if he’s already awake.

  Then I remember that it’s Christmas Day! I manage to catch my father before he reaches the stairs.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ he says as we embrace. ‘It’s been a few years since you’ve woken up at the crack of dawn for Santa,’ he teases. ‘I thought it’d just be Van and me for a bit.’

  ‘Is he awake?’ I whisper with a nervous flutter inside my chest.

  ‘I presume so. He’s been down in the living room, using Scampi as a hot-water bottle, every morning this week.’

  I’ve always returned to bed after our middle-of-the-night catch-up sessions, so I wouldn’t know.

  I throw on some clothes before venturing downstairs. Vian, as Dad predicted, is already awake, and he and Dad are at the kitchen table with mugs of tea.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ I say with forced cheer.

  ‘You too,’ Vian says, standing up to give me a hug.

  I’m alarmed to feel my face heating up, so I pull away and hurry over to the cupboard to get out a mug.

  ‘I’ll make you a cuppa, Nelly. Sit down.’

  ‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I brush Dad off, wanting to have something to do.

  The phone rings. ‘That might be my dad,’ Vian says.

  ‘Well, it won’t be my mum – it’s the middle of the night in New York.’ She’ll expect me to call her later.

  It is Vian’s dad, and it’s hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation that carries through from the hall. It’s reassuring to hear that Vian sounds stilted on the phone to his dad, too, and is not just awkward with us.

  ‘I guess we should take these through to the living room and open our presents in front of the tree,’ Dad says when he reappears.

  ‘I’ll go grab mine,’ Vian says.

  As soon as he’s out of the room, I turn to Dad. ‘Do you think he’ll be okay with his present?’ I ask worriedly.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  ‘He doesn’t paint any more. He told me.’

  ‘Maybe this will give him the impetus to start back up again,’ Dad replies, set on the decision we made before Vian flew out here.

  Although most of Ruth’s paints were still in a usable state, we decided to buy him a new set, one that he could call his own. Now I have a horrible feeling that we’ve misjudged the situation.

  It warms my heart to watch Vian opening the presents from his family in Australia, knowing that he has people on the other side of the world who care about him. One of his aunts knitted him a navy jumper, and she even knitted me a scarf and Dad some socks.

  ‘Sorry, it’s a bit childish,’ Vian says to me with a self-conscious smile when I open his present – a cuddly koala toy.

  ‘No, it’s not. I love it,’ I reply with a grin.

  Finally, only one present remains, and I feel slightly sick as Vian opens it.

  He stares down at the paint set in his hands, his shoulders pulled together with tension.

  I know at that moment that we’ve messed up.

  ‘Nell said you don’t really paint any more.’ Dad blunders forth with no notion of the pain that his one-time sort-of son is in.

  ‘No,’ Vian replies shortly.

  ‘We thought this might get you back into it.’

  ‘But only if you want to,’ I say quickly, moving to sit beside him on the sofa. ‘Otherwise we could return this and buy something else.’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Vian says quietly, closing the wrapping back around the set and putting it down on the floor beside the Christmas tree.

  Dad goes off to take a shower and, as soon as the bathroom door closes, Vian makes an attempt to stand up. I put my hand on his arm to stop him and he stays where he is.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper as he stares at the floor. ‘I can see that we made a mistake.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  I edge closer to him, leaning my knees against his lap, all thoughts of awkwardness gone from my mind as I attempt to comfort him.

  ‘Is it just because painting reminds you of her?’ I ask gently.

  ‘It’s because painting killed her.’ He turns to look at me, his expression tortured. ‘And it was my fault!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I’m aghast.

  ‘That picture,’ he says. ‘The green one on your wall.’ His eyes are wide with horror at the recollection of a memory I don’t share. ‘I used up all of her cerulean to finish it. She was upset. She went out to buy some more and that was when the car hit her.’

  ‘No! No, that’s not it at all! Vian—’

  ‘My name is VAN!’ he yells in my face.

  ‘Van! Stop!’ I say, panicking. ‘You’ve got it wrong! She didn’t go out to buy paint, she went out to get milk!’

  He stares at me.

  ‘She needed milk for dinner!’

  ‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘It was paint. She said she had to finish her picture. She was angry.’

  ‘She was disappointed because her meeting with the gallery owner hadn’t gone well!’ I’ve raised my voice. ‘And she was annoyed because she’d had a long car journey! It wasn’t because you’d used up all of her cerulean.’ I stumble over my pronunciation of the word.

  He shakes his head again, disbelieving. In his mind, he knows what happened and I’m only trying to make him feel better.

  ‘I promise you,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘You would say that!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Dad demands to know from the doorway. He’s still hurriedly tying up his dressing gown, the hairs on his legs stuck flat to his skin with shower water.

  I stare up at Dad, desperate for help. ‘Vian—’

  ‘VAN!’ he bellows.

  I jolt, my eyes pricking with tears. I must call him Van from now on – I have to, even in my head. ‘Van thinks it’s his fault that Ruth went out that day, the day that she was—’

  Dad looks appalled. ‘No, that’s not right at all. Why would you think that?’

  ‘He says that he used up all her cerulean,’ I explain. ‘That she went out to buy more.’

  ‘No, she went out to borrow some milk from Steven and Linzie, the farmers who live up the road.’ Dad kneels on the floor in front of Van, who stares at him, helplessly, tears streaming down his face. I know he wants to believe it wasn’t his fault, but he’s going to take some convincing.

  ‘It was Sunday. Sunday,’ Dad repeats. ‘None of the shops were open. There’s no way she could have gone out to buy more blue paint that day. She couldn’t even buy milk! She had to borrow some. I offered to go, but she said she wanted fresh air after being stuck in traffic for two hours. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, because we’d used up all the milk. Believe me, I’ve tormented myself thinking about it, but she didn’t have to make macaroni cheese,’ Dad says tearfully, placing his hand on Van’s knee. ‘There was plenty of other food in the fridge.’

  Van shudders. ‘I always thought it was my fault,’ he says in a pained voice.

  ‘No. No,’ Dad says firmly. ‘The only person to blame is that goddamn driver who took her off the road!’

  Van crumples over and the most heart-wrenching sound comes from deep within him. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him hard, and he buries his face against me and sobs, his whole body heaving violently as his arms come around my waist.

  There’s no way we’re leaving him alone to deal with his grief this time, Dad. No way.

  We visit the cemetery that morning to place flowers on Ruth’s grave – a red rose and holly berry bouquet that Dad made. I style my light-blonde hair in a topknot that Mum taught me how to do in one of her rare moth
erly moments and wear my red velvet fitted dress – the most festive-looking thing in my wardrobe.

  Dad looks handsome in a smart grey suit, but when I come downstairs, it’s Van who draws my attention. He’s wearing a white, slightly crumpled shirt – this is not a guy who owns an iron – which fits his long, lean frame to perfection. The top button is undone, revealing the smooth, golden skin on his chest. He grabs his denim jacket on the way out.

  We’re going to Drew’s family pub for Christmas lunch. I was elated when Dad made the suggestion, but now I can’t think past my concern for Van.

  He’s held onto that guilt for years, believing he was somehow responsible for his mother’s death. It’s devastating.

  I glue myself to his side as we walk down the road from the car park, needing to keep him close. He’s very quiet, but I hope he knows that I’m here for him.

  The Boatman is an old thatched pub, right on the river, and as we approach we can hear Christmas music playing. The outdoor festoon lights are on and they cheer up the grey day, as does the crackling fire in the hearth when we enter.

  Drew’s mum Theresa welcomes us, handing Van and me glasses of sparkling cranberry and lemonade and Dad a glass of champagne.

  ‘One won’t hurt,’ I tell him when he dithers – he never drinks and drives.

  ‘I suppose we’ll be here for a couple of hours,’ he accepts, chinking our glasses.

  At the bar, Drew’s older brother Nick is serving a couple of women. He’s a bit taller and broader than Drew, with curly blond hair. There is always an array of admirers hanging around the bar area – I’m glad that Drew works in the kitchen.

  At that moment, Drew appears, wearing a black suit and a crisp white shirt, his hair styled back off his face.

  ‘Hey!’ He comes straight over.

  I return his smile, recalling how pleased he was when I told him we were coming here for Christmas. ‘Do you remember Van?’ I introduce them. ‘And you know my dad.’

  They greet each other and then Drew leads us into the restaurant, grabbing three menus on his way out of the door. He gestures to a great table, right in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass doors. We can see straight down the river from here.

  Drew pulls out my chair for me and I sit down, smiling up at him.

  ‘I thought you’d be in the kitchen.’

  ‘One of our waitresses called in sick so I was needed out here,’ he reveals.

  I’m diverted by Van, who looks to be about to take the chair next to Dad. ‘Sit next to me,’ I urge, patting the chair to my right.

  ‘We won’t give you too much trouble,’ Dad says as Van obliges me.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ Drew replies. ‘I’ll leave you to look over your menus.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say distractedly, helping Van to get settled. He picks up his menu and studies it intently.

  About halfway through our meal, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Drew catches me on my way out.

  ‘Enjoying your lunch so far?’ he asks.

  ‘Mmm, it’s lovely.’ It’s hard to go wrong with a turkey roast.

  He frowns and jerks his chin in the direction of our table. ‘Is Vian all right?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘He seems a bit moody.’

  ‘No, he’s fine.’ I don’t want to share the details of how hard the last few days have been. ‘And actually, it’s Van now,’ I think to point out.

  He smirks. ‘Like Van Morrison?’

  I bristle, not appreciating his mocking tone. ‘I think it suits him.’

  ‘Yeah, it does! It’s cool.’ He quickly backtracks. ‘Hey, do you still want to take him surfing?’

  I instantly perk up again. ‘Yes! Do you know when you’re next going?’

  ‘Possibly tomorrow. I’ll check with my bro.’

  As I walk back to the table, it dawns on me that Van does suit him, because he is cool. I think of the boy in the photograph, riding that wave. I remember his friends and those girls, all tall and tanned with long, sexy legs, and I can picture Van hanging out with them, being a part of their gang.

  Has he dated any of those girls? Is one of them his girlfriend?

  Jealousy shreds my insides.

  I don’t understand. He was always the jealous, possessive one, not me.

  ‘You’re coming to our New Year’s Eve party, right?’ Drew asks later. I’m hovering in the bar area, waiting for Van to return from the bathroom. Dad is chatting to Drew’s dad, Christopher.

  ‘Nah, we’re going to the one at the sailing club.’

  His face falls and I laugh.

  ‘Yeah, of course we’re coming here.’

  Loads of people from school are, including Ellie and her parents, who are giving us a lift. Dad intends to have an early night.

  Drew tuts and elbows me, making me laugh again. Van chooses that moment to return, looking grumpier than ever.

  ‘Oh, I spoke to my bro,’ Drew says, shoving his hair off to one side. ‘We’re going to Porthleven the day after tomorrow if you’re up for it?’

  ‘Ace!’ I turn to Van. ‘You want to go surfing?’

  ‘Yeah!’ His face lights up. ‘You know where I can hire gear?’ he asks Drew.

  ‘My brother has a three-five wetsuit you can borrow and a seven-two pin-tail, big wave gun,’ Drew replies. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t make you go out on an eight-foot floatie.’

  I have absolutely no idea what they’re talking about, but Van grins.

  ‘You’ll love Porthleven. It’s like the Holy Grail of British surfing,’ Drew tells him. ‘You get some really serious waves, man – proper barrels.’

  ‘Sounds awesome.’

  My attention darts between them. I’m reeling at the change in Van.

  ‘You’re experienced, though, right?’ Drew asks. ‘Cos it’s a reef break and the waves unload really heavy, so you do not want to wipe out.’

  I detect a warning in his tone. What does that mean? Is it dangerous?

  Van shrugs, unfazed. ‘It’s pretty much all reef breaks where I come from.’

  And because I’d give anything to keep him smiling like this, I try to ignore my pang of worry.

  Damp earth and sheep-shorn grass… Glossy, ripe blackberries amongst sharp thorns and feathery ferns… I try to keep up with Vian as he leaps over patches of thick, squelchy mud on the winding track. Every time I jump, I can see the line where the sea meets the sky.

  We come to a stop on a steep hill, high above a glittering cove. The air is heavy with the scent of sun-warmed grass and cowpats. I don’t know where our parents are – somewhere on the other side of the hedge. The sound reaches us of distant waves crashing onto the rocks far below. We won’t be rolling down this hill.

  Vian pulls some flaky grey moss from a tree branch and I notice tiny droplets of blood beading out of a scratch on his arm.

  ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’ I take his hand. ‘Does it sting?’

  ‘It does now you’ve pointed it out,’ he mutters.

  I pull him closer and press my lips to his wound, my tongue tasting the metallic tang of his blood.

  ‘What are you doing?’ His nostrils flare as he asks the question.

  ‘Kissing it better,’ I reply.

  ‘You just sucked my blood.’ He’s alarmed. ‘Like a vampire.’

  I giggle at the look on his face. But my laughter dies as the years catapult us forward. Standing in front of me now is not ten-year-old Vian, but fifteen-year-old Van. The look in his eyes is intense as he stares down at me. He steps closer. I step back. He keeps coming and I trip and lose my footing, landing on the soft grass. He falls to his knees and drops forward, his hands trapping me on either side of my shoulders. My heart races as his lips come down to meet mine.

  I jolt awake, and then shame engulfs me.

  Van finds me down by the water. I’m cleaning out Platypus after the recent rainfall.

  ‘Shall we go out in it?’ he asks as I scoop up another bucket of water and dump it into the river. />
  ‘It’s very early,’ I mumble. Not to mention cold.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Okay,’ I reluctantly agree, blowing a strand of hair out of my face. I’ve tied it up into a messy ponytail today and I’m wearing my old Levi 501s. ‘Can you ask Dad for a towel to wipe down the seats?’

  I watch his departing back and feel something akin to seasickness.

  He was like a brother to me for almost five years. So why am I dreaming about kissing him?

  ‘Can I row?’ he asks when he comes back, clutching the lead of an excited-looking Scampi.

  Van always used to insist on taking the dog out with us, even though we hated cleaning his paws afterwards – he has a habit of leaping out of the boat before we’ve come to a stop.

  ‘If you want.’

  He throws me the towel.

  I busy myself wiping down the seats, then turn around to help Scampi aboard. Van passes me the oars and I slot them into place, then he climbs on, the boat wobbling precariously. Our ensuing laughter breaks the ice, but I still feel on edge as I sit at the back and he settles himself opposite me, his long legs knocking against my knees. Scampi is at the other end, his claws skittering around on the slippery surface as he tries to make himself comfortable.

  Van uses one of the oars to push us away from the bank and then he rows properly, propelling us slowly through the water.

  ‘It’s been ages since I’ve been out in this,’ I confide. ‘Even longer since anyone else rowed me.’

  ‘Who rows you?’ he asks.

  ‘Ellie has a few times,’ I reply. ‘We went for a picnic on the other side in the summer. I don’t go out much by myself. Only when I want the peace and quiet.’

  ‘Because your dad’s so noisy,’ he teases.

  I smile. ‘You know what I mean. It’s so still out here and lonely – in a good way. It gives me time to think… and write.’

  ‘So you do still write.’

  ‘Just poetry – nothing I’d ever show anyone.’

  ‘Not even me?’

  ‘No one,’ I state firmly.

  Especially not you, after the way that dream made me feel.

  ‘What are your poems about?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘Stuff.’

  ‘Drew?’

  I jolt and quickly shake my head. ‘No. Of course not.’