by R. H. Dixon
Just past the cemetery rape fields stretched out to the left, a vibrancy of aureolin yellow that contradicted the sky’s bad mood. Further off in the distance the sea was brooding, conspiring with the sky to generate one hell of a rainstorm. It was only now, when confronted by it, that John could say with some modicum of sincerity that he’d missed the sea in his absence, its invisible pull instantly causing a renascent longing, a link to his heart. And maybe it was, he thought, no coincidence that he’d been lured back to his place of origin. There was something weighty and unseen in the air all around him. A sense of foreboding as unnerving as the North Sea at its darkest, and it was calling to him in the persuasive, hypnotic tongue of the sultriest of sirens.
It was the silent cry of nostalgia.
What else could it be?
A homecoming after almost two decades had passed was bound to cause a conflict of emotions. This sense of wistfulness, or whatever it was, was as thick as lightning-charged static, filling every bit of the Honda and making John feel as though he was encapsulated within a dream – and not a very good one.
Down an embankment, immediately to the left of them, was a cluster of houses and farm structures, and further back leafy trees sheltered a larger, stone building clad in ivy with a vacuous black doorway that yawned through a row of stone pillar teeth.
‘Look, Dad!’ Seren said, breaking the silence inside the car. ‘A haunted house!’
John smiled, pleased to be distracted from his own thoughts before his mood dipped below reform. ‘Hey, you might be right, kidda. That’s Horden Hall. It’s been there since around the sixteen hundreds.’
‘Wow, that’s even older than Petey Moon.’
‘I should say so, he’s only nine isn’t he?’
‘Yes, but he’s been nine for like forever.’
‘Of course. Silly me.’ John looked in the rearview mirror and saw that Seren had directed her attention to the empty seat next to her.
‘Actually, he wants to know if anyone lives there?’ she said, before swivelling her head and stretching round in her seat for a continued view of the portentous building that was Horden Hall.
‘I’m not sure, kidda. I expect so. When I was your age your granddad used to tell me tales about there being tunnels in the cellar that went all the way down to the beach.’
‘Cool. Does that mean the people who own the house own the beach as well?’
‘No.’ John smiled. ‘The tunnels, if there ever even were any, were allegedly used for smuggling.’
‘What’s that?’
Checking the rearview mirror again, he saw her blue eyes staring back, waiting to be enlightened. ‘Er, let’s see. It’s when people fetch things they shouldn’t into the country.’
‘Things like what?’
‘Oo I dunno, lots of things. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Perfume…’
‘But why?’
‘To avoid paying tax. Then when they sell the goods on, they make more money for themselves.’
Seren’s brow crumpled and she looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Lucy Dale’s dad fetches cigarettes back from Spain. He sells them to his mates at the pub, does that mean he’s a smuggler?’
John laughed before he could stop himself. ‘Suppose it depends how many he fetches back, kidda.’
‘Lucy reckons he only takes two sets of clothes to last him all week so’s not to take up much space in his suitcase, then before they come home he stuffs it full of Superkings. He must fetch quite a lot back.’
John was both astounded and amused by his daughter’s matter-of-fact tale-telling. ‘However many he fetches back,’ he said, ‘it sounds to me like Lucy Dale says way too much about her dad. I dread to think what you must tell the other kids about me.’
Seren shrugged, pushing her glasses up even though they didn’t need pushing up. ‘Not a lot really. There’s not much to tell.’
‘Gee thanks.’
‘It’s true. You work all the time and you’re always tired.’
‘Surely there must be more to me than that?’
‘Hmmm. You drink too much mucky beer and don’t shave as much as you should.’
Ouch!
‘Cheeky little sod, you mean to say you never liked my beard?’ John rubbed his hairless jawline.
Seren caught his reproachful glare in the mirror and giggled into her hand. ‘Nuh-uh, it’s horrible. Makes you look like an old man. You look much better today.’
‘Well, I’m pleased that today I have your approval.’
‘And I’m pleased that today you’re making an effort.’
‘Good, then we’re both pleased.’ John became aware only now that his freshly shaven face was just as symbolic as Seren’s t-rex t-shirt. On some subconscious level, without him having realised, he’d made the effort to clean himself up with a view to starting afresh.
They passed along Sunderland Road and John saw four teenagers in caps and skinny jeans standing about in a Perspex bus stop, all of them interacting on smartphones instead of with each other. He remembered being that age only too well. Leaving school with a handful of decent grades and going steady with the girl he thought he’d marry and regular band practice in his mate’s parents’ garage, because he was going to be a rockstar someday. A life full of opportunities had stretched out before him. How quickly things had changed.
On the other side of the road, opposite the bus stop, an expanse of green passed by. The pony field. John could remember whippet racing and football games taking place, but in all his life he’d never seen a pony tethered there. It was during Horden’s industrial heyday that the field had been used for keeping pit ponies on, way before his time, but the name had stuck and was passed down through the generations. He could vaguely recall the demise of the coal-mine in the mid-eighties, but even that was long after ponies had been swapped out for machinery. Nowadays the pony field was still as pony-less as he’d ever known it, overlooked by elevated red-brick, semi-detached houses that had been built in the seventies. With matching white fascia boards and jaunty, narrow windows, synonymous with style at the time, the uniform houses weren’t ageing too badly, but neither were they retro-cool just yet.
Further on, straight over the mini-roundabout, John was surprised to see The Bell: a large public house with Tudor-style façade. In his late-teens he’d spent many a weekend there, it being one of many stop-offs for him and his mates on their infamous Saturday evening pub crawls. Suffice it to say there’d be no shenanigans of that type going on this time around. The only inebriated crawling John was likely to be doing was to and from his mother’s kitchen, either side of the witching hour.
Approaching the traffic lights outside Memorial Park, he shot a glance down Blackhills Road and saw the impressive stone bulk of St Mary’s. It was the same warm, oatmeal biscuit colour he could remember, and the green-grey tint of its slate roof was now complemented by a shiny new golden cross. The church looked as grand as ever, yet John felt nothing but emptiness and a certain despondency towards it.
When red flashed to amber he pushed the accelerator pedal down and cruised past the clock tower on the left, which still stood white and proud amidst pristine lawns in the park itself. He remembered playing there as a kid: blocky and footy with Stuey Griggs and Daniel Homestead on and around the green, sometimes knocky-on-nine-doors up Park Terrace where they’d knocked on random doors and run like hell. He also remembered lying on the sloped green opposite St Mary’s with a girl called Maria – her face more memorable than her surname. She’d had long wavy auburn hair and the colour of her eyes, strangely, had reminded him of the underside of a crocodile. The pair of them used to roll from the top of the bank to the bottom, then lie there with their fingers interlocked. They’d watched clouds roll by overhead, dreaming up shapes as well as their futures. That was in a time before kissing involved tongues and life became complicated. A time now untouchable, save for such fleeting, dog-eared images of his mind’s rosy eye.
Ah Maria.
He wondered what
had become of her.
The motorbike shop at the top of Cotsford Lane and the Chinese takeaway on the corner of Third Street soon passed by on his left, then the Comrades Social Club and Kingy’s coal yard on his right; all of them markers of his youth in one trivial way or another. The instant recognition of each seemed to imbue a deeper sense of melancholy within him, which in turn brought with it a dose of guilt and shame. These buildings from the past had stood through so much and all remained impartial to the worst of Horden’s secrets and scandals. They didn’t judge, they were nothing but bricks and mortar after all, but their being there made John judge himself. He’d been away for so long yet they had continued to exist. They were all testament to the idea that without him the world could, and would, carry on unabashed but also that past problems would continue to exist for as long as he did. Not for the first time John felt as though he was drowning in a void of black-dark insignificance, with nothing to grab onto. Not even sentimentality, because that didn’t belong to him. Not here.
By no means was his downward spiral in mood an indulgence of self-pity, or even a type of pity reserved for Amy, his dead wife, without whom the world and everything in it was still spinning. These feelings of regret simply provoked a caustic question to arise within him. A question that had all the ferocity of acid reflux and had burned a hole – a deep, empty, growing chasm – in his core and plagued him most days: What’s the point in all of this?
‘Dad are we nearly at Gran’s yet?’ Seren was peering between the two front seats and her voice disrupted John’s thoughts, prompting the answer to his own question.
She was the point.
‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’
7
_
John slowed to a stop near the end of the street then steered into a tight parallel park outside his mother’s house. By now the rain had started, a fine drizzle that stippled the windscreen. The strengthening wind ruffled the bushes in the neighbour’s garden and buffeted their wooden gate back and forth. Before turning the ignition off John knocked the wipers on and looked straight ahead to the North Sea. The great body of cold water, which consisted in equal measures of danger and allure, was exactly as he’d left it.
Seren sat with Geller on her knee, fiddling with the pleated ruffles around his head. She was uncharacteristically quiet and suddenly looked about as excited as John felt. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was Horden or the weather that was a disappointment to her already. Or if he was being paranoid.
‘Okay, so here we are,’ he said, forcing a smile.
‘Is that Gran’s house?’ Seren pointed to the semi-detached house at the end of the drive which had remarkably white UPVC window frames and front door. To either side of the door were hanging baskets with a citrus burst of pansies.
‘Yep, that’s it.’
‘Is she in?’
‘No, kidda, I already told you. She and Norman have gone on holiday. They left a few hours ago.’
‘Are Otis and Mindy in?’
‘Yeah, they’ll be waiting for us.’
‘And we’re going to stay here for a whole month to take them for walks and feed them?’
John nodded and suppressed a sigh. Being on his mother’s doorstep with Seren summarising their responsibilities to such a simplified extent suddenly made the whole idea seem so very lame.
Well done, mate, round of applause. Some bloody holiday this is, you’ve really excelled yourself.
‘Can we go in and meet them?’ she asked.
‘I think we’d better,’ he said. ‘They might be sitting with their legs crossed by now.’
Seren giggled and unclipped her seatbelt.
Outside the wind caught John’s bare forearms with needle barbs, reminding him how the north-east coast reserves the right to expel its own cooler weather front. Northerly chills and errant showers had been making obnoxious rebellions against Horden summers, with about as much predictability as Tourette’s, for as long as he could remember. In fact probably since time began. Sometimes on the hottest of days the creeping chill would remain exclusive to shaded areas, but no matter what day of the year it could always be found. The smell of rain was never too far away either.
‘What’s down there?’ Seren was now standing on the pavement, seemingly unfazed by the light rain. She swung Geller in the air to indicate the end of the tarmac road. The road gave way to a stony dirt-track which, in turn, led to a railway bridge.
‘See the allotments across the bridge?’ John pointed to a large cluttered area of wooden outhouses, corrugated roofs, tall fences and glass-panelled greenhouses. ‘If you cross the field behind them you’ll reach the top of the beach banks.’
‘The top? How do we get to the bottom?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, smiling, ‘there are some steps. Or if we’re feeling adventurous we can climb down, I used to know an easy way. For now, though, let’s get you out of this rain, the beach can wait.’ He motioned her towards the gate then looked up at the house, which seemed to be silently daring him.
To enter.
To reacquaint.
To remember.
How could I forget?
Tense with apprehension and gooseflesh, John shivered. The fragile equilibrium that existed between his heart and mind rendered him emotionally unstable, he knew. Internally he felt as though he was standing on some dangerous, dark precipice where anger, grief and a distinct lack of faith were trying to push him over the edge. Usually it was his dogged will to survive and the unconditional love he had for Seren that prevented him from falling, but right now he felt light-headed with a sense of vertigo. Coming back to this place, painful memories he didn’t want had repositioned themselves at the forefront of his mind, insistently reminding him of the things he was least proud of. He felt self-loathing for those things he’d done, and regret for the things he hadn’t. Of course, he’d been a different person back then – young, immature and out of control – but that wasn’t altogether excusable. He’d continued to hate himself and being here again served to amplify those feelings.
As if detecting her father’s unrest, Seren reached for his hand. ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’
He closed his eyes and shook his head, imposing a smile of enthusiasm. ‘Nothing, kidda, just thinking.’
‘About stuff when you were a kid?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
She squeezed his hand and he followed her into the garden, letting the gate swing shut behind him. The metal sneck bounced against the latch without catching and the gate sprang open again with a resounding clank. Wood against wood. Venetian blinds twitched in the house two doors up.
After retrieving the key his mother had hidden beneath some potted geraniums at the side of the house, John unlocked the front door. Frantic dog paws clawed UPVC on the other side, and when the door opened inwards a flash of grey and beige hurtled past his legs. Otis, a grey lurcher, leapt about on the lawn before relieving himself on a purple and yellow lupin, and Mindy, a sand-coloured whippet/Bedlington terrier cross (or whipplington, as his mother insisted), licked Seren’s hands and face, her tail wagging with all the curious enthusiasm of an elderly dog. While Seren and the two sighthounds became acquainted in the drizzle, John stepped into the dry, boxy hallway of his mother’s house.
Here we go.
The first thing he noticed was the white blown vinyl wallpaper of his childhood was gone. The walls were now smooth stretches of nondescript cream. Blank canvases lacking the build-up and residue of bygone years. The second thing he noticed was that the house smelt of his mother. A sweet, musky fragrance: roses and talcum powder, perhaps, with all the cleanness of fabric softener. John hadn’t consciously realised, till now, that his mother had her own scent. It was lingering like a ghostly extension of herself and made him feel strangely comforted. He breathed in deeply and smiled.
After ushering Seren and the dogs into the house, out of the rain, he unloaded the car by himself. By the time he w
as done, having made eight journeys up and down the garden path in total, his hair and clothes were more than a bit damp. He left the pile of holdalls and carrier bags, containing clothes, shoes, toys and work stuff, in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs and went to the kitchen.
Simple oak units and cream marble-effect worktops complemented rustic terracotta floor tiles, all of it refurbished since the last time he’d been there. A small, unfamiliar dining table was pushed against the wall so that only two of its four accompanying chairs were readily accessible. On top of the table, held down by a jar of peanut butter, lest he forget about the dogs’ supper, was a note from his mother wishing him and Seren a happy stay. He rummaged in cupboards and found teabags and a mug, then while he waited for the kettle to boil he went to find Seren.
She was sitting on the floor in the lounge, making a fuss of the dogs. John stayed quiet and watched her from the open doorway. Listening to her chattering inanely to her new best friends made him think this wasn’t such a lame idea after all.
‘Hey, trouble,’ he eventually said. ‘Wanna go upstairs and pick a bedroom?’
Seren looked up, grinning. She nodded her enthusiasm. As she did her ponytail bobbed up and down and Otis tried to get her face with his tongue. She rolled back onto a pink shag-pile rug and erupted into a fit of giggles, which made Otis even more eager to lick her. John laughed at both of them and glanced around the lounge. He saw his mother’s passion for net curtains was as strong as ever. Masses of brilliant white lace, like the underskirt of a bride’s dress, bedecked the lounge’s bay window and matching white doilies gartered the bottoms of glazed ceramic pots on the sill. The couch was a chunky, corduroy affair with various chenille throws draped over it and a matching armchair sat in the alcove opposite the television. Seren was sprawled in front of an Adam-style gas fireplace, which at some point had replaced the old coke-fuelled Parkray. Lined along the mantel were framed photographs: his mother and Norman; his brother Chris with wife Laura and their two daughters; his brother Nick on graduation day; Norman’s daughter with her partner and trio of tots; and a snapshot of Otis and Mindy lying together on a different couch. John was taken aback, hurt in fact, by his absence from the family line-up. It took a few moments for him to realise that his mother must have removed his photographic contribution on purpose, in preparation for him staying over. He could guess what the missing picture was: him and Amy with a baby Seren.
