by Unknown
9
We meet at King’s Cross station. I spot Darren as soon as the cab sets me down. He stands out like a beacon. But then that’s not so extraordinary as he’s sharing the platform with prostitutes, beggars and commuters. As I approach him he takes my bag from me and briefly kisses me on the cheek. It’s comfortable. It’s unnerving.
‘You look good,’ he murmurs, smiling appreciatively.
‘What, this old thing?’ I shrug.
‘This old thing’ was actually a look achieved after nine hours’ searching through Issie’s wardrobes and mine. I like the final effect. It’s a sort of rock-chic-meets-country-girl ensemble. I think it works, although Issie had doubts. She had questioned whether a six-hundred-quid pony-skin skirt was appropriate for a dash around North Yorkshire. I ignored her advice; after all, she doesn’t read the style pages. She also kept going on about how I’d be cold in a short-sleeved jumper. I explained that my upper arms were really toned at the moment and needed full exposure. She sighed and stuffed another cardigan in my bag. I’m grateful now because? it is freezing on the platform.
Issie had been a bit irritating all round, whilst I packed for this tour of duty. She commented, ‘North Yorkshire sounds very romantic. Isn’t that where the Brontës are from?’
‘Is it? I thought it was Lancashire. Didn’t all the Brontës die spinsters?’ I feigned ignorance. ‘Besides which, we’re going to visit his family. Have you ever known families to be romantic?’
Issie reminded me of the guy she met through her mother, on New Year’s Eve. I reminded her that he never called. ‘So why are you going to Whitby, if you think it’s going to be so dour?’
‘I explained, Issie, I have to get him to agree to be on the show. It’s a matter of professional and personal pride.’
‘Nothing more than pride?’ I’ve been asking myself exactly the same thing all night.
‘I’ve explained, he’d make a great show. He’d silence our few lingering critics.’
‘Nothing more than a great show?’ asked Issie. She didn’t sound as though she believed me. I admit Darren is interesting and funny and ridiculously fanciable. I admit that if Issie were choosing to travel halfway across the globe to visit some guy’s family I’d think it was because she’d fallen for him. But the same can’t be said of me, can it? I’m only doing this for the good of TV6.
‘What else is there?’ I asked, slipping my Manolo Blahnik lilac open-toe shoes into my bag. I would have been extremely grateful if Issie could have answered me; however, she just scowled.
‘It doesn’t sound like you have the faintest chance of getting him to change his mind.’
‘I don’t know, I might have. After all, he agreed to let me shadow him.’
‘Yes, I wonder why he did that. Does he fancy you? I expect he does.’
‘More likely wants the opportunity to save my soul.’
‘Oh lord. His chances are poorer than yours,’ laughed Issie as she walked me to my waiting cab.
Yes, Issie was extremely irritating all round.
*
‘I’ve bought your ticket. Come on, the train is in. Platform Three – we have to run,’ urges Darren.
Despite the fact that we are travelling zillions of miles to (practically) Scotland, the timetable tells me that we will arrive in Darlington in two and a half hours’ time. I’m incredulous, but Darren explains it’s the electric line. I’m still incredulous. What about the obligatory leaves on the track and the right and wrong types of snow? My heart plummets. Even if by some miracle the train does arrive on time, two and a half hours is going to seem like ten and a half. What will I say to Darren? It was OK chatting in the restaurant last night, but I’d had a shedload to drink. But now, in the cold light of day, I’m beginning to regret volunteering to shadow him. I know my chances of persuading Darren to appear on Sex with an Ex are slim. I could be on a wild goose chase! What will I do with myself outside London? How will the studio manage without me? Will Bale buy my reasoning for shadowing Darren? Besides all this, sitting on a train with a moralistic do-gooder is not my idea of fun. Even a devilishly attractive one.
The train journey is awesome.
Besides buying the ticket, Darren also had the foresight to buy up half the magazines and sweets in WH Smith’s. I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me sweets. Big fancy boxes of chocolates, yes, I get those by the dozen. I just pass them on to my mum. She eats some and gives the other boxes to local geriatrics (cellulite not being a major concern of theirs). But Darren hasn’t bought me chocolates in a box. Instead he’s bought the sweets of our childhoods: Jelly Babies, Liquorice Allsorts, Flying Saucers and Sherbet Dib-dabs. Undoubtedly I’ll feel sick by the time the journey is over. Even so, it’s a good call. Instead of the slow and stilted conversation I feared, we have an unlimited avenue in discussing childhood. What were your favourite sweets as a kid? (He remembers Spangles, Space Dust and Cream Soda, he agrees that Snickers definitely used to be bigger and anyway they were Marathons.) What was the first book you read? (Neither of us is sure but, satisfyingly, he’s clearer on his TV viewing habits; he recalls every episode of Mr Ben and swears his sister looked the image of the girl who sat with the clown when there was nothing on TV.) So what was your favourite TV programme? (We agree Mark from EastEnders will always be Tucker from Grange Hill.) When did you learn to swim? (He learned after seeing the advert with the fairy godmother. I learned after seeing Jaws.) And whilst I remember all this I completely forget to uphold my icy reserve. Trivia, but this and reading magazines together mean that the journey to Darlington flies past.
Reluctantly I acquiesce: he does a great line in small talk.
Grudgingly I have to admit that perhaps we do have some things in common.
But nothing fundamental.
I watch the landscapes change. The parks of the south melt into the woodlands of the Midlands, and in no time at all into the rugged, Gothic hills of the north. Although it’s only mid-morning, the sky in North Yorkshire is mauve with damson clouds. Not the cottonwool clouds of textbooks but strong, imposing smudges, more like a painting a child would make with a thick brush. It’s breathtakingly beautiful.
But then, once you’ve seen a scene, it’s over with. It’s not as though you can wear it.
I call Bale on my mobile to explain what I’m doing. It’s a difficult call, as I have to make it from the minuscule British Rail loo, awash with urine and with a dodgy door lock designed to make occupants nervous.
‘If we get him on the show I’d put money on the fact that hell be a pin-up within weeks and he’ll have his own chat show within months,’ I enthuse to Bale.
That good, hey?’
That good,’ I assert.
‘And do you think Fi will manage?’
I enthusiastically sing her praises to reassure him (it doesn’t – he’s understandably suspicious). He wavers, trying to decide whether any guest can be worth my absence. I sense his indecision, so dramatically turn up the charm. I promise I’ll give it two days and travel back overnight on Tuesday in time for Wednesday’s filming. In the meantime, I reassure, he can reach me on my mobile.
When we arrive at Darlington station Darren’s brother, Richard, is waiting for us. Richard is younger than Darren by three years, but he’s beefier (that will be the fish and chips and Yorkshire pudding) and so looks a bit older. Darren’s filled me in with details of his family. There is Sarah, who is thirty-seven, married with three kids. Darren who is thirty-three, like me. Richard, thirty, he’s engaged to Shelly and finally Linda, who was a bit of a surprise to Mr and Mrs Smith. She’s seventeen now. Darren is the only one who has moved away from home. I must ask why. Richard and Shelly are buying a house a few streets away from her parents. Sarah and her family live in a nearby village. I commit all these details to memory in an effort to flatter him and ingratiate myself with his family.
The two men slap each other on the back and this action instantly makes them appear boyish, but in the very
best sense. Whilst not obviously showing affection by embracing, it’s clear that they are delighted to see each other.
‘Richard, this is Cas.’ Darren hesitates and then adds, ‘A friend.’ I’m strangely gratified to be described as such and therefore treat Richard to my most winning smile. Naturally he’s enchanted and falls over himself to help me with my luggage. I catch Darren’s eye; I want to know if he’s noticed that I’ve impressed Richard. I can’t be sure; he’s laughing to himself.
I am keen to leave Darlington station behind. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with the station – it has everything one expects; small WH Smith, cookie-cut café and smelly loos – but it is a station and I try to avoid public transport whenever possible. However, I’m not thrilled when Richard indicates which is his car.
The Escort?’ I ask, hoping there’s been a mistake.
‘Yes. The one with the red door,’ says Richard.
‘And the blue body,’ adds Darren in case the situation demanded any more clarity. I try not to show how disgruntled I am, but quietly climb into the back seat, which I share with furry dice (honestly) and an entire forestworth of sweet wrappers.
I don’t say much in the car journey from Darlington to Whitby. Instead I let Darren and Richard catch up with each other’s news. As an only child I’m always fascinated to see siblings’ reactions to one another. Richard is obviously delighted that Darren has paid this surprise visit. I can’t imagine that my arrival anywhere would be awash with such excitement. Except perhaps for Harvey Nics – my personal shopper is always blissed out when she sees me. When Richard asks Darren how he came to have unplanned holiday, I’m unaccountably relieved that Darren fudges the answer. I’m also mollified when Darren comments vaguely that we ‘met at an interview’. Richard obviously feels bad that I’m not part of the conversation and tries to include me by sharing details of the route.
‘We’re on the A66, heading east. We could’ve come across the new road. They both join at A171 to Whitby.’
I’m not sure what response is required of me. This fascination with routes, alternative routes and ‘the road we could have taken’ is definitely a boy thing. I nod, not committing, and turn to gaze out of the window.
I’m in a foreign land. Not least because of Richard’s accent but also because of the strangeness of the landscape. It’s an eclectic mix of the very modern (brand-new and impressive football stadiums, architecturally complex bridges), quaint, old-fashioned poverty (bingo halls and boarded-up shops) and stunning countryside (sheep). I notice that the women standing at the bus stops, in each village, look alike. They are fat and tired – don’t they ever work out? Richard’s Escort pauses at a red light for a couple of minutes and I look more closely. A woman is waiting at the bus stop; another shouts to her from a fifty-yard distance. The first one makes the bus wait whilst the other heaves her excessive weight and carrier bags to the stop. The driver of the bus becomes animated and jovial and doesn’t seem to be too irritated by the delay. As the woman hoists herself on to the bus all the other travellers shout and wave to her. Am I missing something? Is she famous? I don’t recognize her. But she must be because why else would they be so nice to her? The warmth they so obviously feel for one another momentarily sends a freak glow through me.
Which is a bloody miracle, considering that the temperatures I’m enduring are arctic.
As in a wartime era, the men on the streets are either very young or very old. They are malnourished. On the young men, this looks chippy and sexy; on the old men, it looks pathetic. I try to remember some facts from my geography A-level and the news in the eighties. North Yorkshire wasn’t a community annihilated by the closing of the mines, was it? No, definitely not. It was a community ravaged by the collapse of the ship-building industry. I wonder where the men of working age are. Have they got on their bikes? Or are they at the Cargo Fleet Social Club doing their best to support the Bass dynasty?
I sigh, bored, losing interest in my own line of thought. A new level of tedium. It must be this place. I light a cigarette. Richard stares at me through the driving mirror. So as not to be rude I wind the window down an inch, which I think is very considerate of me in these sub-zero climes.
‘Would you mind not smoking?’ asks Richard.
I shift uncomfortably and for a second I’m tempted to say that yes, I would mind very much. I have a thirty-a-day habit to feed. I have a metabolism to send into frenzy. Instead I smile, falsely, and throw the cigarette out of the window. Richard doesn’t congratulate me or thank me but simply nods curtly. I’m surprised. I thought he fancied me. The lust men normally experience when meeting me is, if not a licence to print money, at least a certificate which exonerates me from obeying the no-smoking signs. What is it with these Smith blokes? Don’t they have hormones?
The towns disappear and soon even the villages are spasmodic. The bleak warehouses and graffitied bus stops detailing that, despite the odds, ‘JEZ LUVS BREND 4EVER’, vanish and are replaced by wide open fields of mud, splashed with snow, ice and the odd farmhouse. The sky is still lavender but is now streaked with silver layers of light.
‘I can see the sea,’ shout Richard and Darren at once. Then they both laugh. ‘It’s sort of a family tradition,’ explains Darren. ‘Not a very unique one at that. I’m sure you know the thing.’ I don’t, but I follow their gaze anyway.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I sigh, despite myself. And I immediately regret saying so. My city platitude hardly captures the breath-taking splendour of the scene and I do try to make it a rule not to say anything unless it is original or cutting, yet I’m at a loss for words that are grandiose enough. I catch sight of Darren’s face in the wing mirror. He smiles at me as though he finds my lacklustre comment adequate.
‘You don’t think you’ll be too bored, then?’ he asks. Does he have a tent at a funfair to practise this mind-reading thing?
‘No, I think I’ll find enough to amuse me,’ I answer honestly, with only a smidgen of flirtation.
Richard wiggles uncomfortably.
Whitby is higgledy-piggledy. Built on an undulating coastline, the houses and teashops (closed) look precariously stacked. We steer through narrow streets and climb steep slopes. I’m suddenly in a period drama. Eventually we draw up in front of a row of terraced street houses. I am sure they are going to fall into the sea if anyone coughs too loudly. Darren assures me that the houses are tougher than they look. As they’ve been in place for over a hundred years. I concede he’s probably right; even so I make a mental note not to move too suddenly once inside. From the outside the house looks minute and I wonder how the Smiths managed to bring up four kids in something so small. Isn’t property cheaper in the north? I consider passing this comment as a way of making conversation but decide against it. We don’t go in the front door but slip up an alley-cum-path, which leads to the back door.
‘Alleyways are called ghauts around here,’ explains Darren, doing his psychic party trick again. I wish he’d stop that, it’s freaky.
I realize that the house is in fact deceptively large as it stretches back in a seemingly endless row of rooms. Mrs Smith and Linda are waiting on the back step to greet us. Mrs Smith keeps yelling to ‘Father’ that Darren and his friend are here. Father turns out to be Mr Smith, her husband. He doesn’t get up from his chair in the sitting room but waves cheerfully from where he’s sitting. This is understandable; he’s watching a repeat of The Waltons – pretty compelling viewing. Mrs Smith eyes me mistrustfully. I know from experience that women generally, and mothers specifically, are always wary of me. I also know from experience that if I want to ingratiate myself with Darren I have to make his mother like me. It’s amusing that almost always the reverse is true of a man trying to impress a woman. My mother’s approval is a grade A turn-off. Mrs Smith can’t drag her eyes from my skirt and mutters something about her ‘being sure it’s all the rage’ in London. Linda, by contrast, greets me in a manner with which I am much more accustomed – unadulterate
d praise and flattery. She loves my hair, likes my bag, adores my skirt and would die for my shoes. Her mother tuts impatiently but I answer all her questions about where I got everything and I let her touch the fabrics. Poor kid, she probably hasn’t ever seen anyone dressed in anything other than a shellsuit before. I offer to take a B&B so as not to inconvenience Mrs Smith but she won’t hear of it and in fact appears offended that I’ve suggested it. She says that Darren can share Richard’s room and I can have Darren’s old room. Linda enthusiastically offers to take me to it straight away and I agree. I haven’t touched up my lipstick since I arrived at Darlington.
Linda is a delight to be with. Adoring me is obviously a point in her favour and she has all the advantages that youth can offer – buoyancy, an uncynical view of the world, hardly any wrinkles and an ability to be oblivious to the humiliation of slavishly following fashion. Besides, she – like Darren – has won the gene lottery jackpot. I much prefer to be surrounded by beautiful people. Linda has thick black curly hair that she wears shoulder-length. She has Darren’s to-die-for eyes and Bambi lashes and she’s slim. Perhaps her most attractive feature is that she seems to have no idea how beautiful she really is. It’s a shame she lives in the armpit of nowhere and won’t ever be seen. In London she’d be a hit. She could get a job in media, modelling or working in the city, all of which require more than a pretty brain. Instead she’ll be consigned to marrying young, raising a football team of children and counting her stretch marks. Blissfully unaware of her fate, she chatters vivaciously and non-stop as she guides me to Darren’s room.
The house, like the county, is a diverse mix of ancient and modern. I spot a warehouseworth of electrical goods: three TVs, two videos, a computer, a number of computer games, radios, hi-fi systems and all white-good mod. cons. Yet the wallpaper and carpets must have been hung and laid before the war (and I’m talking Crimean). I take in endless brass wall hangings and crocheted doilies and make a mental note that next time we are producing a period piece the props department would do well to consider Mrs Smith as a source. Whilst the fixtures and fittings are old-fashioned and, frankly, ugly, they are immaculate. My mother could run her finger along any skirting board or wardrobe top and fail to find cause for concern.
