by Imogen Clark
‘I’ve only just found out about her,’ I say. ‘Well, I think I always knew that I had an aunt but I’d forgotten. Something Michael said made me remember. Anyway, she lives in San Francisco so I thought I’d track her down.’
‘Lovely,’ she says to me as she disappears from view. ‘Let me know when you’re going and I’ll bring some of my things over. I’ll use the spare room next to the bathroom if that suits.’
If only everything was so simple.
Later, I am trying to research January weather conditions in San Francisco when there is a knock at the door. I open it and Simeon is standing on the doorstep. He’s wearing a waxed jacket, a pair of leather walking boots and a deerstalker hat. I bite back a giggle.
‘I’m going for a stroll on the moor,’ he says. ‘Fancy coming?’ He looks at me expectantly, like a dog hoping for a tasty snack. I have a list a mile long of things to do but without even thinking about it I nod enthusiastically.
‘Nice idea. Just let me get a coat.’
‘And some footwear,’ he says, looking at my pink pom-pom slippers, which were a present from Beth and are very warm but make my feet look like small islands.
I don’t own any walking boots and my wellies rub my heels if I have to walk any distance in them. I make do with a pair of leather biker boots that, from memory, don’t leak too badly. I can’t match him on a coat either but at least my down jacket is warm. I grab a hat and some mittens and shout to Mrs P that I’m just popping out.
‘You look quite the country gent,’ I say to him as we head up the hill towards the moor.
I mean it as a joke but he looks slightly affronted and I have to backtrack a little.
‘I’ve never really got myself kitted out for walking,’ I add, trying to suggest that this is my failing rather than his, although the expression ‘All the gear, no idea’ is on the tip of my tongue.
‘If you have the right kit then you never get caught out by the weather,’ he says. ‘I learned that on my bike. This must be the greyest, wettest place I’ve ever lived.’
‘Doesn’t it rain in Lincolnshire?’ I ask.
‘Not like it does here, for days on end. And the grey skies . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘They kill me.’
‘I like the grey,’ I say. ‘It makes me feel safe, cosseted. You can keep your picture-book blue heavens. Give me clouds any day of the week.’
He turns his head as he walks so that he can look at me.
‘You are a strange and complicated creature, Cara Ferensby,’ he says and I’m not sure whether to be pleased or offended.
We head upwards for half an hour or so, eventually getting to the top of the moor, where we follow a path parallel to the valley bottom. There’s no one else up this high. Any tourists wanting to blow away the cobwebs tend not to stray out of sight of the iconic Cow and Calf rocks. Every so often, a grouse rises out of the bracken noisily at our sides, its odd guttural call sounding more like a trumpet than a bird. In places the ground beneath our feet is springy and then boggy. I can feel the cold water seeping in through the stitches of my boots but I don’t let on. Below us, Ilkley nestles in the valley, lights just starting to flicker as households begin to prepare for the evening’s celebrations. We press on, the silences punctuated by the wind whipping through the bracken and Simeon’s boots stomping on the stone path.
‘Going to a party tonight?’ he asks me.
For a moment, I consider lying, making up some extravagant invitation. He misinterprets my hesitation.
‘I’m not fishing for an invite,’ he adds. ‘I’m not that keen on New Year’s Eve, to be honest. I’d rather stay home with Jools Holland and a nice bottle.’
Now I feel awkward. If I say that I have no plans either will he think that I’m trying to muscle in on his evening? I take a deep breath. In for a penny . . .
‘You could come and watch Jools at my place,’ I say. ‘I mean, if you fancy some company. Or not,’ I add. ‘I have no particular plans. My friends are still away and I didn’t get round to sorting anything out. But if you’d rather do the Jools thing by yourself then that’s fine. I know some people choose to spend . . .’
He leans across, places his hands on my shoulders and kisses me firmly, forcing me to stop talking. To start with, I am so taken aback that I don’t respond but then I lean into him and we kiss, like Cathy and Heathcliff, high up on the moor above the town.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since last night,’ he says, like someone out of a chick flick. It’s so long since anyone has kissed me that I think I must be slightly in shock. It is not like I hadn’t considered the possibility. It’s just that I wasn’t expecting it any time soon. ‘And Jools at your place would be great,’ he adds.
Even as he says this, I am thinking about what there is in the house to eat, who is on the rota to help with Dad tonight, whether I have any wine . . .
‘I’ve got no food,’ I blurt out.
‘Still?!’
‘Well, I got distracted yesterday, remember?’
‘I’ll cook,’ he says. ‘I’ll bring everything with me. You just provide the kitchen.’
I envy him his easy manner. I would no more offer to cook at his flat than fly to the moon, but the idea of cooking somewhere strange seems to hold no terror for him.
‘Perfect,’ I say and suddenly I’m buzzing like a teenager. I have a plan for New Year’s Eve and it involves a man. Wait until Beth hears.
‘There’s some stuff I need to explain first,’ I say as we head back down towards the town. I tell him a little bit about Dad and the arrangements with Mrs P, but that doesn’t seem to put him off. We arrange for him to come around eight. Just thinking about this makes my stomach flip over. In the gap between our walk and our date, if that is what it is, I find myself in the supermarket looking at croissants and wonder about changing the sheets.
I wish Beth were here.
‘I’ve got a friend coming over tonight,’ I say to Mrs P as I unpack the shopping and finally throw out the remains of the leftovers. ‘A man.’
I make my voice go up at the end to suggest that this is unusual although, as she’s been here for a few months now, she surely knows this already. She is cutting Dad’s hair for him. He sits on a kitchen chair surrounded by a sea of newspaper, a towel tucked round his shoulders. When I try to do this, he fidgets like a toddler and I have to abandon the job half-finished, but for her he sits tall and still.
‘Well, don’t mind me,’ she says, scissors poised. ‘I’ll get your dad into bed and then make myself scarce.’
She doesn’t ask any questions but I want to talk.
‘I only met him yesterday. He’s a friend of a friend. He seems very nice. He’s a teacher, at a primary school near Leeds.’
‘Was that him who called earlier?’ she asks, snipping carefully around Dad’s large ears. ‘He’s a bit of a looker,’ she adds and winks at me over the top of Dad’s head.
Normally only Beth would tease me like this and I prepare to bristle at her over-familiarity but then I realise that I quite like it. What’s wrong with dropping my guard from time to time? This woman is virtually living in my house and performing no end of intimate tasks for my father. It’d be ridiculous of me to take offence when she shows some interest in my life.
‘Isn’t he?’ I agree and twist my face into an expression of mock shock. ‘His name’s Simeon. He lives up near the moor. I think I might quite like him, although it’s obviously very early days.’
She brushes the snipped ends off Dad’s shoulders and on to the waiting newspaper.
‘It’s about time you had some fun,’ she says. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you take life far too seriously for someone so young. Live a little, Cara. Life is short. You should grasp it with both hands and shake it hard.’
She’s right, of course. I don’t suppose it’ll go anywhere with Simeon but it’s good to have someone new to talk to.
The doorbell rings a little after eight and there he stands, his hair
still refusing to lie flat. He has changed out of his moor walking clothes and is now wearing some jeans and a boxy leather jacket, a pair of suede Chelsea boots on his feet. I look at him and at once feel dowdy. I should never have invited him. It was a stupid idea and now, because he’s here rather than at his place, I can’t escape. He’ll come in out of politeness and watch the clock tick round until he can leave without causing offence. I should just tell him that I have made a mistake, changed my mind. I’ll have an early night with my book.
‘Are you going to invite me in or what?’ he says and takes a step towards the door.
‘Sorry,’ I say and step aside.
He doesn’t hesitate. In the hallway, Mrs P is just helping Dad towards the stairs. They make slow progress, Dad more shuffling than walking.
‘Hello,’ Simeon says with a wide smile and I feel absurdly proud that he has come to visit me. ‘I’m Simeon.’
‘Oh, hello,’ replies Mrs P. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you.’
I freeze. God, how embarrassing if he thinks that I’ve been rattling on about him to Mrs P but hasn’t given me a second thought. This must occur to Mrs P too, because she shoots me a glance to make sure that she hasn’t said the wrong thing, but what can she do? The words are out.
‘All good, I hope,’ says Simeon, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness that I have conjured up for myself. ‘And this must be your father?’ he asks. ‘Good evening, Mr Ferensby.’ He holds his hand out for Dad to shake but Dad just stares at it. This is a social convention that has clearly left him.
‘It is indeed,’ says Mrs P. ‘And we’re just going upstairs out of the way, aren’t we, Joe?’
Dad doesn’t seem to have noticed that Simeon is even here. His eyes are focused on a spot on the wall in front of him.
‘Well, it’s nice to meet you both,’ says Simeon.
His manner is open, genuine, and he’s not at all thrown by Dad’s lack of interest in him.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ says Mrs P and they begin to climb the stairs slowly, one step at a time. I show him into the sitting room.
‘I didn’t know what you liked to eat so I’ve gone for pasta with chicken in a creamy tarragon sauce. Oh, God. You’re not vegetarian, are you?’ he adds, his blue eyes suddenly wide. His worried expression makes me laugh and that reminds me why I invited him in the first place.
‘No. Fully signed-up meat-eater. Shall we have a drink first?’
A couple of hours later we have made it on to a second bottle of wine and there’s no sign of the pasta. We are sitting on the sofa, me cross-legged, him lounging backwards, his long legs sticking out in front of him. We’re not quite close enough to touch.
‘Can I ask you a personal question?’ he says.
I nod. My mind races with what it might be. Why are you still living at home with your father? How come you’ve never married? Is your life really as dull as you make out?
‘What happened to your hand?’ he asks.
Instinctively I go to pull down my sleeve in an attempt to cover the worst of the scars but he stops me and gently takes my hand between both of his, stroking the puckered skin with his thumb. The urge to pull it back to safety is almost overwhelming but somehow I let it rest where it is.
‘It was an accident,’ I say. ‘When I was very small. I can’t remember much about it. Dad had made a fire in the garden and I put my hand in it to pull something out. I was too little to realise how hot it would be. The doctors did the best they could but it never fully recovered. I was lucky, really. It could have been much worse.’
‘Does it hurt?’ he asks, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing its ridged surface lightly.
Inside I wince but I try to stay calm.
‘No. Not really. It’s just part of who I am now. I don’t think about it much.’ This is a lie but he doesn’t need to know that. I’m desperate to change the subject, to steer him away from focusing on my flaws. ‘I’m going to San Francisco the day after tomorrow,’ I say without much thought.
‘Are you coming back?’ he asks, and it throws me for a moment.
I punch him lightly on the arm and realise that I must have moved a little closer to him.
‘I’m only going for a few days,’ I say. ‘I have a mystery to solve.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘It’s about my mother.’
‘She who may or may not be missing?’ he asks and I’m touched that he remembers.
‘Yes. She has a sister, an artist who lives there. I’ve decided to track her down so I can ask her, face to face, about what happened to my mum.’
‘Wow!’ he says and for a moment I can’t work out if he is being serious or sarcastic, but then he looks straight at me, holding my eyes with his. ‘You’ve got balls, Cara Ferensby.’
Have I? I’m not sure that he is right. Making this trip is more of a compulsion than an act of bravery. As the clock ticks ever closer to midnight, I tell him everything that I have discovered so far. When I’ve finished, I realise that this is the first time I’ve shown all the individual jigsaw pieces to anyone. There still isn’t enough to make the whole picture but at least I can see what it might look like now.
I don’t know if it’s the sharing or the wine but I can feel myself start to shake. A tiny tremor shivers right through me. Simeon sees and without saying anything he just leans in closer and wraps his arms around me. I let him. His aftershave smells of cloves and lemons. I focus on the individual scents to stop myself from crying. I’m determined not to cry.
Gently he lifts my head from its burrow on his shoulder and then we kiss again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Michael, 1998
Michael looks at the clock by his bed. In three hours, he will be free. Outside it is light and the birds are working hard to muster a decent orchestra but he can tell by the shade of his curtains that there is no sign of the sun. The sky is always grey in this godforsaken town. Something to do with the moor, apparently. The hills mess with the weather, casting leaden light over the town when just a few miles away the sky is blue. He doesn’t care anymore, though, because after today he will be gone from Yorkshire. He will leave and never look back. The mere thought makes his heart beat faster. He lies on his bed, staring at the clock and watching the digital numbers flick over: 6.10 . . . 6.11 . . . 6.12 . . .
The only blot on his horizon, the only dark patch in his heart, is Cara. He thinks of her now with her quirky, homemade clothes and that waif-like look that she cultivates and which makes her seem even more vulnerable. Guilt tugs deep inside him but he cuts it free. Cara is not his problem. It sounds harsh but it’s the truth. What she chooses to do when she finishes school is up to her. She can leave too if she wants. There will be virtually nothing tying her here.
And anyway, he thinks, it not like he’s leaving Cara entirely on her own. She has Beth. When he thinks of Beth, Michael’s mind starts to go to places that he’d rather it didn’t. He can’t put his finger on exactly when Beth stopped being his sister’s toothy little mate and became the object of his teenage desire but the whole thing is really weird. Obviously, he’s never said anything, let alone done anything about it. She’s only fourteen, for God’s sake, and she’s Cara’s best friend. He lies back and indulges his fantasy for a few minutes. It will kill a bit more time.
6.37 . . .
Less than three hours now. He will walk up to school, be there when the huge, wooden door opens to admit him. The results will be in the hall, sitting in their brown envelopes in neat, alphabetical rows just waiting to be claimed. Michael hasn’t the slightest doubt that he’ll get what he needs. With his outstanding GCSE results, the top universities were falling over themselves to make him an offer. He is aware that he is exactly the kind of student they wish to encourage. Intelligent, conscientious, ambitious. The reference from his form tutor was unambiguous:
You would have to go a long way to find a pupil as focused and driven as Michael Ferensby. Becoming a solicitor has bee
n Michael’s ambition from the youngest age and he has been working with determination towards this end ever since.
No one has ever questioned his motives, asked him what it is that pushes him on towards his goal with such surefooted certainty. Maybe they thought it was just something that he saw on TV and then clung to for want of a better idea? Michael is a private person and has never felt the need to share exactly why he wants to work as a solicitor. His motivation is a personal matter: his secret, if you like. He hasn’t faltered at any point since he found his father’s legal papers and knew that he had to understand them in order to understand everything. His place to read law at King’s College, London is as good as in the bag. He knows that the A Level results that he will collect today are just a necessary formality.
His father has shown almost no interest in the university application process but then Michael has hardly encouraged him. The invitation to the parents’ information evening never made it beyond the bin in the sixth-form centre. His father, not having been to university himself, can’t see the point of it.
‘What you need is a good, honest job,’ he’d said. ‘That’ll stand you in much better stead than three years of debt and some letters after your name. You should get ahead of the pack, Michael. Get your foot in the door at a decent firm while your mates are busy drinking away their grants. It’s just a waste of time when you should be out there earning.’
Michael could have explained that he wanted to be a solicitor, and that that required a law degree and a professional qualification, but what would have been the point? Instead he had filled in the form at school, carefully forging his father’s signature, and sent it off without mentioning it at home. And now, in two hours’ time, he will pick up his results and will finally begin the process of leaving home.
