Storm Rising

by Rachael Richey

  Large sheets of chipboard had been placed across the joists to provide a safe walking area, and she crawled towards a large pile of cardboard boxes in the far corner, where she knelt up and peered into the top one. Finding it full of neatly folded bedding, she pushed it back into place and leaned round to the next stack. The first one of these contained a selection of old kitchen implements, mostly from the 1960s by the look of them, and Abi abandoned them and crawled across the makeshift floor towards a rather more haphazard pile on the other side of the loft. On investigation, the top one of these proved to be full of old photograph albums, so Abi heaved it down beside her and began to go through them. The first few albums she pulled out proved to be the oldest, containing numerous black-and-white photos of her paternal grandparents’ wedding. She smiled to herself as she peered at a very stilted and formally posed pre-war photo. Her grandmother, always a rather scary woman, had even looked fierce on her own wedding day, and her grandfather, struggling to match his new wife in height, was smiling nervously at the camera. Abi flicked quickly through the book, then put it carefully to one side and delved deeper into the box.

  Right at the bottom she came upon a couple of albums from her childhood. There she was, a smiling, chubby, blue-eyed baby, dressed up in a flouncy white dress, a ribbon in her very sparse hair. The photo was obviously posed and taken by a professional photographer. She turned the pages and watched as she grew from baby to toddler, from toddler to child, and finally to lanky teenager. The last photo in the book was of her at age fifteen, dressed for her school Christmas dance. It had been 1994, and she was going through her grunge phase. Her dark auburn hair had been very long and left to curl naturally, and she was wearing a short droopy khaki skirt, a tummy revealing (in December!) white top, and an oversized plaid shirt. She had on thick black tights, Doc Martens on her feet, and a very moody expression on her face. Abi studied the photo intently, her face solemn. That was the day it had all changed. Carefully she removed the photograph from the album and slipped it into the breast pocket of her shirt.

  She sat back on the floor and rested her chin on her knees. The photo, combined with recent events, brought out feelings that were never far from the surface and memories of things she had hoped were buried. She tossed the photograph album aside and pulled the next box towards her.

  This one seemed to contain a multitude of papers and correspondence, and Abi’s heart sank as she realised this was probably the sort of thing her father was hoping she would go through. She took a deep breath and sat up onto her heels in front of the rather tattered box. The first bundle of letters she retrieved turned out to be old utility bills, as did the next half dozen.

  She was just about to abandon that box when her eye fell upon a much larger bundle of what looked like more personal letters. In the unlikely event these were love letters her mother had been keeping for sentimental reasons, Abi pulled them out and held them under the light. To her surprise, the top letter was addressed to her. The postmark was dated June 1995, and the name and address was handwritten in faded blue biro. The handwriting was untidy and sprawling, resembling a spider crawling across the paper. Her heart gave a tiny lurch as a half-forgotten memory tugged urgently at it. The bundle was secured by a thick rubber band, which fell apart as Abi eased it off. The first letter had been neatly slit open at the top, but a quick glance at the others told her they were all unopened. She thumbed through them and saw they were all addressed to her.

  Numbly her hands fell onto her lap and she stared down at the letters, her head spinning, her heart beating wildly. A huge pile of at least fifty letters, all addressed to her and all—she quickly checked—dated between June ’95 and May ’96. Someone had read the first one, then kept them all, unopened, and never told her anything about them. She knew without looking who they were from and what they were about, and that knowledge fuelled her hatred of her mother still further. She pushed to the back of her mind the thought that her father had had anything to do with the deception. That was not for now. She took a very deep, shaky breath, carefully placed the bundle to one side, and delved into the box again. This time she came up with some picture postcards, all showing scenes from the USA, Canada, and New Zealand. Cautiously she turned one over. It was addressed to her and again dated sometime in 1995. This time she allowed her eyes to stray to the few words written on the back.

  “Darling Abi, I miss you so much. Please answer my letters. You can still come and join me. You’ll love it here. Please come.”

  She caught her breath and sank back on her heels, her head whirling with emotion. She stared back at the card with its simple signature at the bottom—“Love, Gideon.”

  Slowly Abi reached into her pocket and pulled out the photograph she had removed from the album earlier. She stared down at her fifteen-year-old self, all dressed and ready to go out on an evening that would change her life forever.

  Chapter 3

  Friday, 16th December 1994

  Abi took a step back and surveyed herself in the long mirror on the inside of her wardrobe door. She shook her head and her long dark auburn hair fell in a tangled mess over her shoulders. Grinning at her reflection, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her oversized shirt. She looked good and felt ready for anything. The evening was going to be epic. She glanced over at her bedside clock. Nearly seven thirty, almost time to leave. Snatching up her bag from the bed, she flung out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind her, ran downstairs, the impact of her heavy footwear shaking the pictures on the walls, and jumped the last four steps to land on the hall carpet just as her father appeared in the living room doorway. He frowned slightly.

  “Quietly please, Abigail,” he said. “Your mother’s watching her programme.” Their eyes met and, for a second, a look of understanding flashed between them. Abi twirled around in front of her father.

  “Do I look okay, Dad?” she asked with a grin, already knowing the answer. Arthur Thomson sighed and shook his head slowly.

  “Not in my book, love,” he said, his eyes moving over her figure. “In my day, no self-respecting young lady would have left the house looking like a ragamuffin.”

  Abi tossed her head back and laughed out loud.

  “ ‘In my day,’ ” she mimicked. “It’s not your day now, Dad. It’s mine. And I intend to enjoy it!” And with that she moved past her father and stuck her head around the living room door. Her mother was installed in her chair, directly in front of the large television set. She had her feet up on a tapestry-covered footstool and was rapidly knitting some nondescript item in beige.

  “I’m off now, Mum,” announced Abi loudly, above the noise of the television. Joan Thomson looked briefly at her daughter over the top of her glasses, then returned her gaze to the screen in front of her.

  “Behave yourself,” she ordered in her strident voice, “and make sure you’re back by eleven.”

  Abi rolled her eyes. “Judy’s Dad’s bringing me home,” she said with the air of one who has already explained this a dozen times before, “so I don’t have any control over the time.”

  “Well, all right,” Joan conceded, her eyes not leaving the screen, “but I don’t want to hear any reports of bad behaviour.”

  Abi went back out into the hall and slammed the door behind her, ignoring the annoyed tutting of her father. Her parents had both been well into their forties when she was born, and she suspected they hadn’t intended to have any children at all. Now they were both over sixty, and she found herself beset with problems stemming from their post-war mentality. Until she was about twelve Abi had not really noticed that her parents were any different from anyone else’s. Her mother was fairly strict; Abi was not alone in that, but once she started to seek a social life outside the home she really noticed the difference. Her mother was strict to the point of sadism, in Abi’s eyes, and her father just meekly went along with everything his wife said. Abi had little respect left for her father. She loved him, but she had recently begun to see just how much he
was dominated by his spouse. She would never admit it to herself, but it was mainly a desire to fight back against their attitudes that had turned Abi into a rebel. She deliberately chose to wear clothes she knew they wouldn’t like, and she frequently stayed out much later than she should have done. So far she hadn’t had a boyfriend, but she was fairly sure that was another area in which there would be conflict, and she was secretly rather looking forward to it.

  With a flick of her hair over her shoulder she headed for the front door, calling to her father as she went, “C’mon, Dad. We’ve got to pick up Judy and Sammy. Mustn’t be late.”

  She skipped out into the cold December evening and climbed into the front seat of her father’s old Saab. Arthur followed his daughter more sedately and eased his spare frame into the driver’s seat with a sigh. Abi immediately felt annoyed with him. Why did he have to sigh at everything? Why couldn’t he be happy and smile sometimes? She took a deep breath and grinned at him.

  “This evening’s going to be so cool, Dad,” she said, fastening her seat belt. “Everyone is going to be there. All the Year Tens, Elevens, and Sixth Form have been invited, and all the boys from King Edward’s, too.” She twisted round, to check that the back seat was clear for her two best friends, and continued, “And we’ve got a live band who used to be at King Edward’s. They all left last year and are doing really well. One of them is Simon Dean—you know, Mrs Dean from number seventy-eight’s son?”

  Arthur nodded his head as he pulled out of the drive, turned down the quiet suburban road, and headed towards Judy’s house, in the next road.

  “I remember Simon,” he said. “Slightly chubby boy, came to one of your birthday parties when you were tiny.”

  “He’s not really chubby anymore,” said Abi with a giggle. “He dieted all through Sixth Form, so he looks pretty good now. The other band members are Charles Bond and Gideon Hawk. I don’t know them so well. Gideon has always seemed a bit standoffish.” She paused thoughtfully before adding, “I think he thinks rather a lot of himself, actually.”

  The car pulled up outside a neat semi-detached red brick house, not dissimilar to the Thomsons’ own, and a face peered out from an upstairs window. A few moments later the front door was flung open, flooding the garden with warm yellow light, and two teenage girls came running down the drive, giggling loudly. With a lot of noise and bouncing they climbed into the back of the Saab and strapped themselves in.

  “Hi, Mr. Thomson,” shrieked the smaller of the two, her huge brown eyes heavily rimmed with kohl and her dark hair gelled into spikes at the front. The taller girl, her long blonde hair tied back into a high ponytail and her pale, lightly freckled face surprisingly free of makeup, leaned forward and grabbed Abi’s shoulders.

  “It’s going to be brilliant!” she cried, shaking her friend and bouncing up and down on her seat. Then she glanced over at Arthur. “Oh, thanks for the lift, Mr. Thomson. Dad will pick us up later. Can Abi stay at my house? Sammy’s going to, and Mum says it’ll be okay.”

  Abi glanced at her father. “Can I, Dad? It’d be such fun,” she pleaded, looking up at him under her heavily mascaraed lashes and adding temptingly, “Then you and Mum can go to bed and not wait up for me.”

  Arthur sighed in his normal manner and, after a brief hesitation, nodded without taking his eyes off the road.

  “All right. I suppose it makes sense,” he said, carefully pulling out onto the dual carriageway that led to the outskirts of the town, where Queen Mary’s Grammar School for Girls was situated. Abi squeaked and reached out to squeeze his arm.

  “Thanks, Dad,” she said, adding nervously, “You’ll clear it with Mum?”

  Arthur glanced briefly at his daughter, then nodded with a slight smile.

  Five minutes later the car pulled up in the huge car park behind the school and the three girls piled out, chattering loudly to each other. With hasty shouted goodbyes to their chauffeur, they set off in the direction of the school hall, from whence issued the sound of East 17’s “Stay Another Day,” accompanied by rhythmically flashing lights. As they approached the hall entrance, the three girls linked arms and looked at each other. They paused for a second to assess the situation, then all together they passed through the wide-open double doors and joined the fray. The hall was teeming with excited teenagers of both sexes, and Abi, Judy, and Sammy stood for a moment attempting to locate the rest of their friends. Eventually Judy spotted a small group of girls at the far side of the hall, clustering around a couple of rather nervous-looking gangly boys. They made their way through the flailing arms of the dancers in the middle of the floor and joined the group, were welcomed warmly by the others, and spent the following hour alternating between chatting (or rather shouting above the volume of the music) to each other and expending a great deal of energy on the dance floor.

  By nine o’clock, Abi had danced with three Year Eleven boys whose names she had failed to hear and been asked out by one very overconfident Year Ten who was at least three inches shorter than she was. She let him down as gently as she could and rejoined her friends, who were leaning against the far wall attempting to look nonchalant. The band, whose name Sammy had discovered was NightHawk, were to do their first spot at nine thirty, and the girls strained their necks in an attempt to watch them setting up their equipment. Abi put her mouth close to Judy’s ear and shouted, “So they’re called after that Gideon Hawk, then? I’ve always thought he seemed a bit above himself,” she said with a grimace, standing on tiptoe to see if she could glimpse them near the stage.

  Judy shook her arm. “He’s okay, actually,” she said seriously. “I met him a month or so back, when my Mum had a coffee morning in aid of the hospital. His mum came, and Gideon came to pick her up. He seems more grown up than Simon or Charles.” Pulling Abi closer, she giggled a bit. “He’s very good looking—you must agree there.”

  Abi snorted and raised her eyebrows at her friend. “Honestly, Judy, you always get swayed by a pretty face,” she said with a chuckle, “but I’ll check him out anyway.”

  Sammy came bounding up to the other two, her small face bright red and dripping with sweat. Her black eyeliner had begun to run slightly, and her hair had lost most of its gel and was drooping badly. Abi giggled and fished in her bag to bring out a tiny mirror she held up in front of Sammy’s face. The shorter girl squeaked, and the three of them headed off in the direction of the toilets to repair the damage.

  Away from the intense noise of the disco, all three girls relaxed, and Abi and Judy perched on the work surfaces between the hand basins while Sammy rummaged in her bag and retrieved her makeup. Abi leant back against the mirror and closed her eyes.

  “I’m bored,” she stated.

  Judy and Sammy looked at her in surprise.

  “Thought you were having a great time.” Judy turned to face her. “What’s up?”

  Abi shook her head. “No, not bored tonight,” she said, “bored in life. I want excitement. Nothing ever happens in this place. I mean, how much more middle class and suburban can you get than here?” She gestured vaguely around her, a look of mild dissatisfaction on her face.

  Sammy, peering into the mirror, kohl pencil in hand, murmured, “You need a boyfriend,” as she carried on serenely applying her makeup.

  Judy giggled, and Abi heaved a sigh. “No, I don’t,” she pronounced. “All the boys are boring, too. I mean those ones I danced with—it wasn’t even worth asking their names. They’re just kids. No excitement there.” And she slumped back against the mirror again.

  The door to the girls’ toilets suddenly opened and a couple of sixth formers came in, laughing loudly. They saw the little group of Year Elevens and stopped short.

  “The band’s about to start,” one of them said. “You don’t want to miss that, do you?” and they both disappeared into the cubicles.

  Judy jumped down from her perch. “C’mon, guys, let’s go back in. Maybe this’ll be more exciting for you, Abs,” and she pulled her friend off the count
er and dragged her towards the door.

  Reluctantly Abi followed her friends, and the three of them re-entered the hall and made their way down towards the front, ready to listen to the band.

  The boys were assembling on the stage, and Abi managed to get her first really good look at Gideon and Charles. Simon was busily doing a sound check, his slightly too-long fair curly hair already shiny with sweat and his round, rather baby-like face rosy with the heat, but Abi had to admit his recent diet had worked well, for his body looked lean and well exercised. His fellow band members were busy setting up their instruments. Charles, short, dark, and moody, was tuning his bass, and Gideon—okay, Abi had to agree he was pretty good looking—was setting up his microphone. All three boys were obviously attempting to copy the dress style of Nirvana and managing to pull it off fairly well. Especially Gideon. She found herself watching him as he moved about the stage. He was tall, probably well over six foot, and very lean, yet muscular. His dark hair was thick and messy and, falling to the bottom of his collar, just the right length. At that moment he turned on the stage and stared straight into Abi’s face. His dark blue eyes were moody and piercing and seemed to be holding some strong emotion in check. Abi drew in her breath and stared back at him. Their gazes locked for just a second before he went back to his task. Abi took a shaky breath and dragged her eyes away from him. She turned to Judy at her side. “Okay, you’re right,” she whispered in her friend’s ear. “He’s gorgeous. Looks loads older than eighteen, though.”