The Turning Point

by Freya North

  ‘Sammy?’

  ‘I was just wondering where I’m sleeping?’

  Frankie could hear the crack in his voice, that he didn’t want it noticed.

  ‘In your man cave?’

  ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Is it open?’

  ‘The key’s on the hook on the side of the window frame.’

  ‘Cool.’ He fetched it. ‘I’ll just go and – you know – unpack.’

  Frankie went over to the studio with a pile of fresh linen for the sofa bed. The music was loud and fast but harmonic and reaching – she wasn’t sure who the band was. Sam was facing away from her, sitting on the Chesterton. At first, she thought he was nodding to the beat. But he was out of time. He wasn’t nodding, he was crying. Frankie put the sheets down on the surface with all the knobs and switches and buttons and dials and she went and sat with Sam. He had a guitar of Scott’s on his lap. She put her head on his shoulder and there they sat, their thoughts of Scott entwining while music filled the room.

  Does anyone ever get used to jet lag? Frankie wondered. Travelling might be good for the soul but jet lag can’t be good for the body. The family were so utterly zonked when the car came phuttering up the drive the next morning that it remained in their periphery. She’d tried making pancakes to go with the peameal bacon and fresh blueberries that Rose had left – but failed. They were like Frisbees and about as tasty. Now the three of them were watching with some alarm as four young guys walked across the porch, heading straight for the studio. Time seemed to stand still while they tried to compute the scene before suddenly scrambling into the present and out onto the deck.

  ‘Excuse me? Oi!’

  They stared at Frankie, stock-still. Perhaps because she was wearing a T-shirt of Scott’s emblazoned with the words Swans Buckerfields Brewery, just a pair of socks and her hair all in a tangle. Perhaps they were just staring because Scott’s house was usually empty so who the heck is everyone?

  ‘Frankie?’ One of the boys stepped forward. ‘We met at Scott’s – at the – back in April. I’m Jonah. These are the guys – Chase, Quint and Ryan. We were all – there. Back in April.’

  ‘We’re the band,’ said another, ‘that Scott was, like, mentoring? We’re at school together, in the village. I’m Chase – this is Ryan, this is Quint.’

  ‘We’re called Defy?’ said Quint.

  And Frankie wondered if they knew it sounded like Deaf Eye. Or maybe that was what they were called.

  ‘Of course I know of you. Scott thought you were really talented.’ How old were they? Seventeen, eighteen? Frankie sensed Sam shifting beside her. ‘Are you here to – jam?’ She knew it sounded clunky and she could see them bite down on smirks.

  ‘Mum,’ Sam muttered, mortified.

  ‘If that’s OK?’ said Chase.

  ‘This is my son, Sam.’

  ‘Hey Sam.’

  ‘He’s staying in the studio,’ Frankie said.

  ‘Oh sure!’ said Jonah. ‘We can come back?’

  ‘No,’ said Sam and he stepped away from Frankie. ‘It’s cool.’

  Frankie watched them assess her boy, as if they were recalling being his age and how guys their age were who they’d aspired to be.

  ‘You OK if we play in the studio, Sam?’ they asked. ‘You’re welcome to hang with us.’

  Sam glanced at Frankie and then, barefoot and still in his jimjams, he led the way.

  Frankie thought she might take them refreshments in a while. The surprise had done away with jet lag. It was time to greet the day.

  ‘Hey you,’ Frankie said warmly when Jenna came through the front door the following week, Kyle in tow.

  ‘Hey Frankie,’ she said and they held each other, releasing a little bit of Scott back out into the open. Annabel was so happy to see her, to meet Kyle too. With Jenna busy upstairs braiding her daughter’s hair, Frankie asked him how she’d been.

  ‘Well, not too bad,’ he said. ‘We have an appointment with her specialist next month. My dad knows Schultz. He says he’s really good.’

  ‘How are the seizures?’

  Kyle shrugged. ‘They come,’ he said. ‘And then they go. They are what they are. They don’t define her – not in my eyes.’

  It’s OK Scott, your daughter is in very capable hands.

  ‘So – no driving just yet?’

  ‘She’s counting the days Frankie, she’s always counting the days. But you know – I like driving. I like her next to me. I like being – the strong one. So, if it doesn’t happen, that’s OK, right?’

  ‘Will you come for Christmas again?’ Frankie asked Jenna when she had her to herself. ‘You and Kyle? Steph’s coming.’

  ‘Oh Frankie,’ she said. ‘I’d love to. It’s just that I’ve been invited to Calgary – and I said yes already.’

  And that’s OK, thought Frankie. And she thought, Scott – you don’t have to worry, your baby girl is doing just fine.

  And then, two days before they were due to go home, Frankie saw her bear.

  They’d been into the village for supper – the children had ganged up on Frankie and off they went to the Pony again. Driving home, the children asked to go to the airfield. Dusk was just perceptible after what had been a beautiful day. They’d been kayaking with the Eslakes and were softly sunned and deliciously tired.

  Scott’s truck had gone, of course. Jenna had sold it and given the proceeds to Rose. Aaron’s business was up and running again, with a percentage going to Rose and the children. Annabel announced that she was going to say a prayer. She walked on ahead and it felt appropriate to give her privacy, so Sam and Frankie sat on mismatched chairs at the table on the deck outside the office. The little planes and the helicopter looked as though they were snoozing. Frankie realized that now she felt neither fear nor hatred for them.

  On their way home, they popped in on Rose and the children and Buddy. They’d seen them already a couple of times, but Frankie was concerned that they might not see them again before they left.

  ‘Frankie,’ said Rose. ‘I forgot – I have something for you.’

  The children were watching the TV, with Buddy assuming they were watching him.

  ‘Wait there, Frankie,’ Rose said leaving Frankie in the hallway while she went into her bedroom. Frankie wondered, does she ever sleep with pillows along her back so that just occasionally, in her reverie, she might think it’s Aaron?

  Sometimes, she still did that.

  ‘Here.’

  Rose gave Frankie a little ceramic pot. Inside was a brown-red paste.

  ‘It’s precious to my people. It’s called temlh,’ Rose explained. ‘From red ochre. It’s prized and sacred – for ceremonies, for protection. You put it on your feet, it will guard you where you walk. You put it on your temples, it will take care of your thoughts. One day, Frankie, there will come a time when you’ll dip your finger in and put a little over your heart.’

  Frankie bowed her head.

  No.

  Not after Scott.

  Tears she hadn’t felt for a while came at her eyes in a sharp surge. She wanted to go to Rose and embrace her, but she knew Rose wasn’t like that. Rose’s warmth emanated from her in other ways.

  ‘Yeah we will Frankie,’ Rose said. ‘We will.’

  Unlike the lanes in North Norfolk, which Frankie happily belted her car down, in Canada she drove much more slowly. Early evening was a beautiful time out here so she let the car dawdle its way. The mountains appearing to slumber, their peaks and ridges just edged in sunset, the trees becoming inky, the turning sky wafting velvet across the land. And then, on the final stretch of the road home, that’s when it happened, that’s when they saw the bear. Only it wasn’t just one bear – it was a mother and two cubs.

  They walked right across the road, right in front of the car. No more than thirty feet away, the bear family ambled by.

  Frankie stopped. They stopped. No one moved. Three pairs of eyes on three pairs of eyes.

  Then one cub snuck away and the other cu
b gambolled after him.

  She looked at Frankie, the bear, absolutely directly at her. Two mothers sharing a thought. And then she was on her way. She needed to catch up with her kids.

  Frankie thought about the bear a lot that evening.

  There’s poetry in flight – metaphors to be wrung from eagles and swallows and Steller’s jays in BC, as much as from the pink-footed geese, greenshanks, redshanks, the sandpipers and Arctic waders back in Norfolk this time of year. Bears, though, are big furry galumphing creatures. But now Frankie knew how, when you see one, you learn about composure and self-containment; you note how every hair moves separately, like breeze sylphing through grasses. Bears have an energy and a dignity that fits well their huge bodies. In Northwest Coastal Native culture, a bear symbolizes family and strength and is sometimes seen as an elder or a good person who has passed on to a new life.

  But Frankie had never seen a bear before, not even in a zoo. She could never have anticipated the peaceful connection she’d find with that lovely girl lumbering through life with such grace as she keeps an eye on her children.

  * * *

  With the children in bed, and their homeward journey starting the next morning, Frankie steps out onto the porch. She stands there, in the moment, breathing deeply, the way Ruth’s taught her.

  I have two homes, she realizes.

  It strikes her that this part of the world is her spiritual birthplace yet it doesn’t detract from the fact that she really likes her day-to-day Norfolk. There’s a pace and a pattern back home that she’s starting to really understand and even enjoy. There’s a power and vitality here in the mountains that stays with her wherever she is. The qualities of here and there have started to combine, somehow, into contentment.

  She realizes how much easier it feels now, to return to England, knowing that Scott’s house is here, always here for her too.

  Who’s that?

  Suddenly, Frankie isn’t alone. She thinks, I know you, I know you but—?

  Frankie.

  Alice?

  Yes – it’s me.

  But – you’re so much older!

  Yes Frankie, it happens!

  Alice! How are you?

  Look at me – never better. Thank you for sending me here. What a place to live.

  Told you so – told you you’d love it and have a good life here.

  Thank you for writing about me, Frankie – when I was little. I think about Him still – being there in the thatchety hedge at the bottom of the garden helping the children that come and go from April Cottage.

  It should be me thanking you! It’s down to you that I can provide for my children, that I could buy us a little patch of loveliness two miles from the sea. And anyway, it was my pleasure being your author, telling your tale for you.

  I know you’re busy writing that Just My Luck book about some boy called Tom – but I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to say how grateful I am that you’re going to write those other two books – about me, about what I went through. Children need to know about death, that it’s OK to feel how they feel.

  I’m all set to do so. I have a contract for both – and a dreaded deadline.

  And how are you doing Frankie? You?

  I’m all right, Alice. I’m – learning. I still ask why. Why did it happen? Why to him? Why to me? I can have a day when I’m absolutely furious and long periods when I just feel numb. I can have a day when I feel absolutely fine, when I feel light, when I don’t think about any of it. I’m still so tired. And I miss him. Still I cry. But mostly I try to live in the day that I have. There’s a beauty to stillness, to enabling yourself to really experience the present, to just allow yourself to stand and sense and breathe and be. Scott taught me that.

  I hate what happened to you.

  Thank you. But it’s OK, Alice. Honestly. I am working out, slowly, slowly, that actually I am far more lucky than I am unlucky. I saw a bear yesterday! I’m here. Look where I am!

  I don’t know—

  No – I do know. I’m fortunate to have had a love that was life-changing, a love that took me to such a crucial turning point in my own life and provided me with the innate knowledge of which way I wanted to go. The same love that guides me now, that shows me how to keep on going.

  Not many people have that.

  You may be right but do you know something Alice, I hope that they do – I like to think that they do. Perhaps they just don’t stop often enough to realize it.

  Alice and Frankie, together on Scott’s porch.

  So you’ll write those books about me?

  With very great pleasure.

  And after that?

  Frankie thinks about her work just then. She considers how people often assume that, if her books are easy to read, they must be easy to write. But actually, every book she writes always takes her on such a journey.

  Alice – I have no idea.

  So Alice tells her.

  Write about love, Frankie. Write a novel – not for kids this time. Write your heart out Frankie. Love is a subject you know so well because it’s something you’re very good at.

  EPILOGUE

  Early in the New Year, with the children back at school, Frankie lets Banjo the dog out into the garden for a wee. She watches him from her favourite window in the kitchen as he pokes around the flower beds and inspects his excessive selection of toys, which are lying in an unruly scatter all over the muddy lawn. He’s a funny little fellow and he’s slotted right into their family and their home, with only the occasional chewed shoe or mishap on the carpet these days.

  ‘Dear God,’ Frankie mutters, wiping his filthy paws with the manky towel that now lives by the back door. He pads after her as she goes through the house to the hallway.

  Frankie puts on her coat and the dog looks at her expectantly. When Banjo wags his tail, his entire rump sways. A little like Buddy.

  ‘No Banjo – you have to stay here.’ She strokes his head. ‘And be good, you little rascal.’

  She leaves the house and backs her car out of the drive, waving at Keith Mawby, then pointing to her watch and slapping her forehead to signify sorry! in a rush as usual! Perhaps she’d pop in on Peg tomorrow.

  She’s off to the cinema, to the Screen-next-the-Sea in Wells. Frankie can’t remember the last time she’s been to a matinee, or any time that she’s been to the cinema on her own. She had thought about asking Ruth to join her but she decided that she’d like to go by herself. She could have seen the film before Christmas, but she hadn’t been ready. A month on, she feels OK about it.

  Back Road Open.

  That’s the title of the movie.

  It stars Jeff Bridges, perennially one of Frankie’s favourite actors.

  It’s the film for which Scott had written the music, the film he’d been working on in Abbey Road back when they’d first met. A contemplative road movie about a man reconnecting with his past to soothe his present and make sense of his future. Wide-open vistas, spit-and-sawdust bars in the middle of Nowheresville, a beat-up truck taking a damaged man along the lonesome, winding road home. Sometimes it’s not about the destination, it’s purely about the journey.

  Frankie remembers the music so well, not just from what she’d heard being recorded in the studio, but from when Scott hummed the melody as he read a paper or whistled the tune when he was tinkering around her house, singing it softly while he made sure the Christmas tree was stable.

  Hear that? That’s Scott’s guitar. Those are his fingers eliciting that sweet sound. He is still playing.

  As the film ends and just before the credits roll, the screen momentarily fades and then it fills with a photograph of him.

  In loving memory of Scott Emerson

  His dates.

  Audiences will always flatten when they work out he was just forty-six years old.

  Frankie gazes and gazes at the picture. She’d been there when it had been taken, in the control room of Studio Two at Abbey Road. That easy smile and those gen
erous eyes. And look – right next to Scott – see that arm of someone just cropped out of the photograph? That’s Frankie.

  Side by side.

  Always there.

  * * *

  As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

  Lucius Annaeus Seneca

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  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For me, researching and writing The Turning Point was a profound and unforgettable experience and there are many people to whom I am indebted.

  From Vancouver to Pemberton BC, I met wonderful people along the way who were excellent company and so generous with their time. Warmest thanks to Jordan Sturdy, Barb and Dan Eslake, Beverly and Nick Smith, Delores Franz, Anne Crowley, Judith Walton, Bev Blundell – and all the sparky members of the writing group and book club in Pemberton. At Pemberton & District Chamber of Commerce & Tourism, my thanks to Shirley Henry. Thank you Andrew Fleming at the Vancouver Courier. Very special mention and heartfelt thanks to Valerie and Richard Megeney, also Christine Haebler – mi casa, su casa.