And the council didn’t mind. They just sent someone to check it was safe, that it wouldn’t blow over in the wind. They were quoted in the article as saying that they would have preferred it if Mr Redridge had approached them before going ahead, but they couldn’t argue with the magnificent end product of all his work. The Traditional Toy Makers Association even got in on the act with a quote about the consistent quality of the work produced by their long-standing member, Gerald Redridge. And they didn’t mention the eleven years of unpaid subscription he owed them. Word got out and people went on special trips to find the carving. I was in a shop in town and I overheard a conversation: ‘Have you been yet? Did you see it? No? I think it’s in the north-west corner, I’ll try and draw you a map, see if I can remember …’
But out of everyone in Duerdale who loved the carving, I’m sure it was me and Jon who loved it the most. I’ll probably never really know what it means to Jon because I’ll never ask. And I’m not sure I really know exactly what it means to me. All I know is that my dad could have drunk himself dead. He could’ve joined Mum and Brian Stuart. And I know he thought about it. I could see the weight that hovered above him during those months. But instead he built a massive wooden horse and dragged it piece by piece to the clearing. And now it stands deep in a hidden corner of Brungerley Forest. Created and constructed by the sweat and genius of Duerdale’s local artist, my dad, Gerald Redridge. Sometimes we don’t go and see it for weeks on end but it doesn’t matter. We know it’s not too far away. Wild-eyed and feet kicking high. Defiant.
Open
They found out that they didn’t know. Or that they didn’t know enough. Or something like that. They decided that Mum’s death wasn’t definitely an accident and it wasn’t definitely suicide. But it might have been either. Or a bit of both. Maybe.
It didn’t matter that the two people who knew her best in the world were convinced that it wasn’t suicide. That was just hearsay and hunches. And that doesn’t count. What counts are length and direction of tyre marks, road conditions at time of crash, toxicology reports, vehicle reports and angle of impact. And all of these things, in the case of Megan Redridge and her red Vauxhall Corsa and the collision with Brian Stuart and his enormous lorry on Crofts Bank Road on April the 11th at 4.27 p.m. didn’t add up to anything conclusive. They just added up to two dead people and no explanation that could be written down. And when I heard I thought … OK … I see … right …
And I thought that everything would be fine because I knew that they were wrong and I’d already decided that it didn’t matter what was said at the inquest. So I wasn’t prepared for the anger that came later on that day when I was folding clothes away in my bedroom. It was a shock to me when it tore and spat into my blood and made me want to smash things until they were so small there would be no satisfaction in smashing them even smaller. This anger has dogged me since: it jumps out of cupboards and lurks behind trees and pounces at will. And every time I think I’ve managed to shake it off and balance everything cleanly and neatly and squarely in my head it floors me again and I have to stop whatever I am doing and take myself away to empty rooms and let it rampage its way around my head like a hurricane in a house. It leaves me frustrated and tearful and exhausted and still angry. I had no idea that a room full of strangers saying that they didn’t know would fill me with so much fury.
Going forward …
I remember Dad telling me to think carefully, to consider how life would change with someone else around all the time. And I’d shrugged and ignored him and thought he was just thinking of excuses. But I had underestimated just how different everything would be. And sometimes, I did just want to scream to be left alone, to not have to think about someone else all the time. Sometimes it felt like me and Jon were each other’s shadows, tripping over each other’s heels, breathing each other’s air. We got driven to school together, we spent lunch together, we got the bus back together and we ate together in the evening. Our bedrooms were next door to each other and we knew when the other one cleaned his teeth, went to the toilet and went to bed. And sometimes, I just wanted to disappear, to erase myself from it all and not always have to worry how someone else was feeling. It wasn’t Jon’s fault; it was nothing he said or did; he didn’t change at all. But I saw it as my responsibility that he felt as settled as possible. And it was my responsibility because I had pushed for this to happen. But when I had to, I grabbed my painting stuff and headed for the hills or wherever. Jon seemed to understand that I wanted to be left alone and he never followed, he’d go to Greenside or to the Library or just read in his room. Sometimes I didn’t paint at all but just sat for a couple of hours in Jon’s Portakabin and read one of his dusty old books.
Of course it delighted the retards at school that we were living together and we were both asked where our boyfriend was all the time. Jon got through it with his usual head-down, oblivious-to-everything policy. I managed to ignore it most of the time too but occasionally snapped. It amazed me that even in a town as crap as Duerdale there were still strict divisions and cliques. And because me and Jon were from up on the fell, because we saw fields from our house and had to get a bus to school, we were the stupid, inbred yokels. I wanted to yell at everyone that the whole place was a shithole and as far as I was concerned they were all a bunch of inbred straw-munchers. I never snapped with Kieran Judd though. I’d learnt my lesson. And although nothing else had happened for a while I didn’t know if it was an uneasy truce or if he was just biding his time. I tried not to aggravate him; just when things had settled down as much as they were likely to, I didn’t want to be the one to start any more storms.
But then Jon’s grandma died. It was horrible to see how the grief stamped all over him and tore him up. I think that Dad hoped I might swing into action and help pick up the pieces but the only thing I’d learnt was that there were no magic words, nothing really to be done, and like father like son I didn’t say much to Jon at all. Dad patted him on the back when he got chance and I gave him a painting of Neptune I’d done for him, painted in the brightest blue paint I could find and framed in a silver frame. We all went to the funeral and I was as nervous as hell. I was worried that I might be sick, that I wouldn’t be able to cope, but it was completely different to Mum’s. The church was almost empty and nobody carried the gormless shocked expression that seemed to be the only look going at Mum’s funeral. There were several old women there who treated it as a chance for a catch-up and Jon didn’t even know who they were. The only people in the church who showed any signs of grief were Jon and Arthur and I was certain that occasionally, deep in Arthur’s expression, I noticed a tiny flicker of relief that it was over now. Jon sat in the front pew next to his granddad, and me and Dad sat three rows back. The vicar clearly had no idea who had died and hadn’t got much out of Arthur so it was a brief affair with all the usual stuff about full lives lived and resting in peace and all that crap. The vicar’s voice was fake solemn and quiet and a rainstorm was hammering away outside so some of his words disappeared completely but nobody leant forward in an effort to hear. When it was over Dad asked Arthur if he wanted to come up to the house for something to eat but he shook his head. He looked exhausted and spent and said he just wanted to go back to Greenside. He looked like he was about ready to jump head first into a coffin himself and I hoped he could stick around a bit longer for Jon’s sake. Jon was quieter for a few days, for a few weeks, but gradually he started getting back to his old self. We did occasionally speak about death and what might happen afterwards and all that kind of stuff and it was a shock to me to learn that for someone obsessed with fact and science he had an unshakeable belief in God and the afterlife. I wasn’t going to start banging on about Darwin and evolution, the planet being billions of years old, dinosaurs, and how faith is just a security blanket for people too scared to look at life and see it exactly for what it is. I stayed quiet. He knew what I thought anyway.
Goodbye
Me and Jon spoke about the
wave the whole time though. Maybe we were checking with each other that it really did happen. Dad was less silent these days, but it was something, along with the open verdict, that we never really spoke about. I didn’t know what he thought about it; I didn’t know what he believed. I’d thought hard though. I had reached my conclusions and I knew what I believed. I didn’t think the wave was my mum saying goodbye. I didn’t think it was one last hug or a message from above telling me she was fine now, that she would always be watching over me or anything daft like that. I just don’t believe in that kind of thing. I can’t believe in that kind of thing. It was a coincidence and nothing more. But that doesn’t make it any less special. It doesn’t make it less important. The day we went to say goodbye to Mum, the day we finally laid her to rest, at that exact location, at that second of time, a wave as high as a house sprang from nowhere. It charged through our tiny spot of sea and flung us high into the air. And for a terrifying and glorious second we had no control over our lives and no say in what would happen next. And then we crash-landed, safe and slowly sound, and the wave rolled away to wherever waves roll to. It left us stunned and silent on a small yellow boat three miles out to sea. That’s what happened, that’s the truth. It was special. It was enough.
And I think that is enough.
Acknowledgements
Thank you Barry, Cynthia and Heather for love, support, patience and money.
And thank you to Julian Loose, Kate Murray-Browne and the team at Faber, Antony Harwood, Jelena Pasic-Peacock, James McGrath, Alex Bowden, Daniel Theobalds, Linda Le Cocq, Mark Ramsay and National Book Tokens.
Hello James Henry Ramsay.
About the Author
Robert Williams grew up in Clitheroe, Lancashire, and currently lives in Manchester. He worked in a secondary-school library before working as a bookseller with Waterstone’s. He has written and released music under the name The Library Trust. Luke and Jon is his first novel.
Copyright
First published in 2010
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
This ebook edition first published in 2010
All rights reserved
© Robert Williams, 2010
The right of Robert Williams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–25861–1
Luke and Jon Page 15
