by Emlyn Rees
Michael looked away now as she rolled on to her side, not wanting her to catch him sneaking a peek.
Simon sat at the antique roll top writing desk in the corner of the room, drumming his fingers on its green leather surface, watching a moth twitch spasmodically in a cobweb on the ceiling above his head.
The Thorne house was like a second home to Michael and normally he felt completely relaxed here, but he’d never been here at Christmas before, and everything about it felt stagy and fake.
The enforced tidiness was part of the problem. Old Mr Thorne liked his clutter and usually there’d be sailing boots and waterproofs drying by the fire, half-finished crosswords and Sudoku puzzles scattered alongside dirty coffee mugs across the tables, and sketches pinned to the back of the door.
But Taylor’s mum had whisked through here ten minutes ago like someone off one of those TV make-over shows that Michael’s mum and Roddy liked watching while they were eating their tea. She’d swept the place clean, even lifted Michael’s elbow up to pull out one of Nat’s creased crayon drawings, as he’d played his game.
You could take a photo of the room now, Michael reckoned, and use it as a Christmas card, it was that perfect, but there was something lifeless about it as well, something posed. It felt like being trapped inside the photograph.
The clock ticked on the wall and the TV was off. The wind thumped sporadically at the window frames. It looked wild and dangerous out there, and like so much fun that it made Michael’s legs itch to sit here so still.
Michael preferred it here in the summer. Then the windows were open and a breeze blew through, bringing with it the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine, and you could hear birdsong outside, competing with the crash of waves on the rocks below.
There was a rustle of clothing and Taylor’s dad came in, taking off his wet bright red waterproof coat and laying it down on the swept square paving slabs in front of the fire. His blue jeans were tucked into thick woollen socks and his plain blue cardigan was zipped up tight to his neck. He picked up a poker and stirred the fire which hissed as the sparks flew.
‘It’s bloody freezing out there,’ he said. ‘The wind’s so strong you can actually lean into it and not fall down. Talk about intense.’
‘Who were you trying to call?’ Isabelle asked as she walked in.
‘When?’ Elliot asked.
Isabelle looked around, as if she was searching for something, but picked nothing up.
‘Just now,’ she said, nodding towards the window. ‘Out there against the wall. On your mobile. I saw you from the kitchen.’
Michael followed Elliot’s gaze to the dark wall of the garage extension, beneath a row of firs, which could just be seen through the swirl of snow.
Elliot replaced the poker in its stand. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘There. The office, actually. To see if there were any messages.’
‘And were there?’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t get a signal.’
Michael couldn’t understand why Elliot had even tried. Cell phones hardly ever worked here on the island. That’s why everyone, including Elliot’s father, had radiotelephones in their homes.
‘I’m amazed there’d be anyone there to answer, even if you could,’ Isabelle said. ‘Anyway, I thought we had a pact not to use the cell phones outside office hours. I switched mine off the moment I left work. This is family time, remember?’
Elliot smiled. ‘You really should go outside, darling,’ he said. ‘Just to see. I don’t think I’ve ever been out in something that extreme in this country before.’ He turned his attention to Michael, Taylor and Simon. ‘What about you lot?’ he asked. ‘You should give it a go for a few minutes. Try it out. It’s amazing.’
Taylor’s gaze stayed fixed on the iPod’s screen.
‘Mum won’t let us,’ Simon said. ‘Won’t let me. She says it’s dangerous and that it’s too cold. Which isn’t fair and we’d be fine and we all think we should be allowed to go, but we’re not.’
‘Aunty Stephanie’s being a cow,’ Taylor said. Her earphones were now in her hand.
‘Taylor,’ Elliot warned.
‘It’s true.’
‘I still won’t have you talking about her like that. Not in front of Simon. And not in front of me.’
‘I’m going to talk to her,’ Taylor said. ‘I’m sick of sitting in here and getting bored.’
She marched past Elliot, and Michael and Simon followed.
In the kitchen, David was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. Stephanie was sitting at the table with Nat, cutting out star shapes from a sheet of marzipan.
‘Dad says we should be able to go outside,’ Taylor said. ‘All of us.’
‘Now hang on a minute,’ Elliot intervened, appearing in the doorway behind her, ‘that’s not actually what I –’
‘Yes, it is. You’ve just been out and you said we should try it, too.’ Taylor sat down on the table next to Stephanie and folded her arms. ‘So why don’t you let Simon go?’
Stephanie looked up sharply. ‘I’ve already told you. Because it’s too dangerous. It’s freezing out there, the wind’s getting worse all the time, and you know how near to the cliffs we are.’
‘But Simon can wrap up, and the garden’s got a wall around it. It’s not as if we’re going to get blown off.’
‘Leave it,’ Elliot said.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘This isn’t up for debate, Taylor,’ Stephanie said. ‘Simon’s staying here until the snow stops, and that’s final.’
‘But it’ll be dark by then,’ Simon said, ‘and it’ll be even more dangerous then and we won’t be able to see the snow, so it wouldn’t be any fun at all, because it would be like going out to play with a blind-fold on, and that way we wouldn’t be able to throw snowballs, because we’d miss every time.’
‘I said final,’ Stephanie told him.
‘So make it un-final,’ Taylor said.
Michael watched Stephanie’s features tense and crease, but this time she didn’t rise to the bait. Michael noticed a glint in Taylor’s eye. She was enjoying every second of this.
David coughed. ‘It’ll still be there tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out in the morning, Simon. I promise.’
‘But how do you know it won’t melt? How?’
‘That’s enough, Simon,’ Stephanie said.
‘It’s not fair. Dad. Tell her. Tell her that I should be allowed to, and that –’
‘Come on, Si,’ David said. ‘There are plenty of other things you can be doing inside.’
‘Like what? Nat’s broken the Sony and the TV signal’s rubbish and I’ve watched all the DVDs at least a gazillion times before.’
‘Use your imagination,’ said Stephanie. ‘You’ve got the run of the whole house and lunch will be ready in less than an hour.’
‘I’ll play with you,’ Nat said, but it was too late; Simon was already running out.
David stared at Stephanie and Stephanie stared at the empty doorway. She handed Nat a shiny metal cutter shaped like a Christmas tree.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘let’s try this one next.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Taylor said to Michael.
‘Go on, you two,’ Elliot said. ‘Go after him and find something else to do.’
This was all turning too nasty for Michael. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck here in the middle of someone else’s family row.
‘Your dad’s right,’ he said. ‘We could all play table tennis.’
Taylor flashed Michael a look of contempt, then she marched out of the kitchen. Michael stared stupidly after her for a second, uncertain what he’d done.
‘I’ll come too,’ David said.
Taylor was waiting for Michael in the corridor. She hung back while David walked ahead.
‘What was all that about?’ she hissed, as soon as David disappeared around the corner.
‘All what?’
‘Suckbutting my dad like that. Backing him
up about us going to hang with Simon . . .’
‘But I thought you felt sorry for Simon.’
‘So what if I do? I make my own decisions, OK? I don’t need to be forced into one by him or Aunty Steph or anyone else. So next time, keep your big nose out of it.’
She didn’t wait for a reply, which was lucky, because Michael hadn’t one to give. He stared after her, stunned. He’d only been trying to help.
Simon came running back to fetch him. ‘Can I be on your side?’ he asked. ‘Only Dad’s rubbish and if I play with him then I’ll lose, and I want to win. Like we did in football at school against Rainsford High.’
Michael hardly spoke over the next half hour as they played doubles at the table in the garage. Taylor barely looked at him. He wanted to apologise to her and let her know that he hadn’t meant to upset her. Then, ten minutes before lunch, he thought of a way to make it up to her. Shooting her a meaningful look, he excused himself from the room, saying he needed to go to the loo.
Taylor caught up with him in the hallway by the front door.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I thought you might like one of these.’
He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his jeans pocket.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘Oh, yeah.’
She’d told him last holiday that she learned to smoke at boarding school. He’d learned since. He’d chucked his guts up the first time he’d tried, but he’d got over that. Now he smoked like a seasoned pro, sometimes as many as five a day.
He’d brought cigarettes with him that morning, a pack which he’d pinched off his mum, hoping he and Taylor might get to share one together, but Simon had come along with them to the mine and Michael had kept his stash secret, unsure whether Simon might have snitched if he’d sparked one up.
‘How many have you got?’ Taylor asked.
Michael opened the lid of the pack and counted. ‘Eighteen left. What do you reckon?’ he asked. ‘Outside?’
‘No. My room. Upstairs.’
‘But won’t your granddad –’
Michael liked Taylor’s grandfather and he didn’t want him to get upset. Since old Mr Thorne had come to live here full-time, Michael had fallen into the habit of calling in on him now and then when Taylor was away. He’d run errands for Mr Thorne in St John’s during his daily visits there for school, and bring him back whatever items of shopping he might need. Sometimes they’d drink tea together and chat. Michael would always ask him about Taylor and how she was getting on. Mr Thorne was always happy to talk about her. Talking about her made her seem closer to them both.
‘He never goes into my room,’ Taylor said, ‘only his studio – and even if he did catch us, I don’t think he’d really care.’
Taylor’s room occupied a third of the attic, the remainder being taken up by her grandfather’s painting studio next door. A thick brick wall containing the chimney breast lay in between.
Inside her room, the floorboards were bare and unvarnished. A set of cupboards ran the length of it and led into the eaves. Against one wall was a wooden bed, with its duvet turned back, and a long pink striped shirt on its pillow. Was that what she wore in bed? Michael wondered. In the corner was a wash basin and a copy of The Bell Jar lay on the bedside table, next to a half-eaten Snickers.
The small window overlooked the back garden. The snow was falling so thickly, it was like looking out on fog. Michael had been up here before, but it felt different this time, probably because they’d argued, he guessed. Maybe that was why he felt so nervous now.
On the windowsill were two cans of lager, one unopened and one with its rim flecked with cigarette ash. Next to it was a can of aerosol deodorant, a green Clipper lighter and a crumpled-up ten-pack of Marlboros.
Taylor cracked the fresh beer can and took a swig. They each lit one of Michael’s cigarettes and he watched her as she leant forward to open the window. His stomach twitched as her top rode up her back, momentarily showing a strip of pale and flawless skin.
The wind hissed in from outside, so cold, it felt almost solid. It made Michael think of digging frozen meals out of the pub chest freezer. After his dad had left two years ago, Michael had had to learn to help out around the pub kitchen. In high season, with ferries shuttling back and forth, he’d end up cooking as many as thirty meals a day.
‘I’m sorry,’ Taylor said, pushing the can into Michael’s hand, ‘about snapping at you before.’
‘It’s OK. I’d forgotten about it already.’
‘I get angry sometimes.’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
‘I mean really angry. I know I shouldn’t, but I do. Sometimes Mum and Dad . . . and sometimes my teachers . . . sometimes people just really piss me off.’
‘It’s the same with me,’ he said.
‘It is?’
‘Yeah.’ He had a temper too. Everybody did. He tried not to show it, though. He’d seen enough fights between his mum and dad, before his dad had left. He didn’t want to end up the way they had.
‘Grown-ups, you know,’ Taylor said. ‘They can be so fucking selfish. The way they just expect you to do what you’re told, and lump it, no matter what. Like whatever it is you think just isn’t important enough to take into consideration.’
‘It’s like my mum and Roddy,’ he said. ‘All their decisions . . . they never ask me about them. They just happen. They just tell me how it’s going to be.’
Michael meant their decision to leave the islands and move to Truro. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave his friends from Fleet Town behind, and he didn’t want to change school. Most of all, he didn’t want to go because he knew that leaving here would mean that he might never see Taylor again.
‘Like what?’ she asked. ‘What pisses you off the most?’
Michael noticed a cut on the back of her hand, scabbed from where it had been picked. It was thin and straight, like it had been made with a knife.
‘Just everything.’ Michael wanted to be specific. He wanted to tell her the truth: that the next time she came to the island, he’d be gone. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Telling her would be asking her for a reaction. Telling her would be asking her how much it would upset her too, and he couldn’t face her not being upset, or handle the rejection of her simply taking it in her stride. It meant so much more than that to him. ‘It’s like my opinion doesn’t count,’ he said instead.
‘It’s like me and school,’ Taylor said, ‘and them sending me there. They said that if I didn’t like it, I could come home, but that was a load of crap. They’d piled on so much pressure about their work commitments, and what a great school it was, and how good it would be for me, that there was no way I ever could . . .’
‘Maybe they really did think it was best for you.’
‘Fuck that. Do you know whose idea it was to send me away?’
‘Your dad?’
‘No. Just my mother. And do you know why she wanted me out of there? So that she could spend more time alone with my dad.’
‘But how do you –’
‘Because I heard her. I fucking heard her telling her friend on the phone. She said that her and Dad didn’t get enough quality time together, and that she was really worried about them drifting apart, and that he was always staying late at work, and that having me away in termtime would at least mean they got their weekends together.’
‘What a cow.’
‘No. You don’t get it. I thought that at first, and I fucking hated her for it, but then I got thinking about it and I realised that it’s actually the other way round. He’s the shit. Not her. He’s the one fucking up their marriage by working late and not giving her enough of his time. It’s because of him that she had to send me away.’
Taylor blew smoke at the window. ‘That’s why I’m mean to them sometimes. Her, but especially him. That’s why I like to piss them off . . . just to let them know that they haven’t got away with it, just so they know that jus
t because they sent me away doesn’t mean I’ve disappeared . . .’
Michael didn’t know what to say, and he got the feeling she didn’t want him to say anything, anyway. All she’d wanted was for him to listen. He took a final drag and another swig of beer. He stubbed out the cigarette and gave the can back to Taylor, who finished it off. He was too cold by the window and was feeling a little light-headed, so he sat down on the edge of the bed.
Taylor’s black and white Adidas bag lay unzipped by his feet. Her clothes were scattered across the floor, her jeans and jumpers, knickers and bra. There were a couple of guys in Michael’s year at school who’d fucked girls. They said it was the best thing in the world. Michael wondered what Taylor would look like, in just her bra and pants. He wondered if he’d ever find out for real.
What if he asked? That was the question. What if he told her how he really felt? That he wanted her. That he wanted to be with her and sleep with her. What if he suggested that they both just take off their clothes and climb in under the sheets? But there was another question which stopped him dead in his tracks. What if he did ask her and she told him no?
She walked over and picked the bra up.
‘Sorry,’ she said, watching him closely as she weighed it in her hands, ‘I suppose I should be more tidy, shouldn’t I?’
He looked down at his socks, embarrassed that he’d been caught out. ‘My room’s a mess as well,’ he said.
She put the bra away in a drawer in the bedside table. Back at the window, she lit a second cigarette. She stared first at its glowing tip and then at Michael.
‘So what other secrets have you got?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you ever smoke weed?’
Michael thought about the kids in his year at school, who bragged about necking e’s at the weekend and shagging their girlfriends in bathrooms at other people’s house parties. Michael reckoned most of them were bullshitters, the same as he reckoned that if he lied to Taylor now, she’d know.
‘Nope.’
‘Nope dope,’ she laughed. ‘It sounds like one of those rubbish slogans the government come up with. Just say nope to dope. I haven’t tried it either,’ she admitted, ‘but I would. I will. The first chance I get. The way I see it, you should try everything at least once, don’t you think?’
