by Alison Bruce
‘When it suits you, it is. I’ve seen your search history, Charlie, and you’re just like me except you want to find the answer somewhere else.’
Charlotte turned and looked up the street in the direction of the house Matt shared with the other students. His gaze followed hers.
Suddenly Charlotte had had enough. Now she just wanted him to go home.
No, that wasn’t true. What she actually wanted was for him to come home, to make peace with their dad and stop asking her questions that she couldn’t answer, or couldn’t face asking herself. She turned back to him, but he continued to look away.
‘Why don’t you fix it, Matt? Come home, and talk to Dad. He’d answer your questions. I know he would.’
Matt shook his head then started to walk away. Charlotte followed.
It was only a few yards, but in that time Matt remained silent. Charlotte guessed he was angry with her, thinking she’d pushed it too far this time. But when he stopped just outside his front-room window and turned towards her, she realized that he had started to cry.
She grabbed hold of him and held him tight. Through his tears he sobbed the truth, and told her his biggest fear.
FOUR
Libby looked out from the window of her first-floor bedroom in the student house. She was the youngest of the seven housemates and the only one still studying for A levels. They were a mix of first-year students attending Anglia Ruskin University, second-year students at Cambridge University and one post-grad American. Her name was Shanie and somehow she managed to be the least worldly-wise of them all.
Libby and Matt had been involved in choosing the house. A quirk of the fact that it was their two fathers who had control of the purse strings and had been anxious to find accommodation that they all agreed upon. It hadn’t mattered to her that Long Road sixth form college was a mile and half across town. By the time she had convinced her dad that this house would be just a few short steps home from almost every night out, he’d dropped his objections to her daily bike ride to and from classes.
Libby preferred this side of the city. Her window faced in the approximate direction of her childhood home in Avbury. She couldn’t see it and it certainly wasn’t where she wanted to live right now but that didn’t mean she wasn’t glad to know it was there. The foot of her bed abutted the windowsill, and she lay across it, with her face close to the glass.
She was a fraction over five foot three in height so found lying across the bed as comfortable as lying on it lengthways. She was propped up on her elbows, with her fair hair scooped away from her face.
The others were downstairs playing poker and she’d declined the game, saying she had an assignment to finish. It was actually true, but there was nothing like some pressing coursework to give her the urge to check her emails. Normally this would result in a couple of hours lost while bouncing between her inbox, eBay and Facebook, but after the first email her thoughts drifted to Matt.
They were close, and usually he talked to her, but not tonight.
Something was bothering him – but that was a stupid thing to think, for when was it not bothering him? Tonight though, bad thoughts had drawn him in and she saw the pain written on his face. He’d gone to the fridge, raiding Oslo’s shelf for a can of lager, then, after a couple of swigs, had tipped it into the sink in disgust. He’d opened and shut everyone else’s food cupboards, finally settling for a bottle of vodka belonging to one of the girls.
He then knocked back about four shots in the quickest time possible.
Libby had watched him from the doorway. She assumed he knew she was standing there but, as he turned to leave the kitchen, he seemed surprised when he realized he’d been observed. Still he said nothing, brushing past her and hurrying along the hallway, slamming the front door as he went out.
She waited a few minutes, then she sent him a text. He didn’t reply, so she decided to leave him alone, for the time being at least.
After answering one email, she went to the window and checked in both directions, then returned to her PC and sent the next email. As the evening wore on, the gaps between each email expanded as she spent longer by the window. It was over two hours since he’d left when she relented and sent him a second text message. She placed the mobile on the narrow windowsill and watched out of the sash window as she waited for a reply.
There was plenty of banter coming from downstairs, and she wondered who was winning. She usually made it to the last three players and it sounded close to that point now. Shanie kept on top of the dealing, reminding everyone which player was the big blind, the small blind, and telling the dealer to ‘burn a card’ several times during every hand. Shanie was still in then, since she usually disappeared to her room once her chips were gone. Libby could hear Jamie-Lee’s perpetually loud voice, too, and decided she too was still in play. Then there was Oslo – she couldn’t actually hear him, but he rarely missed the final hand.
Most weeks it took them at least a couple of hours to get to that point. She picked up her phone to check the time: just after 11 p.m. Where was Matt?
Half an hour later she spotted him, walking back, from the opposite direction of town, followed by his sister Charlotte. He stopped outside the front of the house to talk to her.
Libby moved away from the glass, but lying lower on the bed and watching over the lip of the windowsill.
The two weren’t saying much. Libby could see he was upset, but that might be a good thing. Everyone said crying helped. Some said it to her in a tone that implied they were giving good advice. Others said it in voices tinged with suspicion; they’d noticed that she seemed as though she hadn’t shed a tear. And they were right – she hadn’t, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t right for Matt to cry.
She pressed her right index finger on to the glass, touching the spot beyond which he stood. Anything that helped him hurt less was fine by her.
Her finger was only there for a moment before she withdrew it. She rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling instead.
At seventeen years, eleven months and four days old, she knew she had plenty to learn. But the advantage of growing up in a home with two older siblings was learning even as they learned. She’d seen first-hand why some good ideas were doomed to fail, and why some successes only came after making mistakes.
She had also learned that there were always options, even if none was desirable. And there were always answers, too. Answers and options vying for importance. She had learned so much from Rosie and Nathan, so losing them was like having every page of her memory scattered to the wind. Each family milestone now meant nothing, the petty rivalries no longer existed, and the two people who had taught her the most had left her alone to teach herself.
Libby was dreading her birthday for, in just a month, it would be followed by the day when she had lived longer than her oldest sibling, and the path from then on out would truly be untrodden.
Answers and options. Her future was full of them.
Once she had the answers, then maybe there would come a time when she felt the need to cry. But right now she couldn’t, and wouldn’t. She had her reasons, and no plans to share them.
FIVE
Matt opened the front door quietly, his first thought being to avoid the others and slip off to his room. But, as usual, he found himself drawn towards the buzz in the kitchen. Seven of them shared the house and all but Libby had been playing poker around the table.
‘All right?’ He nodded towards them.
Meg and Phil were out of chips and responded immediately, but Shanie and Oslo were too engrossed to even look up. The fifth, Jamie-Lee, gave a thumbs-up. ‘I’m in the last three,’ she pointed to a dwindling pile of chips, ‘but only just.’
‘Cool.’
The house was old, and he guessed it’d been extended several times over the years. This extended room was a knock-through between one of the original reception rooms and a later addition of a kitchen.
Matt forced himself to drink a pint of water. I
t tasted foul but, after the amount of alcohol he’d drunk, it was either that or vomiting later. Knowing his luck, he’d have to put up with both.
He moved back to the dining area end before somebody got the bright idea of using him as a waiter.
He eyed his housemates and realized that the scene reminded him of the poker-playing dogs in the famous paintings by Cassius Coolidge. He had never noticed that before. Maybe alcohol was enhancing his artistic eye. The walls had that same shade of pub red as in A Bold Bluff, and the ceiling light which hung over the table looked like a little green Chinese coolie hat. They even had full-height bookshelves stacked with titles that everybody needed but nobody seemed to read.
Meg had to be the rough collie: similar hairdo for one thing, bright and sharp featured too. It suited Phil to be the bulldog, small, solid and stubborn looking, whereas Oslo bore more resemblance to a Labrador/Alsatian cross than he did to a St Bernard or Great Dane.
Matt smiled to himself as he realized his analogy was running out of steam, for even in his head he wouldn’t dare compare either Shanie or Jamie-Lee to one of the bigger dog breeds. But the image was there now, so, for the sake of diplomacy, he substituted breeds, making Jamie-Lee a lively and affectionate red setter and Shanie a keen-to-be-loved retriever.
‘Hey, Matt, what are you thinking?’ Jamie asked.
‘Nothing, why?’
‘You’ve got a stupid look on your face, like you’re mentally undressing us or something.’
‘What, all of us?’ Phil piped up. ‘At the same time? Sicko.’
Then Meg intervened, ‘Leave him alone. He’s drunk.’
Jamie lifted what was left of his large glass of cider. ‘So what. We’ve all had a few, haven’t we?’
‘Difference is, he looks like he’s been bawling his eyes out.’
Jamie stiffened. ‘You are so crass sometimes, Meg.’
Meg shrugged. ‘What are we supposed to do, sit here pretending we haven’t noticed? Matt looks like shit and who hadn’t spotted it? Hands up.’ She looked around the room before concluding, ‘It was hard to miss.’
‘Meg. Hush up, now,’ Shanie hissed. Her American accent contrasted sharply with the other voices and she seemed embarrassed, even though she didn’t need to be.
Meg remained defiant. ‘Didn’t put your hand up though, did you?’
‘No, I sure didn’t.’ Shanie’s voice quivered, clearly reluctant to get involved.
‘No, I sure didn’t.’ Meg attempted to mimic her, but her accent came out closer to Tennessee than Indiana.
Meg continued to bait Shanie until part of Matt felt he should intervene – but he didn’t. It might have been the comments about himself that initially provoked this spat, but he guessed that these two would have kicked off at some point in the evening anyway. They usually did.
Meg was a waiflike bottle-blonde who wore skinny black jeans and check shirts, baseball boots and black nail varnish. She drank beer from the bottle and cited Tank Girl. Nothing prompted her to speak up like a moment calling for subtlety.
By contrast, everything about Shanie, from the tone of her voice to the curve of her bust, was gently rounded and natural. Her world view was well intentioned and serious.
The two girls were so incompatible it was almost a joke putting them under the same roof.
Matt could see that Shanie had now had enough of Meg as, with barely a change of tone she interrupted the other girl, ‘You want my opinion? You are a complete bitch. Ugly all the way through.’
‘So I’m just being direct, and now I’m a bitch?’ Meg grinned nastily then turned to Matt. ‘I think she fancies you.’
Shanie stared down at her playing cards as Oslo and Jamie made a show of restarting the game. It seemed as though everyone was waiting for her to take her turn, and Matt watched her struggle with her feelings.
After a long minute, Shanie dropped the cards and rushed out of the room.
Matt drew a heavy breath, but didn’t follow.
No one did.
SIX
I’m sorry I left it for a couple of days, but I needed a breather after my last message. But talking to you is doing me good, Zoe.
‘I think you should carry on then. Tell me what happened after Rosie died.’
OK then, but I’ll need to explain my whole family, not just Rosie.
We lived in the same house, down that funny cul-de-sac where the road bulges into a circle at the end so that cars can swing round. We call it Banjo Street, which is what my dad christened it when he was a kid. I doubt much has changed since you lived on the estate; apart from some replacement double glazing and newer cars, I think it looks pretty much the same.
My dad grew up in this house, moved my mum in, married her, then stayed put until my grandparents went into a residential home. My mum and dad have been together since they were teenagers. They’re not very adventurous, but no one else around here is.
I used to be really proud of them, feeling sure that they were really solid because, however many times they fought, they never talked about splitting up. But when you’re a kid you don’t see much of other people’s lives. Well, I didn’t, and I thought that everybody else’s parents were pretty much the same, and the ones that got divorced must have hated each other even more than mine did.
Maybe they didn’t hate each other back then; it could have just been years of frustration and disappointment that turned into mutual distaste. Hating each other started with Rosie’s death.
And if part of their logic for staying together is that they are doing it for their children, then the spiteful streak in my personality says they’re now almost off the hook.
Two down, one to go.
Shit, where did that come from?
I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.
The inquest, investigation and funeral planning seemed to drag on for weeks, and through all that time my parents mastered a fake civility towards each other. They hugged, cried together and talked for long periods in hushed tones. It was unnatural for us, like living with two strangers. And obviously it couldn’t last.
Nathan’s best mate was Matt. Our family has always known theirs, so they went through school together. I started following them around and they didn’t tell me to clear off, so I suppose they felt sorry for me. Matt’s mum had died of cancer a few months earlier, and the three of us would always hang out together.
It was funny but we didn’t ever talk much.
Usually we would distract ourselves with the Internet, or a DVD or some unstimulating computer game that would allow us to communicate via top scores and new challenges. We couldn’t do that on the morning of the funeral, of course.
Nathan and I sat with our parents all through the service. We are not a churchgoing family though, and the interior of the Good Shepherd Church would have looked unfamiliar if this hadn’t been my second funeral there in just a few months.
Last time, Matt had sat at the front.
The church was built at the same time as the rest of the estate. It seemed as though the architect’s remit had been to design it as if a good proportion of those hundreds of new households would be attending there every week. The result was something that resembled the plainest of chapels accidentally built entirely to the wrong scale. I imagine that most weeks the vicar preached to a congregation that consisted of just half a dozen parishioners, each one politely occupying their own pew.
But today the church was full. I turned and scanned the congregation, and spotted Matt sitting very solemn and upright on a pew near the back. In the rows between, I saw plenty of faces I barely recognized. There’s nothing like a combination of youth and tragedy to fill a church, I guess. Matt saw me and gave a little nod of acknowledgement. He’d warned me that it was too soon for Rosie’s loss to sink in, and as I looked at him, I could see that losing his mum had left him looking more battered than anyone else present.
This was the first time I had lost anyone close to me, I wasn’t sure how I was feeling and, until I
worked it out, my instinct was to keep it private. I kept my head bowed for most of the service, and made it through to the end without crying. Maybe Nathan had the same idea, as he gripped my hand hard, but I never heard him sobbing.
It was just a very small group of family and close friends that came back to the house with us. They were Mum and Dad’s close friends, as neither Rosie’s nor mine were invited. Matt and his sister Charlotte were brought along by their dad, then there were the grandparents, the wedding-invite list of aunts and uncles, and a few other old schoolmates of my dad’s that I suspected he’d barely seen since he married Mum.
I think Charlotte felt awkward, because she disappeared into the kitchen and made tea and coffee with Aunt Jess. Nathan went out for a cigarette. He found a can of lager and stood on the patio, can in one hand, packet of fags in the other.
Matt and I sat side by side on the settee, each holding a mug of coffee and pretending to be adults, while the adults stood in groups making small talk. I found myself staring at the back of someone’s dark grey suit. There was a grease mark on one elbow, and I must have been staring at it for a while.
I was suddenly aware that Matt had spoken after he nudged me. ‘Well?’
I shrugged.
‘Do you want me to hang around?’
I shrugged again, and he took that as a yes.
I realized then that the room had almost emptied and it wasn’t long before he was the only visitor left. He’d spent so much time in our house by then that my parents no longer noticed him. They had certainly given up tempering their behaviour when he was around, and the mood there changed within seconds of my father shutting the door behind the last guest.
There was a smash from the kitchen and, before either of us could get up, my dad shot across the front room just fast enough to witness the destruction of a second item from their only smart tea set.
‘How could you stand there talking to your old school buddies as if nothing has happened? Did they even know Rosie? Most of them had never even seen her since she was a little kid. And what about me? Out here trying to make polite conversation with their fucking wives, when all I want to say is, “You have no fucking idea how I’m feeling.” If they did, they’d have had the fucking decency to stay away, instead of standing here in my fucking kitchen . . .’
