by Jenny Oliver
Gus scoffed and wandered off to have a peer in the dilapidated garage.
Stella watched the exchange from where she stood in the shade of the front porch. She felt unexpectedly sorry for Amy. Could see her flounder without someone there to protect her.
No Bobby to wrap his arms around her and drawl the right answer. No Moira there to tick Gus off.
When they were younger it had been Stella’s role to protect her. Taking her away when their dad got mad when the car broke down. Treading water alongside her when she took her armbands off. Explaining her homework. Showing her how to practise French kissing on the back of her hand and letting her borrow her crimpers. But then Stella had left and Bobby had assumed the role so effortlessly. So all-encompassing. And sometimes when Stella visited she would barely say two words to Amy because she seemed to let Bobby do her talking for her. And Stella couldn’t blame Bobby for that, he adored Amy. And he was as sweet and lovely as everyone said he was. It was Amy who allowed it to happen, who sank into the mollycoddling comfort of it. Who frustratingly backgrounded herself. And then after Bobby died, still Amy remained protected – when she would run sobbing from the room Moira would immediately jump up to follow, gesturing for everyone else to stay put. Then Amy would return and settle silently in with her dad on the sofa.
Last Christmas Stella remembered thinking the three of them were almost feeding off their dependency – no one in the house stepping out into the world. Fanning the flames of grief in order to stay cosseted from life.
It made more sense now in light of her mother’s unhappiness with her marriage. The appearance of Mitch also went some way to explaining the almost shocking fact that Moira had told Amy perhaps it was time to move on.
But however positive Stella thought Amy’s ushering back into the world was, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for her – like a thirty-year-old teenager struggling with adulthood, completely out of her depth half the time. That was why she leant forward and whispered, ‘Satisfaction.’
Amy turned Stella’s way, confused.
‘Satisfaction,’ Stella whispered again. ‘That’s a song,’ she added and Amy suddenly got it, momentarily distracted by gratitude. Stella ushered for her to say it to Gus.
‘Satisfaction,’ Amy said loudly, really smug.
Gus looked at them over his shoulder, shaking his head with disappointment. ‘I heard Stella.’
Amy blushed. Stella tried to hide a giggle. It felt like when they were kids.
Jack looked up from his phone and said, ‘The petrol station on the main road is closed for refurbishment apparently, which means we have to go to Sainsbury’s.’
‘That’s miles away!’ said Stella.
‘7.6 miles,’ Sonny said. ‘Two hours twenty-one minutes walk or a forty-minute cycle. In the opposite direction to the car. Which is only a fifteen-minute cycle away, if it’s where Dad thinks it is on the map.’
The sun chose that moment to dazzle through the clouds.
Gus was peering through the garage doors. ‘Whose is this motorbike?’ he asked, hands cupped round the crack in the wood. ‘We could siphon the petrol.’
‘No!’ Amy gasped. ‘That’s Bobby’s. You can’t touch it.’
CHAPTER 21
Amy felt immediately self-conscious. All eyes on her as she stood flummoxed by her response to the motorbike.
‘Sorry.’ Gus backed away quickly.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Amy waved a hand. ‘I don’t know why I shouted. That was silly. Sorry.’
Gus looked awkwardly down at the gravel.
Jack and Sonny exchanged a knowing glance then hid themselves away in the phone.
Stella came over. ‘Amy, it’s OK. Don’t worry. We won’t touch the bike.’
‘No.’ Amy pulled off her stupid hat and lay it on top of the hydrangea bush. She bit her lip. The sun was blinding. She winced. ‘I might just—’ She was about to say that she might just pop inside for a second, take a moment in the coolness of the living room. But as she thought about it, she realised she didn’t want to be in there alone, or even with Stella hovering awkwardly in the kitchen, offering a cup of tea. No one going on the excursion or maybe half of them going. She had been looking forward to it.
Stella was standing with her hand on Amy’s shoulder. ‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.
Amy swallowed. ‘I think I want to look at the bike.’
Stella’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’
Amy nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Stella said.
‘No.’ Amy shook her head. ‘No. I think I want to look at it on my own.’
‘Are you sure?’ Stella looked around uncertain.
Amy nodded.
Gus glanced up as she walked towards the garage. He moved himself out of the way, jogging a couple of steps to get over to the grass. Stella sat waiting on the raised stone wall by the hydrangea.
Amy could feel everyone watching in awkward silence pretending they weren’t. She bent down to get the key from under a brick by the garage drainpipe and unlocked the big door.
It was a relief to slide inside. The air was dark and cool. Sunlight fought its way through cracks in the walls. It smelt of kerosene and polish and warm wood. Her dad’s old boat was suspended from the ceiling along with a couple of surfboards and some rusty old racing bikes. Tools littered the back bench. Years of stuff burst from the shelves. But at the side, leaning propped up on its stand, was Bobby’s motorbike. Black and silver. The metal scuffed.
Amy walked over and stood next to it. Placed her hand on the seat. She remembered almost hugging it like a soft toy after he died, pressing her face right up close to the leather. Apart from his board it felt like one of the closest things she had to being with him. She would sit with her back against the garage wall, feet tucked under the bike, toes reaching up sometimes and tracing the pedal, remembering how in the summer he’d ride in a T-shirt and jeans, what it felt like to squeeze the soft fabric of his top tight as he rounded a bend deliberately fast to scare her. The wincing look of pain on his face when he’d been showing off to his mates in the beach car park, skidding on the gravel, the bike sliding out from under him, his arm shredded by the stones. His teeth gritted, braving it out as Amy called her mother all in a tizz to come and deal with it. She smiled now as she thought of Moira turning up with the medicine box from their bathroom, scolding Bobby for refusing to wear a jacket while she patched up his wounds. Amy hovering at his side, panicked that he was going to lose his arm to something like gangrene, not even knowing really what gangrene was, snapping at her mother for snapping at Bobby, but Bobby just shrugging it all off with a wince and a grin.
She edged round the bike and sat, as she had sat before, sliding down the wall, flowery flip-flops resting on the stand. She felt the pressure of time, of everyone outside waiting. She wondered what they were doing. Whether they were talking about her.
She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the bike. Wondered, as she had countless times looking at something of Bobby’s, at the oddity of it having once being ridden by a man it now outlived. How could the bike be here and him not?
Her hands slipped down to rest on her tummy. On the baby. The baby suddenly that felt like an interloper. A thing that took her to a place away from Bobby. Like with her hand on her stomach she was being unfaithful to his memory. For wanting this child. She could see him slamming the wall with his hand if he found out or kicking the door. It all being made worse by the fact they as a couple had never been able to make a baby. She wanted to say that she was sorry, ‘I’m—’ but as she came to apologise she stopped.
Because if she apologised then she was sorry for this little life inside her. And she wasn’t sorry. She couldn’t start its existence on an apology.
She swallowed and looked away. Her emotions a confusing cocktail of guilt and defiance. She stared down at the dirty concrete floor next to her where she had sat for hours, sore-eyed, hiding, shivering, the cold numbing
her bum.
She pushed herself up, came round the bike and touched the seat again. Her body willing her forward, willing her to bend and rest her face on the worn leather, to press her nose and mouth hard against it. But something was holding her back. It felt like the knowledge of the baby was keeping her upright. Keeping her apart. And it felt sad and scary and, if she dared admit it, strangely liberating.
There was a scratch on the roof. Just a seagull landing and squawking up and down the metal. But the noise made her jump. She backed away from the bike to the door. The light almost blinding, she kept her eyes downcast, avoiding any looks. Clicking the latch, wary of what she had felt.
Stella was waiting. ‘Are you OK?’
Amy looked up at her sister, cut-off denim shorts and bottle-blue silk shirt, simple effortless elegance in contrast with Amy’s patterns and slogans and big flowery shoes, always a one-upmanship battle between them. A funny, snarky little aside waiting in the wings of any conversation. Except right now. Right now Stella was looking at her like she might look at her kids – worry trumping every other emotion – and in her hand she clutched Amy’s hat, holding it waiting, poised to pass it back to her. The simple tenderness of the gesture made Amy stand rooted to the spot and give her head a tiny shake.
A second later she was being hugged by Stella. ‘It’s OK,’ whispered into her hair as she had the tiniest little cry. Sniffing she could smell Stella’s skin through the suntan lotion and perfume. The smell of Stella’s bedroom growing up. The smell of Stella’s bedroom long after she’d left. The smell that never really went away until her mother repapered with the green parrots.
Amy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and reached to take her hat back. ‘I’m OK,’ she said.
Stella looked at her unsure as she fished around in her pocket for a tissue.
‘No, I am, really,’ Amy said, blowing her nose. ‘It was good I think. To see it. The bike.’
Stella nodded. ‘OK. Well they’re all over there,’ she said, pointing to the far end of the garden. ‘We’re going to siphon the petrol out of the lawnmower instead.’
Amy laughed as she blew her nose again. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Gus’s idea.’
Amy rolled her eyes as she looked to where Gus and Jack were hauling back the tarpaulin that covered the mower.
They walked together across the grass, at one point Stella put her arm briefly round Amy’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze, the action was a touch awkward in its unfamiliarity but Amy didn’t care. It was enough. She used to lie on Stella’s bed as a teenager, willing her sister back.
Gus looked up as they approached. ‘Sorry if I upset you,’ he said.
Amy shook her head, embarrassed. ‘It’s OK, really. Don’t worry about it.’ Then she looked at the mower, wanting to deflect the attention, and said, ‘Who knows how to siphon petrol anyway?’
Gus looked at her like it was obvious. ‘Me.’
Amy scoffed, ‘Yeah right.’
‘I do! It’s easy, we used to do it all the time on the farm.’
Little Rosie looked him up and down. ‘Aren’t farmers all big and muscly?’
Gus sighed. ‘I can always count on you, Rosie.’
Amy turned away to hide a smile. It was a relief to feel it.
‘Right,’ Gus said, puffing up his chest. ‘We need some plastic tubing, a petrol canister and an old towel – preferably one that can go in the bin afterwards.’
Ten minutes later Gus was blowing air into one clear plastic tube while Jack stuffed one of the dog’s old towels into the petrol seal to make it airtight, the vacuum forcing the liquid to flow into the canister via the second plastic tube which Sonny and Stella were on their knees monitoring. Amy and Rosie watched, unconvinced.
‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Amy said.
‘Me neither.’ Rosie shook her head.
They stared, arms crossed.
Then suddenly the air was filled with the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the old green metal canister that they’d unearthed from the back of the garage. It was impossible not to cheer with excitement. Sonny gave Gus a thumbs up so he could stop blowing into the tube.
Gus stood back to avoid the fumes and inhaled sharply. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, catching his breath, eyeing the canister with surprise. ‘It worked!’
Amy frowned. ‘You said you did it all the time.’
‘I said we did it on the farm all the time. I did not necessarily say that I was the one who did it. Semantics, Amy.’
Amy made a face. ‘You said you did it.’
‘I didn’t.’ Gus held up a hand, ‘I said I knew how to do it. It’s all in the phrasing. All in the subtle nuances of word play.’
Amy went, ‘Urgh.’ Stella laughed. Jack shook his head and tapped Sonny on the shoulder for them to leave them to it and go and get two of the bikes from the garage. Little Rosie said, ‘I don’t understand half of what Gus says.’
Amy raised a brow. ‘It’s because it’s all rubbish, Rosie.’
Gus rose above it with a deep inhale, then said to Rosie, ‘It means I had a couple of big, muscly younger brothers who did a lot of siphoning.’
Rosie still looked confused.
Jack and Sonny came out of the garage, wheeling two bikes. They were in reasonable nick since the pair of them had spent last Christmas doing them up, oiling the chains and pumping up the tyres – something to do to escape the more awkward times when the whole Whitethorn family were together.
‘OK pass me the petrol,’ Jack said when they got to the road, clipping up his helmet. Gus handed it over.
Sonny snapped a photo for his Instagram feed. ‘Gus stealing Grandpa’s petrol,’ he narrated as he typed, straddling his bike.
‘Oh, thanks for that!’ Gus got out his own phone to check the post. ‘He’s really going to like me now, isn’t he?’
Amy flicked her hair and with a little smirk said, ‘Don’t worry, he won’t like you anyway.’
‘Amy! That’s so mean.’ Stella thwacked her with the dirty old towel Jack had been using to block up the petrol hole.
‘Ow!’ Amy rubbed her arm. ‘That towel is gross. It stinks.’
‘OK, we’re off,’ Jack called.
They all stood by the front wall.
‘Take care,’ Stella said.
Jack nodded. ‘See you in about twenty minutes.’
Amy noticed that they didn’t kiss goodbye, Stella just held up her hand in a wave.
Then everyone shouted, ‘Bye.’
Amy hoisted herself up to sit on the wall. Stella sat next to her, watching them go.
Gus stood in front of them. ‘Don’t worry, your dad’ll like me,’ he said, smugly cocky.
‘You think?’ Amy raised a dubious brow.
Gus shrugged. ‘Parents like me. I have that thing.’
‘What thing?’
Gus paused. ‘I’m charming.’
‘Oh, please.’ Amy crossed her legs, perching on the wall next to Stella who was smiling to herself at Gus. Rosie jumped up to join them. Gus sat down next to her and, with Sonny gone, pulled his blue Wayfarers back on.
The four of them sat side by side like birds on a wire. The moment passed for anyone to say anything. The sun beat down. The telegraph pole hummed. Rosie kicked the wall with her heels. Birds danced back and forth on the road.
After a while Stella asked, ‘How long have they been gone?’
Gus looked at his watch. ‘About fifteen minutes.’
Stella exhaled, long and slow. Amy glanced across at her. Gus leant forward to check up the road for the car. Building in the air was a strange jittery excitement, like they were sitting waiting to find out what the end of the world looked like.
CHAPTER 22
The car turned onto a suburban backstreet. All bungalows and mums pushing prams. Stella frowned at Amy who made a face back like she had no idea where they were either. Outside it was getting hotter. The sun beating down on the hot pavement.
Mirages flickered on the side roads. Stella, Gus, and Amy were squashed into the back seat, Rosie in the boot and Sonny up in front where he had stayed when he and Jack had pulled up with the car, bikes from the roof hastily deposited back in the garage. Stella had been quite pleased not to have to sit next to Jack, currently at a loss for how to act around him. It was like a glass wall separated them. They were no longer two halves of one whole.
‘OK, we’re here.’ Jack put the indicator on and turned into what looked like a barren wasteland at the side of the road.
Stella squinted at the surroundings. In the distance she could see a building – maybe some sort of cricket pavilion. If he’d taken up cricket that would be a massive let-down. He already played cricket sometimes in the summer.
She stepped out of the car, pulling on her sunglasses, fanning herself from the frying heat magnified by the scrubland surroundings. It was like the Outback.
Amy was not impressed. She peered out from underneath her giant sunhat. ‘Where the hell are we?’
Sonny was watching with amusement as Gus liberally applied suntan lotion. ‘I burn very easily,’ he said, face streaked with white.
Amy winced at the sight of him.
In the distance was a sad-looking playground. The big bucket swing had broken off the frame and lay in a heap, the seat for the zipwire had been removed and graffitied swear words decorated the little wooden huts. Unfazed, Rosie trotted off to investigate.
‘What are we doing here?’ The brim of Amy’s hat bashed Stella in the face as she leant forward to whisper.
Stella shrugged.
Jack was busying himself in the boot.
Gus chucked the suntan lotion back in the car and came to join them. He’d rubbed in ninety per cent of the white – face still streaked like a tiger.
‘You’ve missed a bit,’ Amy sighed.
‘Oh thank you, my love,’ Gus replied in a saccharine voice, rubbing his face to get rid of the missed bits.
Amy rolled her eyes. Gus made a face back. Then Jack appeared from behind the car and she laughed out loud.
