The Way Back Home

by Freya North

  ‘Is she coming here because she needs a place? Or is she coming here – because it’s me?’

  He went through to his kitchen, small and shiny and open plan with the sitting room. It was still unbelievable that Oriana had even asked – and yet the reality of it was imminent. He ran the cold tap and drank directly, the ice-cold tributary which trickled down his neck making him shudder off the final linger of alcohol. In bed, a little while later, he tried to read. The words didn’t bounce around the page, he was pleased to find, but his mind darted this way and that.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to Bruce Chatwin, closing the book and letting it drop to the floor beside his bed. ‘Just stay where you are on your Black bloody Hill and I’ll come and find you again soon.’ He switched off the light and stared at the dark nothingness while his mind tried to tidy away the tumble of thoughts and emotions so that he could sleep.

  The sound broke through Jed’s dream and turned from being some kind of klaxon at a foreign fair he was at with Oriana, back into his door buzzer. Scrambling from sleep, he hopped his way to the front door whilst pulling on boxer shorts and a sweatshirt. Don’t go, don’t go! he chanted. I need you like you wouldn’t believe.

  ‘Come up!’ he called into the intercom. ‘Third floor, door on the left – take the lift!’ He kept his finger on the button whilst peeling his ears for the clunk and rumble of the lift. Only then did he relax.

  Jesus Christ, he said to himself, if I’m this jittery for shitting Sainsbury’s, what am I going to be like when it’s Oriana?

  He hadn’t realized how excessive his online shop had been until he found great difficulty finding space for everything. He hated aubergines, yet he’d ordered two. He’d bought new shampoo, conditioner and shower gel though the bottles he already had were mostly full. He’d bought a four-pinter of milk which he could barely cram into his fridge, and a litre of olive oil in such a tall and fancy glass bottle that he had to lay it on its side, and then it protruded too far for the cupboard door to shut.

  ‘I cannot believe I ordered capers,’ he murmured, looking at the peculiar little green beads. ‘I cannot believe I ordered capers solely because I read somewhere that they’re an aphrodisiac.’ He laughed out loud and called himself a stupid soft bastard, while wondering if he could risk leaving the tarte au citron out of the fridge.

  He thought, I wish I’d asked her what time she was thinking of coming. He thought, I wish she’d phoned again just to confirm. He thought, I assume it was Mel on the front desk who gave her my address. He thought, if the MD finds out, he’ll fire her. And Jed thought, have I time to nip out for the papers? He thought he probably did, so out he went.

  It was one of those sublime, full spring days which kid you it’s still cold and crisp but within minutes the sun is seeing off layers of clothing. With his sweatshirt tied around his waist, Jed walked fast to the corner shop for the Saturday papers. He bought two Bounty bars too, because they’d always been Oriana’s favourite.

  It’s the coconut thing, he remembered her saying when she progressed on to Malibu. It’s not the fact that it’s booze – it’s the fact that it’s coconutty. Like an alcoholic Bounty bar.

  On his way home, Jed went via the off-licence and bought a half-bottle of Malibu. Sprinting up the stairs to his flat, he suddenly wondered whether Oriana would absolutely hate all these reminders of her past. Once inside, he consigned the bottle and the chocolate bars to the top of his bedroom cupboard. Then he sat down with the papers and a cup of strong black coffee and he rested from the barrage of thoughts and plans. He drank his coffee and he read the newspaper. And he waited.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Malachy wondered if Oriana wanted coffee or tea. On his way to the kitchen, he’d hovered by her door and listened. It was so quiet it was quite possible she’d gone. And yet there was a peculiar warmth and calmness to his home that morning and he knew she was still there. Fast asleep at Windward for the first time in God knows how many years.

  He boiled the kettle and also set the little coffee pot on the stove top, grateful to Jed for having bought ground coffee and telling him it would keep fresher in the freezer. The scent and the sound of it brewing were uplifting. He made a cup of tea and a cup of coffee and took them along the corridor, placing both on the floor outside the door. He knocked.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Taylor,’ he called through, to no answer. He knocked again, this time with a spry rhythm.

  ‘Morning, Taylor!’

  Still no reply. He opened the door a fraction. The bed was empty. When did she go?

  ‘Morning, Bedwell.’ The sleepy voice drifted up from the mumble of duvet heaped on the floor.

  He was alarmed. ‘Did you fall out of bed?’

  ‘No,’ she said. Her face appeared, like a cartoon creature resurfacing after hibernating. Her hair was mussed and her cheeks were flushed. She was blinking and her face was in a scrunch.

  ‘Is this some weird yogic-Californian-thang? Sleeping on the floor?’ Malachy asked. He was still on the threshold, him and the two cups.

  She laughed a little. Yawned and stretched her arms up out of the swaddle. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s a Yogi-Bear-den-theng.’

  ‘I made you coffee,’ Malachy said. ‘And I made you tea.’ He paused. ‘Take your time. There’s no rush.’

  He glanced at his watch as he went back to the kitchen. He’d be leaving for the gallery in little over an hour. Oh, that he needn’t go. Oh, for an assistant. He’d probably sell nothing today – it was a beautiful day and people would be out in the dales, marvelling at spring, just as they should.

  Malachy saw that Oriana had bought croissants. Would she mind if he had one? He had to admit to himself that, despite the serendipity of it all, despite the closeness and intimacy they’d shared last night, these croissants hadn’t been bought with him in mind.

  Into the kitchen she padded.

  ‘Sorry – I couldn’t resist,’ he said, through a mouthful of flaky crumbs.

  ‘May I?’ Oriana asked, mindful this morning that she was in Malachy’s kitchen, not Jed’s.

  ‘’Scuse fingers,’ he said, passing her a croissant.

  She spread a little butter on one half. ‘I bought jam.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘The jar you had in the cupboard had charming green fur on it.’

  ‘Adds to the taste.’

  She raised an eyebrow and then went to the cupboard. ‘Confiture,’ she said, reading the label.

  ‘Bless you,’ Malachy said, as if she’d sneezed.

  She giggled, relieved, at ease. Her fear, walking to the kitchen minutes ago, was that he’d be aloof with her this morning. Not want her there. She dipped a spoon into the jam and dolloped it straight onto the buttered side of the croissant. Malachy watched as she loaded the spoon again, and this time put it straight into her mouth. He grinned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, remembering her sitting in various Windward kitchens over the years, spooning jam directly into her mouth. ‘Would you like more tea?’

  ‘I need to teach you how to make coffee properly,’ she said, walking to the stove to brew a fresh pot, calm and relaxed. The kitchen had once again become a shared space, as it had been last night. They continued with their breakfast in affable silence for a while, passing butter and croissants, passing time. Can I have the milk, please? More jam, dear?

  ‘Oughtn’t you to be getting to work?’

  ‘Not just yet,’ said Malachy, who was at the sink, his back to her. ‘I’ll just do the washing-up. I don’t want you leaving here thinking I’m a slob.’

  She watched him as he did the dishes, liking the way his cotton shirt caught over his shoulder blades, liking how his sleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows. She liked the way the ribbon of his eye-patch wove through his hair as if in an intentional rhythm. Over under, over under. He was wearing dark-wash jeans. On his feet, his moccasin slippers. She’d quite forgotten the chill of
the floors in the apartments at Windward. It had confronted her this morning and she could feel it still, through her socks. It was as nostalgic as it was unpleasant. She curled her toes and tucked her feet around the legs of the kitchen chair.

  ‘I’m not going to see my father,’ she announced, as if Malachy had posed the question.

  ‘I understand.’ He turned to her, drying his hands, unrolling his shirtsleeves and buttoning the cuffs. He paused. ‘I suppose I’d better get ready now.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ Oriana said, gazing out of the window. ‘I might go for a walk around the gardens.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I want to say hullo to Lilac,’ she told Malachy who was looking at the day outside.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well – I’ll have a tidy-up, I think. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I need to return Cat’s car.’ She frowned at him, not realizing he was perversely torturing himself to hear her say, and then I’ll phone Jed.

  Malachy paused. Was she going to call Jed or just trust that he’d turn up? Would it be the brotherly thing to phone him, perhaps?

  ‘And then?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not going to see my father, you know,’ she mumbled. She raised her eyes to his and Malachy saw that Jed was far from her mind.

  ‘I understand.’ He regarded her. ‘But say he sees you?’

  Malachy was pushed for time. In his mind’s eye, he taunted himself with a long snaking queue of wealthy art lovers, waiting impatiently for the gallery to open. But he didn’t want to leave, not just yet. Time just then had a desperate quality – as if nothing could be achieved. Coming out of his bedroom, he found Oriana hovering in the ballroom, pretending she wasn’t.

  He wanted to say, you can stay here, you know. You don’t have to go. But something strangled away his words and he wasn’t sure whether that something was raw emotion or pure common sense.

  And she wanted to say, perhaps Jed won’t turn up. Maybe I’ll still be here when you get back.

  ‘I’d better be off,’ he said. Why prolong it? What could be said? What could change a thing? The sharp light of day had somehow vacuumed all that time last night and trapped it within a dreamlike orb now floating around like a thought that couldn’t be caught. All that had been said, all that had passed between them, was incarcerated in a crystal ball which had no future to tell.

  ‘Bye then.’ He shrugged, satchel over his shoulder, hands thrust deep into his pockets. ‘You take care of yourself, Taylor, you tinker.’

  His soft words, used so often in her past, caused a sharp shard of flint to wedge in her throat. She couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t even say goodbye. Malachy waited for her to respond but all he had to go on was the speechless scramble emanating from her eyes. He had to go. He walked past her, his sleeve brushing hers, just as it had last night, in the kitchen, when she couldn’t breathe, right at the start of the evening. She thought back – those hours and hours they’d had. They were now locked in some memory box, confined to the Past. This was the Now and the New. Years on. Separated lives.

  He looked back into the room when he reached the doorway but Oriana was turned away from him, gazing out at the day beyond the ballroom. She heard the front door close.

  If this was a movie, I’d run right now. I’d run after him, I’d skip down the steps, I’d catch him just as he was about to step into his car. And I’d put my arms around his neck and draw him to me; we’d fold into each other, as close as close can be. We’d stand there, with no need for words. I would hold and be held. And he’d know – everything I could ever say, everything I’ve always felt – it would flow out of me and into him. Silent soundwaves of truth.

  But she stayed where she was. There was no point leaving the ballroom; it wasn’t necessary to tiptoe to the kitchen and look out of the window to make sure. She knew that Malachy had already left.

  ‘Oh God – I’m so so sorry.’ Paula de la Mare rushed up to Oriana who, after walking to the great cedar to compose herself, had then gone to the front of the house to sit on the front steps and have a think as so often she had, her back to a pillar warmed by the sun. Today, though, she wasn’t thinking of anything really. The sunlight on her face felt good enough just to close her eyes and raise her chin towards it, and the air around her still had that soft spike of spring chill that made it so fresh and cleansing.

  ‘So sorry – have you been waiting long?’

  Oriana looked down to see a breathless, apologizing woman at the bottom of the steps. ‘Me?’

  ‘I’m Paula,’ the woman said, ‘de la Mare. No relation – though the main house was home once to poets and writers and all sorts of artists. Anyway, I’m here – to show you round.’

  Oriana wasn’t really sure what to say or how quickly to interrupt her and point out the mistaken identity.

  ‘Come on,’ said Paula. She jangled a set of keys as if they’d open a world of possibilities. Oriana stood like one in a trance, letting herself be led along by Paula’s friendly stream of chat about how sorry she was to have kept her, that time always flies on a Saturday, that she’d lost half an hour already but that there was no rush. They were perilously close to her old front door but Paula strolled straight past and on to the entrance to the interior corridor.

  ‘It’s a sort of communal space,’ Paula said. ‘But private too. It’s difficult to explain. Think of it as a covered pathway between apartments. Have you been looking long?’ She turned. Oriana had lagged behind. In fact, she was standing still and mesmerized, having a long look, lips parted, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

  ‘There is another door – but you’ll find this entrance more serviceable.’ Paula thought, I’m sick of this – bloody estate agent phoning me to say, can you just open up for a viewing? Paula thought, why do they keep sending people so obviously unsuitable?

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I know this smell,’ Oriana said quietly. ‘I know this smell.’

  Paula couldn’t really detect any scent, fragrant or otherwise, though if she really analysed it, perhaps the York flagstones and old walls gave off a tinge faintly reminiscent of church.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’ll just unlock and leave you to it.’

  ‘Unlock?’

  ‘The apartment.’

  Suddenly teleported to the present, Oriana stared at her. ‘Whose apartment?’

  Paula frowned. What were the estate agents thinking? Had they actually met this woman? Anyone less likely to buy the Coopers’ apartment they’d be hard pressed to find.

  ‘Number four.’ Paula smiled politely, walked on a few steps and put the key in the door.

  ‘Louis’ flat?’ Oriana quickened her pace. ‘This was Louis’ flat.’

  ‘Geoff and Helen Cooper,’ Paula said, holding the door open so that Oriana could enter.

  Oriana looked over her shoulder at Paula, her expression a beguiling mix of excitement and dread. ‘I don’t know the Coopers,’ she said. ‘But I knew Louis Bayford – who lived here from 1966. I lived here too, you see. I was born here. I grew up here.’

  While Paula was absorbing the facts, Oriana was already walking ahead. She knew the route off by heart but today it thrilled her. When she was little she thought nothing of it – it was simply the way to Louis’. Today she appreciated every footstep: a narrow passage, quite poky, suddenly turning sharply, delivering her right to the base of the elegant staircase. For the first time, she truly appreciated the audacity of the Bedwells’ blunt stud wall separating the grand front hallway of the house from the staircase. It was daring, it was outrageous, it was even a little subversive. The Bedwells in the 1960s, leaders of the cult of the New and the Now, proposing that the features of a house were subservient to the personalities who dwelt there.

  And it was so very Louis to have opted for the staircase – up and down which he could sweep with maximum theatricality and flounce. Dearest Louis with his powdered, bouffant hair,
his eyebrows subtly plucked so that they arched superciliously, his hips-first walk – or ‘mince’ as he liked to call it. Louis, who gave Oriana sanctuary and pulled pennies from her ears and told her that she could rule the world. It was Louis who informed her that her name had been a nickname of Elizabeth I – and that Oriana was twice as golden, three times as feisty and infinitely more beautiful.

  Dear Louis – I’m here again, I’ve come back.

  She was already climbing the stairs when Paula caught up with her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Paula said, ‘but who exactly are you?’

  ‘I’m Oriana Taylor.’

  ‘As in Robin Taylor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re his –?’

  ‘Daughter.’

  ‘And you’ve come to view number four?’ What Paula wanted to say was, he has a daughter? That man is a father?

  They’d reached the top of the stairs and were both a little breathless; the flight was misleadingly steep despite the landing and the return halfway up. How on earth had Louis managed for all those years?

  ‘I haven’t come to buy Louis’ apartment. I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’m sorry if I misled while you led me here. I stayed at Malachy’s last night,’ she said. It acted like some kind of code word and Paula visibly relaxed. ‘We go way, way back,’ Oriana continued, running her hand lightly over the polished mahogany banister. ‘It’s all been a bit weird. I haven’t been back for so long.’

  She and Paula looked at each other. They were around the same age. Oriana liked Paula’s style; her boots, the way her eyes emphasized her smile. Paula sensed a connection; what she really fancied was a cup of tea and a long, long chat with this woman. They were standing on the landing in front of the main door to the apartment.