by Julia Green
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. I don’t think so, now. It didn’t work with Bridie. Or maybe we didn’t try hard enough.’ Gabes shrugs.
I’m thinking about what he’s said. Putting a hurt child into the middle of this big, close, loving family: wouldn’t that make a difference? Surely it would.
‘Mum wouldn’t give up on Bridie. She went on inviting her for holidays and weekends, right up till Bridie was a teenager, and really going off the rails. She stopped going to school at all; she got done for shoplifting, she went round with all the wrong sort of people – mostly older than her, and into smoking cannabis and worse things, living in squats. And she stopped coming here altogether.
‘Bridie got even thinner, and more sick-looking. Sometimes Mum would meet her in Bristol for a coffee or buy her lunch and I think she probably gave her money. Sometimes Theo went with Mum, to meet Bridie. I’m not really sure why. He was kind of fascinated by her, and the life she led, or what she represented, perhaps. The other side of life. The shadow side. And when Theo started to meet up with Bridie by himself, after she moved again, to Devon, that’s when Mum got really worried.’
The cat scratches at the bedroom door: Gabes stops talking while he lets her in. She jumps on to the bed and starts kneading the covers with her paws, turning round and round to make a sort of nest to curl into. The phone rings downstairs. We hear footsteps padding upstairs and along the landing.
It’s Maddie. ‘Freya?’ she calls out. ‘I’m driving into town shortly to collect Kit. Do you want a lift home?’
I hesitate, hoping Gabes is going to invite me to stay over. But he just sits there. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t really ask, can I?
So I call back to Maddie. ‘Yes, please.’
‘Five minutes, then.’
I glance at the time. It’s ten twenty-five. I’m desperate for Gabes to get to the end of Bridie’s story before I have to go. ‘Why was your mum worried?’ I ask. ‘About Theo?’
‘Theo was having a hard time. Mum was worried he’d get sucked into Bridie’s world. Underworld, rather.’ Gabes stretches, and the cat looks up and yawns at us both, before turning over to let Gabes stroke the silky white fur under her chin. ‘She’s definitely pregnant.’
For a second I think he means Bridie, before I realise he’s talking about the cat.
There’s obviously more to say about Theo and Bridie, but Gabes has had enough, or is fed up with me asking, or something. In any case, my five minutes are up.
I sigh. ‘I better go downstairs. Maddie will be waiting. Thanks for inviting me over. Sorry if I made you talk too much.’
Gabes shrugs. ‘I’ll be back at college on Monday,’ he says. ‘Dad’s going to take me in. So I’ll see you then. We can have lunch together, or coffee, whatever.’
I swing my legs back off the bed, lean over and kiss his cheek. ‘Yes. Bye, Gabes.’
I walk slowly down our road, thinking about what Gabes has just told me about Bridie. What could have happened to make her like that in the first place? I think about Gabes, too. I’m even more confused about him now. I guess he just want us to be friends, after all. Nothing more than that.
Instead of an amazing weekend at Home Farm, I’ve now got two days on my own with nothing planned. Plus, I feel really stupid, taking my overnight things like that. I’d die if anyone knew. And it’s Theo’s last weekend. I won’t see him again.
The lights are on, and I hear music as soon as I open the front door. Mum’s got the sewing machine out on the big kitchen table. I can’t remember the last time she did any sewing.
‘What are you making?’ I kiss the top of her head and she puts one arm round my waist.
‘Curtains.’ She holds out the thick blue cotton. ‘Like the colour?’
‘Yes. Gorgeous. Sea colour.’
‘For the spare room. I’m going to turn it into a study, for me.’
I look at her, surprised. ‘Studying what?’
‘Garden design. Landscape gardening. So I can move out of boring office work altogether, eventually. What do you reckon?’
‘It’s a brilliant idea, Mum. What does Dad say?’
‘He’s thrilled. He might even be able to put work in my direction, when I’ve qualified. People with new houses might want a newly designed garden, too.’
I fill the kettle. ‘Tea, Mum?’
‘Not for me. Just had one. So, how was your evening? Where’ve you been, exactly?’
‘Gabes’ house.’
Mum grins. ‘You’ve been seeing him a lot, recently. Am I going to be allowed to meet him?’
I sigh. ‘Yes. I guess. There’s no big deal. He’s just a friend at college. I like his family. It’s nice, being there with lots of people. And they cook these big family dinners . . . it’s all very homey and nice.’
Mum winces.
I realise immediately I’ve hurt her. It’s not her fault our home is so empty and quiet. That so many of her and Dad’s friends just seemed to vanish away, after Joe died, as if grief was contagious. Or simply too hard to witness, perhaps.
Mum starts packing the sewing things away for the night. ‘Your friend Danny phoned again, but he didn’t leave a message. I said I’d tell you. And Evie sends her love. We had a lovely long conversation. She’s missing you. She was wondering whether we might all go over at half-term, or Christmas.’
‘How’s Gramps?’
‘Much the same. A little more muddled. But happy enough, Evie says.’
I take my tea upstairs to my room. I can hear Dad sloshing around in the bath as I go past. He’s listening to the radio, which means he’ll be there for ages.
I stand in the doorway of the spare room. This would be Joe’s room, if Joe were still alive. Except not really: we wouldn’t have left the old house, with the garden leading down to the canal, if Joe hadn’t had his accident. We’d be living there still. What might have been . . . But I have to stop thinking like that. We all do.
That night, I have the weirdest dream. I’m in a sort of open-sided car, no seat belt, being driven by Theo over a steep green hill, at a precarious angle, much too fast. To my left, the hill drops away to a cliff, and beyond that is the bluest sea. I try and persuade him to slow down but he won’t take any notice of me. I wake up too hot, my heart beating too fast. It’s still dark, no sound from the street yet, so I guess it’s three or four o’clock. I make myself breathe deeply, counting, in, out, slowly, to calm myself down.
Theo.
Bridie.
Me.
That pull towards darkness, danger, death that I have . . . my fascination with it . . . what is that all about, really?
Bridie’s story is just sad. What’s even sadder is that there are so many stories like hers. You only have to watch telly for a week, or listen to the news, to see how much sadness there is in the world. Dad and I watched a programme the other evening about some children taken hostage at a school in Beslan, Russia, back in 2004. Hundreds of people died. The cemetery was full of children’s graves, headstones with photographs: children frozen in time, forever five, or eight, or eleven years old. The boys who survived thought all the time about violence and revenge. The girls were different. Quietly, deeply depressed.
Something else struck me. All the children said that they must have survived for a reason. They would do something special and amazing with their life. They would make sure that they would be extraordinary adults.
I saw in them something which I recognise in myself: that feeling about how precious life is. About how not to take it for granted, ever.
Which is exactly what Bridie didn’t have, did she? Bridie gave up. She lost hope. And why was that? That’s the mystery, for me. The thing I need to understand.
Twelve
It’s properly autumn now. Our sunny, golden September is just a memory. There have been huge storms: Evie sent me a letter describing the October gales which cut off the island for a week, and washed up the carcass of a rare Sowerby’s beaked wha
le on Periglis beach. She enclosed a photo, taken on Gramps’ old Leica camera. Twelve feet long, female. They are normally a deepwater species: it’s very unusual to see them.
I wish I could be there. But it’s not practical, not even for half-term; it’s too expensive, and too likely that bad weather will mean I can’t get back on time for college, and Dad won’t hear of that.
A postcard arrives, from Oxford. Theo’s message, written in fine italic handwriting in black ink, is a puzzle.
Cycled to Binsey.
Wildness and wet.
Visit?
He’s written his address in tiny writing along the top of the card, and a mobile number.
It doesn’t take me long on the computer to track down Binsey, a place near Oxford, and another link takes me to a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, called ‘Binsey Poplars’, and then, another hop, to ‘Inversnaid’ and the line about wildness and wet. But I still don’t know what he’s going on about.
And visit?
Me, does he mean?
I prop the postcard on my bookshelf, next to Evie’s whale. The picture is of something called the Radcliffe Camera, which is nothing to do with cameras actually, but a circular building made of stone, with a famous library inside. Theo’s drawn a stick man in one of the little windows, and an arrow pointing to it. T.F., reading.
Miranda comes round after college, Friday afternoon, so we can plan the weekend. Our college tutor says we’ve all got to start thinking about whether we are going to apply for university next year, and Miranda’s wondering about visiting Edinburgh, for one of those Open Days that universities put on.
‘And then it would be fine to email Jamie, wouldn’t it? Without coming over too keen? Just friendly, seeing as I was going to be in Edinburgh anyway.’
It takes me a minute to catch up. ‘Jamie?’
‘The guy I met on holiday. Who’s a student in Edinburgh? Remember? Freya! Concentrate!’
‘Sorry, Yes, Only, I thought you’d moved on, you know, to Charlie.’
Miranda gives a hollow laugh. ‘Well, that’s dead and buried. He’s made that perfectly clear. He’s married to his music.’
I laugh. ‘He doesn’t deserve you, anyway. He only wants an admiring audience. You don’t want to be yet another groupie.’
‘You’ve never said that before!’
‘I know, well, you wouldn’t have listened before.’
‘So? What do you reckon?’ She gets up off my bed and turns on my computer on the desk in front of the window. She goes on her Facebook, to show me her holiday photos again.
Jamie looks nice enough. ‘What’s he doing at uni?’
‘Physics.’
‘Hmmm. Well, why not? You can but try. But don’t actually stay at his place; get a room in the youth hostel. Just arrange to have coffee or something.’
‘How sensible you are, Freya.’
‘Only cos I care about you!’
‘What about you? You going to visit some art colleges?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ And then I see Theo’s card on my table and the words just come out of my mouth. ‘I might go to Oxford for a look around.’
‘Dead posh! You could check out Cambridge, too.’
‘I don’t know; maybe it’s a stupid idea. Way out of my league. I’d have to get three As!’
‘Which you will.’
‘It’s probably not my kind of place, anyway. I don’t even know if you can do Art there.’
‘Which is why you have to go and see! Sorted. Now: tonight. Film first, then round to Tabby’s place?’
We look at what’s on at the multiplex. Miranda starts phoning round, to get everyone to come with us. I go downstairs to make us something to eat.
It wasn’t really a serious idea, when I first said it. But over the next days it begins to seem quite a sensible thing; something I might actually do. I look up the colleges and the trains to get there. I tell Dad and he starts waxing lyrical about Oxford – medieval buildings, all that history. So I write a postcard to Theo – I spend ages choosing which – I decide on a painting by Edward Hopper, called Nighthawks: gloomy and atmospheric, a single man at a bar at night.
Dear Theo, I’m coming to Oxford second weekend in November for Open Day visits at Oxford Brookes and Ruskin. Suggest a café if you want to meet me on the Saturday some time. Freya.
I hesitate. Do I put a kiss? I decide not. Just my mobile number.
There’s nothing witty or clever about my message. I stick on a stamp, and post it on my way to college before I change my mind.
Thirteen
I’ve been working on my sea paintings. It would be so much easier if I were actually there, on the island. I’ve got my sketchbooks, and my memories of it all, from so many summer visits, but it’s still not the same. I have a habit of seeing what I want to see, what I want to remember: an idealised landscape. I blot out the rest. And that’s not going to work for this project.
My eye catches the whale photo, dusty and fading in the sunlight. On impulse, I phone Evie.
It’s funny, listening to the telephone ring and being able to see exactly where everything is in that house, imagining Evie in the sitting room reading, and Gramps pottering in the greenhouse, or bringing in the crab pots; knowing the particular way the house smells – the faint salty fishy tang from cooked crab – hearing that background sound of the sea pounding the rocky shore.
‘Hello?’ Evie’s voice comes, bright and full of energy, like she always is.
‘It’s me,’ I say.
‘Freya! How lovely! How are you? We’ve missed you so much this time. Did you get the photo? It’s been very exciting here, what with the whale and all the fuss it brought.’
‘The photo is why I phoned. I mean, to talk to you and everything, but I wondered if you had more photos like that?’
I explain about my art project, and Evie makes encouraging noises, and she says she’ll send all the photos she took, all thirty-six on the film.
‘Can you send copies?’ I say. ‘So I can keep them and don’t have to worry about them getting spoiled. I’d like to be able to do things with them, like stick them in my notebooks or cut out bits.’
‘Of course,’ Evie says. ‘It’ll take a few days, mind you. I’ll go over to Main Island tomorrow on the early boat, if the wind isn’t too strong. We’ve had the most magnificent storms!’
‘I wish I’d been there for them,’ I say.
‘The storms brought lots of unusual birds, too,’ Evie says, ‘as well as the whale. Rare species, blown off course on their migrations. We’ve had a lovely time with the field glasses. Now, Gramps would love a word. Have you got time?’
I hear their voices, and Gramps fumbles over the receiver as he takes it from Evie. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell him. ‘The weather’s changed. No more river swimming. How are you, Gramps?’
‘Fair to middling. Are you studying hard, Freya? You want to make the most of it.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘What are you reading just now?’
I tell him about The Mill on the Floss, and then I remember the Ted Hughes poems, so I mention those, too. Gramps loves poetry.
‘Not my cup of tea, Hughes. That funny business with his wife,’ Gramps says. ‘Though he knows his animals and fish. I’ll give him that.’
Gramps starts telling me the old lighthouse buildings are on sale again. He knows Joe and I used to imagine living there, when we were little. I wanted a bedroom in the round stone tower, with a circular bed and curving shelves and table and cupboards. Joe would have the room right at the top. The buildings have been derelict for years.
Evie’s in the background, chipping in, and then telling him I’m paying for the phone call and not to talk for too long.
When I put the phone down, I feel slightly sad. They are getting older, Evie and Gramps; I can hear it in their voices, especially Gramps’. It comes over me in a rush that they won’t be around for ever. I c
an’t bear that. Evie and Gramps have been the steady, constant loving thread through my whole life. My rock.
The photos arrive five days later. I spread them out on my table and study them. It’s exciting: I’m going to use them as my starting point for a new series of drawings. Stormy skies and seas; cloudscapes; the rough textures of stone and pebble and seaweed, and the huge bulk of the whale carcass. Evie’s taken a series of photos showing people trying to move the whale with ropes and tractors, and the grainy texture of a slightly blurred photo makes me think of much older photos I’ve seen somewhere, of a different place: Newfoundland, I think, when whales were caught for food and oil and the seas would be red with whale blood and blubber, only the photos were black-and-white, so it looked like a spillage of black ink.
I experiment more, with black-and-white images: pencil, charcoal, pen and ink. I try a collage with chopped bits of photo of the whale on the shingle beach, and thick paint. I know these pictures are good.
Powerful, Jeanette says when I show her in class on Monday morning. ‘You are really getting somewhere now, Freya.’
Gabes, his foot still in plaster, carries on filling his canvases with colour and light. He frowns as he goes past my table on his way out of the studio. He doesn’t stop to look at my pictures properly, and he doesn’t mention them when we meet up, later.
I don’t tell him I’ve heard from Theo, or that I’m planning to visit Oxford. I know I should, really. But he seems so preoccupied with his own things: he’s doing his application for art college in London. He’s not interested in my paintings. And it’s not as if he’s showing much interest in me, either: not anything more than as friends.
