by Julia Green
When we go for lunch together, we chat about other things.
‘How’s your dad’s fox?’ I ask. ‘Is she getting better?’
‘I guess so,’ Gabes says. ‘But she’s lost her foxy spark.’ He looks at me. ‘You know? The fox-ness of her. She looks like a mangy pet, fed up with being in a cage.’
‘Perhaps you should just let her free,’ I say. ‘Perhaps she’d heal quicker like that.’
‘She’d die, Freya. She wouldn’t be able to catch her own food or anything. That’s the point.’
‘Sorry for being so stupid.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting that.’
‘No? It sounded as if you were.’
Neither of us speaks for a while.
People leave us alone; our usual crowd go and sit inside the café instead of joining us at the table outside under the awning.
‘Did something happen?’ Gabes asks me, eventually. ‘We were starting to be good friends, and then something changed. Did I do something wrong?’
‘No,’ I say. I can’t tell him what I’m thinking, that the thing that changed was Theo, turning up like he did.
Muddling me.
‘Come for supper again,’ Gabes says, generously. ‘Come home with me after college on Wednesday. Dad’ll give us a lift.’
I know he’s making an effort to be nice. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
It’s a different sort of household without Beth and the children, and with Theo away. It all feels more normal, I suppose: an ordinary family mid-week. We have sausages and baked vegetables for supper; there’s no pudding. Maddie’s busy with paperwork and Kit does homework at the kitchen table once supper’s over; Nick falls asleep sprawled in front of the telly.
Gabes and I do the washing-up together, and then we go outside to feed the fox and to shut away Maddie’s chickens.
It’s already dark, and hard to make out the fox hunched in the pen. It smells rank. When we open the door to put the scraps of food inside and top up the water in the bowl, she stays cowering in the shadows at the back of the pen. Her eyes gleam in the torchlight: dark pools.
‘Poor thing.’ I crouch down next to the cage. ‘I see what you mean. It is like the spirit has gone out of her. I still think it would be better to let her go free. Her leg must be nearly better by now. What does your dad think?’
‘Six weeks, he says, for healing a break. So only another week or so, and we can release her. Not too near here, obviously, because of the chickens.’
That’s our next job. We cross the vegetable garden into the orchard. In the daytime, Maddie lets the hens out to scratch and peck under the apple and plum trees. But there’s no sign of any of them now.
‘They’ve all gone up their wooden ramp into the hen-house. They do that as soon as it gets dark,’ Gabes explains. He fastens the latch on the door, and then goes round the other side to lift the lid of the nesting box. The hens stir when they hear us, and make that soft crooning sound in their throats. Gabes picks out two eggs from the straw and places them in my cupped hands. They are still faintly warm.
I carry them carefully back to the kitchen and put them in the bowl with the others. We join Nick briefly in the sitting room in front of the telly. I watch the tail end of some programme about a community choir on some estate, while he and Gabes talk about what Gabes should say in his personal statement for his UCAS form.
‘You got homework?’ Nick asks.
Gabes shakes his head. ‘I’m all up to date with my projects. Just reading and research, now.’
It strikes me how clear Gabes is; how focused on his own plans. There’s nothing wrong with that; it just doesn’t leave much room for someone else. I guess he never really wanted me as a girlfriend. And the more I think about it, the more true that begins to sound. Gabes loves having friends: lots of friends, not just one special one. He likes people in groups.
Maddie settles down in her favourite chair, under the lamp near the window. She pulls out sheaves of paper from a big brown envelope, and sits to read them, pen in hand. ‘Page proofs,’ she explains to me. ‘For my new book.’
I sit down next to Gabes on the sofa.
‘I’ll have the plaster off on Friday,’ he says. ‘Then I can get the bike going again. My life will be much easier.’
I don’t know what to say. It isn’t going to work out, Gabes and me. I know that now. The spark, the magic, just isn’t there for him. Maybe, after all, it wasn’t Gabes I was falling for anyway. I guess it’s easy enough to make a mistake like that.
We don’t hold hands. We don’t even kiss goodbye when it’s time for me to go home.
Dad collects me from the farm for the first time. I hear him waxing lyrical about the stone roof tiles and the beams in the kitchen with Nick.
‘You coming to meet my dad?’ I ask Gabes.
‘OK.’ Moving around is still an effort with his foot in plaster, though he can rest the heel down, now. He follows me into the kitchen.
Dad smiles. ‘All set, Freya?’
I nod. ‘Thanks for having me,’ I say to Maddie. ‘And for supper and everything.’
‘You’re always welcome here,’ Maddie says. ‘You know that. We love seeing you, don’t we, Nick?’
‘We do.’
‘Dad, this is Gabes. My friend from college.’
Gabes steps forward to shake hands.
‘Pleased to meet you, Gabes. Heard lots about you,’ Dad says, even though it isn’t true. I haven’t mentioned him once.
I steer Dad towards the door. ‘See you at college, Gabes.’
Dad drives us home. ‘Gorgeous house,’ he says. ‘All that land, too. Nice people. Had a good time?’
I nod. ‘We’re just friends,’ I say, quickly, to stop him before he starts going on.
Fourteen
Mist curls along the river, punctuated by the dark shapes of trees on the banks. It’s early morning; the train rattles along the track, the rhythm of the wheels like a pulse in my skull. I’m travelling again, and it feels good to be moving. Through the window I glimpse a fox slipping through a gap in a hedge: I think of the one at the farmhouse, now free and living its own wild life.
The girl, Bridie, comes vividly into my mind. Just as we go through the tunnel at Box station, I remember that website I looked at, and the list of places where other train fatalities have happened. It doesn’t help that the train manager keeps going on about reading the safety cards, and to report anything suspicious . . .
I change trains at Didcot, find the one for Oxford. I’m going to ask Theo about Bridie this time, I decide. A pale thin sun is just visible through the mist, and by the time the train’s going past the backs of houses and parks on the outskirts of the city the mist is a thin layer, the spires and towers of churches and colleges piercing through, and the sun itself breaks out as I step on to the platform.
The station car park’s full of bicycles. Everyone in Oxford rides bikes, apparently. For a fleeting second, I can imagine myself here, riding up the street on my own bike, on my way to lectures.
I get my map out, and start walking towards the town centre. The road crosses the canal: I stop to look at the houseboats and barges, just like the ones along the canal at home. Theo’s student house is somewhere near this canal, further along, in an area he calls Jericho, but I’m meeting him at a café in the covered market, off High Street. It’s exciting to be here, but I’m shaking with nerves, too, thinking about being alone with Theo. I put Gabes out of my mind. Try to, at least.
It’s still quite early, but the streets are packed: students, tourists, ordinary people shopping. Every so often I stop to peer through the small wooden doors within bigger, ancient wooden doors that open on to beautiful grassy courtyards: cool, green spaces of privileged quiet, a stark contrast to the city streets. Two worlds, so close together – town and gown, Dad called them – it’s all exactly like he described.
I check my map again: nearly there. My heart’s beating fast. Any minute now and I’ll see Theo
. . .
Saturday morning, the indoor market’s busy with shoppers queuing up for old-fashioned butchers’ and greengrocers’ stalls, florists and shoe shops. I find the Italian café at the opposite end to where I first came in. It’s got lime green walls, a black-and-white lino floor, rows of wooden tables. Families and elderly people and – well, all sorts of normal people are eating breakfast. What did I expect? Not this.
I push open the door and queue up to order coffee. I’ve already spotted Theo at a table at the back, reading a book, pretending he hasn’t noticed me, or perhaps he really is totally absorbed in the story. The café stinks of frying, hot fat, but I’m hungry so I order a bacon bap and a coffee. I wait for the Polish girl to make the coffee, and take it over with me to Theo’s table.
He’s wearing his usual black: skinny jeans, a fine woollen jumper, leather boots. Even the book – Anna Karenina – has a black cover.
‘I’m reading my way through the great Russians,’ he explains as he puts the book away in a battered old satchel and turns his attention to me. ‘So. Freya.’
‘Hello.’
He smooths his too-long fringe from his face and stares at me intently. ‘You look –’ he hesitates, choosing his words too carefully – ‘very healthy and wholesome.’
It’s not a compliment, I know that, but I’m in too good a mood to take offence. ‘How are you?’ I ask. ‘Not at all wholesome, by the look of you.’
‘Fine. Better for having two espressos. Bit of a night.’
He’s being his worst, pretentious self, but I don’t take much notice. I sip my coffee. The waitress brings over my bacon bap; I squeeze tomato ketchup over the bacon and eat slowly, enjoying every mouthful, just to make a point. ‘Where shall we go after coffee? You said you wanted to take me somewhere?’
‘When you’ve finished stuffing your face, I’ll show you.’ He smiles, despite himself.
‘Want some?’ I say through an extra big mouthful.
He shakes his head.
A load of students come in and order full English fry-ups at the counter. This place must be trendy in an ironic way, I guess. Posh kids pretending to be working class. In my mind, I’m framing images. Shame I haven’t brought a camera.
‘Ready then?’ Theo pushes his chair back and stands up. He picks up his bag.
I’m not, really, but he clearly wants to leave. I drink my last bit of coffee and put my coat back on.
He leads the way out of the market through a different exit, into a narrow cobbled street. He unlocks his bike. ‘This way.’
I walk with him beside the bike, along a series of narrow streets between high stone walls, past college entrances and more parked bikes, across a broad street at the traffic lights, down another, wider street to the Natural History Museum. He locks up the bike.
‘Is this it?’
‘Not quite.’ He leads the way into the museum entrance, then down one of the aisles, past rows of stuffed animals and skeletons: a reindeer, a horse. He takes me to the back of the museum to some steps leading down into semi-darkness. ‘The Pitt Rivers collection,’ he says. ‘Random objects from all over the world: anthropological artefacts. All a bit weird, and very wonderful. You’ll love it.’
Weird is an understatement. Maybe it’s the semi-darkness, or maybe the strange objects in the display cases, but I start feeling distinctly weird too. I spend ages looking at the ‘animals depicted in art’ collection. I get my notebook out of my bag and sketch a little Egyptian cat, and then a large gold bee, about the size of my stretched hand. I copy down the words on its handwritten label: Gilt Bee, Burma, Mandalay. Carved and gilded wood from King Thibaw’s throne.
‘My Gramps would love this,’ I tell Theo.
‘Yes?’
‘He keeps bees. He’d like to think they were decorating a throne. Bees are really important, you know. And they are disappearing. No one knows exactly why. And if all the honeybees disappear, then humans won’t be long after. We can’t survive as a species without them, because of pollination – all the plants we depend on. We’re all interlinked.’
‘Darwin.’
‘Well, yes, but it was Einstein who said the stuff about bees.’
‘Can I see your drawing?’
I hand my notebook to Theo.
He studies the bee and the cat. ‘They’re good!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised!’
‘It’s just that Gabes’ stuff never looks like anything.’
‘That’s because it’s not meant to, silly! It’s abstract art.’
Theo hands back the notebook. ‘So, what time’s your meeting?’
‘The open day goes on till four. Some time this afternoon will be fine.’
‘Want to see the shrunken heads?’
I’m not sure I do, but he shows me anyway, the glass case with the horrible heads: tiny, doll-sized, only they are human skin and real hair, with the brain taken out. There are some examples of scalps, too, where the top of someone’s head has been sliced off. It makes me feel sick. The pressure building in my own head is getting worse. I turn away.
In another glass case, I find two little figures made out of moss and bark, a man and a woman. They’re carved from wood and covered in moss, with hair and beard made of plant material – lichen, perhaps, with hats of bark. They are much friendlier than the heads and masks.
‘Come and see these moss people, Theo. They’re from Russia. To worship a god who guarded the forests.’
But Theo is still in the thrall of the shrunken heads. I can’t tell what he is thinking, and he doesn’t offer to tell me.
I give up and leave him there. I walk past the display of old wooden skates and snowshoes made of bone and ivory, and find my way to the exit. I’m still feeling weird. It’s a relief to get outside into sunshine.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been there before my mobile rings.
‘Hi, Theo.’
‘Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m outside, at the front of the building, on the steps. It’s too creepy in there. I thought I was going to be sick.’
‘Wait there, then. I’ll come and find you.’
It seems a long time before he comes through the door. He sits beside me on the stone step. I shiver.
‘We might as well go to my house, now,’ he says. ‘It’s not far from here.’
‘But what about my open day?’
‘It won’t matter if you don’t go. It’s not as if you had a definite appointment or anything, is it? No one will know.’
‘Suppose not.’
‘They’re rubbish anyway, those sort of days. You can’t tell anything about what the course is really like. It’s just a huge PR exercise.’
I never really wanted to go that much in the first place. It was just an excuse for coming to Oxford. But I don’t tell Theo that, of course. I’ll have to think what to say to Dad, though, later.
I stand up, button up my coat and wrap my scarf round.
He’s already unlocked his bike, and is wheeling it across the grass to the road. I have to run to catch up.
The roads look more ordinary, this end of town. The grand buildings give way to brick terraced houses and small shops: an Indian grocer’s, a second-hand furniture shop. Theo wheels his bike expertly with one hand on the saddle, and the other touches my back lightly, as if he’s steering me, too. But I’m feeling fine, now. I just needed fresh air.
‘This is it.’
We stop at a brick building set at an angle to the street with a small scruffy yard at the front, a full dustbin, a row of empty bottles. The house has been divided into two: one half is smart, with neat window boxes and net curtains, and the other, with its crumpled, half-drawn blue curtain and scuffed wooden door, is evidently his.
‘Who else lives here?’
‘Just me and Duncan,’ Theo says as he lets us in. ‘Music student. Composer, conductor, all round brilliant bloke. Makes excellent curry.’
There’s no sign of him, just the pia
no taking up a huge part of the sitting room, and through the doorway, a pile of dirty saucepans in the kitchen sink. The carpet is covered in books, paper, stuff. I follow Theo through to the kitchen at the back – there’s only the two rooms downstairs – and he opens big glass doors to show me their back garden. It’s almost filled with a chestnut tree, much too big for such a small garden. A few pots containing the straggling dried-up remains of tomato vines are lined along one edge of the tiny square patch of grass.
‘Like it?’
‘Yes. Very nice.’
‘We actually grew things, last term,’ Theo says. ‘And cooked them.’
It’s hardly a surprise, given his family, but Theo seems oddly proud of himself. ‘I’ll get you a rug, to sit on,’ he says. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘Just tea, please.’
‘Hmm.’ He steps back into the kitchen and rummages in the fridge. ‘No milk. No fresh-enough milk, that is.’
‘Black tea, then.’
He passes me a blanket and a cushion from the sitting room.
I settle myself down on the grass in the thin sunshine. It’s just about warm enough, with a coat on.
Theo brings out the tea, and a cake, on a chipped white plate. ‘In your honour. My special lemon and almond cake. Made with polenta instead of flour.’
‘What’s polenta?’
‘Maize meal. Like you get everywhere in Italy.’
‘Really? Never been.’ I take a small bite. ‘It’s not bad, considering,’ I say.
‘Considering what?’
‘You made it. And that it’s made with maize meal!’
Theo laughs, and he leans in towards me, and before I really know what’s happening he kisses me. On the lips: fleeting and tantalising.
My face burns. I’m suddenly aware that I’m totally alone here with Theo; no one else knows where I am. Gabes’ face flashes into my mind. I push the image away again.
