by JL Merrow
“I’m sure it’s cruelty to cars, calling a Nissan that. Poor thing probably has an identity crisis. You know, actually, you ought to get a second car. Preferably one that looks like it was built this century. Then you can get one of those stickers that say My Other Car Is a Portia.”
“Be leaving the teaching profession for a career in stand-up any day now, will you?”
“You can mock. Ten years from now, you’ll be telling everyone you knew me before I was famous.”
“Somehow I feel certain there was a silent in before that last word.”
“Yeah, whatever. Are you seriously not going to finish that?”
Wordlessly, I passed her my plate.
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday morning, I got back from my run to hear my phone ringing plaintively from where I’d left it in the lounge. With a final burst of speed, I managed to dive onto the sofa and catch it just before it went to voice mail. It was Sean, and my heartbeat, which had previously been returning to normal after my exercise, struck up an odd pizzicato beat, allegro ma non troppo. “Hello?” I panted.
“Had to dash for the phone, did you?” His voice was warm and amused.
“Well, yes,” I said, trying to calm my breathing. “But I’ve just been out for a run, too. Literally just got in.”
“Bloody hell, that’s keen. I’ve only just got up.” My brain helpfully conjured up an image of Sean with sleep-tousled hair, of which other parts of me approved wholeheartedly. “Do you run every day?”
“God, no. I’m not that keen. Three or four times a week, that’s all.” I kicked off my trainers and put my feet up on the sofa.
“That’s a bit vague, for you.”
“Well…I run Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, and again sometime over the weekend if I’m not busy.”
“That sounds more like it. What sort of distance do you do?”
“Really not that far. Five miles at most, usually. It depends if there’s a good circular route. I was up around the golf course today.”
“Yeah? Managed to avoid the balls flying all over the place, then.”
“Don’t worry, I always wear very supportive underwear.” Oops. Was that a bit too risqué for this stage of…whatever this was?
Apparently not, from the sound of Sean’s laughter. “Anyway,” he said after a moment, “are you still up for doing something today? Thought I could maybe pop round your place about half past two.”
“Absolutely. I’ll look forward to it. Um, you’ll have had lunch by then?”
“Yeah, no worries. Right, I’d better go. I’ll see you this afternoon, okay?”
We hung up. I was smiling helplessly. Then I frowned. What, exactly, were we going to do this afternoon? Drink tea? Go out to a pub? Stay in and watch whatever minor-league football was still available to view on terrestrial television? Oh God, would he be disappointed I didn’t have satellite? No, that was ridiculous. Maybe he’d want to go to a pub to watch TV there? Still, whatever we were doing, I was fairly certain Sean would have warned me if my normal clothing would be in any way inappropriate.
Comforted by this thought, I went to shower and change. Once clean and dressed in proper attire, I decided to match my bow tie to my mood and swiftly knotted the orange one with the hot-air balloons on around my neck. Yes, that looked nicely jaunty. Sean, I thought, would approve.
I filled the time before half past two with a little light reading. I’d been meaning to delve into The Road to Wigan Pier for some time now, and it was, it transpired, quite rewarding, if a little repetitive. Orwell seemed inordinately fascinated by coal miners at their ablutions, dwelling in loving detail (and more than once) upon the spectacle of them washing off the coal dust to display, in his words, the splendour of their bodies. Or possibly that was just the part I myself found most arresting. At any rate, the book passed the time agreeably enough.
I splashed out on a roll from the baker’s for lunch, and before I knew it, I was listening for the gentle roar of Sean’s motorbike as if I were a child at Christmas straining for the sound of Santa’s sleigh bells. At least, if one believed Bing Crosby. Personally I thought today’s children were more attuned to the sound of parcels arriving from whatever online retailer their parents currently favoured.
Pretty much on the dot of half past two, my patience was rewarded with a knock on the door. When I flung it open, I was struck once again by Sean’s sheer physicality. He stood on the doorstep seeming to exude warmth, his tousled hair exerting a powerful magnetic pull on my fingers.
I smiled at him helplessly.
Sean smiled back. “You all right? Nice tie, by the way. I brought the spare helmet—thought maybe we could go for a ride?”
Some of the warmth his presence had engendered seemed to seep away as I fixed the bright blue monstrosity in his hand with a dubious eye. Like the helmet Sean wore, it was a full-face one with a darkened visor, the sort favoured by armed robbers of village post offices.
It was going to clash horribly with my bow tie. “Are you sure this is a good idea? I’ve never actually ridden a motorbike before. What if I do something idiotic and cause you to crash?”
Sean’s eyes widened. “Seriously, you’ve never been on the back of someone’s bike?”
“Well, no. Everyone I knew had cars.” I don’t know why I felt defensive of this fact.
“Right, that settles it. Come on, get your shoes on—and you’ll need a warm jacket and gloves too.” He tapped one booted foot with mock impatience on the doorstep, leaving me with no option but to comply.
Well, I could have shut the door in his face, I supposed. But that would have been rude. And besides, I didn’t want to. My hand hovered by my greatcoat—then moved on, as I was assailed by gruesome images of its tails getting caught in some vital component or even the wheels, bringing our little jaunt to an abrupt and messy end smeared across the tarmac. I selected my Barbour and shrugged it on, then turned to see Sean shaking his head in apparent amusement.
“Only you, mate. Only you.”
I frowned. “Mother gave me this last Christmas.”
“Yeah, but I bet she didn’t reckon you’d be wearing it on a motorbike. Nah, don’t worry, it’s great. Very you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said loftily, patting my pockets to ensure my gloves were inside.
He grinned and stepped through the door. “You should. Come here.”
I stepped forward, expecting him to straighten my tie or adjust my collar, and was caught by surprise when he kissed me. His lips and teeth were cold from the outside air, and I barely had time to taste a hint of coffee before he stepped back again, leaving me dizzily off balance and pleasantly out of breath.
“Right, I thought we’d have a bit of a ride and pop in on Debs for a cup of tea on the way back, if that’s okay? Don’t worry, the twins won’t be there—they’re off at a party this afternoon.”
I collected my scrambled thoughts as we went outside. “I wouldn’t have worried if they’d been there, you know.”
“Yeah? Thought you’d want to enjoy your last kid-free day in peace.”
“You know, I actually think I’m going to be glad to get back to work tomorrow,” I said, shutting the door behind me. “I’ve been missing class 2E, believe it or not. Of course, ask me again at lunchtime tomorrow and I may have a very different answer for you. But is your sister expecting us? I don’t want to put her out if not.”
“She won’t mind.” He hesitated. “You know I live there too, right?”
“Oh—no, I mean, I suppose that must be in the twins’ files, but I hadn’t… No. I didn’t realise.” Did I have my keys? I patted my pockets. Yes, yes, I did. Calm down, Emsy, it’s only a bike ride.
“Yeah, I moved in after Wes left. It didn’t make sense, keeping two places, seeing as I was round there all the time anyhow. I mean, she’d hav
e been better off with benefits and stuff without me living there, but I wasn’t going to keep my place on just so we could screw the system.” He smiled and shook his head. “First six months nearly killed me. I was walking around like a bloody zombie at work all day. It was all right once we got ’em sleeping through the night, though.”
“Your sister must have been so glad to have you around.” How many young men would have done the same? I wasn’t sure I would have. Then again, my stepsisters were all significantly older than I was and scarily self-sufficient to boot. The idea of me helping any of them out had always seemed rather laughable, but it was probably very different for twins.
Sean shrugged lopsidedly and stared at his handlebars. “Yeah, well. We’ve always been close, me and her.” He looked up. “Now are we going to get on this bike or what?”
Resisting the urge to say a plaintive what, I struggled into the helmet by way of reply.
Sean reached up to adjust it. “Okay. Can you still hear me?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice sounding muffled.
“Right.” Sean threw his leg over his bike and sat. “Just remember to hold on tight with your arms around my waist, and when we go round a corner, you lean with me, okay?”
“Okay.” I gave him a thumbs-up in case it hadn’t been clear.
“Just relax and enjoy it, all right? I’ve been riding bikes since I was sixteen. Had Wills and Harry on the back loads of times—not at the same time, though, in case you were worried.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, in an admittedly rather worried tone of voice. I tried to mimic Sean’s easy swing of the leg and managed to mount the bike behind him with only minor protestations from the groin area. “You know, I do have a car, if you wanted to go for a drive instead.”
Sean laughed. He probably thought I’d been joking. He started the engine, I wrapped my arms around his waist in sudden alarm, and then we were off.
It was absolutely exhilarating. Sean started off slow—the speed bumps in the centre of the village rather necessitated this—but when we crested the hill and open countryside was before us, he opened up the throttle. We zoomed down the road, the wind buffeting us. It was totally unlike driving Portia, even with her top down. I felt viscerally close to the throbbing engine underneath me, and to Sean, his body lean and hard against my arms and my chest. It was as if we were one; not so much as if Sean and I were upon the back of some great beast—I’d been horse-riding and it had, frankly, been nothing like this—but more as if we were the beast, all three of us. Men and machine in some bone-deep symbiosis.
Sean turned down a narrow lane. Leaning with him into the corner, I felt like I was putting my life in his hands—trusting him to know the limits of the engine and just how close to the ground we could come without disaster. It was thrillingly intimate. We passed farms, stables and the ubiquitous pubs, before coming out onto what passed for a main road around here, bordered on one side by the golf course and on the other by large houses with steep gables and ancient trees standing sentry over their well-kept gardens. We turned again, into the eerie, womb-like embrace of a holloway lane. Trees loomed over us, their branches meeting overhead in incestuous, half-naked tangles, and their shockingly bared roots at eye level. My stomach went into free fall as we crested a bridge over the river.
Down a parallel main road, then another turn into a road that was more track than lane. This time, we climbed steadily through farmers’ fields until we’d reached the horizon. The view was astonishing—down into the valley and beyond, where cotton-wool sheep grazed in fuzzy felt fields. In the village, St Saviour’s Church, so magnificent from close up, might have been liberated from the reception-class train set. Dotted around the fields were spinneys of gnarled trees whose autumn clothing brought to mind the burning bush of biblical legend. The air here was fresh and earthy, and the only cars I could see were matchbox-size ones trundling along the main road far below.
We pulled into the car park of a pub that stood in a tiny hamlet, only half a dozen houses in all. Sean killed the engine and turned back to me. “You okay?” His voice was muffled by his helmet—or possibly by mine—but audible.
My heart still pounded, and my blood was fizzing in my veins. “Absolutely. That was fantastic. Are we stopping for a drink?”
“Nah, not unless you’re gasping. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” His eyes crinkled up behind his visor. “You were holding on a bit tight for some of that.”
I flattened a little. “Oh God, sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I liked it. Okay, you ready for off? We’ll head over to see Debs now.”
I attempted a nod and narrowly missed banging our helmets together. “I’m ready.”
We set off again, hurtling down into the valley once more until we reached the main road. This time, Sean took the direct route, through the village, past church and school, crawling over the speed bumps and accelerating once we were past them. It felt like coming back to earth after a trip in a balloon.
The house Sean shared with his sister and nephews was small, modern and semidetached, situated squarely in the middle of a Toytown of identical houses that made up the Hillside council estate. It was, as the name suggested, perched atop the hill that bounded the village, the main road up which was known, imaginatively, as The Hill. As council estates went, I supposed it was rather nice; there was minimal graffiti on the bus stops and walls, and I couldn’t see a single boarded-up window. The children’s play area we’d passed en route was colourful and in good repair, the benches occupied not by alcoholics but by young mums watching their toddlers at noisy play.
Of course, for all I knew, the mothers could be alcoholics, but the only bottles in evidence contained formula milk, not gin.
“It’s not much,” Sean said apologetically after parking in the cracked concrete driveway and taking off his helmet. He ran a hand through his hair, reinforcing its usual irresistibly tousled aspect.
“Have you and your sister always lived in the village?” I asked, having dismounted from the bike and freed myself from my own headgear. I ran a hand through my hair, then patted it back down again as best I could. I had a strong feeling tousled wouldn’t be nearly as good a look on me as it was on Sean. “I mean, I know your family is from around here, but did you ever live anywhere else for a bit?”
“Nah, I’m a Shamwell lad born and bred.” He shrugged. “Thought about moving when Debs got married, but I couldn’t see the point. And once Wes buggered off, well…”
I nodded. “She must have been glad of the help with the twins.”
It came out sounding a little awkward, and Sean seemed embarrassed too. “Yeah, well. ’S family, innit?” He unlocked the door. “Debs? I’m back.”
He ushered me through a narrow hallway strewn with muddy boots to a small, squarish living room. It was already occupied. Mrs. Curtis—Debs, I supposed I should start thinking of her as—lifted her gaze from the television, and I faltered at the cold expression on her pale, tired face. Perhaps I’d stick with calling her Mrs. Curtis after all.
“Hey, Debs.” Sean put his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder. “You remember Rob, don’t you?”
She raised an unfriendly eyebrow. “Rob, is it? Bet your mum never calls you that. You’re slumming it a bit, hanging around with a rat-catcher, aren’t you?”
“Debs…” Sean said warningly, saving me from the impossible task of coming up with an answer that wouldn’t offend either of them. “Be nice.”
“You be nice. I’ve had it up to here with sodding nice.”
Sean’s sigh warmed my ear. It was almost enough to make up for his sister’s frigid reception. “Rough day?”
“Meaning?” she snapped.
“Meaning you were all right this morning, so it looks like something’s happened since I went out.”
“For God’s sake
. Men! Why does there always have to be a bloody reason for everything?” She stood up and stomped out of the room. From the kettle-filling sounds coming from the kitchen across the hall, I guessed she was making tea. Presumably, then, we were supposed to stay?
Sean and I looked at each other. “Shit,” he said. “Look, don’t take it personally, right? Sometimes she just gets days like this. I’ll see if she wants a hand.”
“No, let me.” I couldn’t bear the haunted look in his eyes.
“I’m not sure that’s—”
“I’ll be fine,” I said firmly, and strode into the kitchen.
Mrs. Curtis—Debs—was blowing her nose on a piece of kitchen roll.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“I’m not dead yet.” She didn’t quite look me in the eye. “I can manage a cup of tea.”
“Ah, but many hands make light work, as I’m always telling 2E at tidy-up time. Although come to think of it, most of the time many hands just make even more of a mess.” Spotting a fridge, I got out the milk. “Mugs?”
“I’ll get them.” She did so, hesitated for a moment, then reached to the back of the cupboard and got out a china teapot. “There’s some loose tea in the cupboard by your head. I won it on the tombola at the school summer fair and never got around to using it. You look like the sort who likes loose tea.”
“And loose men,” Sean’s voice came from behind me as I ferreted in the cupboard, eventually coming out victorious, holding a cellophane-wrapped box of English Breakfast.
“Better hope I don’t get them mixed up when I’m pouring on boiling water,” I said drily, turning.
“Ouch.” Sean moved his hand protectively in front of his groin. His sister, surprisingly, smiled.
She watched me fumbling unsuccessfully with the cellophane for a moment. “Come on, give it here.”
I surrendered the tea. The kettle had boiled by this time, so I set about warming the pot to prove I wasn’t totally useless, then refilled the kettle with fresh water and set it on to boil again. In no time at all (well, seven minutes actually; the kettle could have done with a good descaling) we were sitting down in the living room with our mugs of tea. Debs was curled up in the armchair she’d been occupying on our arrival, while Sean and I took the sofa, sitting with a two-inch buffer zone between us. I wasn’t sure if it was his subconscious or mine that had been responsible for this.
