The further I walk the older the buildings become. Clearly the village has been added to over the decades and by the time I reach the top of the high street the architecture doesn’t look real anymore. Surely, I must have accidentally walked onto a film set. I’ve never been anywhere like this before. I know, obviously, that parts of England are old, very old, and I’ve seen pictures from rellies or on TV. I appreciate I’ve only been in the country for one day, and that arriving into an international airport, driving up a motorway and arriving at a modern office block, I would not have expected to have gained a real sense of the place yet, but standing here, having just reached the top of the high street, I am captivated. It’s as if I’ve been instantly transported back in time three or four hundred years. Higgledy piggledy brick buildings, sit amongst white washed homes. Small windows filled with tiny criss-crossed panes of glass hide snugly under brightly tiled roofs. Nothing lines up, nothing is straight, and everything looks as if it might just tumble down at any moment. I half expect people in period dress to appear from the houses, and mount their horses, before trotting off to start their business of the day.
Further down the high street in the centre of the road is a building, the kind of which, I’ve never seen anything like before. Standing proudly on its own in the middle of the road and raised a full storey height from the ground on 15 stone pillars and with an open ground floor, whitewashed walls on the second storey sit under an old grey tiled roof. What is most interesting is the geometric patterns of the dark, presumably English oak timber beams embedded deep but still visible within its walls, which look both essential to its construction as well as pleasing to the eye. Clearly old, I wonder how old this building actually is and what purpose it’s served in the past. Perhaps a gaol, or a town hall. It certainly looks official and as if it has been around for centuries, possibly even as far back as Shakespeare. The fact that I can be this close to something this old is mind-blowing to me.
Obviously in NZ we have a strong Māori culture that pre-dates any European influences, but this is the first time I’ve seen anything Olde English and first-hand. I can now appreciate Mum’s fascination with ancestry and English Royalty when it’s so easy to be this close to history. When you can simply walk the streets and be amongst it.
I meander down the high street, taking my time to peek into quirky shop windows, even though the shops are still shut, and not due to open for another couple of hours yet. I look through the window of the obvious local gift shop, the hairdresser’s, the butcher’s, the bottle shop and of course the classic British fish and chip shop, or as we would pronounce back home “fush ‘n’ chps”. “Fush ‘n’ chps” being the classic phrase most people say to take the piss out of Kiwis, when attempting to copy our accent.
I spot a man coming out of a shop just up ahead. Realising that this must be a dairy, or what the English call a ‘newsagent’, the only shop open at this early hour, I head there. Grabbing a fresh orange juice from the fridge, an apple from a basket on the counter, a copy of the Autotrader and The Financial Times, so I can keep an eye on the exchange rates, I hand the shopkeeper a crisp £50-pound note.
He raises his eyes and asks, “You haven’t got anything smaller, mate, have you?”
“No, sorry,” I reply.
“Now where’s that accent from, you’re clearly not from round here?”
“New Zealand, mate. Just arrived yesterday. Catching up with family and planning on doing some travelling over the summer.”
“Excellent. Well, welcome to Wiltshire. I hope you enjoy your time here.”
“So far, so good. By the way … what’s that interesting building over there? The one raised up on pillars. It looks real old,” I ask, hoping he can shed some light on my hungry curiosity.
“I assume you mean The Old Town Hall. Yeah, it was built way back in the late 1600s. It has a small museum inside where you can learn more about it and the history of the town. It also used to be a gaol for drunks at one point. It’s a pretty well-known landmark in these parts. Although to be fair, there is lots of history in this part of the world, it’s not hard to immerse yourself in it - if that’s your thing. Best day to come back and have a look inside is Wednesdays when the market is on. The museum is only open a couple of days a week. It’s staffed by volunteers you see.”
“That’s great, thanks for that. Sorry I’ve eaten up all of your change.”
“Not to worry,” he replies, handing me a mountain of change, a mix of notes and coins, together with my purchases in a plastic bag, which seems strange. We have paper ones back home.
“See ya later,” I say, as I leave the shop and retrace my steps back to Mellie’s. I walk in the door just as the girls are stirring and we all gather in the kitchen.
“Morning,” Mellie says. “Sleep well?”
“Yeah. Like a log. Although I think I could have slept on a washing line after the 24 hours of travelling beforehand. I was absolutely goosed.”
“What do you fancy for breakfast? We’ve got cereal, fruit, toast or I could make you a quick bacon sandwich,” Mellie asks.
“Ooo... bacon sarnie please.” Despite the apple I ate on the walk back I’ve been awake for a couple of hours now and I’ve just realised how hungry I am.
“Ok, take a seat then. One bacon sandwich coming up.” She plonks a cup of tea on the kitchen table on the opposite side to where Vicky is already sitting quietly munching on her breakfast of fruit and yogurt. She smiles as I sit down opposite her.
Still in their PJs and dressing gowns, I realise how nice this feels. Since Mellie left for the UK and it’s just been me and Mum at home, I can’t remember the last time I just hung out and had a casual breakfast with people my own age. Being the last one of my siblings at home it’s been an adjustment going from living in the noise and chaos of a family of six, to just me and Mum.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you last night?” Vicky asks. “I came down in the night for a glass of water. I tried to tip-toe quietly past so as not to wake you.”
“No, not at all. Like I said, I was out for the count.” I resist the urge to add, “but next time don’t feel you need to be so quiet. I wouldn’t mind at all if you woke me up”- Mellie’s warning still ringing in my ears.
The conversation turns to the weekend and the logistics of what needs to be sorted, organised, collected, prepped and cooked in time for the barbecue on Saturday. I share my plans to acquire some wheels before heading down to Grandpa and Grandma’s, coming back on Friday night so I can help set up and ready things for Saturday. Mellie gives me the spare key she’s had cut for me, then the girls head upstairs to their respective rooms to get ready for work. Meanwhile I gather my things and prepare to head out. Vicky is on the slightly later shift today, so she’s offered to drop me off in the centre of Swindon before she heads to the office, so I can start my search for wheels.
Driving me into town it’s the first time we’ve been alone together since I arrived. The fact that she’s driving and needs to keep her eyes on the road ahead gives me an excuse to study her profile which I find absolutely mesmerising. A kind, oval face, pale complexion, unusual green eyes, full, plump and very kissable lips, all framed by shoulder-length long, blonde, straight hair. She talks to me about her relationship with her own maternal grandparents. Apparently, she only ever had a relationship with the grandparents on her mother’s side, she’s not explained why but she talks very animatedly about her grandfather who sadly died just last year, but whom it sounds like she absolutely idolised. So now there’s just one grandparent left who she refers to as ‘her granny’. This granny sounds like an amazing woman and I find myself hoping I have the opportunity to meet this matriarch of her family someday. We reach the agreed drop-off point in town, park up and Vicky turns towards me.
“Have a great few days at your grandparents, I’m sure they’ll be as excited to see you as you are them. It is really great you’re here, Chris,” she says sincerely, turning to face me having now parked up he
r car. “I know how much it means to Mellie and the rest of your family for you to have taken the time to come over and visit.”
She leans across and gives me a brief hug, the smell of her perfume involuntarily invading my nostrils, causing me to inhale her scent deeply. The smell is that of a classic fragrance, not one I’m familiar with but as I’m learning very quickly, everything about Vicky is classic and refined, so I expect her perfume will be too. I make a mental note to find out which one it is, as I’d like to think I will have the opportunity to buy it for her someday.
“See you Friday … don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she says as I step out of the car.
“Well that rules out nothing then,” I reply, giving her a quick wink, noticing the twinkle in her own eye as she momentarily locks eye contact with me.
I end up hiring a VW Golf for the week as I realise all the decent bargains from the weekly Autotrader have long gone and I refuse to pay the additional margin that would be applied by the second-hand dealers in town. I must remember to buy the next edition of Autotrader first thing on Thursday morning.
***
After a lovely couple of days with my grandparents - whom I haven’t seen for over five years since they last visited New Zealand – during which they’ve done their very best to fatten me up with wedges of cake, buttered scones, and lots more English home cooking, all served up with lashings of love and buckets of tea, I arrive back in Wootton Bassett at 8pm on Friday night.
The sound of music escaping from the open windows greets my return as I pull onto the drive and cut the car engine. As well as Vicky’s French heap of junk, the driveway also now houses a parked white Lotus Elan and I raise my eyebrows as I ponder who the owner of it might be.
Using my key, I sing-song, “Hi honey I’m home” as I walk through the living room, tossing my keys into the bowl on the side as I head into the kitchen where I find Mellie singing away, completely out of tune, rubber gloves on, cloth and detergent spray in hand, vigorously cleaning the kitchen. She hasn’t noticed my arrival, so rather than disturb her groove, I sneak up behind her and join in the chorus of George Michael’s ‘Faith’ at the absolute top of my voice. She jumps out of her skin, turning round and giving me a playful thump on the side on my arm.
“Bloody hell, Chris. You gave me the shock of my life,” dropping the cloth and spray onto the drainer and giving me a hug. “How are grandpa and grandma?”
“Sweet as - still in in great shape, considering their ages. Grandpa is as sharp as a bell and grandma just wanted to fatten me up. I think we had a slice of cake for afters with every meal. Anyway. How’s the rest of your week been?”
“Busy. And we only have to get through this list,” she pulls out a folded A4 piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. Holding the corner, she shakes it so that it unfolds in full “...before 2pm tomorrow afternoon … then I can stop to have a much-needed drink.” I can see the paper contains a very long list of tasks and only a handful appear to have been crossed off or have names next to them.
“Actually, it’s good you’re back,” she scans the list, clearly looking for things to delegate to me. “Before you get settled, would you mind popping to the train station to collect Michelle? She’s due in from Paddington at 8.30pm. That would be a great help, thanks.”
“No problem.”
“Where’s Vicky?” I ask, nonchalantly, despite the fact that she’s been invading my psyche over the past few days. An image of her permanently etched in my mind since we very first met.
“Upstairs cleaning the bathroom. We flipped a coin over who does the bathroom or the kitchen - she lost,” Mellie chuckles.
As if on cue, Vicky walks through the kitchen door behind me, wearing only casual tracksuit bottoms and a crisp white t-shirt, hair tied up in a loose ponytail, yet still managing to look stylish. She smiles widely as she clocks my return and I feel a warmth radiate from her and physically penetrate into me, like rays of sunshine landing on your face on a crisp winter’s day.
“Hey, Chris,” she says, casually giving me a friendly hug and sending an instant electric bolt of lust shooting through my body. “Did you have a nice time at your grandparents? It must have been lovely seeing them after such a long time?”
“Yes, it was lovely ... but I’m also glad to be back here. I’m looking forward to a fun-filled weekend with my girls,” I say throwing my arms around both of them giving them a mutual hug. Mellie on my left and Vicky on my right.
My unconscious comment and actions didn’t feel boorish a second earlier, but I realise as soon as the words have escaped my mouth, the intimation of having used the pronoun ‘my’ to describe the both of them. Mellie may be my sister, but I definitely don’t ‘own’ Vicky, who is diplomatically disentangling herself from me. A slight hint of a raised eyebrow on her beautiful face as she brushes past me, out the back door and into the garden.
“Yes - I expect it will be good fun,” she adds as a throwaway comment, looking back over her shoulder - the distance between us having been firmly established.
I watch her leave and embrace a blonde-haired bloke, who’s dressed in preppy jeans, a dark blue wool jumper over a pink coloured cotton shirt. He has his sleeves rolled up and is wearing a frilly pink kitchen pinny, tied around the back of his neck and behind his waist. Mellie has obviously delegated the task of scrubbing the barbecue clean to him. Attempting to avoid making it obvious as I stare out of the kitchen window, I watch the two of them as they exchange in easy conversation. Vicky is laughing at something he’s just said, lightly placing one hand on his chest, the other covering her mouth, her head thrown back in laughter. I feel a rush of envy flood my body as I watch her making conversation with this guy. The throbbing inside my shorts confirming how much I really want to make her mine.
“I assume that’s the wanker with the car?” I say to Mellie who has returned to cleaning the hob behind me.
“That’s Jeremy,” neither confirming or denying my assumption as to his character, “Vicky’s boyfriend. Go and introduce yourself … BUT, Chris,” she says turning round and grabbing my forearm with her still rubber-gloved hand, “... play nice. He’s very good for Vicky and just what she needs right now. Someone to be nice to her.”
“And why would I be anything but…” I respond, grabbing a bottle of Coke from the fridge, and taking a swig before heading outside, leaving Mellie wondering whether I meant why would I not be nice to Vicky if I was her boyfriend or whether I meant I’ll simply be nice to Jeremy as I go and introduce myself.
“Hi. You must be Jeremy.” I extend my hand towards him. “I’m Chris, Melanie’s brother.”
“Oh, hi” he says in return, “very nice to meet you. I had heard you were coming over to the UK for the summer. I hope our famous British weather doesn’t disappoint and you get the chance to see everything you want to without getting wet,” he says as he shakes my hand.
I almost recoil instinctively as he takes my hand and returns my firm grip with the limpest, wettest, sloppiest dishcloth-like effort of a handshake. It takes a conscious effort to stop myself from wiping my hand down the side of my shorts as if trying to wipe wet, cold slime off my palm.
What a total dick, I think to myself, and I bet he also has a really small dick. I add in my mind, as I resist an uncontrollable urge to land a completely unprovoked punch square onto the end of his nose. I’ve never felt anything as powerful or unexpected as this before, but there is just something about him that makes me want to push him over, like we are kids back in a kindergarten playground, and he’s monopolising the toy that I want to play with.
A square face, with very close-set eyes, blonde, slightly curly but receding hair, so that he almost has a breakaway triangular island at the front of his hairline and an exceptionally posh English accent, I decide with absolutely certainty that he looks and sounds like a first-class dick. Mustering all of my self-control I manage to remain polite, however.
“So far, all I’ve had is sunshine, no sig
n at all of the famous English rain that everyone keeps warning me about. I expect it will piss down at some point, though. Hopefully not tomorrow. That might put a real dampener on things,” I say out loud, when what I’m actually thinking is, you’re the one who will put a real dampener on things tomorrow. For me at least.
Vicky is standing to the right side of ‘this’ Jeremy while we greet each other with this nonsensical banter, observing the obvious physical posturing going on between us.
“Well if you’ll excuse me, I’d better head off and go and collect my sister from the train. See you all later. Jeremy. Vicky,” I say to each of them in turn before heading back through the house, collecting my keys from the bowl and stepping out the front door, slamming it loudly as I leave.
Who is this guy and what on earth does Vicky see in him? It looks like he might have some money, or at least come from money but a small sports car, a smart pair of jeans and a plummy British accent doesn’t necessarily mean that. Looks can be deceiving and I’d like to think that Vicky has more depth than to be with someone just for their bank balance. But regardless, he looks like a complete jerk. A total wet blanket. Like he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag if he had to. Surely, she’d want to be with someone stronger, someone who can protect her, someone more masculine than him. But hey, who am I to judge. I might find Vicky attractive, but I know nothing about her, or her likes or dislikes. At least not yet.
The thought of them in bed together makes me want to vomit. I can imagine him all knees and elbows and full of overly apologetic ‘Britishness’, accidentally whacking her across the face with a stray elbow as he attempts to climb on top of her, profusely apologising again before completing the act. Despite how relaxed she looked with him just now, I just can’t imagine her being attracted to him, at least not in that way.
Belonging: Two hearts, two continents, one all-consuming passion. (Victoria in Love Book 1) Page 8
