by Frances Vick
‘Akvavit,’ Ruth told him. ‘We got a taste for it on the cruise. We’ve got wine if you prefer though?’
‘No. I’ll soldier on.’ He took another sip. ‘In the end it was just me, Jen and David something. Crane?’
‘You mean Catherine’s son?’ Ruth asked. ‘The house by the green?’
Freddie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Tall, dark, handsome. About our age. He looks after his mother?’
‘Yes, that’ll be him. Was he at the funeral? I didn’t see him. How was he?’ Ruth seemed oddly excited.
‘Nice boy, from what I recall. Nice boy.’ Graham came in with a bag of Kettle chips and sat down with a sigh.
‘He always was a lovely boy.’ Ruth nodded. ‘Especially considering… Well, you know.’
‘Ruthy…’ sighed Graham.
‘I know what?’ Freddie leaned forward.
Ruth frowned at her husband. ‘Graham, it’s not gossip if it’s old news! It was years ago, now.’
‘Still…’
‘Catherine had that friend staying with them. Lived in some sort of granny flat in the garden. He looked like – oh, who’s that man? Dick Van Dyke! Like him, white hair, distinguished sort of. And he had a phony accent too – not Maori Parpins awful, but Michael Caine in Zulu awful.’
Freddie nodded sagely. ‘That was a terrible accent.’
‘What was his name, Graham?’
Graham coughed, answered unwillingly. ‘Tony.’
‘Tony! Yes! Well, he had some kind of house at the end of their garden, and he and Catherine used to spend all their time together, drank the pub dry on quiz nights – they both thought they were very knowledgeable, you know the type. Shouting out the answers, stage whispers. All that.’
‘Got the answers wrong most of the time too,’ murmured Graham.
‘So, what, were they having an affair?’ Freddie asked.
‘Oh come on—’ Graham growled.
‘No. Well, I always thought he was gay, but who knows? Maybe he made an exception for Catherine.’ Ruth poured herself another drink. ‘Anyway, one day the flat – or shed, or whatever it was he lived in – burned down.’
‘Oh my god, what?’ Freddie poured himself another drink too. ‘So what happened to him?’
‘He survived, but still. Catherine put about the story that it was an accident with a gas stove or something, but I remember there was talk about petrol,’ Ruth said significantly.
Graham rolled his eyes and put the bottle on the other end of the table, out of Ruth’s reach. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Ruth,’ he murmured.
‘We worried about David at the time. There was so much gossip, and he always seemed to be a very sensitive boy. Can’t have been easy for him, with the whole village talking about his mother that way. Did he seem well?’
‘He seemed fine. What’s wrong with his mother?’ Freddie asked. ‘He mentioned she was sick, but I didn’t want to ask.’
‘Dementia? Rebecca at the Rose and Crown said it was dementia. Or Parkinson’s. One of the two. David stopped working to look after her full-time, not that he needed to work anyway, family money, you know. And Catherine too – she came from money. Though why they’d live here with all their money is beyond me.’
‘He’s been ill too, you know.’ Freddie sipped his drink with a grimace. ‘He had a stroke.’
‘Oh, I never heard that. Did you hear that Graham?’ Graham pursed his lips and shook his head ever so slightly. ‘Recently?’
‘No, when he was fifteen or sixteen. He had a hole in his heart. Ended up having to miss GCSEs and everything.’
‘Lord. That would be around the time of the fire.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘He’s really been through the mill that boy, hasn’t he?’
‘I think he likes Jenny.’ Freddie smiled.
‘Well, she could do a lot worse by the sound of it,’ replied Ruth.
‘He’s… he’s really calm. Gentlemanish,’ Freddie said.
‘You approve of him?’
‘I do.’ He poured himself another akvavit. ‘He seems lovely.’
That night, with a few more akvavits under his belt, Freddie found David on Facebook. His profile picture showed him looking relaxed, smiling. From the angle it was taken, it looked like a selfie. On the wall behind him, only half in shot, was a framed picture… One tanned arm in a splash of sunlight, a small hand resting on a fold of material, blue, patterned with stars. It felt familiar. Where had he seen that before? It was probably a print of something famous, a Klimt thing? There was something pleasingly whimsical about someone as solid as David having a soft spot for visionary art. It made him seem even sweeter. Smiling, Freddie wrote:
Hi David. Lovely to meet you today, even though it was under horrible circumstances! I can’t thank you enough for all the support you’ve offered Jenny. Anyway, hopefully we can all meet up soonish? Freddie
Then he pressed return. A minute later David replied.
Very nice to meet you too, and thanks for the kind words about Jenny. I didn’t really do much, but I’m glad what I did do was helpful. She’s a very special girl. I’m not on FB much, but occasionally I check messages, and thankfully today was one of those days! Friend request sent, and yes, we should all meet up again soon. Cheers! D
Everything about this reply – so modest, polite and charming – pleased Freddie enormously. It seemed odd that someone as solid and grown-up as David should be friends with the skittish, extreme-sport-loving Ryan Needham. But then Freddie was still ‘friends’ with lots of fools he’d met over the years, too. People he no longer had anything in common with, people who posted and liked faintly embarrassing things, people who verged into racism whenever there was a terrorist attack…
Against his better judgement, he started scrolling through David’s friends (205 – a decent amount, but not too many, indicating that he actually knew all these people in real life), until he found Ryan Needham. Here was the profile picture of him in snowboarding gear. The same motivational memes on his semi-private wall. He was a bit of a wanker, Ryan, he really was, and wasn’t he getting a little bit too old for all this intrepid stuff? Free diving. Rock climbing. Triathlons. Fitness was all very well, but… Freddie looked at Ryan, gazed down at his own burgeoning stomach, looked at Ryan again, realised he was considering messaging him, remembered how much akvavit he’d had, and shut the computer. Jenny was right; he really didn’t need to fall into that hole again.
In the morning, he noticed that David had taken down his cute profile picture and not replaced it. Now he was just a blank silhouette.
16
You Can’t Go Home Again
Hi guys!
Long time, no post. I am fine though – thanks for all your messages. It’s been three weeks since the funeral; three weeks since I had to move out of my home and give it back to the council, and I have to admit, I shed a few tears over that. The house was a sanctuary for me and Mum; in a very real sense, it saved our lives. It’s fitting for it to go to another needy family. I hope it works the same magic for them as it did for us.
So now I’m engaging with the world again. I found the perfect flat – not too far from college, not too far from the city centre, and not too far from my therapist (all bases are covered!). The rent is a bit steep, but that’s what you get for trading up – I have one flatmate rather than five like I did in the last house. It’s clean, it’s warm, it suits me down to the ground. My college has been AMAZINGLY supportive too. With everything that happened I let my coursework drop, and I didn’t get round to organising a work placement, which I have to do to pass the course. I called my tutor yesterday, all apologies, fully expecting him to say they’d thrown me off the course altogether, but he said that they not only wanted me to stay, they had recommended me for a placement with an amazing organisation. It’s like the best placement I could have hoped for! Obviously I can’t mention the name, but it’s a charity dedicated to helping people cope with trauma, and this couldn’t have come at a better time for me. When I put the
phone down I cried with happiness!
I’m still in a dark place, but, with the help of you guys, college staff, friends and family, I’m fashioning a ladder out of the pit. I can’t let my own traumatic experiences hold me back any more.
I want to talk a little about the importance of openness. So many of us have been brought up – trained really – to hide our emotions, to put others first come what may, and stifle our own. As a result of this conditioning, being genuinely open feels very, very strange. I feel a mixture of intense vulnerability and guilt when I realise I’m reliant on someone.
Of course I’m entirely open and honest in this blog, that goes without saying, but, it’s easier because it’s a step removed from real life. I can’t see your faces as I spill my fears; I can’t project boredom and disdain onto you; I can stop and run away for a while if I have a sudden attack of anxiety. In person, though? I censor myself. I try to earn love by being ‘useful’, ‘kind’, ‘reliable’ and ‘a good listener’. Selflessness is the currency I use to buy acceptance and avoid rejection.
Since Mum’s funeral though, I’ve been experimenting with *drum roll* self-confidence! I’m trying to talk, honestly, to people, knowing it will be frightening, knowing I’ll feel guilty, knowing I might run the risk of alienating them, but doing it anyway. For example, before Mum’s funeral, a family member demanded that I give her ALL of Mum’s furniture, including the TV. Now, I’d already promised to give the furniture to a homeless charity, and the TV? You know what? I wanted to keep it because I don’t actually own one myself. But, what did I say? ‘Oh yes, of course, I’ll help you get it all in a van. Even better, why don’t I help PAY for the van?’
Today I had a mini epiphany. I called her and said, ‘Actually I want to keep the TV and a few other things.’ And I waited. And I didn’t apologise. And she huffed and puffed, but I just repeated, calmly, respectfully, that I wanted to keep some things. No backtracking, no compromising, just honesty. And you know what? The sky didn’t fall in. I didn’t have a panic attack. Even if this family member hates me now, that’s her problem, not mine.
I AM NOT A BAD PERSON FOR PUTTING ME FIRST.
That’s what I want to leave you with today. Write it down, on your hand, spell it out in fridge magnets, send yourself an email – do whatever you want to tell yourself that today, OK? You are important. You deserve a space in the world. You can come first.
Jay XOXO
17
Freddie looked around the spartan kitchen, the pictureless walls. ‘What’s your flatmate called again?’
‘Matt.’
‘So, isn’t Matt here much?’
‘No. I barely see him. It’s a bit weird. And I don’t have Claudine, now either.’
‘Oh no, what happened?’ Freddie asked: ‘She’s not sick?’
‘Oh, she’s fine, it’s just I signed the tenancy here without really thinking about how it’s not good to keep a cat in a flat, and it turns out that Matt’s allergic to cats anyway, so David’s looking after her. I really miss her though. God, I’m never happy, am I? The last house was too crowded and grotty, this one’s too quiet and clean. I can’t afford to keep a cat; I miss my cat.’ She grimaced and made a little ‘boo hoo’ gesture with her fists close to her eyes.
‘I still don’t know why you don’t you just move in with me,’ Freddie said. ‘Tyler’s contract will be up soon.’ Tyler was Freddie’s Christian lodger. Their relationship was so polite it was painful, and Freddie was counting the days until he left to go back to Canada.
Jenny sighed. ‘I signed a year’s tenancy though.’
‘Well, I can lend you the money to get out of that, just—’
‘No, Fred. You can’t lend me any more money. I won’t take it, and then you’ll just get angry, and you’re terrifying when you’re angry. You’re like the Hulk. But ginger.’ She passed him a beer. ‘Take this. It’s my way of controlling you.’
‘It just seems stupid.’ Freddie was serious. ‘You’re living somewhere you don’t like, and I’m living with someone I don’t like. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘You’re getting pinker,’ she said soberly. ‘Your clothes are starting to rip.’
‘Stop it, I’m serious.’
‘Well, so am I. Fred, it’s about time I grew up. I can’t live like a student or sponge off my best friend. It’s not right. It-it isn’t the way I want to live my life. That’s all.’ She took a sip of beer in a decided way. ‘Anyway, if I lived with you, you’d see what a slut I am. Men – twenty-four hours a day. It’d sicken you if you had to live with that. I almost sicken myself.’
‘Speaking of men,’ Freddie said, ‘have you seen anything of David lately? Apart from cat-related meetings, I mean.’
She hesitated.
Freddie watched the play of expression on her face, sincerity battling brittle sarcasm.
‘We’ve been to the cinema a few times,’ she said shortly.
‘What, like a date?’ Freddie’s tone was teasing.
‘No.’ Jenny blushed. ‘We just like the same movies, that’s all.’
‘What did you go and see with him?’ Freddie asked.
‘The new Ryan Gosling one?’
‘OK, let me tell you something– there’s no way he’d voluntarily watch a Ryan Gosling movie if he wasn’t properly into you!’ Freddie said.
‘You like Ryan Gosling though! We went to see La La Land together,’ Jenny said.
‘No. I fancy Ryan Gosling. I suffered through La La Land. There’s a difference,’ Freddie told her. ‘OK, so cinema? Anything else?’
Jenny went to the kitchen to get another beer. ‘A couple of meals out!’ she called back.
‘Ha! You see? Oh, get me another one too. No, wait, actually no. Calories.’
She came back into the living room looking pensive. ‘But it’s not, you know, anything…’
‘Why not? Why isn’t it anything?’
‘He’s nice…’ Jenny drifted to the table, fiddled with a stack of Matt’s cycling magazines.
‘Look, just sit down. I’m not going to give up, so you might as well be comfortable.’ Freddie patted the sofa seat next to him. ‘Talk to me.’
‘He’s solid. He’s a grown-up. He’s been through a lot – you know, the stroke, his dad dying, his mum getting so ill. But even though he has so many of his own problems to deal with he always makes room for me. Drops me a text most mornings to check in, wants to hear about the course. All that. It’s…’ She shook her head, and her smile was puzzled. ‘I don’t know what to make of it.’
‘What’s that mean?’ Freddie frowned. ‘I mean, is he weird about it or…?’
‘No. No, I don’t think so, but then I wouldn’t know because I’ve never met anyone who’s wanted to look after me. Apart from you. That sounds really self-pitying, I know, but it’s true. It’s…. a novelty.’
‘Novelty?’
‘No, not a novelty – that was the wrong word, because it’s not like I’m going to get sick of it, it’s more…’ She made a vague gesture. ‘Anyway, he’ll probably get bored of me soon. I’d get bored of me soon.’
‘Well that’s just stupid,’ Freddie said firmly. ‘What’s wrong with being taken care of, being kept safe? And what happened to this “Putting Yourself First” thing?’
‘Oh, you read that?’
‘Of course I did, and it was great to read. I didn’t know Maraid asked for everything. That’s fucked up.’
‘Well, I didn’t want to…’
‘I mean, everything though? She seemed all right at the funeral. A bit—’
‘Terrifying?’
‘No. Which was surprising after everything you’ve told me about her. More… quiet. Self-contained.’
‘That’s what they say about serial killers: “Nice man, kept himself to himself”.’ She sat down with a sigh. ‘She knows how to do things on the sly. She’s clever that way.’
‘Are you not worried she’ll read your blog? Come gunning for you?’
‘Anyway, it was good to read the whole “Put Yourself First” thing, it really was, but now you’re talking like that’s just something you wrote, not something you really believe.’
Jenny said hesitantly: ‘I… do believe it. I mean, I did when I wrote that piece. I felt very strongly about it. But then, you know, all your insecurities come back, and you think: “Oh, he just feels sorry for me”.’
‘So you’re doing exactly what you said you weren’t doing: you’re telling your blog audience to believe in themselves and value themselves and all that, but you’re not following your own advice. Why not invite him round for a beer now?’
Jenny looked alarmed. ‘Now? He lives miles away! That will just make me seem weird.’
‘OK then, how about this: invite him over for a meal? No cinema, or restaurant. Nothing to distract you from the agonising terror of Being Alone With Someone You Like.’ He smiled.
‘Well, when you put it like that.’ Jenny glanced around the room. ‘Here though? It’s a bit… grim. Bare.’
‘Well, put some pictures up! Make the place your own! I’ll help you with that. Do what you want to feel like it’s your place and then invite him round.’
‘Right, and I’ll wear a cocktail dress, and cook a roast and when I take off my glasses and take my hair down he’ll say “But Miss Holloway… you’re… you’re beautiful!”’
‘You’re not going to get out of this by being snarky.’ Freddie took both her hands and looked very seriously into her eyes. ‘Do you like him?’ She nodded, avoiding his gaze. ‘Then show that you like him! He’s really nice!’
She nodded again, smiled. ‘I know.’
‘And he really likes you. Call him! Set it up.’
She frowned. ‘No. I’ll-I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll meet him for a coffee some time. I need to give him some information on a carers’ group that might be—’
