‘That’s lovely.’
Nick gets back later than usual, staying at the office to make up the hours he missed the day before. I’ll wait to eat with him, feed the boys first. While the pair of them watch television and Isaac draws herons and pterodactyls over and over again, I go up to strip Lori’s bed.
The carpet is littered with scraps of paper, items of clothing, spent matches and torn Rizla packets. Several dirty cups stand on her bedside table, with a half-empty bottle of Coca-Cola and biscuit wrappers. I can smell the perfume she wears – Marc Jacobs’s Daisy that we got her for Christmas. The room is decorated in the deep green she chose a few years ago and one wall is a collage of photographs. Some of her own and others from magazines and websites. She’s built it up, sticking the pictures on with glue, and it now fills the whole wall. There’s never been any theme to it, as far as I know. It’s a mix of portraits, landscapes, nature photography and action scenes. I find it too busy, overwhelming the space, but it’s not my space. Not yet. If she moves out when she’s back from her travels then maybe we’ll redecorate. See what she wants to do with the photos. They’ll have to be stripped off the wall and they’ll likely be damaged in the process.
Finn and Isaac are happy with the bunk beds for now but eventually I think they’ll want their own rooms – at least, Isaac will. Before then it’ll be nice to have a guest room. But who knows what Lori will choose to do? Her plans extend only as far as Christmas when her travels end and it’ll be back to the harsh realities of job-hunting in a recession.
‘You got her text?’ The first thing Nick says when he gets back.
‘Yes.’
He studies me for a moment.
‘I’m OK. Just getting used to it. Hate goodbyes. And after my mum . . .’ The sadness is still there, close to the surface.
He nods, gives a small smile. ‘They asleep?’
‘Yes. And Isaac wants to know what feathers are made of. I’ll leave that one to you, something an environmental engineer should know.’
‘We know everything.’
I fetch the salad from the fridge, dole out lasagne. Nick pours wine.
‘She might not live here again,’ I say.
‘Jo, you said that when she went to Glasgow. If she moves out, new phase,’ he says, ‘that’s life.’ He raises his glass. ‘To life.’
I share the toast, comforted by his reassurance.
CHAPTER THREE
‘And how is Tom?’ Nick says.
It’s a few days later. We’ve not heard from Lori since she landed and I’ve just sent an email. A couple of lines. Hoping she’ll not feel I’m pestering her. Remembering my own experience when I was away at uni and duty-bound to phone home every week, knowing my parents worried if I didn’t.
‘Same as ever,’ I tell Nick, scrolling through the TV guide. ‘He always lands on his feet. The apartments are going great guns. So he’ll probably chuck it in soon,’ I add.
‘Getting bored,’ Nick says.
‘Lori told him off for being late,’ I say.
Nick laughs. ‘Seriously?’
‘I kid you not. I didn’t say anything.’
‘Pot, kettle, apple from tree?’
‘Not a peep. Game of Thrones or True Detective?’ I waggle the remote.
Nick shakes his head. ‘I’m going up. Site visit tomorrow. I’ll reset the alarm.’
Left on my own, I wonder why Nick asked about Tom or, more specifically, why he waited four days to ask about him. Nick and I have been together for eleven years and we’ve gone through a lot of manoeuvring to make sure Lori spends time with her dad. It’s been a rocky road but easier as Lori grew old enough to make her own arrangements with him. Nick still resents Tom, hasn’t forgiven him for the hurt he’s caused with his lack of organization, and the times his chaotic approach to life left us in the lurch or Lori disappointed. Nick is protective of me too. He’s been witness to me raging about Tom’s latest fuck-ups too many times.
Perhaps there’s some jealousy as well. Much as Nick is a great stepdad to Lori, she and Tom are even closer.
Tom and I were never a good match. It was his difference that caught my attention. He was flamboyant and opinionated and impulsive.
Our first encounter ended in a blazing row. I was staffing a stall signing people up to a petition and vigil in support of the Chinese students on hunger strike in Tiananmen Square.
‘What’s the point?’ he said. ‘Nothing we do here will affect what happens.’
‘With enough support and attention—’
‘It’s all over the telly – the whole world’s watching anyway. A few names on a petition is a waste of time.’
‘So we do nothing?’ I said. ‘This is a mass movement, a real chance at democracy.’
‘When the Chinese government have had enough, they’ll clear the lot of them out. Water cannon or whatever. None of this,’ he waved his hand at the stall, ‘will make a bit of difference.’
‘You’re talking crap,’ I said.
‘Put money on it – the protest is quashed, the Commies carry on and you have a drink with me.’ His eyes were dancing. He was enjoying it, winding me up.
‘You want me to bet on people’s lives? Talk about shallow.’
His mouth twitched. I could tell he was fighting a smile. My face felt hot.
‘You wait and see,’ he said.
He wore a long duster-type coat, which emphasized his height, black denims, and I could see his jumper was shrunken and had holes in it. He’d sharp cheekbones, long hair the colour of honey, eyes of the palest blue.
I ignored him after that, feeling a smart of irritation each time I saw him in the union or a lecture hall. He’d always smile. Sometimes I felt I was the mouse to his cat.
Then came the massacre. We all watched in horror as the Chinese tanks fired on the protesters, mostly young students. Hundreds died. The world condemned the brutality but China’s leaders remained unrepentant.
About a week afterwards Tom came up to me in the corridor.
‘Come to gloat?’ I said.
‘I won the bet.’
‘I never accepted your stupid bet.’
He sighed, stuck his hands into his pockets, as if I was boring him.
I moved to walk around him and he stood in my way. My face grew warm.
‘What are you scared of?’ he said.
‘I’m not scared.’
‘You seeing someone?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘So?’
‘Why would I want to go out with you? We don’t agree on anything, I don’t even—’
‘What?’ I wished he’d wipe the smirk off his face.
Like you, I was going to say but that felt unkind.
‘It’s just a drink,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Might be fun,’ he said. ‘Tonight, the Lass o’ Gowrie at eight.’ He walked off without waiting for an answer.
I turned up feeling intensely awkward. We argued all evening.
I had a ball.
Lori in the Ori-ent
What’s in a Name?
Posted on 15 October 2013 by Lori
Hello, and welcome to my new blog.
A bit of background – I’m a Brit, from Manchester, photography graduate (yay, Glasgow!), taking a few months out with my trusty camera to see something of this amazing planet and report back. In my former life I never made it beyond Tenerife so for me writing this from a guesthouse in Thailand is beyond cool.
(Hi Mum *waves* still alive. Sorry I’ve not replied to your texts – bit of hassle sorting phones out.)
Lori in the Or-ient will be my working title. I was going to be Lori on the Lam but someone got there first, heads up to www.manonthelam.com. Then I came up with Lori’s Big Adventure but that’s been well and truly snaffled by many bloggers. So we are where we are. In my case Thailand. Whoop-de-doo!
My given name is Lorelei. It’s not very common, though Marvel comic aficionados and the fans of Gentleme
n Prefer Blondes will know it. The name means either ‘alluring rock’ or ‘murmuring rock’ or ‘alluring temptress’. There is an actual rock called the Lorelei on the Rhine river in Germany. The story goes that it’s inhabited by a siren whose singing lures mariners to their death. In my defence I’d like to point out that
a) No one asked me
b) I’m really not the alluring type
c) If I am called after a rock then so are the Jades and Rubys and Ambers out there, and maybe my rock has a little bit more character than theirs. Maybe. Granite, anyone? Millstone grit?
d) My singing may drive people to distraction but I have never drowned a soul, mariner or otherwise.
Most people call me Lori, not to be confused with lorry (a.k.a. truck, for any US visitors).
And here are my favourite photos so far, most from Ko Samet, where we stayed in a cabin above the bay and lounged like lizards. The island gets its name from the Cajeput tree – related to the Tea Tree – and also called a paper-bark tree. You can see why in the pictures.
Next week we head for Vietnam. Come and see me there. Lxxx
CHAPTER FOUR
Four weeks after her departure we have an email from Lori with a link to a blog she’s started, where she’s posted some photos. Pictures of her, Jake, Amy and a couple of others, at the beach, having a meal in a beachside restaurant. She looks happy, laughing at the table, grinning on the sand, her skin already darker from the sun. The new friends are Australians, Suze and Dawn. Several more photos show off the landscape.
‘Still got her camera, then,’ Nick says. He thought she shouldn’t take it with her. We’d splashed out and bought it when she started at Glasgow. He worried it’d get stolen.
‘Don’t stress,’ Lori said. ‘I’ll be careful.’
That’s a first, I thought, but I didn’t join in.
Nick raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ll be insured,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I’ve had it for three years and I’ve not lost it yet.’
She has a wonderful eye for colour and composition. The sweeping beaches and vivid seascapes she’s posted might have come from a glossy brochure. Just looking gives me itchy feet. ‘We ought to book somewhere for next summer,’ I say to Nick. ‘What about those French campsites with all mod cons? Are they expensive?’ With my job we always have to take holidays when school’s closed and the prices are at their highest.
‘Find out,’ he says.
‘Finn and Isaac would love it.’
We’ve had a succession of wet summer holidays in Wales and the Lakes. The thought of another damp fortnight trying to entertain the kids, traipsing around petting zoos, going to unfamiliar swimming pools or sitting in family rooms in pubs with steamed-up windows and the stink of chips makes my heart sink. The prospect of fine weather day after day, the kids roaming free and making friends, four of us swimming in the sea, and watching the stars with no need for jumpers or waterproofs has the opposite effect.
‘Either that,’ I say, ‘or a cheap and cheerful package somewhere like the Algarve or Menorca.’
‘Be hotter there,’ he warns.
‘I’ll wear my hat.’
I reread Lori’s blog, which makes me laugh, and then we look up the places she’s photographed on Wikipedia, Chon Buri and Ko Samet. It looks like she’s having the time of her life.
Lori in the Ori-ent
Rule Number One: Don’t drink the water
Posted on 28 November 2013 by Lori
Everyone says this. It’s up there in travel advice for all Westerners entering Vietnam. But the water has a way of sneaking up on you. That apple you eat, the tomato, the pak choi – they need washing first. But NOT in the water.
And what about the bean sprouts? They grow in the water, they are full of the stuff. So avoid all water-based veg. In fact, ditch salads altogether.
Make sure everything you eat is cooked until it is unrecognizable. Not hard here. Below I’ve posted a selection of dishes we’ve had over the last week or so. Can you identify anything? (Rice doesn’t count.)
Another thing to remember is that water can be disguised – as ice. So sling the cubes. And don’t suck up steam either if the opportunity presents itself. The heat might make the vapour sterile, but a scalded face is so not a good look.
Don’t use water to brush your teeth. Duh, right? You need to use bottled water for that too. This was my downfall. The habit of turning on the tap is so deeply ingrained that after making this mistake, following a suitable period of illness and recuperation, I found the safest thing to do is brush my teeth far from any sinks. It can get messy but not half so messy as the results of breaking the rule. I won’t dwell too much on that except to say it was like a cross between the movies The Lost Weekend and Cabin Fever interspersed with outtakes from the UK show Embarrassing Bodies (does what it says on the tin), that I lost eight pounds, four days of my life and that I LEARNED MY LESSON. Lxxx
PS Some people will tell you the water is fine. They lie.
PPS Mum, don’t worry, I’m fine. Just a lot thinner than you remember. #Notdeadyet.
CHAPTER FIVE
Autumn is the busiest term in school – new admissions, appeals over school places as well as all the celebrations – harvest festival, Diwali, Hallowe’en, the Christmas fair and then the Christmas show. The tradition in our school is to involve all the junior children in the performance so it is usually an all-singing all-dancing version of the Nativity story. The infants learn the songs so, although they’re in the audience, they can sing along.
It is early December and most of the children have gone home. I’m printing out song sheets, just two waifs and strays with me: James Porringer, whose mother relies on the bus to get here and is often late when the service is delayed, and Courtney Collier, who can’t remember who is picking her up today, Dad, Mum or Nana. I suspect one of them has forgotten too. Courtney has gone very quiet, and looks close to tears, so I ask her and James to count out some song sheets into piles of thirty.
I like the feel of the place outside hours: it’s not spooky, like some old buildings can be, but has a warm, slightly worn, homely feel to it. As though it’s soaked up the affection and energy of all the generations of children it has seen come and go.
I’m sending another batch to the printer when my phone beeps: email. It’s from Lori.
From:
[email protected]
Date:
6 December 2013 23:08
To:
[email protected]; [email protected]; [email protected]
Subject:
New Plans
Hi, I’ve had an awesome offer to go to China with Dawn. She’s really nice and she’s been once before so she can show me the ropes. The plan is to go on to Hong Kong from here, have Xmas and New Year there and get our visas then get to Chengdu sometime in January (it’s near where they have the pandas). It’s a really big city, but supposed to be laid-back compared to Beijing. We’ll have a month there. It means I won’t get back until Feb so tell Finn and Isaac I will bring them special late presents then.
I’m a bit low on money so Dad is there any way you can send me some via Western Union? I need to buy plane tickets soon. We’ve found some for £700 – Dawn says that’s cheap because it’s three flights altogether (includes my return from China). Tomorrow would be good. Thanks soooo much!!!
Suze had to go back to Oz her dad is very ill so she can’t go with Dawn as they planned. Dawn did journalism at home and she’s hoping to make documentaries in the longer term. I told her she should do some pieces for my blog.
Lxxx
I feel a clutch of disappointment that Lori won’t be here for Christmas, that it’ll be another month after that. And then a flare of irritation: everything was arranged, agreed – why couldn’t she just stick to that? Impulsive. The words ‘like her father’ hover in my mind. Maybe Tom won’t send her the money. As soon as I think it, I feel ashamed. If Tom can’t or won’t then we’ll find it, increas
e our overdraft if need be.
There’s the noise of someone arriving: James’s mum, red-faced and breathless. ‘Sorry,’ she calls to me.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘He’s been helping me.’
James goes pink and his mum smiles, kisses his head and bundles him off.
Then the office phone rings and it’s Courtney’s grandmother full of apologies and promising to be there in five minutes.
The first chance I get to call Tom is after tea. We haven’t spoken since the day we took Lori to the airport.
‘It’s all a bit last-minute,’ I say to him. ‘Anyway, can you transfer the money?’
‘Sure, there’s a place up the road does it nowadays,’ he says. ‘Have you been reading her blog?’
‘Yes. You heard anything else about this Dawn?’
‘Only what she said in the email.’
I wonder if Dawn is more than just a friend but don’t particularly want to speculate with Tom. Lori’s impulsiveness sometimes extends to relationships. She falls hard and fast and can get hurt. The worst was a girlfriend she had at school. Saskia went on to a different sixth form and broke up with Lori soon after. Lori messed up that school year and had to repeat it. There were a couple of relationships at uni but they seemed fairly casual. As if she was protecting herself from anything too deep.
‘Be strange not seeing her at Christmas,’ I say.
Tom grunts.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing fixed yet,’ he says. ‘Got a couple of offers.’
Of course he has. He’s never short of friends, or invitations. I don’t know if he’s seeing anyone new – Lori used to keep me up to date and the last I heard, in July, he’d broken up with his latest girlfriend. I don’t know if Tom will ever settle down. He has lived with a few women since we were together but never for very long. I don’t know whether that’s something he hankers after or not. We’re just not that close any more.
Half the World Away Page 2
