I can see Daniel mulling this one over. ‘No?’
‘No, of course not. What did you think had happened – that I’d been murdered in my bed? By Mark? I mean, I know he can be a bit of an odd one but…’ I begin to chuckle but straight away regret it, noticing Daniel flinch. I sometimes forget how literal he is. ‘Come on, Dan, I was only kidding with you.’
‘It’s not very funny, though, Natalie, talking about being murdered in your bed. It’s not anything funny.’
I pull myself upright. ‘No, you’re right, silly me. When you say it like that, it’s not funny at all. Come on, look at you, all serious. I was only trying to cheer you up. No one has actually died, you know. You can relax. Look, I’m here, drinking coffee. Happy as Larry.’ Except I’m not quite that, am I?
I see Daniel take in a deep breath. ‘You are. And no. Nobody has died. And you’re all okay?’
‘Course.’ I grin at him. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? You are funny, you’re such a worry pot. You need to loosen up a little. You’ll give yourself a coronary.’
Daniel places his hand on his chest, making me laugh all the more. ‘Oh, my God, you’re so literal. It’s just a figure of speech. You’re not actually going to keel over with a heart attack.’
Daniel laughs. ‘Only messing with you.’
‘So come on, then, spill, what was it with the note? Why were you so unnecessarily worried about me?’
‘It was all the shouting. The anger in the voices. I wasn’t eavesdropping, honestly. I tried my best not to hear but I couldn’t help it.’
‘No, of course you weren’t, I know you wouldn’t do that. And I’m truly sorry about the… raised voices.’ I feel myself blush. What is happening to me? A month ago, if someone told me I’d been yelling in my flat, I’d have been horrified. Not even back then did I yell. Even when I thought I would burst with resentment, I managed to stay in control. Yes, I would cry myself to sleep but it was always private and silent.
‘Raised voices,’ Daniel repeats. ‘Just raised voices, as in louder than normal. Not shouting at all.’
‘Well, to be fair, it probably was more like shouting. But it was nothing for you to be concerned about. Okay? People argue all the time. It doesn’t mean anything terrible, not really. It’s kind of natural. People argue over anything really.’ And don’t I know this? My father could argue with his own reflection for looking at him in the wrong way.
‘They do?’
I nod. ‘Course. Someone in St Ives will be arguing right now as we speak.’ Probably Mark with his reflection.
‘About what?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Things, stuff, crap happens, you know. People argue all the time. It’s not great but it happens. What I’m saying, Dan, is you don’t need to get all tied up in a knot each time people argue or you hear raised voices. Okay?’
‘I guess. Like the market people.’
‘Sorry? The market people?’
‘The people at the market, they shout, don’t they? I hear them all the time. The first time I passed them, I ran. I thought they were shouting at me. Didn’t know what I’d done.’
Daniel and I giggle. Sometimes it’s as if his entire world is a constant wonder to him. I love spending time with him; it’s kind of uncomplicated and refreshing, as far removed as I could possibly be from my past. This reminds me: I probably should have told Mark about the letter from my father. Maybe it would have gone some way to excuse my forgetfulness over the bloody cardigan. Instead, I shoved it under the bed, out of sight but sadly not out of mind. How he’d accepted the fact I hadn’t responded to any of his letters to date, that he didn’t care because he loved me. He realised that now. Now? Why, oh, why did my old neighbour have to tell him my new address? I should have been truthful with her, should have told her about my fear of him, should have told her he was in prison and under no circumstances should she give him my address. With his fingers in every pot, he was always going to know someone who would know someone else, to track me down.
‘Got you,’ I say. ‘They do shout, don’t they? You’re so funny, Dan, a right card, you really are… and before you say it, I don’t literally mean a card. I mean, a sort, a—’
‘I know what you mean. I’m not stupid.’
‘No, you’re far from that, anything but.’ I wink at him, noticing how he blushes slightly. ‘So we’re okay about the rowing thing, then? As in – sorted, all’s good and nothing to worry about, yeah?’
‘All good,’ he agrees.
‘Oh and, Dan?’
He raises his eyebrows as I stand, planting a kiss on his warm cheek. ‘Thanks for caring, okay. I mean it, thanks. It’s nice, proper nice and you’re a proper friend.’ I begin to pull on my heavy but much-needed duffle coat from the back of the chair. ‘Got to dash. I was only supposed to take thirty mins. Catch you later,’ I say, making for the door.
11
Daniel
Watching her half walk, half run away down the seafront, her duffle coat blowing in the coastal breeze, Daniel touches his cheek. Checking himself, not to read anything into catch you later. He’s spent many hours pacing the room back and forth at the flat, waiting for people who have expressed these words to call. It doesn’t mean anything. Natalie is always busy; the chances are he won’t be catching her later.
People always say what they don’t mean.
From the café, Daniel wanders left along the seafront towards the wood-clad surf school. On the edge of another of St Ives’ sandy cove is Porthmeor Beach. Today the sky is heavy with compressed pallid clouds, the sea is a catalogue of colours ranging from the palest, translucent aquamarine to the deepest indigo blue. A steady westerly breeze brushing the skin, blowing fine grains of sand in the air. Daniel loves to watch the surfers, tanned faces and salt-doused hair, rolling over the breaking waves. He finds himself a rock with a perfectly grinded seat shape, comfortable, if it weren’t for the stalwart mussels and funnel-shaped barnacles, anchored and clinging to the surface. This is the best place for Daniel to think. His meeting with Jacob before Natalie was more unpleasant than usual and she’d understand, maybe be able to help him, if only he could find a way to tell her. About everything: the childhood that still rolls his stomach when he thinks back, about Rebecca and his concerns, about Cambridge too. But if Jacob ever found out? Dragged it out of her? Daniel couldn’t take the risk for both their sakes. A couple throw a ball to an overly energetic collie-type dog; the tide is far out and the dog lies down panting in the shallow waters. Perhaps, if he only confided in her about Cambridge?
How he remembers the gates, always the gates, imposing, shiny, metal. Him and Father, that first day, parking somewhere the other side of the city. After a ten-minute brisk, silent walk, arriving outside the spiky wrought-iron gates, brick pillars either side, like a couple of door bouncers. Was he nervous or excited? Both. Sad too, because it was Rebecca’s dream to study at Cambridge, her dream, not his. Maybe he was doing nothing more than walking in the steps she should have taken. His mother, she stayed at home, or maybe she was at the special place, where she spent most of his childhood, so much so there were times he began to wonder if he’d imagined her. Still, he’d not missed the fact that it was mostly the mothers who accompanied the first-year undergraduates today, or in some cases mother and father. It should have pained him more than it did. But he was used to it. Another new beginning but it was like pulling a new itchy jumper over exposed burned skin, those same raw feelings, so easily scratched. Empty. Loneliness. Pain.
‘This is it.’ His father nodded towards the gate.
Daniel followed his gaze. ‘Yes. This is it.’
‘A new beginning, Daniel. Fresh start. And, it goes without saying – don’t mess this up.’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I’ll try not to.’ He meant it; he needed a fresh start.
‘Fuck it, Daniel,’ his father snapped, ‘trying not to isn’t good enough. Mess this up and… no more, no more chances. From me or your mother.’
‘My mother?’ Why would he ever have thought his mother would offer him a chance in the first place?
‘You know what I mean.’ He coughed.
‘Yes,’ Daniel affirmed. Anyhow he would do this for Rebecca. Not his parents.
For himself too. He didn’t want to keep messing up, but he was scared of the past coming back, confronting him, slamming the door behind it, cornering him on one of those dimly lit corridors he’d visited for his interview, or in the library, or, worse still, in his bed as he slept. Daniel had long worked out money couldn’t solve everything, despite this frustrating the life out of his father. Money could not bring back Rebecca, Daniel’s happiness or peace of mind.
There’s a saying he heard Natalie use once – when the shit hits the fan – money has no force against the past.
Money cannot undo the past.
12
Natalie
It’s dark when I wander back up between the squashed cottages, surreptitiously glancing behind the lit-up leaded windows. Log fires burning, fairy lights over mantelpieces, the general waft of home and the hum of the sea in the background. I used to do this when I was small, in Falmouth, pretending that at any point I could turn, open one of the many doors and claim a family. Always choosing the one that glowed the most, smoke billowing from the chimney, nothing grand, always cosy. Right up until the point of walking the short pathway to our dimmed, shut-down terrace, no longer warmed by Mum, whilst secretly praying my father could also be taken away. Everything felt darker after Mum, so I used to borrow a little fragment of warm-heartedness from the doorsteps I passed, keep it secret and fill myself up with hope.
With my key, I open the blue door into the shared Victorian hallway, where normally the sun shines through the stained-glass panels, over the door frame, bouncing off high ceilings and crevices. The hallway is narrow and long; immediately over the threshold are the front doors to Nigel and Daniel’s flats. I step further in, where an archway leads the way to the ornate staircase on the left and beyond this is the area housing several pigeonholes, one for each flat. The post generally arrives early each morning and the front door is usually unlocked until whoever returns first later in the afternoon. It’s a bit of a Cornish thing, leaving doors unlocked.
At first, I don’t notice I’m not alone; in the shaded area at the far end, Nigel has his back to me, murmuring, shuffling through today’s post. Sometimes, all the post is dumped into one pigeonhole, but mostly it’s distributed to our personal pigeonholes by Colin, our regular postman but only because he spoils us. That said, the original iron post box still sits in kind of use on the external house wall, mainly this is clogged with junk mail and flyers, it’s a bit pointless but a useful back-up if the front door happens to be locked. Colin must be away if Nigel is sorting the post – either that or he’s enjoying a good old snoop.
‘Nigel, hi,’ I call out.
He doesn’t flinch or turn around. ‘Yes,’ he answers, raising a hand over his shoulder. Nigel doesn’t believe in using many words when one or two will suffice; that’s his way. Trust me, this has its merits when in a hurry.
‘Good day?’ I press.
‘Hmm, yes. Fine. As planned.’
‘That’s good, then.’ I draw closer to him. Does he tense? Or am I imagining it? Nigel appears to have a titanic-size personal space requirement. Note to self: never invite Nigel to the beach in the summer. Or maybe he’d prove useful and be like those families who pretty much erect a fence around them in the sand from the crack of dawn.
‘Anything exciting for me?’ I press on. ‘I’m guessing not, other than the mundane, money demands, the usual. Speaking of which, don’t you get fed up with—?’
‘Here.’ Nigel passes an envelope over his shoulder. ‘This one appears to be addressed to you, Ms Natalie Clancy. That’s all you have, by the looks of it.’
In other words, bog off, Natalie, and stop wasting your precious breath with pointless words. I take the letter he’s offering. Seconds later my heart hits the floor. ‘Oh,’ falls from my lips. I’d recognise the scrawly spider writing anywhere. Nigel doesn’t respond so I slip away back up the hall to the stairway. ‘Catch you later, Nigel,’ I say, feeling my breathing rising to my chest.
‘Hmm. Yes.’
At my flat, I hover, the letter in one hand, the key in the other. Do I really want to do this alone? I remove my woollen mittens. Pulling back the sleeve of my coat, I check the time. Mo should have been home for at least an hour or so by now – wouldn’t it be better to give her a knock, a little moral support to open the envelope?
I tread the small distance to her front door and tap, tap on the wood. I take a deep breath, my stomach growling in response to a whiff of curry creeping from under the door. I can’t help but smile, picturing Mo in Penzance a couple of weeks before in the bookshop. ‘Thirty-minute curries,’ she’d called through the small but well-stocked store. ‘You know, I’ve never cooked curry from scratch, yet I love it. I mean, when we go out, I often opt for a bit of spice, don’t I?’ She giggled. ‘Think I’ll take this – looks easy enough, and you can buy most of these spices in the supermarket these days, can’t you? John used to love a good Ruby, as he called them.’
Poor Mo, John is still always her first benchmark for anything, probably always will be. The door swings open and there is the warm smile of my friend. I hold the envelope up. No words necessary.
‘Not another, already.’ Mo beckons me in. ‘Blimey, only seems like the other day you had the last one.’
‘That’s because it is only a few days, literally. What’s he playing at? Oh, Mo, why can’t he get the hint, give up, leave me alone? How long is he going to keep trying?’ Over the last few months, I’ve relayed most of my childhood nightmares to Mo. Outlined as best I could but only ever really skirting around the truths as and when I felt I needed to.
‘He’s certainly a trier, I’ll give him that. Come on, let’s get it over and done with.’ On the way to the squidgy sofa, Mo collects two tall wine glasses with swirling blue stems, a bring-home from the gallery, then picks up a bottle of opened Chardonnay. ‘This will help the medicine go down, and it’s Saturday night, so compulsory really, wouldn’t you say?’
What would I do without Mo? Despite the age difference, we’ve become pretty close in a relatively short period of time. Or maybe I’m delusional and I’m nothing more than one of those pain-in-the-arse friends, always in need of a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, a warm comforting home, one that smells of curry. ‘Thank you! You are a complete star, Mo. I’m not sure what I’d do without you. Honestly. Even so, I am sorry to drop my rubbish on you. Again.’
‘Silly. That’s not how I see it at all, and you know this perfectly well so don’t pretend otherwise.’ She pours us a glass of honey-tinted wine. ‘Well, take your coat off, then, let’s get comfy at least. In fact, why not stay for tonight’s concoction, Malaysian curry, if you’ve no better plans? There’s plenty of it. I’m pretty sure there’s enough to feed the entire street by the looks of it. Does coconut milk usually expand?’
I laugh out loud and I’m, oh, so tempted, if only I hadn’t agreed to see Mark, who seemingly wants to make amends for his appalling behaviour – his words – last night. Or, I’ve since wondered, is it more because he needs a companion for tonight’s last-minute invitation? ‘Sounds perfect and, normally, I’d bite your hand off, but I’m out with Mark tonight. With some work-colleague-type friends of his. I swear he collects them for a hobby.’
‘Now, now, Natalie. Anyway – good, I’m pleased. Nothing like jumping back on the bike after a fall. It will be lovely. Anywhere nice?’
‘Uh-huh, the chic place overlooking St Michael’s Mount.’
‘Dolphins and Stars?’
‘That’s the one. Should be okay, I guess.’
‘It will be so nice, more than okay, it’s lovely there. You don’t look too enthusiastic.’
‘Hmm. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. It’s just…’ I take a sip from my gla
ss. It’s just what exactly? I’m not feeling sociable. Or I don’t feel much like socialising with Mark? Is it me or is it him? ‘Just, you know, when you don’t really know people, it can be hard work, can’t it, thinking of what to say next? More of a work exercise than a social exchange. Mind, if they’re anything like the rest of Mark’s friends, I shan’t need to do much of the talking. In fact, he could take along a cardboard cut-out of me, they wouldn’t notice. Perhaps that’s what they mean about being bored stiff?’
Mo laughs. ‘Naughty. And stop doing yourself down. You’ve plenty of interest to talk about to anyone. It’s probably because of that blasted letter there. It’s put you on a downer.’
‘Maybe. Or because Mark and I haven’t properly talked since the cardigan incident. He’s apologised but, come on, there’s no way he’ll be able to resist asking if I’ve found it. Give it, say, an hour.’
‘And I take it you haven’t?’
‘Nope. It’s really weird, the more I think of it. How do you lose a cardigan when you live in a smallish flat, alone, when I’m as sure as I can be of anything at the moment, I haven’t worn it out?’
‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, love. You’ve had a lot on your mind.’
‘No, really, I’m certain I’ve not worn it since I hand-washed it. I needed to wash it because I dribbled my coffee down the front – stupidly I ate my breakfast in it, kind of, lying down on the sofa. God, can you imagine Mark’s face, picturing me eating breakfast in his cashmere cardigan, in pyjamas? Anyway, after washing it, and, I mean, who buys something they have to hand-wash? Still – I laid it out flat afterwards, so as not to stretch it, on a towel on the coffee-table thing, but I can’t remember noticing it again. After work, I can’t remember seeing it there, now I think of it. Then, you know how it is, out of sight, out of mind.’
‘Strange, but you must have absent-mindedly either put it somewhere or worn it somewhere. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve done both these things. Try not to worry. It will turn up, when you’re not looking for it.’
I Know You're There Page 5
