Authors: Hilary Norman
Not vandals at all. Just children.
Reading from a book being held by one of the girls.
That was the thing, of course. It was not
what
they were reading – the effect on herself at that moment would probably have been similar if they had been reading Mark Twain or
Shakespeare – perhaps even Enid Blyton. It was the sheer, unexpected oddness of the fact that they were reading
anything
at night in such an extraordinarily atmospheric location.
It was the intensity of their focus.
She felt that something extraordinary was unfolding.
Something remarkable.
They
were remarkable, she thought.
And in that instant of awakening, she had felt something she had no memory of ever having experienced before, not even in the years when her mother had still been alive.
A most profound sense of connection.
She had to make a crucial decision, whether to turn away and leave them, or to speak.
She knew right away that she could not leave them.
‘Hello,’ she said, and added swiftly: ‘Please don’t be alarmed.’
They all jolted and stared into the night, eyes adjusting, finding her, their expressions hostile and afraid, yet she had a sense that her own heartbeat was racing even more wildly than
theirs.
‘You’re not in any trouble,’ she said.
None of them spoke. Two of them – the taller girl and a boy with hair that seemed burnished gold in the candlelight, but was in fact, as she recalled, fiery red – went on staring
past her into the darkness, and she realized that their impulse was to run and scatter into the night, but she was blocking their exit.
They could have pushed her aside, but they did not.
‘Truly.’ She felt an urgent need to make them believe her. ‘You don’t have to worry about me.’
Still they said nothing.
‘In fact, I’m pretty impressed,’ she went on. ‘That’s quite a book you’re reading.’
‘And?’ The first word spoken to her, by the lad with red-gold hair, who looked and sounded belligerent, still waiting for trouble.
She felt as she imagined a wildlife student might, coming upon a rare species and wary of snapping a twig and losing them forever.
‘Have any of you seen
“Dead Poets”
?’ she asked, knowing instantly that it was a foolish question because they were ten and at Challow Hall and of course they
hadn’t seen it.
‘Huh?’ the second boy said.
‘She means the bloke who wrote the book,’ said the tall girl. ‘Cos he’s dead.’
‘He’s not, actually.’ Having embarked on it, she felt she had to stick with it, went on lightly. ‘But I meant a film called
Dead Poets’ Society
about some
schoolboys who meet up secretly to read poetry and escape rules.’ Their expressions glazed, and she made a swift amendment. ‘Though mostly,’ she said, ‘they’re
escaping too much control. A bit like you, maybe.’ She paused. ‘Have you done this before?’
‘Are you going to tell?’ the belligerent boy asked after a moment.
‘No,’ she said. ‘So long as you mind how you go.’
It was, she knew, a strange and irresponsible decision, but a sense of something at stake much greater than rules had gripped her, was moving in tandem with her own just awoken emotional
response.
‘And so long as you let me drop in again,’ she had added.
A touch of blackmail, she supposed.
Seconds passed. They looked at one another, uncertainly.
‘OK,’ the boy said.
‘You were reading Simon’s character last time, weren’t you?’ she asked the pretty, fair-haired girl the second time she came.
‘A bit,’ the girl said, cagily.
‘He suited you,’ she said.
The girl said nothing.
‘I’ve been wondering,’ she went on, ‘if you’d let me join in.’
‘In what?’ the thin, less hostile boy asked.
‘Reading,’ the tall girl said. ‘She means reading the book.’
They had got about halfway through the novel at that stage.
‘Why?’ the red-haired boy asked.
‘I’d just like to,’ she answered. ‘It’d be more fun for me, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘I suppose –’ the same boy shrugged – ‘she could read the bits that aren’t people speaking.’
‘Narration,’ the tall girl said.
‘I’d rather be Ralph,’ she had said then, quickly, decisively, needing to be clear.
She had thought of little else since the first time. Of her desire to play the part of their leader.
‘I wanted to be Ralph,’ the red-haired boy said.
‘You said you wanted to be Jack,’ the thin, freckled boy said.
‘You’re a perfect Jack,’ the fair-haired girl said.
‘Don’t forget,’ the tall girl reminded them, ‘she’s one of them.’
‘I just want to join in,’ she said.
And then she held back, waiting, because it was the only way, not wanting them to realize quite how inexplicably violently she wanted it.
They looked from one to the other.
‘OK,’ the red-haired boy said.
She knew they were uncertain. Still waiting for her to bring them trouble. Which she did not.
Not, at least, in any way they might have anticipated in those days of innocence.
H
owever she felt about Delia, Kate reflected on Friday – the day after her near-debacle with Fireman – while steering her red Mini out of a
pay and display space in Maidenhead, it was hard to deny, in retrospect, that her parents’ divorce had probably been right for them both. Her father’s love affair with Delia had shocked
Bel, but it had also been a turning point. Not that she’d actually given up drink, but she had cut back with impressive self-discipline, gone on attending her self-help group, finding –
and keeping – a job selling pretty clothes in a Henley boutique.
As for her father, Kate had to admit he seemed positively in bloom, had found fulfilment in his new life, even helping Delia run her website design company – using his own freshly gleaned
IT skills – from their riverside flat.
To which Kate was now headed, bearing a spur-of-the-moment Thai takeaway for three because even though it was a business day, she knew they were home, having phoned briefly to say she was on her
way and bringing a lunch.
‘Not the best time, darling,’ Michael had said.
‘You need to eat, however busy you are,’ Kate had said and put down the phone.
A burst of goodwill, she decided, at the close of what seemed to her an almost irredeemably vile week – like crocus shoots, she thought, battling up through frost.
Not to mention a sudden great need for her dad’s sympathetic ear.
The apartment overlooking the Thames had smooth beech floors and crisp white walls, relieved by vivid Aboriginal landscapes and tall green plants. More Delia than Michael, Kate felt, but it
clearly made him happy, and perhaps if Bel were to move out of their old home in Henley, she might have a greater chance of happiness too, or at least be freer of the past, good and bad.
Goes for you, too.
Nothing upbeat about Kate’s own separation.
She was still living in the cottage she’d shared with Rob, surrounded by memories – the emptiness of the bed so painful some nights that Kate slept downstairs on the fawn-coloured
sofa with its old coffee stain created when they’d been necking like kids one evening and Rob had knocked over his mug and they’d been too into each other to bother wiping it up. The
gaps left by his personal things made her ache with longing, and of course she could easily have filled them . . .
But he might come back.
You’d have to ask him first.
They’d begun meeting up for the odd drink or coffee about four months after their parting, and almost as soon as that first layer of ice had been cracked, they’d realized that they
both felt much the same. Sad and ashamed of having failed one another, bewildered by that shocking breakdown of communication and their inability to overcome their differences.
Kate still, deep down, feeling betrayed, wary of trusting Rob again.
‘I need to take this slowly,’ she’d told him in August.
‘I need to be with you now,’ he’d said. ‘I’m afraid if we wait too long, we may never find each other again.’
‘I think we already have,’ Kate had said. ‘At least, we’re on the way.’
She had really believed they might be getting close to talking about real reconciliation on Tuesday, but then her
bloody
PMS had collaborated with her angst and still lingering anger,
and blown it out of the water again.
Now, this chilly Friday afternoon, she arrived at her father’s flat determined to make a real effort with Delia, for her dad’s sake mostly, but also because maybe
this was her chance to turn a miserable week around, and if she could get through one at least lukewarm hour with Delia Price, then all things might be possible.
The Christmas decorations started it.
‘It all looks wonderful,’ Kate managed, standing on the unblemished floor gazing ahead into the open plan living and dining area.
Which was a true enough statement, if one wanted to live in a showplace. Not a bauble out of place – nothing, come to that, that could reasonably
be
described as a bauble. Plenty
of style, but not a scrap of real warmth.
‘Delia did the whole thing,’ Michael said.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Kate said.
Her father and Delia shot each other a look of unity. Against her scepticism, against
her.
‘I brought Thai,’ Kate said, holding up the box.
‘Darling, I wish you hadn’t,’ Michael said. ‘I was trying to tell you when you phoned, but you hung up.’
‘If you’ve eaten,’ Kate said, ‘you can probably heat it up for dinner.’
‘Except,’ Delia said, ‘we’re going to be in Amsterdam.’
‘We’re in the middle of packing,’ her father said.
Another look passed between them. Lovers, packing to go away.
‘We’re really sorry,’ Delia said.
Yeah, Kate thought.
‘I’ll go,’ she said.
‘Why don’t you at least dish up for yourself?’ Michael suggested. ‘Then we can come in and out, and pick at bits while we pack.’
‘Not the greatest idea,’ Delia said, ‘getting pad thai on your shirts.’
Kate tried to remind herself that this was the woman who had turned Michael’s life downside up.
Who’d also put the kibosh on any hopes of her parents getting back together.
‘Couldn’t we just sit down together for a little while?’ Kate directed the question at her father. ‘You don’t have to touch the food.’
‘Why don’t you do that, Mike,’ Delia said. ‘I’ll finish the packing.’
Kate hated it when she called him that.
‘Really?’ Michael looked pleased.
‘So long as you don’t mind my choosing all the wrong things,’ Delia said.
‘What time’s your flight?’ Kate asked.
‘Not till six,’ Michael said.
‘Oceans of time,’ Kate said.
‘Not really,’ Delia said. ‘Not if we want to look in on those people.’
‘Oh, God,’ Michael said. ‘I forgot.’
‘New client,’ Delia said.
‘Got the picture,’ Kate said. ‘No time for me, right.’
The dark, hormonal, selfish mood was steaming back up to the surface.
‘Darling, don’t be—’
‘And what’s with all this “
darling
” business, Dad?’ He’d hardly ever called her that in the past, pre-Delia, not that way, at least, like some
actor.
‘Is that a sin too now?’ Delia enquired. ‘Along with daring to go away for a weekend?’
‘It might have been nice to know, yes?’
Which was nonsense, and Kate knew it, but she couldn’t stop herself now.
‘Are you OK?’ her father asked.
‘Do you care?’ Kate asked back.
‘Jeez,’ Delia said.
‘And you can just butt out,’ Kate said.
‘Kate, stop it,’ Michael told her.
‘It’s all right,’ Delia said.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said.
‘Times like this,’ Kate said, ‘I understand why Mum turned to drink.’
Neither original, nor the first time she’d said it.
No retaliation from her father, just disappointment in his eyes.
‘She says she never drank to escape till she married you, and I believe her.’
No stopping her once she’d begun.
Much like Bel in the past.
‘What’s all this about, Kate?’ Michael asked wearily.
‘Oh, sod off to Amsterdam and have a great time,’ she said.
Very
adult.
‘I hope we will,’ Delia said, and put an arm around her father.
Kate headed for the door.
‘Don’t forget your lunch,’ Delia said.
Kate banged the white front door behind her so hard it made the sleek brass knocker clang, raging not at them but at herself for her appalling display, so
exactly
the kind she despised
in others.
Shit, shit,
shit.
No one left to piss off now, because she hadn’t called her mother back since putting the phone down on her yesterday, and she didn’t want Bel to find out that Delia and
Mike
were going to Amsterdam, because she’d always wanted to go there with him.
End of a perfect week then. Nothing to do now but sod off herself. Get right away and make it harder for anyone to find her – not that anyone would want to, and who could blame them?
She made the decision as she was getting back into the Mini.
Time out needed for her too.
Just her car and the open road and, at journey’s end, a bottle of wine, something seriously fattening to eat and, finally, a peaceful night or two’s sleep at Caisleán, the old
barn that she and Rob had converted together as a weekend retreat in the section of south Oxfordshire that formed part of the Berkshire Downs.
God, she missed him, but there was nothing she could do about it today.
All she wanted, all she
needed
, right now, was to be left alone.
E
ight years had passed since Sam’s birth. Since when Laurie had completed her degree course at art college, collecting her useless qualifications
while Sam got his ‘start’.
She’d gone to Reading this time, in case people remembered her and asked questions, her parents said, so better to study somewhere no one knew her. And meantime, Sam was doing well and
living contentedly at the Mann Children’s Home without her. Happy when she visited, knowing perfectly well who she was, as loving and full of hugs with her as he was with most people.