Something Only We Know (46 page)

‘You’ve not told us what sort of a week you’ve had, anyway,’ Dad’s saying. ‘Have you interviewed anyone famous yet? Any politicians? Bigwigs?’

‘I don’t do that, I’ve told you. Politicians come in and do these little speeches sometimes to the whole office, and I catch a few of those. We had that spying bloke on
Tuesday. But it’s the website I work on at the moment. Behind the scenes. It’s not like when I was on
The Messenger,
out and about. Not yet.’

‘I see.’

He doesn’t, though. I swear he switches on the news every night expecting me to be on the screen, standing outside Downing Street with a mike or something. I’m a journalist working
in London for a national newspaper, his reasoning goes. Therefore I must have hit the big time. But the reality is that I’m just doing shifts, I’m not on a permanent contract. The whole
set-up’s day-to-day, a leap of faith. A toe, I hope, in the door.

Ned reaches across and clicks the mouse a few times. A window appears on the screen and my mother cranes to see. Then she cries, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ because my sister is in the centre of
it, grinning.

I twist the laptop round so we can all see her, and she can see us.

‘Helen?’ says Mum. She sounds shocked, and I think, Come on, you’ve seen webcams before, they had one on
Holby City
last week. I angle the screen to get a better view
and that’s when I understand why she’s so fazed. My sister’s cut her hair off.

‘You’ve cut your hair,’ I say like a div.

‘Have I? God, no, where’s it gone?’ Hel mimes amazement, claps her hand to her scalp.

‘I mean, it’s nice. It was a surprise.’

‘Yeah, well. I was having to tie it up for lab work anyway, and I can’t be bothered messing about with hot oil and conditioner any more.’

Although it’s a radical change, it does actually suit her. She’s gone for a short, feathered style, slightly 1970s, and it frames her cheekbones and makes her eyes seem wider. Not
everyone could get away with it but my sister’s beautiful, so she can.

‘Cool. Where did you have it done?’

‘Some place up by the castle. Can we talk about something other than my hair? Happy birthday, Mother.’

‘Thank you,’ says Mum, struggling to pull herself together. ‘And thank you for my card and the music box. Gorgeous.’

‘No probs. What are you having to eat?’

Dad takes over here. He gives her a full run-down of what’s on the menu, and they exchange a few jokes about there being a thing called ‘fat-immunity’ on birthdays, which means
you can eat whatever you want for twenty-four hours and not put on any weight. In the middle of this, our order arrives and we lose a minute or so to the handing round of plates and passing about
of vegetables. Of course, none of us feels we can start eating while the conversation’s going on, but Hel urges us to tuck in.

‘It’s quite like old times,’ I say wryly. I kind of mean with my sister watching us distantly, from inside her own space. She gets the reference – I can tell by the face
she pulls.

‘Give us a taste, then,’ she says to me. ‘You know how I love my salmon.’

‘OK. Open wide.’

She does as she’s told and I scoop of a fork-full of fish and hold it to her onscreen image, as if I’m feeding a baby. I’m aware people in the room are watching us, but then
they always did when Hel was around.

‘Yum yum,’ she says.

‘So what have you got on for the rest of the day?’ asks Ned. He’s a little bit shy, I can see. A little bit awkward in her company still.

‘I’ve an essay to finish this evening. Oh, and Tadek and Gill are dropping by tomorrow on their way to Oxford. And there’s a quiz night I might go to on Sunday, this mature
students’ group I’m in – depends how tired I am and whether I managed to nail my assignment.’

‘You must pace yourself,’ says Mum.

‘I will.’

I can see my mother’s eyes searching the screen, looking for signs she’s lost or gained weight. Secretly I’ve been doing the same. As far as I can judge, though, Hel’s
just Hel, as ever.

It doesn’t take long till we run out of news. It’s less than a fortnight since my parents went down to visit, and I was texting her the previous night. So we say our goodbyes, and
Skype’s switched off, the window vanishes and the laptop goes away. Only then does Mum droop and grow tearful. But after a minute or so she’s back on track.

‘Well, that was nice,’ she says, ‘and very kind of you to set it up, Jen. Very thoughtful.’

I shrug, embarrassed. I’m thinking how tough she is, tougher than any of us thought, and how well she’s doing generally. She’s had such a lot of adjustments to make. When
I’d first confided to Hel about the
Guardian’s
offer, and how I didn’t dare leave our mother so soon after the last upheaval, she’d dismissed my worries at once.
‘You can’t spend the rest of your days trying not to upset her, Jen. You have your own life to live. So does she, actually. She just hasn’t realised it yet.’

But I thought perhaps she was starting to. As well as the walking regime, there’d been mention of a Pilates class, and maybe signing up as a Friend of Hawkstone Follies. She and Dad had
even been out together to see a play at our small local theatre, something I don’t remember them doing before, ever. It was a brave new world, all right.

‘And has that flatmate of yours sorted out some window locks yet?’ Mum’s asking me now. ‘Because if she hasn’t, your dad’s going to come down and install
some, aren’t you, Don?’

He nods. ‘I am. You can’t stint on home security. Especially not in London.’

Criminal hub that it is. I could point out that someone had the wing mirrors off their next-door neighbour’s Megane last week, but I don’t.

Instead I attempt to reroute the conversation by fishing out my phone so I can take a photo of Mum showing off her birthday ring. This works. I take four good, flattering snaps, one of which
I’ll send to Hel for her family photos wall. I’m admiring them and not really paying attention to my dad when Ned asks, ‘What’s up, Mr Crossley?’

‘I think I’ve left my camera in the car. I wanted to take some pictures on that.’

He makes to lever himself off his seat.

Ned leaps up at once. ‘No, I’ll get it for you. Give me your keys.’

‘Yeah, I’ll go too,’ I add.

I don’t hang about to look, but I know Mum and Dad will be exchanging glances. It’s been hard for them to absorb this whole boyfriend-switch situation. They’re still getting
used to the idea, still needing reassurance that it’s above board, and that makes Ned and me self-conscious about public displays of affection. Though to be honest, I suspect my
mother’s main emotion is relief that we’re not losing Ned from the family – this polite, well-mannered, helpful young man, so much woven into our history from its darkest time
onwards; the son she never had. He’ll win her round. He’ll win them both round.

Until then, it’s best to be discreet. As soon as we get outside, he pulls me into a huge bear-hug and starts kissing my face and neck.

‘Come here, you.’

I’m laughing and protesting and kissing him right back all at once. ‘Stop it, you loon.’

‘You love it.’

And it’s true, I do. It’s bliss to be physically close like this. I’ve missed him like hell these last months. Skyping and texting and meeting up at weekends makes it bearable,
but only just.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’ve been dying to get you on your own. There’s something I want to tell you.’

‘That you adore me and worship me and the sight of my body is more than mortal flesh can stand?’

‘That as well. Obviously. But something else.’

‘What?’

Instead of answering, he kisses me again, and for several long moments I’m lost. I can hear the sounds of clashing metal and voices coming from the kitchen window. I can smell cooking in
the air. Are those spots of rain on my cheeks and hands?

At last he breaks free. ‘I’ve been speaking to my boss.’

‘Old Randolph?’ I begin to smile because lately Randolph’s a bit of a joke between us. Ned does impressions of him searching for his glasses when they’re on his head, and
chewing the end of his pen till the cap comes off in his mouth. It’s very funny. But then I consider what my boyfriend’s just said and experience a shoot of alarm. ‘Hang on.
You’ve not done anything mad like hand in your notice?’

‘Calm down. No, I’ve asked him about a transfer.’

‘Transfer?’

‘Down to their London place.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t look at me like that. I’ve put in an application to the Bedevere group care home in Enfield. Royal Meadow, I think it’s called. I mean, I could have applied to the
one in Berwick or Lincoln but I didn’t think that’d be much use to us.’

I’m blinking, trying to take in what he’s just said. ‘You’re saying you’d move?’

‘It would be a hell of a commute otherwise.’

‘And Randolph’s OK with that?’

‘He’s fine. He rang me this morning to tell me it’s in motion. I’ve been dying to get you on your own and share the news.’

I’m searching for obstacles because fate can’t be this kind. ‘Are there other applicants for the post?’

‘Don’t know yet. Maybe some internal ones. But Randolph’ll give me an excellent reference. He’ll tell them how good I am at removing squirrels, for starters.’

‘How will you afford to live down there? It’s insanely expensive, you know. Even renting a tiny room like mine.’

He taps the side of his nose and does a shy little smile. ‘Ah.’

‘Never mind “ah”. Address the question.’

‘The job comes with accommodation. It’s so I can be onsite more. Do long hours for not-great pay. But the point is, we can be together. Together, Jen. At long last.’

He reaches for my fingers, gazes into my eyes, and for one mad moment I wonder if he’s about to propose. The moment has that degree of piercing intensity about it. Would it be so rash if
he did? One day, I think, he will. And I know what I’ll say.

‘But even if you get this job,’ (I can’t stop myself) ‘what happens if the journalism doesn’t work out and I have to come back here? Or I need to move to another
job somewhere else?’

‘Have some faith. Stop being so negative.’

‘I’m being realistic.’

‘There’s a time for being realistic and a time for leaping outwards hopefully. Leap, Jen.’

‘There’s been a whole lot of leaping recently—’

He stops me again with another kiss. My head’s in chaos. What comes next? What else is going to loom up on the horizon, unpredicted? I daren’t speculate.

‘Right,’ he says, smoothing my hair where his passion has ruffled it. ‘We’d better go get that camera. Otherwise your dad’ll think I’ve abducted
you.’

‘I can’t keep up with you today. It’s like you’re rocket-powered.’

‘Powered by something. Not rockets.’

I start towards the footbridge but he tugs me in the other direction. What’s he doing? Where does he want me to go? It’s just narrowboat mooring up there. Then I understand.
He’s after running across the top of the lock gates.

I shake my head because I’m grown up, and a sensible journalist working on a national newspaper, and it’s the route Hel and I took when we were kids. That kind of silliness is in the
past.

He only pulls harder. I resist, laughing.

Finally he breaks free and strides off. He jumps lightly onto the narrow wooden beam, not even bothering to hold onto the metal guard rail. The surface looks slippery and worn. If he fell,
he’d plummet into brown water and smash his head on the brick bed below. Look, now he’s swaying about, standing on one leg, pretending to lose his balance. Basically he’s so full
of joyous energy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Annoying as he is, I don’t believe I’ve ever loved him so much.

‘Come on, Jen,’ he says, stretching out his hand for me. ‘Let yourself go. Follow me.’

And I do.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to: Sue Blower, Janet Jones, Kathryn Lester, Tracy Hartshorn, Joyce Carter, Louise Rodge, Hilary Lloyd, Pauline Higginson, Bethan Cole, Jill Finlay, Gill Broad, Anna
Wild, Susan Percival, Emma Woolf, Richard Tyrone Jones, Alison Winward, Betsy Powell, James Gilbert, Alex Varley-Winter, Tom Morton, Hugh Warwick, Joshua Philpott, Frederika Whitehead, Vikki
Broughton, @Psychedgirl @racheltoal @mapex_mustard @FiserableMucker @kirstendeanne @DanPurdue @TeresaStenson @ilovealcopop @Grufflock @Mister_Snoops @mumoss @Smokesniper @rainedonparade @sketXIII
@bromley001 @benwahwah @godigumdrop @gspro15198 @EmpJNorton @ianfarrington @RetroWench @IkklesaTwit @Retro_Review @KellyTcroft @nicoleharris @pablo_0151 @woulf_howl @camp-bellhowes @jodiebird22,
Clare Hey and all at Simon & Schuster, Peter Straus and the team at Rogers, Coleridge and White.

NB: the best zumba classes can be found in Bangor-on-Dee village hall at 6.30 p.m., Wednesday nights.