Mum died a few days after that. I found the pictures still in my pocket. So I kept them, because they were the last things that were made by me and her together.
At the bottom of the box was her photo album. My favourite was one taken on holiday at our caravan on the moors. She and I were sitting by the beck with our feet in the water and sunlight on our faces. She had both her arms around me, I had both mine around her and our cheeks were pressed together. She looked very, very happy. I was grinning from ear to ear. It was such a lovely picture.
I felt better after looking through the box. It didn’t matter what anyone said, especially Vienna’s Auntie Motormouth, who I hoped would be run over by a double-decker bus. My mother wasn’t a total bitch and she wasn’t a Venus flytrap. She played head-body-legs, and she loved us all.
One more thing I should mention: the album looked a bit weird. Actually, it looked very weird, and I never showed it to anybody. That’s because lots of the photos had big holes cut out of them, all jagged around the edges. Some were only about half a photo.
That was me. I did it. I cut out all the pictures of Dad.
Joseph
Christmas morning on the moors. He imagined his children waking, and fretted about them. He hoped they had stockings at the ends of their beds. He hoped they’d left mince pies for Santa Claus. He hoped they were happy.
Christmas with Zoe had always seemed enchanted. She filled their house with spice-scented candles, clouds of fairy lights and treasure troves in stockings. One Christmas morning Scarlet and Theo—creeping from their beds at five—found two outrageously fluffy kittens playing with the baubles on the tree. They were miniature cats, with creamy bodies and velvet-coffee faces and tails, scampering across the children’s feet. It was Zoe’s doing, of course; Zoe radiated magic. When she was around, nothing was ordinary.
The caravan had no Zoe. No magic. Joseph hauled himself out of bed and tried reading a thriller from the shelf. The bank statement he’d used as a bookmark caught his eye, and he began to worry about his joblessness. He’d trawled employment websites and searched the local paper in vain; a vague promise of summer washing-up work at one of the pubs was as close as he’d come to gainful employment.
At six, he realised he was going stir-crazy. It was Christmas Day; he couldn’t spend it reading a very bad novel and pining for his children. He opened a drawer and leafed through a pile of tourist brochures. Castle Howard, Duncombe Park . . . ah, Pickering Church, with its fifteenth-century frescos. That would be open.
Dawn arrived in grey anticlimax. Pulling on wellingtons, Joseph set off across the beck and climbed to the uplands where—if he held his arm straight up in the air—he had a phone signal. He sent a text to Marie.
Happy Christmas Sis. Love J
It was a mild morning. Mist hung above the beck. He could see smoke rising from the farmhouse chimney and Abigail’s compact figure lugging a bucket towards the pigpen. She’d invited him for breakfast, and at eight he fronted up in her kitchen. Abigail stood at the range, stirring mushrooms. She had the radio on; a choirboy was piping ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
‘Now then,’ she said laconically.
Joseph felt a surge of affection, and bent to kiss her wrinkled cheek. ‘Happy Christmas.’
‘Get away wi’ you,’ she snapped. ‘Make yourself useful and clear a space at the table.’
Joseph obeyed. ‘I thought I’d go to Pickering today,’ he said. ‘Take a look at the wall paintings. Haven’t seen them for years.’
Abigail didn’t seem to have heard. She threw bacon in with her mushrooms before announcing abruptly: ‘Gus’s father had a collapse yesterday.’
‘Oh no! How’s he doing?’
Abigail looked grim. ‘He’ll live, but they reckon he’s a write-off. Gus has given notice here.’
‘Can you replace him?’
‘Maybe.’ She looked Joseph in the eye. ‘Would you give it a go?’
‘Me?’
‘Four days a week or thereabouts, depending on how busy we are. Winter’s quiet but in the summer holidays I’m flat tacks. Minimum wage, but I’ll waive your ground rent and power and supply some food. I know you’re a bit high and mighty to be a labourer.’
‘I’m not too high and mighty to be anything anymore,’ said Joseph. ‘Thank you, I’m grateful for the offer, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘I don’t know the first thing about farming. I could probably drive the tractor but I can’t fix it when it breaks down. I don’t know one end of a sheep from the other. I can’t deliver a lamb, or—’
‘Never to worry. I can. It’s mostly the campsite that needs managing. I’ve got Rosie doing the cleaning, which is a big help.’
‘Rosie?’
‘You haven’t met her?’ Abigail seemed to be suppressing a smile. ‘That’s a treat in store for you. She’s been away for a week or so, but she’s back now. She’s a vit . . . hang on . . . viticulturist, by trade. Not much call for them around here.’
Her words slid over Joseph, whose mind was taken up by the offer of work. ‘Can I think about this for a day or two?’
‘If you must.’
And why not? Joseph thought later, as he followed Jessy’s waving tail through the kissing gate. He didn’t want to struggle through life in a city, knowing that people were whispering. Perhaps what Abigail was offering him was a little peace in this ancient landscape. He walked slowly, too deep in thought to notice the person emerging from the laundry block and making her way along a sheep trail. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and halted in mid-stride, only just in time to avoid collision.
‘Sorry.’ The voice was female; resonant and amused. ‘I wasn’t watching where I was going.’
Joseph blinked. It was the woman he’d seen crossing the beck that first night, and later in a dove-grey dawn. He remembered the claret skirt and sumptuous head of hair that seemed to twist out at every angle. A shapeless jersey was frayed at the sleeves.
‘My fault,’ he muttered.
‘You’d think, with all this space, we’d manage not to bump into each other.’
‘You would.’
She was carrying a basket full of clothes. Joseph wondered uneasily whether she was expecting him to make some kind of overture, perhaps invite her down to his caravan for coffee. The thought made him blanch. He could imagine precisely how the conversation would go. She’d ask him about himself and he’d be forced to tell his story. She would finish her coffee very quickly and leave.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.
‘Er, yes. Happy Christmas.’
They each smiled with faint embarrassment, and passed on; though she flickered through his thoughts as he made his way down the valley.
Nice smile . . . a young smile . . . not
skinny, not like Zoe, curvy . . . Not from round here, definitely
a southerner . . . How old? Thirties? Older? Couple of strands
of silver in that hair. No attempt to dye them out. Funny
combination, heavy boots and a long skirt and grey in her hair. A tree-hugger, obviously. Ageing hippie. The sort of burn-the-bra
merchant Marie hangs out with.
Ah, yes. That had her nicely categorised. Satisfied, Joseph put her from his mind.
•
He felt self-conscious as he wandered around Pickering Church, conspicuously solo on a day of happy families. Yet there were worse things for a pariah to do than gape at the imaginings of artists who’d been dead five hundred years. Plastered walls glowed with martyred saints, with wicked torturers and executioners. Joseph sat down to gaze at the terrible mother-and-daughter act of Herodias and Salome, who demanded John the Baptist’s head on a plate. To the medieval artist there were no grey areas, it seemed. Haloed saint or evil persecutor: that was the choice. Joseph had a fairly shrewd idea of how they would have depicted him.
He tried—really, he tried—to concentrate, to be a historian; but his children nagged and tugged until he physically ached. On a whim, he took out his phone and scrolled through the contacts list until he found the Wildes’ number. It would be so easy to press
call
; he imagined hearing Scarlet’s voice. Then he jammed the phone back into his pocket.
•
Abigail’s farmhouse lay gilded in evening light as he splashed through the ford and into the yard. Jessy met him at the car. His caravan had become her second home, and she hauled herself inside without waiting for an invitation. He was glad of the company.
‘Beer?’ he offered, opening his shoebox of a fridge. ‘No? Well, suit yourself. You won’t mind if I do?’
The collie yawned, showing yellowed teeth. Joseph held up the bottle in salute to her, and was about to drink when footsteps shook the caravan. The next moment, a female voice called, ‘Hello?’
He froze with the bottle held to his lips and his mind working fast.
Hell! It’s the tree-hugger. I don’t need this . . . Any chance I
could hide? No, don’t be bloody daft, Scott, she knows you’re in
here . . . What if I just keep very still and hope she gets the hint
and sods off? No, that’s just rude. I’ll have to open the door and
tell her I’m busy.
She’d turned while she waited, and was facing away towards the beck. An unruly plait hung between her shoulder blades. As he opened the door, she swung round to face him with a smile on her lips and a wine bottle in her hands. ‘I’ve got a deal for you,’ she announced, before he could speak. ‘I won’t ask what you think you’re doing alone on a campsite on the moors at Christmas, if you’ll promise not to ask me the same question.’
Joseph hesitated; loneliness jostled with his desire to hide.
She held out her offering. ‘This stuff’s Australian. Not bad.’
‘Thanks, but—’
‘Not a single string attached, I assure you. I haven’t come to seduce you or cry on your shoulder or even ask for a cup of sugar.’
Joseph took the bottle out of her hands. ‘It’s a hell of a mess in here,’ he protested desperately, jerking his head towards the inside of the caravan.
Keep out, keep out! Hell of a mess in my life.
‘Thank heavens for that. In my book, tidiness is the first sign of madness.’
First sign of madness
. Zoe at four in the morning, scrubbing every shelf in their kitchen with bleach. She was wearing nothing but an apron over a lacy bra and thong, but there was nothing erotic about the scene. The room was trashed, chairs up on the table, black and white tiles ankle deep in tins and jars and black bin bags. The chemical reek of bleach stung his nostrils. ‘Disgusting,’ Zoe yelped, rubber-gloved arms working frenziedly. ‘Gotta get control of this place!’ Back in their bedroom, the newborn Scarlet wailed with hunger.
Joseph hadn’t understood what it meant. He hadn’t known what was coming.
‘If you’re right,’ he said now, standing back to let his visitor in, ‘I must be awfully sane.’
She swung confidently past him, arms folded in the ragged sweater. ‘Luxury!’ she cried, as she reached the sitting area. ‘Bloomin’ luxury! I’m frozen to death in a VW kombi, and you’re down here with sofas and rugs and bookcases and’—she opened the bathroom door—‘I don’t believe it. A cute little shower!’
‘I live in a palace.’
‘Does this palace come equipped with a corkscrew?’
‘Sorry. Just a minute . . .’ Joseph pulled open the cutlery drawer and held up a rusty corkscrew. ‘All mod cons.’
He was beginning to enjoy himself, though he wouldn’t have believed it possible ten minutes earlier. It had been years since he’d had a normal conversation with a woman under eighty. He hastily washed two glasses (pesky mice—they got everywhere) and splashed wine into them.
‘Rosemary Sutton,’ she said as she took one. ‘Rosie will do.’
‘Aha! The viticulturist.’
‘No, the cleaner.’ She moved to look out of a window, and Joseph joined her. The beck was submerged in violet shadow, but the moors blazed in the last fire of the day.
‘I feel like running up there to stand in the sunlight,’ said Rosie, with a touch of melancholy. ‘I never want the day to end. But it would be gone by the time I arrived.’
‘Have you seen this place in midsummer?’ asked Joseph. ‘No? Well, come back then, if you don’t want the day to end. There’s still a gleam in the sky at eleven, and the dawn chorus starts tuning up at two.’
Even as they watched, the brilliance faded. Joseph switched on a lamp.
‘So . . .’ Rosie turned away from the window. ‘Generally we’d start with “What brings you here?” and “Where are you from?”—because we’re human beings so we’re incurably curious and intrusive. But you and I have banned ourselves from all that.’
Joseph smiled. ‘We could play cards,’ he suggested, half joking.
‘Why not?’
He lifted a squab. ‘Blackjack? Whist?’
‘Your choice. But you’ll have to teach me the rules. I haven’t played cards since . . . hmm, not for a long time.’
Joseph heard the hesitation, and felt a twinge of curiosity; but they had a deal, and he wasn’t going to be the first to break it. He lifted out a deck of cards and dropped it on the little dining table. ‘Okay.’ He felt flustered; he’d forgotten how to behave. ‘Sorry, um . . . I’m not very civilised. I’ve got some crisps here. Hang on . . . salt and vinegar?’
Sliding onto the built-in seat, she picked up a pack and tried to shuffle them. ‘It’s like riding a bike, I expect. Playing cards. You never forget.’
Over the next few hours they played whist, and rummy, and then discovered they both knew a fast and furious game called Spit. The wine bottle gradually emptied, so they opened another that they found in the cupboard. Joseph reheated some Chinese takeaway, and they ate forkfuls as they played. The caravan felt warm and bright. Jessy lay at their feet.
‘Gotcha,’ crowed Rosemary, slamming down her last card. ‘Again!’
Joseph stuck out his lower lip. ‘And you’d have me believe you haven’t played this game since you were a kid?’
‘Absolutely. I used to beat my brother. Drove him nuts. It’s all come back to me.’
‘Hmm. So where were you brought up, then? I can ask that, can’t I?’
‘Devon,’ she replied promptly. ‘My father owned a club in Exeter.’
‘A club . . . Bowling? Croquet? Trainspotting? ‘ ‘Lap dancing.’