Tyme's End (2 page)

Then the stairs creak. I know the sound so well I can tell that he's coming up two steps at a time – not quickly or eagerly, but as if he's been here before, he knows that they're too shallow to go up one by one. I look stupidly at the window, but even if I could get it open the mullions are too close together to let me through.

The other staircase.

I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, trying to screw up my courage to go out into the corridor. If he's coming up the main staircase – if I run – I could get down the back stairs and out through the side door without having to pass him. But I have to go now, or he'll be at the top of the staircase and it'll be too late. The fear's like nausea, swelling until I'm not sure I can control it. It's like a nightmare, one of those ones where someone's chasing you and you can't run. Come
on
, Bibi! This would be a good moment for the emergency whisky and Coke, but I don't have time. There's the complaining creak of someone putting their weight on the banister and a little cut-off sound like someone hissing through their teeth.

I have to move.

And I do, suddenly, my limbs not obeying me properly, so that I stagger awkwardly over to the doorway and pull up short, breathless, shocked by how much noise I'm making. But now my body's unfrozen I can think more clearly, and even though I'm shaking I'm not quite as scared as I was. Now it's almost a game: I have to slide silently away down the corridor like a ghost, before . . .

OK.

The corridor's dark, and the rain is pattering on the windows like something's trying to get in. I step carefully out into the shadows, and plaster crunches underfoot. There's a kind of hollow singing noise coming from the door opposite me. I know it's the wind in the chimneys, but right now it makes the hair on my arms prickle. I don't want to look left – if there's someone coming up the stairs, I don't want to see him – but I can't help it. It's so dim that the air looks grainy, like old film. There's nothing there. I keep looking, frozen, because I can hear someone breathing and it's not me. But no one's there. I swallow, and my throat is so tight it makes a little squeaky gulp. In the silence it's as loud as a scream.

The footsteps pause. Then, very slowly, I hear him coming up the last few stairs, round the corner.

He's there, standing in the half dark, staring at me.

I should run. But I can't. I think my heart has stopped completely.

We stand perfectly still, looking at each other. I'm frozen, as if time has paused, but suddenly the fear has faded into the background. I feel faintly surprised that nothing terrible has happened. There's no sense of pervading evil, or malice, or even a cold draughty feeling. It's almost a relief.

I can make out just enough of his face to see that he's opened his mouth, as if he's about to speak. His face is a dead kind of white that stands out in the murk, like a drowned body coming to the surface.

Then he says, ‘Who the hell are you?'

.

I know instantly from his voice that he's a real person.

My whole body is covered with a sort of fizzing heat; I don't know if I'm embarrassed or relieved or incandescent with rage. I say, ‘Who the hell are
you
, creeping around like you own the place?'

He makes a noise that might be a laugh. Somehow, from the way he does it I can suddenly tell that he was as scared as I was, if not more. He says, ‘I
do
own it. Get out.'

‘There's no need to be rude.'

‘You're trespassing.'

‘I wasn't doing any harm.'

‘I don't give a damn what you were doing. You shouldn't be here. Get
out
.' He sounds breathless, not quite in control. ‘
Now
.'

I stare at him, imagining him falling backwards, stumbling down the stairs, slipping and breaking his neck with a satisfying crunch. Who the hell does he think he is? But there's nothing I can do. I grit my teeth and stare at him just long enough to make it clear that I don't
have
to do what he says. Then I say, ‘Fine. Let me get my book.'

‘No.'

‘What?' I can't believe it. It's not exactly an unreasonable demand.

‘Forget the bloody book. Just – you're not welcome in this house, understand? I don't care if you've got a Shakespeare folio in there. Get out
now
.'

‘Or what?'

‘Or I'll make you, you stupid little cow.' His voice is tense, like he's trying to concentrate or like the words aren't ones he'd normally use.

‘Oh, yeah? You and whose army?' I cross my arms and glare at him, trying to ignore my own voice in my head:
You're not my father
. . .

He looks back, his eyes narrowed. There's an odd flicker of something in his eyes, almost like he wants to laugh, but his fists are clenched. Then he lunges for me and grabs my arm. It hurts and I yelp, but he doesn't loosen his grip. ‘Right. You want me to call the police? Come with me
now
. I won't tell you again.'

‘Shit, that hurts – get off me – you can't –'

‘I think you'll find I can,' he says, swinging me roughly round and pushing me forward so that I'm walking in front of him. I might be able to get away, but I think he might actually hit me if I try. I can smell something clean, like washing powder, and I realise it's his clothes. It's strange that I have time to notice it, because he's bundling me down the stairs and I have to concentrate not to fall. I can feel the tension in his fingers, grinding the muscle of my arm against the bone, and when I glance back at him he's biting his lip and doesn't meet my eyes. I don't think he realises how tightly he's holding on to me.

‘I can walk by myself, you know,' I say.

‘Once you're off my property you can do whatever you want.' He knows exactly where he's going: he steers me through the dining room and out through the side door. I wait for him to let go, but he keeps walking, shoving me in front of him round the side of the house and down the driveway towards the gates. There are tourists there, taking photos. He slows down and stops, still without letting go of me. We stand side by side, watching people pose in front of the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
sign. He says, ‘Go on, then.' He sounds very tired. Suddenly he seems to realise that he's still gripping my arm like grim death. He catches my eye and for a second it's like he's forgotten how angry he was; he smiles, rolling his eyes, mocking himself. ‘Go on. Never darken my door again.'

I look at the gates, then back at him. Now we're in daylight I can see what he looks like, and I kind of wish I couldn't, because he's younger than I thought, tense and pale but not bad-looking. ‘What do you mean,
go on
? They're padlocked.' When he looks blank, I add, ‘I thought you
owned
Tyme's End. Wasn't it you that padlocked them?'

‘Then how did you –?' He stops. ‘Right. Of course. Over the wall, the same way I did.'

‘There's a gap in the –' I stare at him, and suddenly I feel a giggle rising in my gut. ‘Hey. The same way
you
did? You're such a liar. If you owned the place, you'd hardly climb in over the wall.'

‘No, really, I would,' he says. That flicker of amusement comes into his eyes again, although it doesn't reach his mouth. ‘I wanted to avoid the tourists. Can you imagine, if I just turned up and unlocked the gates, after ten years, with them all standing there?'

We look at each other, and then we start to laugh. Suddenly it's like we're friends. He says, ‘I know, I know, it's ridiculous,' and I say, ‘Yeah, it is a bit,' and we carry on laughing. He still hasn't let go of my arm, but I don't mind any more. I want to tell him how scared I was. I want him to tell me how scared
he
was. But we just laugh, and we're making so much noise that after a while he pulls me sideways on to the lawn, the way we came, out of sight of the gates.

I wipe my face and belatedly realise it's still raining.

I take a long, juddery breath, and say, ‘You gave me a hell of a fright, when you came up the stairs. I thought you were the ghost of H. J. Martin.'

His face changes. He lets go of my arm. He says, ‘You'd better go home.'

I say, ‘Oh. I only meant –'

‘And don't come back. The next time I catch you here, I'm calling the police.'

For a moment I think he's joking. But he stands still, his hands in his pockets and his face hostile, glaring at me until I turn to leave. I look back once, as I'm scrabbling to get over the wall, and he's still there, thigh-deep in grass, rain sliding down his face, watching me run away.

.

.

II

.

.

There's a knock on my bedroom door. I say, ‘Go away,' because I don't want to talk to anyone, especially Mum or Dad, but the door opens anyway.

It's Sam. He says, ‘Mum says, the guest is eating with us, so can you be presentable by seven o'clock. Which means basically now,' he adds, like a helpful translation service.

‘For God's sake!' I say. ‘This is meant to be a bloody bed-and-
breakfast
. Why do they have to have dinner with us? If we have to give them dinner, why can't they at least eat it on their
own
, in the breakfast room?'

Sam just blinks at me through his fringe. ‘Don't ask me. It's not my fault.'

‘No one else does it. It's ridiculous. And he's not a
guest
, he's a
customer
. Guests are people we have a choice about.'

‘If you want to say that to Mum, you can do it yourself.'

‘Fine.' I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, I'll be presentable at seven o'clock. But he hasn't actually got here yet, has he? He might not even come.'

‘He dumped his stuff, so he's probably coming back. And he must have said he wanted dinner or Mum wouldn't have –'

‘All right, stop being logical,' I say, and Sam grins. He looks pointedly at his watch, and I check the clock on the wall. Ten minutes. I'm in a manky old T-shirt because my other top is still wet from the rain, but I can't be bothered to change. I pull my hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band and squint at myself in the mirror. ‘How's this? Will I put him off his food?'

‘No more than you would normally.'

I kick out at him, but he moves deftly out of range, still grinning. I say, ‘I am so glad I'm not related to you, you little toerag.'

‘You
are
related to me.'

‘Only very distantly.'

‘Well, it's mutual, anyway.' He puts on his mock BNP voice. ‘Bloody wogs, coming over here, stealing our parents . . .'

‘Shut up, Sam.' He's only joking, and normally I'd laugh, but right now it's not funny. ‘Stop being a racist little git.'

He opens his mouth, then closes it again and shrugs. ‘You coming to have dinner or what?'

I just stare at him until he leaves. Then, defiantly, I grab my baggiest, most frayed hoody, and follow him downstairs.

Mum's laying the table, glancing up between bits of cutlery to check the clock. She says, ‘Bibi, I told Sam to tell you . . .' Then she catches my eye and stops. ‘Darling, will you get the napkins out for me?'

I get the napkins out. ‘I still don't understand why you can't just let them eat at the Cloven Hoof.'

‘Your father enjoys cooking, darling. You know that.'

‘He could cook for
us
. On our own.'

‘Yes, but this is one of the reasons that people come back. The family atmosphere, the convenience of eating here – and he's on his own. Why don't you sit down and –' The front door clicks and creaks open. ‘Bother.' She winces at the half-laid table. Then she goes through the door into the hall, and I hear her say, ‘Do come into the dining room. Would you like a glass of wine? God, it's filthy weather out there, isn't it? But I hear they're predicting a heatwave.'

She comes in first. ‘Bibi, darling, this is Oliver. Oliver, this is my daughter Bibi, and Sam, her brother, and of course you've met Chris, my husband –'

Oh no.

It's him.

I meet his eyes and suddenly I feel sticky all over, like someone's drenched me in glue. I clear my throat and say, ‘Ah . . .' It's meant to be
hi
, but it comes out wrong.

He smiles. He looks casual, polite, like he's never seen me before; but I can tell he recognises me. ‘Hello.'

Oh, God. If he says something – if Mum and Dad find out I've been in Tyme's End – they won't ground me, they'll probably expatriate me. I want to wink at him, but my face won't move properly, and anyway that's all wrong, he'd just think I fancied him. Oh,
shit
. I say, ‘Who are you? I mean, sorry, what was your name?'

‘Oliver. Oliver Gardner.' He's got a faint American accent; I don't know why I didn't notice it before.

Mum has somehow got the rest of the table laid in record time. Now she's waltzing in from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and pouring a glass for him. ‘Oh – I meant to ask before, when you booked – any relation? To the biographer, I mean. Oliver Gardner is one of my heroes, you know. A great writer. He inspired me to be a historian. We've got all his books.'

‘Oh. Yes. He was –' Oliver reaches for the wine, and takes a sip, licking his lips before he starts to speak again. ‘Yes, he was my grandfather. I was named after him.'

‘Goodness. How wonderful.'

‘He was a –' He takes another gulp of wine and frowns into the glass as if he can see something at the bottom. ‘Yes. Wonderful.'

‘Such a pity he didn't come to live at Tyme's End . . . I always hoped to run into him at the supermarket or something –' She laughs, for no reason. She's trying so hard to make him feel at ease that it's embarrassing. ‘Of course he must have needed to live somewhere a bit more metropolitan – for his research, and – well . . .'

There's a silence. I sit down at the table and try not to look at Oliver, in case he looks back. I'm suddenly very conscious of my manky sweatshirt and messy hair.

‘Well.' Mum pours herself a drink and then, as the pause lengthens, she leans over to adjust the angles of the knives and forks on the table, aligning them exactly. ‘So, you must know Falconhurst quite well, then?'

‘No. Actually . . . no.' He swirls his wine round in the glass, making a tiny red whirlpool. He doesn't look up.

‘Oh.' Mum catches my eye and gives me a tiny, unexpected smile.

Sam says, ‘So are you on holiday?'

‘No.' He keeps rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers, until the wine sloshes up and on to his hand. Then he seems to see it for the first time and puts it down on the table with a determined click. He looks round at us. ‘Sorry, I'm still a bit jet-lagged. No, I'm here to – on business, I suppose. I own – I inherited Tyme's End. When my grandfather died. I – I couldn't face coming back, before now.' He pauses and grins, without amusement, mocking himself. ‘It's taken me ten years to screw up the courage.'

Mum blinks and fumbles quickly at the tablecloth. ‘Oh – yes, of course – I mean, we never knew exactly
who
– but I should have –' She's gone red round her ears. ‘Oh dear, I hope I wasn't being tactless. I . . . we were so sorry to hear about his death. It was in all the local papers, you know.' She stops.

Oliver nods and shrugs. It looks like he's trying to smile. ‘It was a long time ago.'

‘It must be –' she says, in a spurt, and for a nasty moment I think she's going to say
wonderful
again. ‘A great responsibility. Tyme's End, I mean. A house with so much history.'

He makes a kind of quiet choking noise. ‘Yes.'

Dad says, from the kitchen doorway, ‘All the tourists would love to see it open to the public, you know. And the historians.' He smiles at Mum. ‘All the rabid academics, like Meg here. Still a lot of stuff being written about H. J. Martin. They're desperate to have a proper look round, get it restored. Any thoughts in that direction?'

Mum says, ‘Christopher!'

‘Only asking, darling.' He's drying his hands on a tea towel, and he flaps it jocularly in Oliver's direction. ‘No offence. It's your house, naturally. I'm only giving you an idea of local feeling.'

‘I'm going to sell it.'

I swallow. For a split second, I can see Tyme's End in front of me. I can smell damp, and things growing, and freedom.

‘Right.' Dad drapes the tea towel over his shoulder. ‘I didn't mean you should
donate
it, necessarily, only that –'

Oliver looks up, straight into his eyes. ‘I don't give a damn who I sell it to. I'd raze the whole house to the ground if it wasn't listed.'

There's a few seconds of silence. Then the cooking timer goes off, bleeping urgently into the pause as if it's been waiting for the right moment. Dad opens his mouth and goes back into the kitchen without saying anything.

‘Oh,' Mum says.

Sam says, ‘Because your grandfather died there?'

‘No, because I –' He stops. He picks up his wine glass again and takes two sips in rapid succession, wiping his mouth with his other hand. His fingers are shaking very slightly. I remember, all of a sudden, the way his arm felt against mine when he was pushing me. ‘Yes,' he says. ‘That's right.'

I say, ‘You can't sell it.' The words arrive in my mouth without my knowing how they got there.

He looks up sharply. He's got hazel eyes and tiny creases under his lower lashes. Somehow the fact that he's good-looking makes me angrier. He says, ‘Why not?'

‘Because –' I glare at him. He stares back at me, raising his eyebrows. ‘Because – you
can't
. Someone'll buy it and turn it into flats for commuters. It'll be shit. How could you do that?'

‘I'm sorry,' Mum says. ‘It must be a difficult –'

‘Excuse me,' he says. He stands up, very quickly, and his chair scrapes loudly over the floor. ‘No,
I
'm
sorry. I don't think I want dinner. The jet lag –'

And then he's gone, nearly tripping over the rug. I catch sight of his hand on the door frame as he steadies himself. It's an odd, pale, yellowy colour: like ivory, or something very old.

He doesn't come back.

.

The fight goes on far longer than it should. It starts off reasonable, almost
gentle
, with Mum asking me what the matter is. We sit and talk very quietly – because after all Oliver is in the guest room and the walls aren't that thick – about how rude I am, and how this is a business, and how being childish and obnoxious doesn't make anyone feel more sympathetic, and I can't possibly be
really
unhappy, it's just a phase everyone goes through, and maybe I should get a summer job so I have something to take my mind off it. By that stage we're shouting. Dad tells me I'm self-absorbed and selfish and self-dramatising and everything else that begins with
self
. Mum says, ‘Bibi, we only want you to be happy, but I think your father's right,' and then winces, like she's just stubbed her toe on something. I make her wait for it. Then I open my mouth and say, very clearly and slowly, ‘He's
not my father
. And
you're
not my –' Out of the corner of my eye I see Sam mouthing the same thing, like he's lip-synching to a film he's seen hundreds of times.

I storm out. I slam my bedroom door and lean a chair against it – that's more symbolic than anything, because it wouldn't stop anyone getting in if they really wanted to – and pummel my pillow until I feel a bit calmer. Then I get my special box out from under my bed and spread everything out on my duvet. I curl up in the middle of it and hold my favourite photo a few centimetres away from my nose, so it dissolves into a warm blur of ochre and brown. I stay very still. I shut my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else. I get pins and needles in my hand from holding the photo too tightly.

I can't sleep. I hear Sam doing his teeth next door, and then the TV goes on and then off again, and the taps run and the toilet flushes until it's nearly midnight, and everyone else has gone to bed.

Finally I get up – carefully, so I don't crease any of my bits of paper – and turn the light off. I stand there in the dark. I feel better now that no one else is awake.

The rain's stopped, and I open my window to get some fresh air. It's warm and I can smell the water evaporating off the lawn. Every so often there's the swish of a car from the road, or the roar of a motorbike. Once there's a motorbike that cuts out, abruptly, at the loudest point. I stand still and listen to the silence, but the noise starts again after a few minutes and chugs away into the distance.

I yawn. Suddenly I feel sleepy.

The front door clicks, softly. If it had been a bit louder, I wouldn't have noticed it.

Oliver.

I wait for the footsteps to come up the stairs, but they don't. He must have been going
out
. I put my bedside light on and check my watch: just gone midnight. Where . . . ?

The warm breeze makes my curtains billow and dance, smelling of summer rain and darkness. One of the sheets of paper on my bed twitches. Outside there's silence, nothing but empty streets and gardens.