Anywhere's Better Than Here (23 page)

‘‘Whatever,'' said Jamie. ‘‘Well?''

Gerry sighed. ‘‘I don't want to talk about it,'' he said quietly.

‘‘Obviously you do,'' pressed Jamie. ‘‘Otherwise you'd just say you didn't have it.''

‘‘Everyone who's seen action has a bit of PTSD,'' Gerry said quietly.

Jamie finally had enough sense to shut it. They went on in silence for a bit longer and Laurie must have dropped off because she woke to Gerry stroking her hair off her face.

‘‘Come on Laurie.''

She opened her eyes.

‘‘We're here.''

It was a white-washed farmhouse with green painted trim around the windows and front door. A set of antlers was fixed above the front door and what looked to Laurie like a wagon wheel was leaning against the side of the house. Jamie and Laurie stood looking around while Gerry searched for a key.

‘‘It's been a while since I was last up here. The key isn't where I expected it to be.'' He pushed his fringe off his face. ‘‘Give me a minute.''

He disappeared round the side of the house.

‘‘What do you think?'' Laurie asked Jamie. ‘‘I bet it's bloody freezing in there.''

‘‘Not when there's a fire.''

‘‘I suppose.'' She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. ‘‘At least Gerry will know how to get a fire going.''

‘‘I do as well.'' He toed the ground. ‘‘Gerry's not the only one around here that can do things.''

‘‘Sorry.''

They waited for a few minutes. There was no sign of Gerry. The boy tutted and walked over to a window. He reached up and ran his hand along the frame.

‘‘Nothing,'' he sniffed.

He walked over to the other ground floor window and repeated his action.

‘‘A ha.'' He turned and held a big key out.

‘‘How did you know that would be there?''

‘‘I didn't. I just thought I'd try.''

He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. ‘‘Are you coming?''

‘‘Shouldn't we wait for Gerry? It's his house.''

‘‘It isn't his house. It's his mum and dad's.''

‘‘I know, but still.''

‘‘Come on, let's get the fire on.''

She looked around. There was still no sign of Gerry.

‘‘He's probably whittling a key out of a twig,'' she said.

‘‘Come on,'' Jamie said stepping into the house.

‘‘Okay. It is freezing.''

He closed the door behind her. They stood in the hallway in front of the staircase with two closed doors: one on their left, one on their right.

‘‘Come on – in here.'' Jamie opened the door on the left.

She followed him into the living room. There were a few mismatched armchairs, a display cabinet with lots of china and a big, over-laden book case. Jamie walked over to the fireplace and opened a knee high wooden box that sat next to it.

‘‘Good.'' He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. ‘‘There's stuff in here.''

Laurie sat in one of the armchairs and watched the boy twisting newspapers and arranging them in the fireplace. He was humming as he worked and Laurie relaxed into the wing chair and forgot to go and tell Gerry that they'd made it into the house. The boy sat back on his heels and surveyed the little pyramid of newspaper twists. He seemed content with his work and without looking into the box by the fire, he fished around inside it until he found a box of matches. He stood up.

‘‘Right. I'll be back in a minute.''

Laurie nodded at him. She ought to ask where he was off to, but she was feeling sleepy again. He left the room. She tucked her arms into her armpits and stared at the fireplace. There was a framed picture of a dog sitting in pride of place in the middle of the mantel piece. No human pictures. Gerry's family must be one of those who cared disproportionately about their pets but were quite careless about actual humans. She picked it up and examined it under the light, angling it to make the detail clearer. It actually seemed to be a photo of an oil painting. Who paid to have an oil painting done of their dog? Somebody quite rich, obviously. She looked around the room. It was shabby, as if Gerry's parents had just used any old, left over furniture to decorate the place. The sofa and chair matched but were uncomfortable and worn. The carpet was patchy in places and an unpleasant shade of green. But the fireplace was nice and big and a roaring fire would make the place much more attractive.

‘‘What do you think then?'' It was Gerry, standing in the doorway.

‘‘Very nice. Quite the country pile.''

‘‘Not quite.'' He put down the bag he was holding. ‘‘How did you get in?'' He frowned. ‘‘Where's Jamie?''

‘‘Jamie found a key and now I think he's finding some firewood.'' She nodded towards the fireplace.

‘‘Oh.'' He looked at Jamie's work. ‘‘He's done a good job.''

‘‘You look surprised,'' said Laurie, feeling defensive of Jamie.

Gerry shook his head. ‘‘No. Well, I suppose I am a bit surprised.''

‘‘He probably has lots of hidden talents.'' She sat down but the sofa was so cold her bum was freezing. ‘‘Maybe he was a cub or a scout or something.''

‘‘Yes, probably.'' He leaned down and readjusted one of the newspaper twists. ‘‘The key must have been in a very obvious place.''

‘‘It was on one of the window frames.''

‘‘I should have thought of that.''

‘‘It was lucky that Jamie did.''

Something flickered across his face but she wasn't sure what. He turned back to the fire.

She got up and stood as close to him as she could without touching. They stood together like that for a second and she felt the air between them contract and tingle with energy. She came up in goose bumps as if her skin strained to touch him. She could hear his breathing quicken but he made no move. They stood like that for a long minute until she became aware of Jamie waiting in the doorway. She took a step away from Gerry. ‘‘Jamie. You're back,'' Gerry said. He nodded at the wood the boy was carrying. ‘‘Oh good, let's get this show on the road then.''

Laurie sank down into the puffy sofa and watched Jamie and Gerry get on with making the fire. They didn't speak to each other but worked together quickly and efficiently. They soon had the fire going.

‘‘I suppose we'd better unpack,'' she said, getting reluctantly to her feet. ‘‘Is it okay if I?'' She indicated the rest of the house.

‘‘Sure,'' said Gerry, sinking down into the sofa.

Interesting, she thought to herself. Men gather fire, women unpack grub. She'd rather deal with food over wood any day. The other door in the hallway led to the dining room. She flicked the light on and stood for a second trying to imagine Gerry and his family here over the years. She had a shadowy image of his parents, but try as she might, nothing more than Gerry's face superimposed over where their faces should be would come into her mind. So it was on to a scene of differently sized and dressed Gerrys that she looked.

Mother sat at the seat nearest the kitchen pretending to be self deprecating about the feast before them. Father naturally sat at the head praising Mother's cleverness and a little bearded Gerry sat with his back to her, quietly minding his manners and saying all the right things. She didn't think to add siblings or other family members because she got the impression that they were a fairly self-sufficient bunch. They seemed happy enough, if a bit too mannered.

She sat down in the remaining seat and looked around the room. There were a couple of framed maps of the local area and a really quite striking oil painting of a mountain above the fire place. She didn't know much about art, but she admired the way the artist had made the mountain look ominous rather than pretty. She wondered if it was a real mountain, or if the painter had made it up completely or put together a few different places. She supposed one mountain was very similar to another really – as much as mountaineers or geography teachers might dispute it. They all went up to the sky; they were all dangerous; they all made good subjects for painting. She hoped that it was imaginary, that way it wouldn't be wrong.

‘‘How are you getting on?'' Gerry put his hand on her shoulder and she leaned her head against it.

‘‘I'm so tired. I could go to bed right now.'' He stroked her head and she felt herself become unmoored, fading away to sleep.

‘‘Not yet,'' said Gerry, pulling her to her feet. ‘‘A good soldier always makes a decent camp before retiring for the night.'' He cuddled her and she really felt as if he might have to carry her up to bed. She made no attempt to resist the sleep. Gerry must have felt her slackness because he squeezed her arms firmly and pushed her gently away, forcing her to stand.

‘‘Come on,'' he said. ‘‘It won't take long. Then I'll tuck you in myself.''

She followed him into the kitchen.

‘‘Okay. The pantry's through that door, there's a little fridge in there.'' He pointed to a small door set into the wall. ‘‘You can see the sink, all the cupboard space etc.'' He swept his hand around the small kitchen. ‘‘And through there,'' he pointed to another door off to the left, ‘‘Is the bathroom.'' He opened the door. ‘‘Such as it is.'' She looked into the room. Very basic. An old bath with no shower. A toilet. Wooden floorboards. Walls painted white and with a scattering of mould along the wall above the skirting.

‘‘I know,'' he said. ‘‘But it's better than nothing. When I was little we washed in the stream and went to the toilet in a bucket.''

‘‘Nice,'' she said. ‘‘So much for posh.''

‘‘Posh?'' He turned to her. ‘‘Where did you get that idea from?''

‘‘Oh I dunno, dad's a doctor, house in the country, nice accent …'' She petered out.

He smiled. ‘‘You're right – very compelling evidence.''

‘‘You are posh though, aren't you?''

He considered for a moment. ‘‘Maybe posher than some.''

‘‘Posher than me?'' She was smiling but she felt a little flare of anger.

He looked steadily at her and she felt very much younger than him all of a sudden.

‘‘You started this. Not me.''

She sighed. ‘‘Okay, you're not posh.''

He laughed. ‘‘But I made that up about the bucket. We actually did it in the hats of the servants and they disposed of it.''

She punched him in the arm.

‘‘Not bad for a girl.''

She punched him again, slightly harder. She had this residual feeling of anger. She wasn't sure why.

He rubbed his arm. And then hugged her. ‘‘You do in here and I'll get the bedrooms ready.''

Bedrooms. She hadn't thought much about what that would mean. They hadn't properly slept together. How would this all work? She decided not to ask him and just see what happened.

They all sat in the dining room drinking the last of the coffee from the thermos. Nobody had much to say and it was obvious they all needed to sleep, but nobody seemed prepared to make the first move.

‘‘We ought to put some Christmas decorations up.''

Jamie looked at Laurie as if she was stupid. ‘‘What for?''

‘‘For Christmas.'' She stopped herself from adding ‘‘idiot''. But it was clear she was thinking it.

‘‘Is that a good idea?'' asked Gerry.

‘‘Why not, eh? It's good to be festive. My mum always said you should celebrate everything.''

‘‘Isn't she going to be pissed off you aren't around for Christmas?'' asked Jamie.

Laurie shook her head. ‘‘She died last year, so no, not really.''

She felt fleetingly guilty for forcing the boy's head down with embarrassment.

‘‘Oh, Laurie.'' Gerry put his cup down. ‘‘I'm sorry, I didn't realise.''

She shrugged. ‘‘Why would you?'' She smiled brightly. ‘‘Anyway. What do you think?'' She looked at the two of them. ‘‘Mind you, I don't know where we'd get any decorations from anyway.''

‘‘Actually. There should be some stuff in the attic.'' He stood up. ‘‘We used to come up here a lot for Christmas.''

Laurie smiled at Gerry. He was completely relaxed now and he looked very comfortable here. All that tearful angst from back at the hospital was gone. He wasn't frightening at all.

He pulled Laurie to her feet. ‘‘I think we should all have a nap first and think about that later.''

She followed him out of the room.

‘‘I'm staying here,'' Jamie called after them.

‘‘Suit yourself,'' Laurie muttered. She didn't care whether the boy heard her or not.

Gerry led the way up the curved staircase and she stopped behind him when he paused at the half landing and looked out of the window there.

She sat on the edge of the window sill and looked out with him. You could see a run-down outhouse building, the garden, the little slopes that bordered the yard area and the track that cut between the fields and led to the main road down the hill. A tour bus passed but it was impossible to make out if there were any tourists on board. Surely not at this time of year. It was too cold for fair-weather trippers and not cold enough for winter sport people. Plus, who'd want to have a holiday over Christmas? Wouldn't most people want to stay at home with their families or friends? But then, what was she doing here? For God's sake – going on the run with a troubled teenager and an ex-soldier with some sort of post-trauma thing. Hardly Christmas card material. But what did she have to stay for at home? A clearly soon-to-be (if not already) ex-boyfriend, and, at best, uninterested family and a crummy flat.