No Going Back (8 page)

T
RUST

A
couple of days later Gran asked me if I'd put some flowers on Grandad's grave. She sat in her chair in the kitchen and barked instructions through the window while I cut velvety pink roses, big white daisies and large sprigs of rosemary.

“I thought this was just for cooking,” I said.

“Rosemary is for remembrance too,” Gran replied.

I tucked it in amongst the roses.

“That's nice,” I said. “I shall think of that every time Mum puts it with some roast lamb.”

“Your grandad liked roast lamb,” Gran said. “I could make my own mint jelly to go with it back in the day. Not now though.”

She shifted awkwardly in the chair and winced.

I went inside, put the flowers on the table and adjusted the cushion behind her back.

“You'll make mint jelly again soon, Gran,” I said.

“You're a good girl, Laura. Your grandad always said that you had a nice nature.”

The words startled me. Not that Grandad had thought them but that Gran had told me.

“Oh! Did he?” I felt a warmth blossom behind my ribcage. “I used to love spending time with him.”

“I know you did, pet.”

I bit my lip, picked up the flowers and left the room before she could see the sudden tears shimmying down my cheeks. Never in my whole fourteen years did I remember her calling me ‘pet' before.

Dad was by the front gate, kicking a small stone.

“Where are you going with those flowers?” he asked.

“To the churchyard. To put them on Grandad's grave.” I wiped my eyes on my sleeve.

“Are you all right?” He fell into step beside me. “Have you been crying?”

“Not really. I'm just being silly.”

“What you need is company,” Dad said.

Actually what I really wanted at that particular moment was to be on my own but I couldn't tell
him that. He wouldn't have understood. We walked in silence so he obviously had picked up a bit on my mood.

I thought about Grandad and how much I missed him. One of my earliest memories was clutching his work-roughened hand as he led me out to the orchard to feed the chickens. I was probably only about two and a half but I can still remember his strength and the way he clasped me to him, as if I was the most precious thing in his whole world.

First of all we would go to the old dairy where the grain was kept in a big metal drum. Grandad would lift me onto a wooden stool so that I could reach and then, holding me firmly around the middle, he would flip open the lid and pass me a little metal bowl to plunge into the silky grain. The corn was like a cascade of golden pearls running over my chubby babyish fingers. I loved that feeling. Sometimes I would plunge my hand straight into the barrel, grabbing a handful of the cool grain and listening to the plinking sound it made as it fell like hailstones into mine or
Grandad's bowl.

The chickens always came running and squawking towards us the second they heard Grandad lift the latch on the orchard gate. We would toss the corn high into the air and laugh as the hens pecked at the ground as if they hadn't eaten for weeks.

While they were feeding we would collect the eggs. I had a special little basket, woven from willow and lined with flowery fabric by Aunt Jane. Liberty had one too. When we got older, Liberty and I were allowed to go on our own to collect the eggs. She knew of all the secret places where the hens laid. Speckle, the little grey bantam, liked to play hide and seek with her eggs. Underneath the raised shed where Gran kept her bike was one of her favourite places. Speckle had scratched out a deep hollow in the dry, dusty ground and we had to stretch our arms as far as they would go so that we could reach those eggs.

If one of the hens got broody and wouldn't move, you had to scoop your hand right underneath them. I was always a bit afraid of getting pecked but Liberty was fearless. She'd laugh at my nervousness and then drop the warm egg, maybe with a downy feather or
two attached, into my outstretched palm. I loved the smoothness of the pale brown shells, the way the egg nestled in my cupped hand and the feeling of gentle heat against my skin.

Life seemed less complicated then. I still loved feeding the chickens and watching them excavate their funny bunker-type holes in the grass so that they could have a dust bath. But sometimes I felt a bit sorry for them, especially when they flew up into the apple trees, perching uneasily on the lower, gnarled branches. They couldn't get any higher than that. I wondered if they looked up at the other birds soaring high in the sky and felt envious. If I'm honest, I felt envious of Liberty because she could have had all the time in the world with Grandad, if she'd wanted to.

“Did you and Grandad get on okay?” I asked Dad as I removed the dead flowers from the front of the headstone and replaced them with the fresh ones.

Dad was pacing up and down. “Your grandad got on with everyone,” he said.

“All the same,” I persisted, walking to the
corner of the church where there was an outside tap, “considering Gran really, really didn't like you…”

“Your grandad always saw the best in people.”

“Well I don't suppose there was any ‘worst' to see, was there?” I joked.

“We've all got a dark side, Laura. We've all done things we're not proud of.” Suddenly he sounded deadly serious.

I let the tap run, the icy water gushing all over my bare toes. I winced.

“What do you mean?”

I looked at him. He didn't look back. Instead he kept his head down and feet moving, studying the tarmac path.

“I mean that people aren't always who you think they are.”

He was talking in riddles and I didn't like it.

“What are you trying to say?”

There was a silence, both of us standing there with this great chasm between us. He looked up, straight into my eyes, and opened his mouth but then he stopped, something over my shoulder distracting him.

“Dad?”

“Nothing. I'm not saying anything. Can we go, Laura? I'm not very keen on graveyards. They spook me out.”

“In a minute,” I replied, turning off the tap. “I've got to give the flowers some water. I bet you wouldn't be so impatient if it was me or Penny tending to
your
grave.”

“Who?”

I headed back over the grass, lugging the watering can. He was close on my heels now.

“Penny, your cousin, duh? The other person who used to put flowers on your grave. Didn't you know that she did that?”

I knelt down, made a gap in Grandad's flowers and filled up the reservoir with water.

“No, yes. I mean, I forgot because your flowers are so much nicer.”

I beamed. When he praised me I just felt happiness bubbling up inside.

“Her flowers
were
pretty. I wanted to get in touch and say thank you but Mum said that Penny has moved house and she's lost her new number. I don't suppose you could find out where
she lives, could you?”

Dad suddenly looked slightly alarmed. “No, I don't think I could do that.”

I frowned. “I suppose it would mean you wafting down to London to try to track her down and it could take ages and…” I smiled up at him, “… I'd rather keep you here with me. I don't want you getting lost.”

He smiled back and looked relieved. Then he frowned again.

“Uh oh!” he groaned. “Here comes trouble.”

When I stood up and turned around Sam was loping towards me. Dad may not have been pleased to see him but I was. My heart definitely started to beat a little faster.

“Hi!” I called. “Fancy seeing you here!”

“Yeah!” he said with a grin. “It's not exactly a conventional place to hang out, is it? Nice flowers, by the way.”

“Thanks. They're from Gran's garden.”

“I know.”

Stupid of me. Of course he did. We stood facing each other, locked in one of those shy, clunky pauses. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad beckoning
towards the road.

“I'd better be getting back,” I said to Sam.

“Do you have to?”

“Well no, I don't suppose so, not straight away.”

Dad slapped his hand to his forehead and sighed. A little windmill on one of the graves began to spin.

“Do you want to come back to mine for a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea? We've got cupboards full of tea. I think it's in the job description – become vicar, provide plenty of tea.”

I smiled and turned away from Dad who by now was gesticulating wildly, shaking his head, drawing his hand across his throat in a totally over the top way. The windmill spun faster and faster. I thought Sam might say something but he didn't take his eyes from my face.

“I've even got my own personal entrance and exit to the churchyard,” Sam said, pointing to a rickety wooden gate tucked into a corner of the hawthorn hedge.

“Well, what girl could refuse that invitation?” I joked.

“Give me a minute and I'll put that watering can back for you.”

He reached out and brushed my fingers with his. I bit my lip, watched as he jogged over to the standpipe and stopped to talk to an elderly lady.

“I'll get rid of him,” Dad said, turning to head off in Sam's direction.

“No, you won't!”

I tried to get hold of him but my hand wafted straight through his arm. He stopped though. Looked down. He'd obviously felt something. I didn't feel anything, just a crescent of cool air. “I don't like him hanging around you all the time.”

I half laughed. “He's not hanging around me. This is only the third time I've seen him. I thought you'd want me to make friends. I mean, you were an only child too. You know what it's like.” I sighed into the warm summer day. “It's just a glass of lemonade, Dad, or a cup of tea. You know, that stuff that grows on bushes in India. I think it comes from the camellia family and by the time it gets over here it's in a packet and you add hot water and—”

“I don't want you to be on your own, especially
not with him.”

“I've noticed that,” I replied drily.

“I'll come with you.”

“No, Dad, it's fine. I don't need a chaperone.”

“You can't be too careful. This vicar's son thing is a great cover. He's too good to be true.”

I twisted my lips into what must have been a particularly unattractive expression. He just wouldn't take a hint.

“Dad, I'd really rather you didn't.”

He looked extremely put out, shocked even.

“But, Laura, what if… he, you know, tries it on?”

I tried not to laugh. “I think it's unlikely.”

Worse luck, I thought, and hoped that Dad couldn't read my mind. I tugged at my hair.

“Look, my hair needs washing. I'm wearing my oldest shorts and well… I'm sure he doesn't see me like that. He just wants to be friends, that's all.”

“The trouble with you, Laura, is that you're too trusting.”

“And the trouble with you, Dad, is that you're not trusting enough.”

The words were out before I had the chance to
stop them. His face fell. He looked as if I'd slapped him.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.” Actually, yes I did. “Look, I won't be long. If I get into trouble I'll call you. You'll hear me, won't you?”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won't,” he replied.

“Don't be like that. Please. It's nice to know that you're there, protecting me.”

I wanted to tell him to stop being so childish but I managed to hold those words back. They wouldn't have helped. Sam was making his way towards me. Surreptitiously I blew Dad a little kiss. His sulkiness softened.

“I'll be fine. Don't worry. I'll see you later, back at home?”

He nodded. “If you're sure?”

“I am.”

But as I walked over to join Sam I couldn't help but let Dad's words get to me. I hardly knew anything about this boy. Maybe Sam
was
too good to be true. Maybe Dad was right and I
was
too trusting.

S
HARING

T
he house was modern but built from local stone, with a slate roof.

“The original rectory is over the other side of the wall,” he said, pointing to a big house with tall, elegant windows. “I suppose it just got too expensive to run so the Church sold it off and built this instead.”

He pushed open the holly-green door and ushered me inside his house.

There was a little lobby, where a pile of shoes had taken up residence, and two doors to either side. The one on the right led straight into the kitchen. Sam said the one on the left was his dad's study and I could hear the tapping of computer keys.

“So, what would you like – tea or homemade lemonade?”

“Lemonade, please.”

I watched as he took two tall glasses from a cupboard and opened the fridge.

“Ice?”

I nodded and suddenly wished that I hadn't come. And why oh why had I put on this tatty coral-coloured T-shirt and my old blue-and-white striped shorts? I could have been wearing my favourite summer dress with the deep pink roses on it and lacing up the back or the new turquoise jeans with my favourite strappy top. Anything that would have made me feel a bit less grungy and more confident.

“Shall we go outside?” he suggested.

I followed him across the lawn towards a wooden table and four chairs set up under a weeping willow tree. There was a tabby cat stretched out on the sunny side of the table. She lifted her head and
miaow
ed at Sam. “Say hello to Cleo,” Sam said, scratching behind her ears.

“Hello, Cleo,” I said, touching her soft, stripy fur. “Nice to meet you.”

“She likes you,” Sam said, as the cat began to purr. “She doesn't take to everyone.”

I sat down, feeling pleased with myself, as if I had passed some sort of test.

Cleo slithered off the table and onto my lap. I could feel the tips of her claws against my leg but it didn't matter. I felt really honoured.

“I've always wanted a cat but Mum's never been keen,” I said. “She thinks they're a tie. I think it's because she grew up on a farm. When she was little they could hardly ever go away on holiday because of the animals.” I took a sip of my lemonade. “This is delicious. Did your mum make it?”

You know when you've said the wrong thing, how there's this shift in the air around you, as if someone is tapping you on the shoulder saying, “Oops, you shouldn't have said that”?

Momentarily, Sam stared down at the bobbing ice cubes in his glass and I bit my lip, prepared to say sorry for whatever can of worms I'd just opened.

“My mum died. Last year.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“That's why we moved here. Dad wanted a fresh start. We'd been at the last parish since I was
a baby. Everyone rallied around but…” He tailed off, fished a small thunderfly out of his drink. “They all meant well but it got a bit claustrophobic, and then there were the women who saw an opportunity to install themselves permanently in the vicarage.”

“Really? That quickly?”

I couldn't hide my shock.

“Yeah. Haven't you had a similar thing with your mum?”

“No!”

“You're lucky. Within a couple of months of Mum dying, they were like bees to a honeypot or whatever the expression is, knocking on the door with endless pies and cakes and big doe eyes.”

“That's awful!”

He shrugged. “That's what people are like.”

“They don't sound like your ideal congregation.”

He leaned back in his chair and shielded his eyes from the sun. I wasn't sure whether to change the subject or not but my curiosity got the better of me.

“Was it sudden, your mum?”

“No, she was ill for ages. Breast cancer. We thought she'd beaten it a couple of times.”

“You got time to say goodbye though?” I hated myself the minute I said it. How could I be so callous? “Not that that makes it any easier. I didn't mean…”

He smiled. “I know what you mean, Laura. And yes, we got plenty of time to say goodbye.” The willow leaves swished in the breeze. “Not like you.”

His words were almost lost, almost carried away and up into the sky.

“Your gran told me about your dad's accident. She says it's been really tough for you and your mum.”

My eyes widened then. I coughed slightly as the tartness of a small piece of lemon stung the back of my throat.

“Did she say that?”

He frowned slightly. “Of course. You can't hide much from your gran. She doesn't miss a thing.”

“It's just that we've never really got on. I've always thought that she didn't like me. She didn't like Dad, you see, and I think that I remind her of him. Have you got grandparents?”

“Yes, both sets. I'm lucky. And I've got a sister too but she's not here at the moment. She's on a gap year, travelling around Australia.”

He shifted on his chair and took something out of his back pocket. He leaned towards me, holding out his hand.

“That's my mum.”

I took the photograph and looked at a laughing, kind-eyed woman with a smattering of freckles and sandy-coloured hair, just like Sam's.

“She's lovely.”

He nodded and I handed the photo back. He stared at it.

“I miss her loads. Does it get any better, Laura? Does it get any easier?”

I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. I paused, tried to conjure up a whole list of comforting words. But in the end I just had to be honest.

“I think that when you've lost someone really close, like a parent or brother or sister, you live your life slightly differently to other people.”

I was quiet for a moment. So was he.

“On the outside you look the same as everyone
else, except some people can't hide the sadness behind their eyes. It's not a sadness that makes you miserable all the time. It's more a sense of incompleteness, a feeling that on the inside you're different because you can never be sure of anything ever again. Because whatever, whoever you love might be taken away in an instant.”

I stopped talking for a moment. He was listening so intently, as if his life depended upon it, as if everything
I
had felt was going to be true for him too. I was going to stop there, because that can't be the case, can it? Everyone's different. Everyone must feel different things and handle death in different ways. That's why I don't usually tell people how I feel. To be honest, mostly they don't ask and I get the feeling that the ones who do take an interest in long-term grief would prefer the airbrushed version. But Sam's silence and the willow tree, which rustled encouragement, compelled me to carry on.

“It does get better but there's always the feeling that there's something missing, like a bit of your heart has been chipped away. And there
are some days, the days when something special is happening or everything is going wrong, when you feel completely alone and…”

I bit my lip, felt the tears well up, concentrated hard on stroking the top of Cleo's head.

“… on those days, no, it doesn't feel any better. I'm sorry. That's not what you wanted to hear.”

He reached out and brushed my hand, just for a second. “No, you're wrong. That's just what I wanted to hear because I could tell it was the truth.”

I swallowed, sniffed, prayed my eyes wouldn't well over. “It was
my
truth. It doesn't mean that it will be like that for you.”

“I know that,” he said, “but it still helps. Even though it happened ages ago, you must still miss your dad a lot.”

What could I say to that? Actually, no, because he's around and, irritatingly, I've just spotted the wishy-washy top of his head as he paces up and down behind the hawthorn hedge. I forced my thoughts backwards a couple of weeks to the time before Dad came back to me.

“Most people think that because I was so young
when it happened I don't remember what it was like to have Dad around. It's that silly phrase ‘you don't miss what you've never had'. But I do remember Dad being around and even though my memories might be fuzzy, I still miss him. I still get that sharp, slicing pain like a massive paper cut when I want to tell him something or need his advice. Just because he went away a long time ago doesn't mean I don't still need him. People don't seem to get that.”

Sam nodded as if he understood. “I don't know whether Dad was right to move us away,” he said. “Part of me wanted to stay in that house where Mum lived. Did you feel that? Has it made you feel further away from your dad, moving to Derbyshire?” Another impossible question.

“My mum says that Dad will follow us wherever we go.”

“And you believe that?”

This was one question I could answer with certainty.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “I really do.”