Offcomer (18 page)

Through the distorting glass, Mrs. Rothwell was smeary fragments of pink and blue. She pulled the door open, stepped out, rummaging in her handbag. She turned, saw Claire, and her mouth fell open.

“Claire!”

“Hello, Mrs. Rothwell.”

As Jennifer’s mother came down the path towards her, Claire smelt the familiar scent of mince and fruit jelly. Mrs. Rothwell was a dinner lady at the primary school.

“Back from Ireland.” She stopped at the gate, zipped up her anorak.

“Yes.”

“I always knew it was a bad idea. I warned your mother. I told her it wasn’t safe.”

“I’m fine,” Claire said.

“Well, it’s just as well you came back when you did.” She smiled sympathetically. There was pink lipstick on her flat front teeth. “I don’t know why we don’t just pull out. Anyone who isn’t Irish has no real business being there, do they? They should all move back to Britain if they’re so keen on being British. That’s what I say.”

“It’s not quite like that, Mrs. Rothwell.”

“Well, that’s what I say, anyway.” Mrs. Rothwell put her hand to the gatelatch. “Are you looking for Jennifer? She’s not here.”

“No, I know.”

“I keep on telling her to get on the phone. It’s such a pain not being able to call her. You may as well wander over though, she’s probably in. It’s a bit of a hike, but you know that anyway.”

“Sorry?”

“You know where it is, don’t you, Gorse Cottage?” Mrs. Rothwell continued. “Up that track on the right, just before Braithwaites’ farm.”

Mrs. Rothwell opened the gate. Claire stepped awkwardly aside to let her pass.

“Well, it’s nice to see you,” Mrs. Rothwell said. “I’m sure Jennifer will be delighted.”

Claire nodded, lips folded in against her teeth. Mrs. Rothwell stood, smiling, waiting for her to go, and there was nothing for it but to turn and set off in the direction she had indicated.

Claire followed the shore road. She walked warily, unsure of the ground beneath her. More than ever, the hills looked unconvincing, like they were painted onto canvas. The whole valley seemed to be made up of theatrical flats that could at any moment be lifted, shifted, whisked away. And the angle and camber of the road, the overhead segment of the sky all seemed to have, unnoticed, heaved a sigh and settled back ever so slightly different. She looked around her suspiciously. If it happened again, she wanted to catch it happening.

A drystone wall ran along the edge of the road, between her and the backdrop. As she walked, Claire ran a hand along the wall, brushing her fingertips over warm stone, cool moss, flaky lichen. The wall seemed real enough. It was warm; it felt almost alive. It seemed to swell with breath, to pulse. She twitched her hand away, stuffed it in her pocket. Everything was wrong; everything was strange. She resisted the urge to run.

She passed the head of the reservoir, followed the bend round into the dale. The road twisted out ahead of her, following the course of the beck. Half a mile ahead, it crossed the beck with a bump of a bridge, then hugged the far bank until it reached its terminus. A cluster of barns roofed with rusting corrugated iron, and the low, slated pitch of the farmhouse. Braithwaites’. By the bridge, a chalky track opened off to the right and crept up the steep hill. Gorse Cottage was at the end of the track. You couldn’t see it from the road.

Claire hadn’t been to the cottage for years. The last time was, perhaps, that party, when Tom had first moved in. And that was what, six, seven years ago now. Jennifer had done
Claire’s make-up that night and lent her clothes, peeling them off the floor and handing them to her; she watched herself in the mirror as she changed. Walking up together with beer bottles clinking in their bags, Claire had felt a cloud of Jennifer’s scent cling to her like a Ready-Brek glow. They had sat out in the garden as it grew dark and got dizzily drunk on Newcastle Brown, rolling their empty bottles away down the sloping grass. Later, Claire had thrown up in the bushes and fallen asleep on the sofa. She had long since stopped thinking about the uncomfortable, barely remembered loss of her virginity. It was just bumping into Nick that she didn’t like.

The gravel rolled and skidded out from under her feet. The hill was steep. A sudden helix shift and it seemed as if she was crawling painfully down towards the sky. She became aware of a regular, echoing pulse. It was coming from up ahead, from the cottage. She could just see the wooden fence, silvered with age, and the end wall of the house. The noise grew louder. It sounded metallic, gritty. She rounded the last corner, came to the crest of the slope.

Tom Braithwaite was sitting on his doorstep, a block of pale limestone between his booted feet, a chisel in one hand, a mallet in the other. His arm rose and fell, beating out the chimes that Claire had heard. Tiny flakes of stone flew into the air, dust hung in a cloud around him. He seemed absorbed, content. She stood watching, trying to work out what he was making. He must have sensed her: he looked up. The mallet stopped, suspended above the haft of the chisel. He smiled.

“Well,” he said. He put down his tools, ran his hand over the curve of the rock. Claire came up to the gate.

“Hi.”

“Come in, come in.” He stood up, rubbed a hand through
his dusty hair, then brushed off his dark jeans. “How are you? We weren’t expecting you.”

We?

“I’m fine,” she said.

“You’ll be after Jenny, then?”

Jenny?

“Yes.”

He smiled again. His teeth, Claire noticed, were white and strong-looking. From breathing all that calcium dust, she thought.

“She’s at work,” he said.

“Ah,” Claire said, and glanced down at her hands.

“At the pub,” Tom explained. “You can catch her down there. She’s not too busy, mornings.”

This was all wrong.

“Or you could wait. She won’t be too long. I’ll put the kettle on. Come in.”

“No, no. Thanks.”

Claire turned to go.

“Well, you’ll most likely meet her on the road.”

“Right.”

“She’ll be glad to see you,” Tom called after her. “She’s been missing you.”

This was all so wrong. Claire shivered.

Out of sight, she slithered down the gravel track at a half-run, reached the shore road. Setting off along it, she found herself breaking into an anxious, rib-clutching trot, her feet slapping down hard on the tarmac, her chest raw. Jen was here, she was definitely here somewhere, and everything was out of kilter. At the dam, the road dipped down into the valley and as she ran she could see again the mossy pitch of Jen’s
house; nearer, the pub’s slated roof glistened wetly. The cloud was breaking up, the rain had ceased. Striding stiff-legged and breathless down the last slope, her arm wrapped around her stitch, she felt an ache in her bones and a tightness in her throat and lungs. She hadn’t had a cigarette, she realised, since she last saw Jen, but for some reason she was desperate for one now. She stopped at the corner, leant against the wall. She coughed, spat, waited as the cramp in her chest eased. Association, she thought. I associate associating with Jen with smoking cigarettes.

The front door was open. She slipped through.

It was dark inside. Even after the dubious light of the summer afternoon, she had to stop and wait for a moment while her pupils readjusted. A slim figure, back towards her, was bending over a low table. An aerosol can was shaken, polish sprayed and wiped across the surface with a duster. Dark jeans, dark top. Hair caught up in a bun on the back of her head.

“Jen?” Claire said, uncertain.

The young woman straightened, turned.

“Bloody hell,” she said. A half-second’s hesitation, then she came up to Claire, wrapped her arms around her and squeezed, almost lifting her off her feet, duster and spraycan still clutched in her hands. “Bloody Hell!”

Claire’s arms were crushed to her sides, her cheek was pressed against still-damp hair. She closed her eyes, breathed in the clean smells of shampoo and furniture-polish and washing-powder. Her throat tightened.

“Fuck, you’ve got thin,” Jennifer said, loosening her grip. She looked Claire gravely in the face. “You’re skin and bones.” She let her go, set her duster and polish down on the table.

“Nah,” Claire grinned back at her, happy with relief. “Same as ever.” This was Jen. No question about it. Whatever Tom said, this was still Jen.

“How long you back for?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Where’s Alan?”

Claire shrugged. “There’s no Alan anymore.”

“Well thank fuck for that. Did you take him out yourself or did you get someone else to do it? Should’ve asked me. I’d’ve done it for free. I’d’ve paid
you
.” Jennifer, grinning, put a hand on the round of Claire’s shoulder, shook her gently. Claire’s nose prickled. A moment’s silence, then Jen laughed.

“How the fuck are you?” she asked, with another shake.

“I’m okay.”

“And how’s The Emerald Isle?”

“It’s grey.”

“We should come over and see you sometime.” Jennifer released her, moved across the room towards the bar.

“You should. Of course. You should.”

Jen lifted a hatch in the counter, slid through. She walked back down the bar’s length to face Claire. She smiled.

“It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Is it weird, being back?”

“Yeah. It’s weird.”

Jennifer nodded towards the taps. “What are you having?”

“It’s a bit early, isn’t it?”

“It’s early-ish, I s’pose.”

“Are you having one?”

“You bet ya. This is a celebration, you know: it’s not every day I have you back.” She rested her hands on the counter,
businesslike. “What’ll it be? Kamikaze, Newky Brown? No Mitchells anymore. They went bust. I
could
make you a cup of coffee, of course, but I don’t think I will. I do do a nice pint of Guinness, though.”

“I doubt it.”

“I pour a great pint! I can even do the shamrock thing.” Jennifer pulled a face. “So, what’ll it be?”

Glancing up, Jen plucked a pint glass from an overhead shelf. Tom, Claire thought, didn’t know what he was talking about. Jen was Jen and hadn’t changed, and wasn’t, it could be safely said,
Jenny
. Maybe Jen was pleased to see her, but she hadn’t actually been missing her. Jen was always far too busy, far too happy to
miss
her.

“So you’re working here now?” Claire asked.

“I’m just about finished. You can see we’re not rushed off our feet this time of day.” Jen held the glass up. “You still haven’t told me what you’re having.”

“Och, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“ ‘Och?’ ” Jennifer, angling the glass under the Kamikaze pump, raised an eyebrow at Claire. “When did you start saying ‘Och’?”

“Must have picked it up in Belfast.”

“Och’s not Irish. It’s Scottish.”

Claire shrugged. Jennifer handed her the beer, rummaged underneath the counter and fished out a packet of crisps. “Seabrook’s finest. Prawn Cocktail Crinkle Cut. Bet you can’t get those in Belfast.” She slid the packet across the bar. “Eat them. Put some weight on for fuck’s sake. You’re making me feel really lardy.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“No arguments. Jen knows best. You just take a seat over
there near the fire, and I’ll be with you in a minute. Kick old Bonzo out of the way.”

Claire, drink in one hand, crisps in the other, stepped over the sleeping lurcher and slid onto the fireside bench. So Jen was back here for a while at least, since she was working in the pub. That was clear enough. And whatever Jen did it was always the best possible thing to do. That had always been clear. Claire sucked the beer-foam through her teeth, eased open the crisp packet, caught a whiff of saccharine and salt. The facts jostled for position. She couldn’t quite make them settle.

Jennifer came round from behind the bar, put down her pint, pulled back a stool and sat down. She placed her tobacco pouch on the table and began to roll a cigarette. Claire watched her face. There was something different about her. Her skin was clear, clean, tanned. There were the first hints of lines at the corners of her eyes. She blinked and Claire saw the crust of mascara on her eyelashes, and realised what had changed. Jennifer, who had worn foundation, concealer, powder, blusher, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, the lot, every day since she was fifteen, was now making do with what looked like a scraping of mascara and a smear of lipsalve.

“You’re looking well,” Claire said doubtfully.

Jennifer glanced up from her hands, smiled. “Thanks a lot. You look like shit. Are you going to tell me what’s up, or aren’t you?”

“I’m tired?”

“Bollocks. Tired doesn’t make you thin. Not eating makes you thin. Why aren’t you eating? If you’re worrying about the Alan thing, don’t. You did the right thing.”

“I didn’t,” Claire said. “He dumped me.”

Jennifer half laughed, shaking her head. “Fucking hell, Claire.”

“Or at least, that’s what it felt like. I’m not really sure what happened.”

“Someone else involved?”

“No. Not really.”

“Well, there should have been. You could do with some fun, fuck’s sake.” Jen lifted the half-made cigarette to her lips, licked along the paper’s edge. She gave it a final twist, tucked the cigarette between her lips, lit it.

“What about you and Tom?” Claire said. “Last I heard of it, it was just a fling.”

“Oh, it was. Still is. Hope we’ll be flinging till we’re old and wrinkly and smell of wee. Best fun I’ve ever had.” A pause. She grinned at Claire. “No offence.”

“None took.” Claire looked into her open packet, picked out a crisp, put it into her mouth. It stuck to her tongue and gave off a faintly suspect flavour. She swallowed. “I was up at the cottage,” she said thickly. “I saw him.”

“He’s working on his carving. He’s gone part-time with Halls.”

“Uh huh.”

“We do okay. Just sold one of his sculptures. Rates needed paying.” Jennifer spoke quickly, over a held-back lungful of smoke.

“Oh.”

She exhaled. “His stuff’s beautiful. He doesn’t talk about it much, but when he does, you can’t help believing him. He knows what he’s doing and he knows why he’s doing it.”