The Toll Bridge (8 page)

For the rest of the trip we all have lockjaw. At the bridge Tess coddles Adam into the house while I remain sitting in the boat tethered to the bank and sulk.

Quarter of an hour later Tess came out.

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘Didn't mean it.'

I won't speak.

‘Are you really going to turn him out?'

Glowering silence.

‘Seems to me people are always turning him out of somewhere. Can't he stay the night?'

‘No.'

I felt a heel, which is exactly what she wanted me to feel.

‘He's gone very quiet. I think he's a bit shocked. I've given him some sweet tea and made him lie down.'

‘It's all an act. There's nothing the matter, really. He made a fool of himself and cut his hand, that's all.' I felt invaded, taken over. And jealous of all this pampering.

Tess said, ‘Let him stay, just for tonight.'

‘No.'

‘Listen, I'll make us a meal. Mum'll give us some extra stuff. I'll say you've got a guest, unexpected. Which is true anyway. And I'll cadge some cans of lager off Dad. We'll have a nice time. It'll be a party. A house warming! You haven't had one yet. How about it? You'll enjoy it, honest . . . Come on, let yourself go for once, it won't hurt!'

Never able to resist Tess when she's determined, then or now, I gave in. ‘All right,' I said, feigning unwilling agreement, the art of the spoilt boy (he who'd sworn he'd never pretend any more). I was on a loser, I knew. And that desire in me to be liked took over, a failing I hate but have never quite been able to shake off. ‘But no passes at him while I'm around.'

‘Cheek! I'll treat you both the same.'

‘Great, a threesome. Now that could be fun.'

‘You've got sex on the brain.'

‘Not to mention other parts, and who hasn't?' I was brightening up again. Another of the virtues of Tess – something about her that dispels The Glums. One of life's natural healers, just as some people are natural destroyers.

Depression, of which a gloomy mood is a miniature version, is like being filled with iron filings all zinging about inside you, going every which way, pricking and stinging. And Tess is like the magnet that magics all the filings into a beautiful pattern, a force field, in which they act as one, harmoniously.

‘I'll tell you what,' I said, ‘while Prince Charming lies on my bed of his pain, let's you and me go blackberrying. Then we'll make a pud.'

‘It's after Michaelmas.'

‘Eh?'

‘Ignorant yob. September twenty ninth. It's well known in these here parts that you shouldn't eat blackberries after Michaelmas because the Devil pees on them that night.'

‘You're full of odd info today. Roman gods. Urinating devils.'

‘I get it from Dad. He loves that sort of thing – country customs, folklore.'

‘I'll chance it if you will. We can sweeten them with honey.'

We found a plastic bag and set off, Tess knowing the best bushes in the hedges between the bridge and the village. Blackberries big as the balls of my thumb. Not really. Long past their best, but we weren't to be put off. Doing together was what mattered.

As we picked, our fingers soon violet-red from juice and itchy-smarting from the pin-sharp thorns, Tess said, ‘Why do you go on so much about responsibility?'

‘I don't.'

‘
Mon dieu
, you should hear yourself.'

‘I don't like people expecting things of me.'

‘Do they?'

‘Parents. Teachers. Relatives. Don't yours?'

‘Never bother to think about it. Wouldn't pay much attention anyway.'

‘You're more easy-going than me. You just accept things. I envy that.'

‘You are a bit heavy, that's for sure. I thought it was The Glums.'

‘No, I was born that way. In most of the photos of me as a kid I'm frowning, like I'm worried to death.'

We stood back from the bushes and looked at each other. A new understanding.

‘Mum calls you old-fashioned. I suppose that's what she means.'

‘What?'

‘That you take such a serious view of life.'

‘Does it matter? To you, I mean.'

‘It's how you are. I like you as you are.'

‘Stodgy? Prematurely middle-aged?'

‘I didn't say that! You do have your lighter side. Now and then!'

‘Which is what you like.'

‘If you really
must
know, Jan dear . . .'

‘God, not
that
again!'

‘. . . what I like most about you is your mind.'

‘Not my lovely body?'

‘No, not your lovely body. You make me think in a way nobody else has. I enjoy that, surprise surprise. And,' she added quickly, ‘don't say another word about it now because you'll only go and spoil things by saying too much.'

‘Can you?'

‘Sacré bleu!'
she said, but she was laughing. ‘Haven't you learned
nothing
yet!'

‘No,' I said.

‘Oh – I dunno – how can anybody who's read so much be so –
naïve!
'

There was a sharpening of the air as the autumn sun went down. Our breath steamed. Tess's lips were purple. We started picking berries again.

‘Look,' I said, ‘if we're going to live off the land instead of out of your mum's freezer, what about us making cauliflower cheese for a main course? We can pinch a cauliflower out of your garden, there's about fifty more than your family will ever eat. I've plenty of cheese and milk. You just brought some butter. We'll have to cadge some flour though, I haven't any of that.'

‘Haven't cooked it before.'

‘I have. I'll show you. What you do is wash the cauliflower and divide it into florets. Cook in salted boiling water for ten minutes. Make a sauce by melting an ounce of butter in a pan. Blend in a couple of tablespoons of flour. Cook for about a minute, stirring all the time because it bums easily.'

‘Do I want to know all this?'

‘Take off the heat. Slowly stir in half a pint of milk. Put on the heat again. Keep stirring. Bring to the boil. Add about three ounces of cheese, and salt and pepper to taste. Put the cauliflower into a casserole dish, pour on the sauce, sprinkle a couple of ounces of grated cheese on top, put the casserole into the oven and bake for fifteen to twenty minutes.
Olay! Bon appétit
, et cetera.'

‘Lawks a-mercy,
mon ami
, hidden talents! Where'd you learn that?'

‘Haven't wasted all my time the last few weeks. What else do we housebound men have to do all day but learn to cook?'

‘You've such a hard life. How about some spuds?'

‘We'll bake them in the fire.'

‘Great!'

On our way back from the garden, where we'd endured much teasing from the Norris tribe (father, mother, two sons, plus Tess,
the youngest), Tess said, ‘Don't you think this is a lovely chuckle? And we wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been for Adam.'

‘Careful. Proof of the pud. Might turn out like Christmas.'

‘How?'

‘Better in the anticipation than the event.'

‘Pessimist.'

‘Romantic.'

‘Cynic.'

‘Estragonist.'

‘Eh?'

‘Sewer-rat, curate, cretin, crrritic.'

‘What are you on about now?'

‘Samuel Beckett . . . 
Waiting for Godot
 . . . the play?'

‘I make a point of never knowing anything other people quote at me. It lets them feel superior.'

‘
Touché!
Will you have it in a basket or on a plate?'

‘This is all too heady for me.'

‘Must be the Devil's pee on those blackberries you ate. I expect his piddle is pretty intoxicating.'

‘Intoxicating perhaps, pretty not. Glad you're feeling perky again.'

9

When we arrived back at the house Adam had gone. Again. Along with some food – all my bread, a bag of fruit Tess had brought that day, and half the cake my mother had sent in her weekly parcel.

‘This is getting to be a habit,' I said.

‘I suppose you're pleased,' Tess said, not hiding her disappointment.

‘Yes,' I said to irritate her. ‘But he'll be back. He knows when he's on to a good thing.'

Not until later, when we took our blackberry pud out into the night frost to eat by the river, did we discover that the boat had gone as well.

1

 . . . 
BUT, SWEETHEART, THERE
was no need to be bad-tempered. Your father says boys of your age don't like to be questioned about their doings and having their parents interfere, he says he was like that himself. Well,
he
might have been but that doesn't mean
you
have to be, does it, and I wasn't interfering but only wanting to be helpful. After all, as I have to keep reminding him, you're on your own for the first time in your life, with no one to look out for your wellbeing, and I am your mother, darling, aren't I, it's only natural, isn't it, that I should want to know how you are and how you spend your time. You've never been secretive before. And I don't think your father is right anyhow. Your Uncle Bill was always full of himself when he was your age and told us about everything he did, and Mrs Fletcher's Brian doesn't hold back either, I know because she tells me in great detail all his news when we have our Friday coffee, he seems to be doing very well at college, just as you will next year, I'm sure, and probably a lot better because you were always much cleverer than Brian Fletcher, that I do know.

I can only think you're so reserved about your doings because you aren't really happy and don't want to say so in case it upsets your father and me. I know you, when you go quiet that means trouble. I expect something's going on that doesn't suit. You were always like that. But when you were a child you were a sweet-natured good little boy who always tried to please, and I could soon make you smile again, I knew the trick, as I still could if you were here. Well, it won't be long before Christmas when you'll be home again and we can have a good old heart-to-heart. Would you like us to drive down and pick you up? Your father says the car could do with a good long run, and there's no need for you to take the bus, even if it is supposed to be express, the car would be far more comfortable, and save on expense,
and we'd be together for that bit longer. Your father and I do think it admirable of you to want to survive without taking money from us or depending on us at all, but things can go too far in this respect and fetching you home would give us great pleasure. So just let's take this as settled, shall we?