Page 17 of People In Love
I thought we could have a quiet one, is all, she says.
Didn’t you have a quiet one last night?
Not with you, though, darling.
No, he says. Not with me.
He has to recalibrate as he finishes his sandwich. Recalling the pace of life around here, in this house. With that empty chair that never used to be empty; that had someone else sitting in it, who knew how to handle his mother, knew how to care for her, what to say, how to be patient and adoring without going mad, and going mad is in itself a concern, something he’s not thought about for god knows how long, sudden zip of heat where his heart is, which he ignores as he drains the rest of his tea.
What d’you want to do, then, he asks her. Shall I cook? We could rent a film or something?
Rent a film, Josie repeats, and laughs, the worry now gone from her face. I do have Netflix, my love. And I have chicken casserole on Sundays. Remember?
And he does, of course. He does.
_
After breakfast, Bren steps outside the front door, swears, and doubles back inside. He forgot how bloody freezing it would be in England this time of year, had been so preoccupied last night he’d barely noticed. Thankfully his old down jacket is still hanging in the understairs cupboard, still bright blue; still fits. He zips it up to his neck and is back out in the cold with the two-pound coin his mother pressed into his hand, again like he’s a child, like he’s mowed the lawn and got his pocket money and is off to the corner shop to spend it. She’s out of milk; there’d been an inhale of panic; he’d said he’d go, don’t stress.
There is no shop in their village so he’ll have to walk to the next one over, a slightly larger settlement with a farm shop and the cricket club. Its own pub, too, The Nag’s Head, famous for its microwaved ready meals, its watery lemonade from the pump, a place he and Nora would go because it was somewhere warm in winter, somewhere away from his mum and her mum and thelovebirdcomments from his –
He exhales, marvels at his breath on the air. Feels slightly spaced out, and is it the surrealism of being home or in a different time zone, he doesn’t pause to wonder. Heads down the driveway, unthinking, past the playing field. The swing set where they’d sit and talk as the sun sank below the treeline. Remembering the blood-orange sunsets, the cooking smells drifting from the cottages as darkness fell. This path, right here, veering behind the cottages and through a graffitied alleyway, across the wooden bridge over the river, thiswalk he did countless times, alone and also with Nora. Clearing his head, giving his mother privacy the way his father taught him to do when things felt too much; when Josie was crying constantly or staring at the wall or chattering at high speed to someone who was not there and he was told he was better off out of it by the person who handled it, who handled her, protected him, and then died.
He walks faster now. Iced puddles cracking underfoot, legs carrying him on autopilot along the mud track that runs parallel to the river. Past the backs of the cottages, the willow leaning into the green water, the oak tree in Freya’s garden behind a thicket of brambles.
Flash of iridescent blue, as he walks. A kingfisher, so unbelievably bright but then gone, as if it never was.
He’d had two long-haul flights to prepare himself for this. For coming home. To anticipate how it might feel, decide what he might say to Nora and his mother, and yet he hadn’t said any of it to either of them. Hadn’t felt the need, hadn’t had anything, really, to respond to, or work with. Clearly his leaving wasn’t as much of a big deal to them as he’d thought it might have been, keeping him up at night sometimes when he’d had the right amount of alcohol; or if he was wild camping, waking to white peaks above the cloud line that could’ve been heaven if he believed in such a place, which he doesn’t. But a scene like that would prompt him to think big thoughts about the past, all the same. Reach for his phone to touch base, pay for an hour at an internet café, early on, before international sim cards became a thing.
Turns out he needn’t have worried. They were fine. Which is a relief, in all honesty, as he rounds the dilapidated old barn, corvids lined like vultures along the roof. Watching him with their black eyes and black feathers, yeah, you better keep walking. Past the farmhouse with the trampoline and swimmingpool he’d never seen anybody swim in. Irate dog that often barked at the gate, not there, now, obviously, would’ve passed away long ago, wonders whether it barked till its dying day, Nora was so determined to befriend it every time they walked past, talked to it in a soothing voice to no effect, kibble-stained teeth, no wagging tail, yeah, you better keep walking. Into the forest, then. The mud wetter and thicker here, as the track ends; he tries not to get it on his boots. Has his mother’s carpet to be mindful of, now. Pulls out his phone, remembers it’s dead. Walks on until the shop, almost an hour away.
Inside, the bell dings, he buys the milk, pays the woman at the counter. Someone he doesn’t recognise, who doesn’t know him either. He gets a coffee because he doesn’t want to head home yet. Doesn’t know what he’ll do with his day. Look at flights back, probably. Reach out to some old school friends, if any of them are even around any more. Scattered across the country working office jobs, married or with kids or both, from what he’s seen online. Early thirties, now. Most people with lives he doesn’t want, never wanted; the coffee is bad, instant and too bitter. He drinks it anyway, the paper cup warm in his palm. A man walks his terrier along the country road. Doesn’t say morning, as he passes. Nokia oraorbuenos díasor bowing of the head. Which suits him, actually, right about now. He finishes his coffee, the backs of his knees cold where he’s been sitting on the concrete.
And then he stands, stretches, and makes the mistake of looping around the cricket field to kill time. Stops to look at the village noticeboard with its printouts advertising jumble sales and line dancing and there’s the old photograph he never even considered would still be there, of the cricket team that won the county cup in 2005. Faded with age. Barely visible, if you didn’t know who you were looking for, but there he is, in the front row, in his white jumper with his orange hairand crooked smile that Bren himself has inherited, sudden, sick roll of heat through him at the sight of it, running cold as he stands and stares and then turns round and heads back to the woods.
_
He walks until sundown. Drops the milk off at his mother’s and tells her he’s going to meet some friends for lunch. Lovely, his mother says, doesn’t ask which friends, which is just as well, because his phone is still dead, so he couldn’t message anyone even if he wanted to.
He does go and get lunch, though. Needs to eat, just like he needs to work and live, wherever he is. Walks for miles in a different direction and finds a countrycaféselling scones and sandwiches and ice cream all year round. Optimistic, he likes that. Pays by card, his Velcro wallet in his back pocket. Talks to some strangers out on a bike ride, gorgeous day isn’t it, the start of spring, so unusual this time of year.
Unusual, yes. All of it.
He eats his sandwich – second of the day, chicken salad, this time, before he remembers it’s chicken for dinner too – drinks his cappuccino and takes his empty plate up to the counter before he leaves. Thanks the owner, says goodbye to the cyclists. Walks some more until the light is lost – too early, because it’s still winter, despite the bluebird sky – and is coming up the gravel path home with the horizon hazy, now, lavender soft. Half expecting his mother to be waiting in the window, when instead it is Freya he bumps into as she’s getting out of her car. Nora’s mother. Looking much as she did before, like a middle-aged hippy who might be found meditating in her greenhouse, which he would take, any day, over the actual madness of his own mother. Hours, he’d spent, in her company, helping herto shell peas with Nora, sampling her terrible, vegan cooking – grimacing, and teasing, and laughing about it.
He had laughed a lot, in Freya’s house.
Hello, he says, and Freya jerks at the sound of his voice, drops her bag of shopping on the gravel. Some groceries roll out of it, a tube of Pringles, a few loose apples.
Brenavin? she says, as he hurries forward to pick it all up, grinning at his long-lost nickname. You gave me the fright of mylife.
Didn’t think I’d aged quite so terribly, Bren says, but sure.
Freya does not laugh; seems perturbed, mesmerised even, by his face. She is staring at him as he straightens up with her shopping; he swallows, clears his throat.
Josie said you were back, she says. But I … well. It’s different, seeing you in person. Like seeing …
Don’t say it, he thinks, and she doesn’t; the silence stretches between them.
