Just between us, p.14
Just Between Us, page 14
They visited here often. Yeah, over the past few years, since Fiona bought a holiday home here; but even before then, they came all the time, because Leigh said it had everything a family needed for a holiday. The sea, a beach, ice cream shops, boats, and a sub-four-hour door-to-door journey, whether by train or car. She said it was ideal. Funny that Fiona chose to buy a holiday home here. Did she also love the Dorset coast, or did she do it to please Leigh? To keep Leigh close? Keep them all close? Oli doesn’t know. The thoughts buzz around his head, unsettling and creating a tightness in his mind that he can’t grapple with. It’s like reading an English comprehension exercise at school. There’s a sense that something is just a bit out of his reach, layered and perplexing. He’s never thought about Fiona’s motivation to buy a holiday home before. He just thought it was great that they could always go to Auntie Fi’s on every school holiday. His life used to be so simple.
Leigh really had a thing for Mary Anning; she was always going on about her independent thinking and how hard it was for her in a man’s world. Annoying stuff like that. Blah blah blah. Yeah, he got it. In hindsight, Leigh was stifled, Leigh wasn’t happy. Well, fuck off, Leigh, because no one is happy now. Every time he thinks of her, he feels hot with fury and sick with sadness. He hates her, and he hates her most for being dead.
Seb has to be reminiscing too, possibly longing for simpler times, because he asks, ‘Do you remember that year when it rained and rained all week and the holiday was total rubbish and so Mum dressed up as Mary Anning and went on the beach to look for fossils?’ Oli keeps his gaze above his brother’s head but nods, a reluctant acknowledgement of the comment, of the memory. ‘That was so funny. Everyone came out on the beach, like from the other houses, didn’t they? People were cheered up. Laughing and joining in.’ Seb’s eyes are shining and Oli hates it. Hates his hope, hates his grief. Hates that his baby brother is stuck between the two things. ‘She kept saying Mary Anning wouldn’t have been put off by a bit of bad weather. Mere drizzle. It was not drizzle. She was drenched! I wonder where she got that costume,’ Seb muses.
‘The charity shop.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you remember? She dragged us in there and got us to help her find the bits she needed; that was all part of the game. She bought a black blouse, a long black skirt, an old-fashioned apron thing.’ Oli remembers her eager face as she pounced on the apron, surprised by the perfect suitability of the find. This is just the thing! It kills him that he recalls this, but he does. His mum – Leigh – was determined to create some fun for them. He was about nine years old at the time. Young enough to be excited by her nutty enthusiasm for doing odd things. Of course, that was before she met Daan Janssen, before she went a step too far in terms of eccentricity and following the beat of her own drum, etc. Bitch.
Oli looks out of the train window and focuses on the countryside whizzing by. The trees look an especially dazzling green after months of seeing nothing other than the dull greys of buildings and roads. He can’t wait to be outside in the fresh air. The closeness of other people’s bodies is making him anxious. Not because of the COVID thing; he doesn’t really care about all that, kids aren’t getting sick from it anyway – it is an old people problem. His angst about how close everyone is to him and Seb is that people are untrustworthy fuckers, all of them. On the station and when they were boarding the train, he kept reaching for Seb’s arm and pulling him close. Scared that his brother was somehow going to be snatched away. He wishes they were younger and he could hold his hand, or younger still and he could have him in those training reins that some parents keep their toddlers on. He wishes he could strap Seb to his back. Fucking swallow him whole or something, just to keep him close and always know where he is.
Fuck, that’s mad.
He is losing his mind.
Oli rubs his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. His breathing is too fast, his palms are sweating. Seb doesn’t seem to notice; he is just so thrilled that he’s been invited along.
Oli doesn’t think Fiona is a killer. That is mad. Just mad. She makes them chilli con carne in tacos, FFS. Still, Leigh was also a good cook and a bigamist at the same time. Culinary skills don’t rule out being a total bitch. The whole thing is such a head-fuck. He is exhausted by it. And frightened. He just needs to get away from them for a bit. From the house that holds Leigh’s ghost in every corner, from his dad and his stupid depression, from Fiona and whatever threat she might be. Obviously, even the slightest possibility that Fiona killed Leigh meant he couldn’t leave Seb in London; he couldn’t leave him alone. He wouldn’t let Seb wake up and find him gone. Not him too.
Honestly, Oli doesn’t have much of a plan at all, beyond keeping Seb safe. Seb is extra. He’ll slow things down and ask a lot of questions. He will go on and on about being hungry or thirsty or hot or cold or tired. He’s like that; he thinks his physical comfort is of interest to everyone and so always gives a running commentary. Leigh used to encourage that crap, pander to it, strive to fix it by having a constant stream of snacks and drinks and layers of clothes. Seb should now get used to the idea that his updates on his bodily comfort are of interest to precisely no one.
This morning, Oli woke up literally at the crack of dawn to a chorus of birds squawking and crowing outside his open window. Birdsong is supposed to herald happiness at the start of a new day, but the noise sounded more like an alarm bell – disturbing, like the wail of an ambulance siren. He packed them a bag with food and drink, suncream, caps, because although he doesn’t want to pander to Seb, he can sort of see what Leigh was doing all these years – just, like, making things easier. He packed their passports too. He has no intention of going abroad, couldn’t even if he wanted to, but it never hurts to have your passport with you. If he needs to speak to the police, for example, he’ll have to prove who he is. Look, that’s not his plan. He doesn’t expect things to turn out that way.
He sneaked into Seb’s room and gently shook him awake. He held his hand over his brother’s mouth so he couldn’t yell out any surprised questions, then put a finger to his own lips. Seb nodded his understanding. Eyes wide, he quickly, quietly hopped out of bed. Oli threw a T-shirt and a pair of shorts at him, whispered that he had to keep completely silent as he got dressed. Downstairs, they found their dad asleep on the sofa bed in the living room. They crept past him, eased open the front door. Left. Oli only let Seb put on his trainers at that point, then they rode their bikes to the station. They pedalled fast. Got on a train to Axminster. It never crossed Oli’s mind to leave a note.
‘Are we looking for her?’ Seb asks. Pathetically hopeful. It annoys Oli.
‘No. She’s dead.’
Seb shakes his head a fraction, the way he does every time anyone tells him this, or even implies it. An act of defiance, or maybe just shaking off what he doesn’t want to hear. ‘So why are we here?’ he asks as they finally dismount at Axminster station.
They stand on the small platform as everyone around them streams with purpose and certainty one way or the other, towards town, the taxi rank or a bus. Oli is frozen. Usually Leigh drove them to Lyme Regis, but they have been to this station before, a few times. Sometimes they would head to the coast by train if Fiona was already staying in her second home, then she’d pick them up from the station in her car. Other times, the three of them would take a cab to her place when it was empty, and then their dad would join them at the weekend, bringing the car. If he is honest with himself, Oli has to admit they have had great holidays here; holidays where they visited the Jurassic play park, rode on the Seaton tramway, searched for fossils, mucked about on Fiona’s little boat and then warmed up again by drinking hot chocolate and feasting on salty chips. He allows himself to recall these happy days. Sometimes with his dad. Sometimes with Fiona. Always with Leigh.
‘Think of it as a holiday,’ he tells Seb. The station empties out; crowded buses full of excited families pull away. The longed-for space now seems too much. The boys feel deserted. The familiar place made unfamiliar without a guide or a waiting lift.
‘Dad is going to kill you,’ mutters Seb.
‘You think? I think they’ll like having the place to themselves.’
‘So they can shag and he doesn’t have to sleep downstairs pretending they’re not.’ Seb is trying to sound nonchalant and unconcerned; he fails on both counts when he turns pink. Oli is aware that they are starring in their own grim fairy tale. It has all the elements – they are alone, they have an indifferent father, a wicked stepmother, it’s the classic set-up. He just isn’t sure which woman is the wicked stepmother.
He isn’t sure either why he’s come here, what he’s hoping to find. Not Leigh. He knows she’s dead; unlike Seb, he’s accepted as much, and he knows that the police have already searched Fiona’s property for clues, for a body. They didn’t find a body. So what is it that he’s looking for?
‘I think we’ll find her here,’ says Seb confidently.
Oli pities him. And sort of admires him at the same time.
They both gaze around the empty station. It’s a hot day, but a wind is blowing through, buffeting them. Across the road is a builders’ yard and a giant pet store. There’s a supermarket a hundred metres away. These are solid, normal things that should offer some level of reassurance; they are not in a different world. They are not in the same one either. Oli takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the country air, checks the bus timetable, then fishes out a ham sandwich from his rucksack and hands it to Seb. They wait fifteen minutes and then hop on the next yellow bus, which takes them into town.
‘I can see the sea,’ mumbles Seb as they approach Lyme Regis. Oli nods, acknowledging the long-established game they’ve always played.
What the hell is he doing here? What is he hoping to find?
20
Stacie
I just can’t resist. I know Dad is concerned about shielding, so I plump for the path of least resistance. I don’t tell him I’ve decided to go into town. But how can I not go, after the breakthroughs yesterday: recognising Giles, remembering my grandfather? I’m on a roll! Damned COVID has stolen enough from me – and everyone, come to that. I have to seize the opportunity of doing everything I can to maximise my chances of remembering more as soon as possible, which means I have to take myself to familiar places, hopefully meet more people who know me.
My plan is that when Dad takes Ronnie for a walk, I’ll grab my backpack and set off along the road. I won’t take the beach route, because I’d have to pass him. It seems a little cloak-and-dagger, considering I’m a grown woman in my late thirties. I should perhaps simply stand up to Dad and tell him this is what I need to do, but somehow having cancer and more specifically losing my memory has temporarily infantilised me.
It’s only as I am leaving the house that it crosses my mind that I don’t have any money. I haven’t had use for a handbag, purse or bank cards during lockdown. Going into town without a bean isn’t a sensible move. I need enough to buy a cold drink and maybe lunch, depending on how long I’m there. The past months of rummaging through drawers and cupboards means that I know where to find some loose change. I unearth eight pound coins and pick up a tenner that’s been propped behind the mantelpiece clock for weeks. That’s plenty.
It’s a hot day, and although it’s not even 9 a.m., the air feels still and sticky, the tarmac on the road shimmers. I’ve brought an Ordnance Survey map with me, because while the countryside feels generally known to me, I’m not totally certain of the exact route into town. This is galling, as I obviously must have done it hundreds of times before. The roads are narrow, room for only one car at a time. Mother Nature has flexed her muscles during lockdown, and a number of robust tree branches – gangly, bold and verdant – reach, bend and drip over the road, causing the few cars that are trundling this way to swerve and dodge. Grasses growing from the verges whip my legs, and I have to keep vigilant to avoid stinging nettles.
According to the OS map, the journey into town is just over four miles. I don’t come across any other pedestrians; this route is the most direct, but it isn’t as picturesque as the beach and field trails, and not many people opt to travel this way on foot. A few cars pass me, and there are slightly hair-raising moments every time a bus trundles by and I need to swiftly scramble onto the bank at the side of the road, but all in all the walk is a success; it has an undeniable sense of excitement and independence to it.
As I approach Lyme Regis, my excitement builds. I feel I am being wrapped in a huge welcoming hug; the town is perfectly, reassuringly familiar. I see the sea. I recognise the stone walls, the curve of the road and the Georgian and Victorian houses, most of them white but some painted lemon or blue, the same shade as sugared almonds. The joy I feel causes my heart to speed up a little. I approach from Langmoor Close and am delighted as I correctly predict that there is a bookshop on my right and a fudge shop on my left. Knowing what to expect to see is wonderfully reassuring. My constant anxiety and sense of isolating uncertainty recedes a little.
It’s a small town, but made to feel bigger today because it’s rammed with joyful tourists. They move like bees swarming around a hive, industrious, purposeful. Dad was right to be concerned about social distancing; it’s impossible to keep, so I wear my mask. Many other people do the same, as face coverings are required indoors and those who are popping in and out of shops presumably can’t be bothered with repeatedly putting them on and taking them off. I, like almost everyone else, migrate towards the coast. I suppose a lot of these people will have come from inland towns and cities and are desperate for a paddle. I’ve had the luxury of being by the seaside throughout, but head in that direction anyway, hoping that there will be more opportunity to spread out on the beach than there is on the streets, then I can make a plan as to how best to utilise my time here.
The moment I see the beach, I realise my mistake at thinking there would be more space; every spare inch seems to be covered with a picnic blanket, a windshield, a deckchair. I drink in the sight of groups of buoyant teens, loved-up couples, and families, nuclear and extended, sprawled over the pebbles, laughing, chatting, flirting, reading, bickering, sulking, shouting and even – in one case – singing. Dogs are barking, music is blaring from people’s phones and speakers; the place teems with life.
Over and over again I am reassured by things I find familiar: the mini golf, the amusements and the antique centre. I recognise the Dinosaurland Fossil Museum, although I can’t think it’s likely I’ve been there since I was a child. Coming out today was the right thing. I feel confident that my memory is going to return to me. It would most likely have done so before now if only we’d been living in a more usual way. The absolute isolation of these past few months has hampered my rediscovery.
I realise that milling around with the ice-cream-eating populace is not necessarily the best use of my time. I thought I’d pop in and out of shops to see if any of the staff recognise me. However, as masks are necessary and it seems many of the shops are staffed by teens, I’m not sure that plan is likely to be fruitful. I decide to visit the library to use their internet. I’m ready to look up my Facebook and Instagram accounts. The thought sends adrenalin carousing through my body. The idea of discovering more about who I am is like unwrapping the ultimate surprise gift.
21
Stacie
The library is an oblong red-brick building, most likely built in the 1970s. I don’t have to check on a map to know where it is. I am able to recall its location, which sends a little thrill through me. I imagine I spent hours here as a child.
There are three mothers with children waiting outside in a queue. One of them turns to me and explains that there is currently a system that allows just two families inside at a time, ‘to keep everyone safe’. I resist commenting that nothing can really keep us safe – how could I have avoided cancer? – and instead nod with what I hope looks like understanding. She glances at her watch and sighs, a theatrical display of impatience. ‘Closes at twelve thirty, though, so I hope Naomi Thomas and her mob aren’t going to be much longer. Hogging all the books, hogging all the time.’
Naomi Thomas. I play the name around in my head to see if it’s by chance one I recognise.
‘Bleedin von Trapps,’ the woman goes on. ‘Five kids between the ages of fifteen and five. One more than the queen, just to make a point. Although I can’t imagine what lockdown must have been like in their house.’ She sniggers, obviously delighted at the thought of someone else’s domestic trials.
This woman has just one child with her, a girl aged about seven who is sitting on the grass nearby, contentedly making a daisy chain, leaving her mother the job of keeping a space in the queue.
‘I’m not being funny, me and Naomi have known each other since school, so obviously I’m saying this with affection, but my God, she makes a huge deal of everything.’ She rolls her eyes in mock despair.
I nod, trying to show a polite interest. I’m not sure what the normal response might be to this sort of gossip. Somehow it feels familiar. I think it’s a universal default setting: one mother gossiping about another to a third party. I believe it happens at every school gate; I must know this from my teaching. I didn’t realise the model might be re-created anywhere. The thought of a supposedly innocuous queue outside a library oozing entrenched rivalry somehow exhausts me. Still, what can I do other than let the woman talk?
