The beginning of everyth.., p.24
The Beginning of Everything, page 24
Eventually the door is opened by a small, round woman of maybe seventy. She has short gray hair, very blue eyes, and is wearing jeans and a bright red shirt.
“Hi, I’m Jess. We spoke on the phone just now.”
“Hello, Jess! Come in, come in.”
I follow her down the hallway, which, like Kate’s house, has lovely original encaustic tiles on the floor. That’s about the only resemblance, however; whereas Kate’s house is all soothing shades of white, Pen y Bryn is busier, with bright green anaglypta beneath the dado, and broad stripes of blue and white painted on the wall above the rail, where it’s visible between the many, many paintings. The kitchen is equally bright, with red and white gingham curtains, bright yellow cupboards, and a huge mural—expressionist blossoms—on one wall.
She offers me a cup of tea, and we sit at a very battered pine table to drink it.
“You’re a friend of Maura’s, then,” she says. She smiles at me. “I’ve known Maura since she was a little girl.”
“Yes, I used to work for her, at the restaurant,” I explain, “when I first moved here.”
“And where do you live at the moment?”
I tell her about Sunnyside.
“Oh yes, I know those houses. So why do you want to leave? It sounds lovely.”
For a moment I’m tempted to just say it. I think I’m in love with my landlord and I know he likes me too but for some reason I can’t fix this in my head and…
“I think the guy I live with—my landlord—well, I don’t want to live there when he meets someone. I mean, that probably sounds weird. Um. The thing is, once he gets a new girlfriend, it will be awkward, and I’d rather get ahead of that.”
She looks at me.
“And…he’s been really kind and helpful, but I’d like to move ahead on my own.”
That sounds better, I think.
She drains her mug and stands up, saying, “Come and see the room. It has its own entrance, so we’ll go outside and I’ll take you round.”
I finish my own tea and follow her back down the corridor and out of the front door. She turns left and walks to a tall wrought iron gate in a beech hedge. She pushes it open with a squeal of complaining hinges.
“There,” she says. “I keep meaning to bring the WD-40 but I never remember.”
We walk down the side of the house. There’s a one-story, flat-roofed extension in front of us, with a shiny red front door, which she opens.
“This was my husband’s studio,” she says, “hence the skylight.”
It’s a large, bright, rectangular room, with paint-spattered quarry tiles on the floor and a huge, floor-to-ceiling window taking up the whole wall at the far end, looking out onto the back garden. Thick, heavy curtains swirl at each side of the window; there’s a squat wood-burning stove with a shiny steel chimney, a double bed against one wall, a large chest of drawers, an elderly armchair, a Formica-topped drop leaf table, a pair of kitchen chairs and two kitchen units with a sink, a shelf above, and a tabletop oven with a two-ring hotplate. There’s a smaller, rectangular window in that wall, too high to see out of. A door leads into a tiny bathroom with a shower.
“This door”—she moves a curtain by the bed—“goes through to the house. It’s locked; there are bolts on this side. I’ll give you the key though, and you can come through to the house if you want. There’s no fridge out here, but you can use mine. And you’re welcome to use the kitchen whenever you like.”
“I didn’t realize it was an annex.” I look round curiously, trying to imagine myself living here.
“Yes. And I won’t say it’s cozy exactly—but it’s not too bad with the burner going.”
“Your husband was an artist?”
“Yes, he painted, mostly, did a bit of sculpture. He died nearly ten years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” I consider the room. It’s a lot better than I’d imagined. I can see it might be cold, but it’s not winter all year. And the garden!
I head for the window. “How beautiful,” I say. There’s a wide terrace in York stone, and then a joyful explosion of late autumn color and mature trees.
“That’s my passion,” says Bea.
“It looks wonderful.”
“This opens,” she says, sliding open the window and stepping out onto the terrace. “You’re welcome to sit in the garden. I mean, when the weather’s suitable.”
“It all looks great. Yes. I’d like to live here, if you’d like to have me. Are you seeing anyone else?”
She shakes her head. “A girl came up yesterday, but it’s too far from where she works. When would you like to move in?”
“As soon as possible. Next weekend?”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
We discuss details like deposit and rent, and then I cycle home in the dark.
* * *
“Oh, hey,” says Gethin, as I open the back door. “Wondered where you were. Is it raining?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“Been out on your bike?”
“Yeah. What are you making?”
“I thought risotto. I’ve prepped everything like on the telly.” He shows me a dish of finely chopped onion.
“Nice.”
“Do you want some?”
I nod. “Yes, please.”
“What have you been up to, then?” he says. I take off my jacket and carry it through to drip in the hallway.
“Tell you later,” I say, ignoring the clutching anxiety in my belly. I go into the dining room and set the table. It seems like a meal we should eat at the table. Surely telling him won’t be too bad. He doesn’t need my rent, after all. The three hundred pounds a month I pay him is money for sweets, essentially.
I go to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, watching him stir the rice. Risotto is one of his favorite things to make. I taught him that. I suppose our relationship’s not entirely one-sided.
* * *
“Where’d you go, then?” he asks, as we eat our dinner. “Bit miserable for a bike ride.”
“Yeah, it’s not great out there,” I agree. “I went to look at a room.”
“A room? What d’you mean?”
“Um. I’ve been thinking, and it seems like maybe I should find somewhere else to live.”
He stops eating. “What?”
“I’m…the thing is,” I say, “at some point, you know, you’ll meet someone, and then you won’t want me here, and I’d rather go now than wait for that to happen, and…”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I blink at him, uneasy. “You know I’m…you’ve been so kind, and helped me so much, and I don’t want you ever to wish I wasn’t here, so I thought, you know, if I go now, then…”
“What’s this about? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need a lodger, do you? I mean, financially. And when you bought this house you thought you’d be living in it by yourself. And I’ll never not be incredibly grateful for everything you’ve ever done for me. I just think…it seems like it’s time for me to do stuff on my own. For myself.”
“That’s all bollocks,” he says. “I don’t want to live on my own. I like living with you.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“There aren’t any buts, Jess.”
“I’m in the way of your life.”
“No, you’re not. Is this about the weekend? About…” He waves his spoon. “Is this about Charlotte?”
“No, it’s…”
“Because you know I didn’t expect that to happen, and it won’t happen again.”
“Yes, but…you’re perfectly entitled to bring someone home, of course you are. And I am, I suppose, I mean if I wanted to, which I wouldn’t, but anyway, the thing is, she might be personally irrelevant, but she’s…representatively”—I frown; I’m not sure that’s a word—“significant.”
“What? You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m not. I’m just saying, when you get a girlfriend, you won’t want a random woman in your box room.”
“No, I wouldn’t want that,” he says, “but you’re not a random woman, are you.”
“I very much am, though. Anyway, when you said I could stay, and asked me to deal with the woodchip, you weren’t expecting me to still be here ten months later, surely.”
He frowns. “I didn’t expect anything. I didn’t know what would happen or how it would be.”
“It’s been…good.” I blink hard, determined not to cry. “But it’s time for me to go.”
“But why? I don’t understand. Seriously, Jess…”
“You’ve given me loads of things,” I say. “More than I could ever have expected. Time, to sort myself out, and somewhere to stay, and things to do. You’ve introduced me to your friends, and got me a better job, and taken me about to see the countryside, and let me make plans for your garden, and I could never have imagined any of that. And I don’t want to spoil it by staying when I should leave.”
There’s a long, intense silence.
“Please don’t leave,” he says.
“Yes, I have to, because I’m…I don’t want to get too attached, you see, to the house, and everything, because then when you want me to go, it will be much worse. Much worse.” I stare at the tablecloth, unable to look at him.
“So you’re leaving because you think I’ll want you to leave at some hypothetical future point?”
“But you will. Say you meet someone and want her to move in…”
“Jess, this person doesn’t exist.”
“She does. You just haven’t met her yet.”
“This conversation is ridiculous. I don’t know why you think…look, I’m sorry I slept with that girl—”
“You don’t need to apologize; it’s not about that, it’s none of my business. I don’t…care what you do; you can do what you like. And we can still…if you want…we can have lunch, and…you know, visit places, and…be friends. If you want? But I have to…I can’t stay. I feel like a parasite.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Well, I do, and I don’t like it. I need to be in charge of myself.”
“How are you not in charge of yourself now? You pay rent, you do loads of stuff in the house, we…uh…we have a nice time, don’t we? I thought you liked it. I thought you were”—he blinks at me, clenches his jaw—“not unhappy.”
“I’m not. I’m just…anyway, this is pointless. I’ve found somewhere to go, and I’m going.”
“Great,” he says. He stands up. “Great, well, I hope it all works out for you.” He picks up his bowl, still half full of risotto, and goes out to the kitchen. I sit and look at my own bowl, from which I’ve eaten maybe a spoonful. That went a lot worse than I was expecting.
Chapter Twenty-two
I pack my things. I have my rucksack, a big blue IKEA bag, and a large cardboard box. Luckily my sewing machine has a handle, since it doesn’t have a case. I own three times as much stuff as I did when I arrived, but it’s still not much.
I think Gethin isn’t speaking to me, but as I’m avoiding him, I might be wrong. I haven’t told him when I’m leaving; it feels strangely melodramatic to go down to the sitting room and announce it. I thought about messaging him, but that felt even stranger. So I’ve done nothing. On the remaining evenings of the week, I sit in my bedroom or go out, walking endlessly. I buy a memory stick in town and transfer my stuff from the borrowed laptop. I buy myself some towels and bedding from one of the discount shops. I eat toast for my tea before he gets home from work.
I’m quite miserable.
On Saturday morning I get up very early and call a taxi to take my things to Bea’s. Then I’ll walk back and pick up my bike. I’ve started to worry that I won’t see Gethin at all before I leave, which would be…well, it would be rude, if nothing else. I’ve ordered some flowers—men never get flowers, do they, which seems harsh—so I need to be in for when they’re delivered.
When I get back to the house, the car is gone. I wonder where he is. I could text him, but somehow that seems impossible. I check that I’ve got everything, strip my bed, and then pace, nervously, waiting for the flowers. When they arrive, I arrange them in a jug on the dining room table and sit down to write him a note.
Dear Gethin
It feels like years since I read the note you wrote me back in November, standing in the garden and horribly frightened that I’d lost all my things and would have nowhere to sleep. I was so surprised—and suspicious, I admit—to read what you had to say. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else who would offer their home so generously. I’ll never be able to explain exactly how grateful I am for that, and for all your kindnesses. I really hope you’ve never regretted the impulse to help me. I think I’ve failed to explain why I have to leave, and I’m truly sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. I would never want to do that. I’m sorry I can’t explain myself properly, or express myself in a satisfactory way. I’ve loved living here, and so enjoyed the time we’ve spent together.
I pause here, and think for a long time about what I’m trying to say.
I’d like it if we could be friends, but I completely understand if you don’t want that. I wish I could have seen you before I left, but I don’t know where you’ve gone or when you’ll be back.
Yours
Jess
A large and unexpected tear drops onto the paper at this point, which is embarrassing and melodramatic. I press my sleeve against it and then fold the paper in half and write his name on it. I prop this against the jug, put the laptop neatly on the sideboard with my keys, and write my new address on a Post-it Note, which I stick to the bulletin board. I look for a long time at the photograph of the pair of us, soaking wet from the storm. Then, after standing for a moment in the sitting room, looking blindly at the things I chose and helped to arrange, I leave the house. The sound of the door closing behind me is rather final. I collect my bike from the garage and cycle toward my new home.
Chapter Twenty-three
It takes me a while to get used to being by myself. Although Bea is friendly, and quite willing to sit and drink tea in the kitchen, I don’t really like to impose. So I’m on my own a lot more than I have been for a long time. And although those six weeks when I first arrived were much lonelier in some ways—I remember when the only people I ever spoke to were shop assistants and the people who work in the library—I was also in a dizzying rush of relief. And anyway, I soon had my job at the restaurant, and then I met Gethin. This is different.
I don’t think I’d thought about how I might be lonely. I suppose I panicked. I suppose I’ve run away, again, really, and I think I might have…not made a mistake—I’m confident I’ve done the right thing, however hard it might be—but that I might have rushed into it. Although I can’t imagine I could have found a better place to live, since I definitely didn’t want to share. It feels like the most independent I’ve ever been—Bea’s not a flatmate, more like a neighbor. This feels important. I have to be able to construct my own life, not just hermit-crab my way into someone else’s.
I’ve been at Pen y Bryn for a few days when I come home to find a padded envelope with my name on it in the porch. The porch door doesn’t lock, and so my post (such as it might be) will wait for me there, we agreed, and I’ll check and collect it myself, rather than expecting Bea to bring it to me. There’s no mail slot, anyway, in my own front door. I carry the envelope back to my room and look at it while I boil the kettle. The address is typed, a printed label. I make my tea and then open the Jiffy bag. Inside there’s a bundle of cash, and a note.
Jess
This is the money you paid me as rent. I don’t want it, and I thought you might need it. If you’re going to stay in Caerwyddon you’ll probably need a car. If you give Steve Jones a call he’ll probably have something suitable. Remember to haggle.
Best wishes
Gethin
I look at the money. One hundred and fifty twenty-pound notes. Three thousand pounds. Ten times three hundred. My immediate reaction is to stuff it back in its envelope and cycle to Sunnyside and shove it through the mail slot, but then I think, well, he’s right.
I look at the stack of twenties on the table.
I think I’m a pretty terrible person.
I check the time. Will he be home from work? Maybe. I scroll through my phone and find his number.
I drum my fingers on the table as the phone rings.
It cuts to voicemail, so I leave a message.
“Hello. It’s me. Look—thank you for the money, I’m not sure I should accept it, though. Maybe you could call me when you have a moment?”
I wait all evening for him to call, but he doesn’t. When I wake up in the morning, however, there’s a message from him.
No need to thank me. It’s your money. I never meant to keep it. I told you I didn’t need it.
I know, but that’s not the point. Thank you.
That’s it though; he doesn’t reply. I look at his message for ages, and scroll back and look at other messages we’ve exchanged, which are mostly about what we were going to have for dinner, or whether to go out for lunch.
I miss him.
It’s been only three days though—of course I do. It will be fine. I’ve got over more complicated things than this, after all. Or harder things, or…but anyway. It will be fine.
* * *
I slowly develop a routine. Bea and I have breakfast together on Saturday mornings, when we talk about gardens, mostly, and planting, and art. During the week, I go to work, continue to have lunch at the restaurant once a week, hearing all the latest gossip, and spend the rest of the time on my own, unless Maura asks me to go out for a drink, which I might do if I’m in the mood. She’s curious though, convinced “something” must have caused my sudden exit from Sunnyside. Well, she’s not wrong, is she, but I still don’t want to talk to her about it, any more than I want to talk to Lizzie (“But I thought you liked it there? Did he try something?”) or Noosha (“So come on, something must have happened? What was it?”).
