Читать книгу Blast from the Past - Cathy Hopkins, Cathy Hopkins - Страница 10

The following day was an early start. A short flight to Mumbai then a two-hour delay before our flight back to London. When we’d found seats in a row in the airport lounge, I got out my laptop with a mind to google Saranya Ji and see if there was a reviews page. Although the rational part of me had intended to put the whole session to one side, another part of me kept going back to what she’d said, not just about the past lives but about my life and experience of love being painful. I couldn’t deny that had resonated. I put in the name Saranya Ji only to find there were hundreds of them on the Net. Clearly it was a popular name. I scrolled down. There were pages and pages of women with that name.

‘Anyone got any paper?’ Marcia asked.

‘Sure. What for?’ I asked.

‘I need to make a list.’

I always travelled with a notepad, so found it in my bag and tore out a sheet for her. ‘A list of what?’

‘Past lovers.’

‘Oh no, Marcia. I know exactly what you’re thinking.’

‘I couldn’t get what Saranya Ji told you out of my mind and, as I was going to sleep last night, I thought that first we should look for someone named Billy Jackson. We could check records, you know, births, deaths, marriages, see where and when anyone of his name lived. It might give us some clues. We could look for Grace too. You never know what we might find and where it might lead us.’

‘Good idea Marcia,’ said Pete. ‘So much history is on the Internet now, census records and so on. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

I groaned. ‘Please, don’t encourage her.’

‘I’d like to do it,’ said Pete. ‘You know I love stuff like that. A challenge.’ It was true: he was a closet computer geek and was never happier than when researching history or suchlike on the web. ‘I traced my father’s family back to the seventeen hundreds on one of the ancestry sites.’ He got out his laptop. ‘In fact, I could start looking now while we’re waiting.’

‘Oh please don’t. When you were looking you were tracing back a family tree, your family tree, not tracking down someone that a clairvoyant told you that you might have been in a past life.’

‘What have we to lose by looking up the names that Saranya Ji gave you? It will be so easy to do. I have subscriptions to all the main sites and know my way around. I could put in the names and see what comes up.’

‘Please, please don’t do it on my behalf. Don’t waste your time.’

‘Someone has to do it and we know you won’t. Pete is a whiz at it all now,’ said Marcia. ‘The woman, what was her name? The surname?’

‘Harris. Grace Harris. A name Saranya Ji made up. I was thinking about it as I fell asleep too. She could have plucked any names out of the air. You probably will find them if you look on your ancestry sites; there will be loads of people who lived with those names, just like there are hundreds of Saranya Jis on the Net.’

‘Ah,’ said Marcia, ‘so you are interested. You looked her up.’

‘Only to see if there were any reviews saying she was a charlatan. You will find a Grace Harris and a Billy Jackson, thousands of them probably, and not only in the UK but all over the place – Australia, America. It won’t mean anything.’

‘Didn’t she say where they lived?’ asked Marcia.

‘She said London and that it was in the Second World War.’

‘See, that narrows it down already.’

‘Seriously? What’s the point? So you find two people who had those names, they could be the names of people she met the day before she saw us, and now today she’s telling some other sucker that they were Bea Brooks or Marcia and Peter Rodgers in a previous life. Grace and Billy could be the names of people she met anywhere on her tour. And if, by some miracle, you find that they did exist in the past, in London, there would be nothing to prove I was a Grace Harris in a previous existence.’

‘We’re going to look into it,’ said Marcia. ‘Let’s see what we can find.’

I looked over at Pete who was still looking at his laptop. ‘Can’t you stop her?’ I asked.

‘I think you already know the answer to that … And what harm will it do?’

‘Exactly,’ said Marcia. ‘Keep an open mind, Bea. So, second part of the plan, we look at your past lovers, where they are now and if, by any chance, there’s someone you overlooked. It can happen. Twin souls or soulmates sometimes have stuff to work out on their own before they get together as a couple. So. Men. How many?’

‘I’m not answering that,’ I said.

‘Well, I probably know most of them,’ said Marcia.

Pete peered over his laptop. He had a mischievous look in his eyes. ‘And so do I.’

No you don’t, I thought. Although I’d known both of them through the ups and downs of most of my relationships, I’d had a few secret liaisons they knew nothing about.

‘But maybe there have been others that we don’t know about,’ Marcia continued as if picking up on my thoughts. ‘Was there anyone you felt that feeling of familiarity with that Saranya Ji spoke of? Think, Bea. Someone you let go and always regretted that it didn’t work out?’

‘All of them. All of them were my soulmates. I regretted that it didn’t work out with all of them. Happy?’

‘No, don’t forget I lived through most of it with you, which is why I care so much.’

‘Er … there was that bloke Michael,’ Pete said. ‘The musician. You were pretty keen on him as far as I remember.’

I ignored him.

‘Yes, he was the first one who came to my mind,’ said Marcia.

‘Then you’ve both forgotten what happened with him. Anyway, what qualifies as a lover? I had a crush on my art teacher, Mr Doyle, at school – loads of us did, remember Marcia?’

Marcia wrote down the name. ‘Course, he was gorgeous; half the school was in love with him. OK. We can make a first-division list and a second. Crushes can go on the second because they might be people that you recognized but didn’t get to act out the feeling with.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘OK, then you can add Idris Elba, George Clooney and Colin Farrell to that list. I think I’ve always known I belonged with one of them. Be great if one of them turned out to be my soulmate.’

‘Start at the beginning, Bea. First love ever,’ said Marcia.

‘Jack.’

‘Jack? I don’t remember him. How old were you when you met him?’ She seemed peeved that there was some part of my life that she didn’t know about.

‘Five.’

‘And Jack?’

‘He was a puppy when we got him, so he was probably about six weeks old.’

Marcia sighed. ‘Oh that Jack, course I remember him. He was a dear old thing. I suppose it’s vaguely possible your soulmate might have returned as a dog.’

I laughed again. ‘You really are mad as a hatter, Marcia. But I did love Jack. I truly did. He was my best friend and constant companion. I was heartbroken when he died.’

‘I remember. We buried him in your parents’ back garden.’

‘And I was heartbroken again when old Boris died, and Caspar.’

‘Ah, we all loved those dogs,’ said Pete. ‘There’s nothing as sad as losing a beloved pet.’

‘I’ll look into whether animals reincarnate as animals or if ever they cross over to being a human,’ said Marcia.

‘What planet are you on, Marcia? I’m not even entertaining this, not for a second.’ I gave Pete an exasperated look. He grinned back at me and went back to his screen. ‘I’m not sure if I even believe in reincarnation, animals or human. There’s no real proof is there?’

‘Oh yes there is,’ said Marcia. ‘I’ve read loads of accounts of people who have recall of past lives; people who have recollection of places that they’ve never been to in their current life and they remember specific details of the people that they used to be, who they used to know and where they lived. You should look it up. There’s loads on the Net.’

‘Think rationally for a moment, Marcia, that is if you’re capable of doing that. These places that people remember – but have never been to – are probably from movies they’ve seen, or the Internet, or travel programmes. We’re exposed to so much these days, these reincarnation-believers probably trot out something that they saw online but don’t remember having taken in. Our brains are stuffed full of information.’

‘You can believe what you want, Bea, and I can be rational, but I want to remain open-minded too. There are many things we don’t understand with our limited brains.’

‘True. And it’s not that I’m not open-minded, I’m just saying many things have a rational explanation. OK, let’s say we do reincarnate, there has to be good reasons why people don’t remember who they were. Imagine you were some great artist or writer, someone famous now, in this century, but at the time you died in poverty. Imagine you were one of the Brontë sisters or Oscar Wilde or Vincent van Gogh? You come back in this life, then remember creating your past works, but no one will believe you. You see your books selling by the millions. You hear that your paintings go for billions. You watch as your books are made into TV adaptations or movies. How painful would that be? So, think about it, Marcia: if we do reincarnate, the fact that we don’t remember past lives is probably a self-protection mechanism to stop us all going mad or getting angry or bitter and dwelling on how it’s different this time round.’

Pete looked up from his laptop. ‘Good point, Bea.’ He sighed. ‘Not having much luck on here. I need more time.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘It can’t possibly go anywhere, so why waste your time? Like, what if Saranya Ji had told me that I used to be Jane Austen? And I believed her and went to her publishers saying, oi, you owe me years and years of royalties. I’d be locked up. No. I reckon focus on the present, this life, and make the best of it. Isn’t that what all the great teachers say anyway? Be here now and all that good stuff. If souls evolve, then surely this present life has to be the best one yet. Would you really want to go back and relive past struggles and lessons? Never mind a past life, think about this one. I wouldn’t want to go back to some parts of it, like I wouldn’t want to relive parts of my teenage years again or some of my relationships. Surely it’s best to move on.’

Marcia looked thoughtful. ‘OK, I understand that, but we can still learn from the past, can’t we? Especially if we’re repeating a mistake or a pattern like Saranya Ji said you were.’

‘No. I think it’s best to leave the past in the past and that if I am to learn anything then it’s that I have to move on, move forward, create a new pattern.’

I could see that I’d thrown Marcia with my argument and she was considering what I’d said. ‘Hmm. Maybe that’s true, but what if you can’t move forward because you’re stuck in a pattern of thinking so sabotaging your relationships? I think this is exciting and I still think we should look into finding Billy Jackson. Who’s next on your list of past lovers? And don’t give me any more pets.’

I knew I’d have to humour her. When Marcia got the bit between her teeth, there was no letting go. ‘OK. First love, er … that would have been Andrew Murphy.’

‘And where was this? In case I need to track him down.’

‘Manchester. I was ten. He was in my class in junior school, just before I met you.’

‘Hold on,’ said Pete, and he cocked his ear to listen to an announcement. ‘Come on, looks like our flight is on time after all. We’d better go to the departure gate.’

Saved by the bell, I thought as we gathered our hand luggage and made our way to our plane.

*

Soon we were winging our way above the clouds back to London and Mumbai was receding in a haze of dust beneath us. Luckily Marcia and Pete’s seats were across from me on the aisle so Marcia couldn’t question me further. I did a few puzzles for a while then my eyelids grew heavy and, as I began to doze, my thoughts turned back to my early years.

Andrew Murphy. I hadn’t thought about him in years, decades.

He’d lived round the corner from us in Manchester, in a Victorian house on the main road near the Golden Lion pub. I liked it because it had a wooden porch at the front and looked more interesting than the 1930s semi-detached house that I lived in with my parents and two brothers. Andrew and I were in our last year at the same primary school and the first time I really noticed him was in RE. Before that, apart from my brothers, boys hadn’t been on my radar, I only saw them as annoying creatures who were too boisterous and smelt of stale biscuits.

Mother Christina had been talking to the class about God being omnipresent.

Andrew stuck his hand up. ‘In that case, why do we only pray in church? If he’s omnipresent, isn’t it OK to pray anywhere, even in the loo?’

I’d turned to look more closely at who had asked what I thought was a brilliant question, and saw a good-looking lad with an open friendly face and shock of brown hair that wouldn’t be combed down.

He got detention for being disrespectful and I was sent with him for laughing.

‘So God is omnipresent apart from bathrooms and toilets,’ he said later as we wrote out lines from the catechism.

‘Good,’ I said, ‘I don’t like to think of God watching while I do a wee.’

That set us off sniggering again and got us another telling-off. I didn’t mind. I had a new friend. A boy. And with him came a relief that I wouldn’t get called to be a nun. As Catholics, we’d been told about special people who got the vocation and were called to the life of a nun or priest. It sounded wonderful, like an early X Factor, when a hand would point from on high and a voice would say, ‘You, you are one of the chosen.’ My friend Denise and I talked about it a lot. Would we be amongst the special ones, singled out for a life close to God? It was made to sound like a great honour, but I had my doubts and so did Denise, because we had recently discovered that boys might have something more to offer us than being a bride of Christ and living a life of chastity. In the end, neither of us got the call from above and the notion of it was soon forgotten as our hormones took over and anxieties about how to be a good kisser took precedence instead.

Andrew got detention again soon after his question about omnipresence. It was coming up to Easter and, this time, we were in Father Pronti’s class.

‘So Mike Jameson, and what are you going to give up for Lent?’ the priest had asked one of the boys in the class.

‘Sweets and chocolates,’ Mike replied.

‘Very good, my son. And you Joseph O’Leary?’

‘Watching TV, Father.’

‘Excellent. And you, Beatrice Brooks? I can see that you’re bursting to give us your answer.’

I was. I’d thought long and hard about this one. Nothing as mundane as sweets for me, oh no, I wanted to give up something impressive, and to show Andrew that, like him, I didn’t go along with the rest of them. I waited until the room had gone completely quiet so that my answer would have maximum impact. ‘Please, Father,’ I said as the class strained to hear. ‘I’m going to give up lies and stealing.’

The place exploded in laughter, including Father Pronti. I went scarlet. Why were they all laughing? It wasn’t funny. Not that I made a habit of lying and stealing, but I’d been taught that at times like Christmas and birthdays, it was the thought that counted. Wouldn’t that apply to Lent as well? Surely my ideas for abstention were more along the lines that God was after than giving up Mars Bars or Maltesers, but maybe I’d got it wrong, and cutting out your Cadbury’s was the twentieth-century version of sacrificing a first-born or slaughtering a lamb. Across the room, Andrew gave me the thumbs-up. I knew he’d get it.

When Father Pronti got round to him, I could tell by his face that he’d thought about his answer too. ‘And you, Andrew Murphy, what will you be giving up for Lent this year? Chocolate or,’ he gave me a conspiratorial wink, ‘or is it to be lies and stealing like young Beatrice? What’s it going to be?’

‘Catholicism,’ said Andrew. That wiped the smile off Father Pronti’s face, but it sealed the friendship between Andrew and me. After that, we walked home together from school or met up after his paper round and would climb up on top of the coal shed at the side of his house and eat salty chips with vinegar from the paper. I loved it up there. We could watch and comment on people going by on the pavement, wave at others sailing past on the buses. At night, I fantasized about what it might be like to kiss him, an actual boy, as opposed to an imaginary one or the back of my hand.

One afternoon, he arrived at my house looking tense.

‘What’s the matter, Andrew?’ I asked.

‘Is there anyone else in?’ he asked.

‘No. Everyone’s out.’

‘Good, because I want to kiss you,’ he said, and stepped forward and pressed his mouth on mine. My first kiss at last. I wasn’t sure what to do so moved my lips a little and he did the same then he stepped back. ‘What do you think?’

‘Er … nice, soft.’

‘Let’s try it with tongues, it’s called French kissing.’

I was happy to oblige. I couldn’t wait to tell Denise and everyone at school but Andrew must have picked up on my thoughts. ‘Can we keep this between us for now? I want to get really good at it and I want you to tell me what feels good and what doesn’t.’

‘Sure.’ I was flattered that he cared so much about how it was for me. I’d heard nightmare stories from other girls about boys who were sloppy, wet kissers, and who hadn’t asked for any feedback about their technique. We spent the rest of the week kissing whenever we could. We tried soft, harder, with tongues, ear nibbling. It was great fun and we had to admit to each other that we were getting pretty good at it. Kissing felt great.

One night, after I’d gone up to bed, I heard a noise at my bedroom window. I went to the curtains and drew them back to see Andrew outside in our garden. He was throwing stones up to get my attention. It felt daring and dangerous because I knew my mum and dad were down below in the sitting room watching telly.

‘Bea,’ he called up. ‘I have to ask you something important.’

‘OK.’ He was going to ask me out on a proper date, I just knew it. It was coming up to Valentine’s Day and I hoped I’d get a card that year; like the kisses, it would be a first. And if he wanted to go out with me, surely we could go public? In my head, I was already telling my friends the story at school the next day. I’d be one of the in-crowd, a girl with ‘experience’. A boy had come to my window at night, asked me out. My love life had begun.

I closed the curtains, put on my dressing gown and sneaked down the stairs. I could hear the TV was still on in the sitting room, so I crept past, into the kitchen, out of the back door and into the garden where Andrew was waiting.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I think I’m ready for the real thing,’ he said.

Oh god, I thought, sex, he wants to go further and practise that as well as kissing. I wasn’t sure I was ready. ‘Real thing? I … Are you sure?’

Andrew nodded. ‘Denise.’

‘Denise?’

‘Yeah. She looks like she’s experienced which is why I wanted to get some practice in kissing before I approached her, but I think I’m ready now. Do you think she’d go out with me?’

It was a stab to the heart. As the implication hit me, I felt my hopes crumble and my dreams wither. He had been using me to practise. There would be no Valentine card, no date, no showing off to my friends. I wasn’t a girl that a boy wanted for real. I was no more than a confidante, a mate, someone to practise on until ready to approach the real object of desire. God, it hurt, and it knocked my confidence to the floor. I felt such a fool but I knew not to give myself away. ‘Ah … I … yeah, maybe, probably.’

‘Can you find out if she likes me? If she does, I thought I’d take her to the Saturday matinée at the cinema.’

‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ I said. I had to get away, get back inside, to my bedroom, to nurse my wounded heart and shattered ego. ‘Got to go, my parents are still up.’ I retreated back inside and ran upstairs. I was devastated but not surprised. Denise was a ‘girlie girl’, an early developer. She had breasts and glossy hair that fell in soft, brown waves to her shoulders and she smelt of strawberries. Boys were always looking at her. I was still flat-chested, despite my and Denise’s regular arm-pumping exercises and chants of ‘I must, I must improve my bust’ and my hair, cut too short by my mother, was more hacked than styled.

Denise was thrilled about Andrew wanting to go out with her, her first boyfriend, and I, still coming to terms about having been passed over, didn’t let on that I was gutted. They dated for a few weeks but she wasn’t over-impressed by the romance of chips in the paper eaten on top of his shed, so she soon dumped him for an older boy who had a moped and took her to a posh café in town for coffee. Andrew came back to me to mourn his loss, but I wasn’t interested in being a go-between for him and whoever took his fancy.

We went to secondary school soon after where I met Marcia, grew my hair, learnt about style and moved on. I vaguely remember seeing Andrew about locally, a gangly youth with spots, smoking in the car park of the Golden Lion. But I’d liked people who thought outside the box ever since, men with a different view on life. He had been the first I’d encountered who’d challenged the status quo.

Saranya Ji had said that I had an unconscious belief that love meant pain, a pattern I kept repeating. Was that when it had all started? When Andrew had overlooked me for my curvier friend and I’d been delegated to the part of the less attractive mate, the sidekick to confide in and cheer the main players, but not one to be desired or be centre stage myself? I’d learnt early, for fear of looking like a loser, to put on a happy face when others got the Valentine’s cards and not to let my heartbreak at rejection be known. It didn’t matter, I told myself. I didn’t care. Love was something that happened to other people. I was cool with that. But I did care, and I wasn’t so cool with it, not deep inside. What became of Andrew? Had he maintained his rebellious attitude to life? I wondered, as the flight hit some turbulence and I opened my eyes to see that the ‘Fasten your seatbelts’ sign had come on.