Читать книгу Blast from the Past - Cathy Hopkins, Cathy Hopkins - Страница 12

The journey home in the taxi from the airport was like driving through a winter wonderland, buildings and streets were white with snow, the pavements lined with festive lights. We sat in the back, shivering at the change in temperature from India, even though we’d pulled out winter coats and scarves the moment we’d collected our luggage at Heathrow.

As we drew up at Marcia and Pete’s three-storey, Victorian house in one of the back roads in Hampstead, I glimpsed their eldest daughter, Freya, peering out of a downstairs window. She was twenty-seven, a beautiful, long-limbed girl with her mother’s dark looks, she lived in her own flat in Camden but had moved back to the family home for the duration of the Indian trip. I reckoned she’d be relieved to give her siblings, Ben and Ruby, back into her parents’ care. Not that either of them needed much care: Ben was in his last year at Nottingham University and Ruby in her first; both were now home for the holidays. Freya disappeared, then reappeared moments later at the front door and came tumbling out with Ruby, a younger version of herself with the same stunning looks. In the background, I could see Ben, so like his father, too cool to rush forward, but Marcia was already out of the car, gathering her girls into her arms before moving up the steps to embrace Ben who, despite himself, looked pleased to see her.

I waved to them all from the back of the car and wondered how many parties they’d held with their uni mates in their parents’ absence, and what Marcia and Pete were getting back to.

‘Call tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to settle,’ said Pete as he hauled their last case from the boot of the car. ‘We need to talk plans for Christmas lunch, it’s only two days away.’

‘I will,’ I promised. ‘Tell me what to bring and I can shop tomorrow.’ It had already been arranged that I’d spend the day with them and the rest of the waifs and strays they always gathered. They wouldn’t hear otherwise, although I’d have been perfectly happy to curl up in my pyjamas and watch It’s A Wonderful Life for the fiftieth time and Love Actually for the hundredth.

‘No need. I’ll get it all from Harvest Moon,’ said Pete. ‘Just bring yourself.’

*

The taxi continued up the hill and into Highgate. It had long been one of my favourite parts of London, one of the few places in the city that had maintained a village atmosphere. It was picturesque in all seasons, with the Georgian houses surrounding Pond Square, but particularly so now with the snow-covered trees that were twinkling with Christmas lights. We drove through the square, along the High Street, down the hill and at last I was home, a one-bedroom terraced house where I’d lived for the past ten years.

As I put my key in the door and stepped into the small porch, I was struck by how quiet it was in contrast to where I’d been for the last two weeks. The whole world and everyone in it had appeared to be out on the streets in India, a life where people spent so much of their time outside, as opposed to the closed doors and curtains sealing everyone inside in their homes in the winter in England.

The house was lovely and warm, a lamp on in the kitchen and a note propped up by the kettle. It was from Stuart. Welcome back to the snowy UK, it said. Milk, bread and a few provisions in the fridge. I’ve put on the heating. Get out your thermals! What a sweetheart he was. I’d given him a key because, after he’d heard about a recent spate of burglaries in the area, he’d been insistent about calling in from time to time while I was away to make sure everything was OK.

I had met Stuart almost a decade ago in the autumn, just after I’d moved into my house in Highgate. I had been out on the Heath with my dog Boris, and he had dug his heels in at the bin area by the gates and was refusing to move.

‘That’s how I feel some days,’ said a voice behind me, and I’d turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long herringbone overcoat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. He was smiling at me while trying to control a golden Retriever puppy. He looked interesting, not conventionally good-looking, but there was something attractive about his features and I immediately felt drawn to him.

‘He will not budge,’ I said as I pulled on Boris’s lead. ‘I think I might have to carry him home.’

Stuart laughed. ‘Good luck with that.’

‘I know. I’d need a wheelbarrow.’ Boris was a big dog, a black German shepherd.

‘How old?’

‘He’s twelve now. Actually, he’s my parents’ dog – or rather was my parents’ dog – but they moved to Spain and weren’t sure he’d adapt well to the hot climate at his age. They couldn’t bear to put him in a rescue centre and nor could I, hence here we are.’

Stuart pulled a dog treat out of the pocket of his coat, knelt down and held it out to Boris, who miraculously recovered his mobility and trotted over to him.

‘Looks like you’ve got trouble too,’ I said as I noticed his puppy, who was on his hind legs, chewing on the end of Stuart’s scarf as he leant over to fuss Boris.

‘This is Monty,’ he said. ‘I got him for my daughter, she’s always wanted a dog, but look who’s ended up looking after him.’ I checked his left hand for a wedding ring. Of course, I thought when I saw that he was wearing one: all the good ones are taken. ‘He eats everything – socks, scarves, dirt, leaves, you name it,’ Stuart continued. ‘I’ve already been to the vets’ twice with him and I’ve only had him three weeks.’

I laughed. ‘I’m sure he’ll learn.’

Boris decided he might walk after all, so we strolled along together sharing dog-training tips. Conversation came easily and I felt as if I’d known him for ever, an old friend I happened to have come across on the Heath. As he talked about his family and his wife, I’d quickly pushed away the initial attraction I’d felt for him. I never got involved with married men, never had, never would – not that he gave me any encouragement anyway. But I knew I wanted him in my life. When he’d said he was an accountant, I’d told him I was looking for one, and so the deal was sealed and, as I re-read his note by the kettle, I felt thankful that here he was ten years on, a friend I valued greatly.

I checked the heating was going to stay on then went from room to room switching on more lamps to give a sense of life in the place. On the ground floor, there was a large kitchen-diner, with glass folding doors at the back which opened onto a tiny courtyard garden. The sitting room and cloakroom were on the first floor, then up to a bedroom and bathroom on the second floor, from where there was access to a roof terrace, which was a heavenly place to retreat to in the summer.

Having checked that all was in order, I went back downstairs to the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of Chablis. I picked up the large pile of post that had been left on the island in the kitchen, took it up to the sitting room and sank into one of the sofas there. I could see that they were mainly Christmas cards, a few bills and one official-looking letter. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I had an idea of what it might say. I’d look at it later, not today. Why ruin a good holiday on the first night I was back?

It felt strange to be on my own after having had constant company and, despite my attempt to warm it up, the house felt empty of colour and life. Now don’t get maudlin, I told myself, and said my mantra. I’m OK. I have a good life. I’d worked hard to create it and, although the house was small, it was a space that was a pleasure to come back to. The rooms had been painted in the neutral shades of Farrow and Ball: Cornforth White, Skimming Stone, Elephant’s Breath. Pale linen and silk curtains hung at tall windows on the upper floors. Large, overstuffed, dove-grey sofas were in the sitting room, with cushions a few shades darker. Tasteful artefacts from my travels to India, Morocco and Turkey were placed on shelves and surfaces, not too many to look cluttered; big art and travel books were stacked on the coffee table. The atmosphere was elegant and serene. That was what people said. That was what I worked so hard to present to the world. Hah. What a joke. If only they knew. It was all so perfect but sometimes it felt sanitized, a show house, and I longed for the clutter and chaos of Pete and Marcia’s home, always full of people and mess, their children and friends. I felt a sudden urge to have the whole house repainted in lime green and turquoise with a gold loo and red ceiling, then go and … and buy a dog, two dogs; but knew I wouldn’t. I’d drink too much wine, sleep fitfully, then get up tomorrow and carry on, because that’s what I did best, I carried on. Saranya Ji’s words replayed in my mind: ‘You believe that people you love leave you, and you are destined to be alone.’ Bah. I’d got used to being on my own; it had made me what I am, independent and strong, well … most of the time. I had good friends. What more did I need? As I sat, sipping my wine, I thought back to a time when even Marcia had disappeared.

*

I had been eighteen when my parents left home. Not only did they move out, they left the country. Dad had tried to emigrate and get a job abroad before – Hong Kong, Singapore, Canada, Kenya. He had considered them all over the years but, this time, it was definite. He longed to get away from rainy, grey Manchester, and when a post as a senior lecturer at a university came up on sunnier shores, it was a dream come true for him. Apart from my elder brother, Matthew, and me, my family were off to New Zealand and taking everything I took for granted with them – regular meals, Sunday lunches, family Christmases, my mother’s words of concern and care on days of exams, interviews or illness, bills paid, warmth and company when I returned at night. With them went a sense of belonging, security, a home.

Not that I cared at the time. I couldn’t wait for them to go, particularly my father, who in my late adolescence had become increasingly critical and sarcastic. No, their departure meant independence. I had a place at Manchester Art College. A world of possibility would be opening up in front of me, and there would be no one to hold me responsible. At last, the freedom to live the kind of lifestyle I’d longed for, all my teenage years.

Of course, we made lots of jokes about them going at the time, like ha-ha, Matthew and I were so dreadful that not only did Mum and Dad leave home, they went as far as possible. But I wasn’t laughing when it came to the day for them to go. Watching them load everything up one day in July, get a taxi to Piccadilly Station, get on a train and disappear: not my happiest memory. Mum was crying as they boarded and my younger brother, Mark, kept asking, ‘Why aren’t Matthew and Bea coming with us?’ I burst into tears, which set Mark off too, even though he was sixteen at the time. Mum was too busy trying to get everything on the train to notice that I was freaking out inside. I was determined not to make a scene. I didn’t. I turned away and put on a cheerful mask. Dad kept saying, ‘You can still change your mind. There’s a place at the university over there if you want it.’ But no way was I leaving Manchester, Marcia, my place at art college – no way.

I felt weird all the same.

When the train started up, took off along the track then disappeared, I thought, Right, that’s it, now you haven’t got any family, like they’d died or something.

There was still Matthew but he rarely showed his feelings. He didn’t that day. He just shrugged and set off to meet his girlfriend, Juliet, so I went home alone.

The house felt eerily quiet when I got back.

Mum had left us food in the fridge so I made some cheese on toast and went to sit on the bench in the garden where I told myself it would be OK, I’d manage. I would.

Later that night, I went to the downstairs loo. Mum must have been in there before she left because I could still smell her perfume, Chanel No 5, powdery and light. I realized that the scent would fade then disappear just as she just had. But what really got me was that in all the packing and last-minute panic, preparing for their new life abroad, Mum hadn’t bought any loo paper for the downstairs cloakroom and there wasn’t any. It was then that I realized I really was on my own: no one was going to take care of me any more, fill the cupboards, buy the necessaries. My mum was gone.

I sat on the loo and sobbed my heart out.

The next day felt strange too, getting up; no familiar smell of toast and coffee from the kitchen, Radio Four playing as Mum got everyone sorted for the day.

The feelings didn’t last long. Yes, I was sad that they’d gone, but I also knew that I was liberated. No one to answer to, ask if I’d been to Mass, done my homework, tidied my room, got in late. No one to tell me I wore too much make-up, my skirts were too short, tops too revealing. No one to question my friends, my taste in music, how long I’d been on the phone. And, best of all, Marcia would be moving in.

The family house was a four-storey, Edwardian build, with five bedrooms and a basement. The plan was to let the empty rooms to lodgers – students mainly. Marcia was one of them and we both had places at art college. It was summer in the city. Life was great.

The two attic rooms up top were taken by Matthew and Juliet, who had decorated them with the kind of flock wallpaper you used to see in Indian restaurants. They’d chosen red and it looked cosy and exotic up there. There were three more rooms on the first floor, where Marcia and I lived along with a pale-looking sociology student with curly dark hair called Mark. Red-haired Ed, a physics student, was in what had been the front sitting room on the ground floor. Meanwhile the back sitting room became a communal place for us all, and we’d fashioned a make-do bedroom in the basement for Ron, who promoted local bands and had nowhere else to go. Despite having the physique of Desperate Dan, he seemed happy enough down there in the small space, and had pinned swathes of gold silk on the ceiling and walls, which hid the pipes and plumbing and billowed out, giving it the look of a harem. I loved going from attic to cellar, seeing how each character had made their space their own. As soon as Mum and Dad had gone and the tenants had moved in, the house had taken on a new atmosphere; a poster of Grace Jones appeared in the hall, another of Madonna in the sitting room. We ate what we liked when we liked, stayed up late, got up late. The house became a social centre for many friends who, like us, had little money to frequent bars or clubs and so loved to come and hang out. Phil Collins playing ‘One More Night’ was on a loop tape in the sitting room, and the house was always full of students or musicians, rolling joints, drinking tea, getting stoned and putting the world to rights.

It was perfect, and I had Marcia to share it all with.

*

Marcia rolled the most elegant joints I’d ever smoked. Not those fat, loose ones with tobacco and hashish spilling out of the end that got covered in spit because no one could get their mouth around them. Hers were long and slim, like panatella cigars.

On the low table in front of her in her room, she’d laid out her supplies: Rizla papers, king-size; silver cigarette case containing menthol, not regular tobacco; silver pill box with mother-of-pearl inlay containing her stash, and several immaculately cut pieces of white card for making roaches.

She reached for her Zippo lighter and lit up.

I smiled. ‘It’s like attending a Japanese tea ceremony, having a smoke with you.’

‘I like to do things properly,’ she said as she inhaled deeply. ‘Er … thing is, Bea, I’ve got some news.’

She was always coming back with news for me, as I did for her. We were Marcia and Bea, Bea and Marcia. We did everything together, had done since we’d met that first day in secondary school. We shared all our discoveries: men, music, fashion, feminism, books, heroes or heroines to be admired or discounted as we pleased. We made all our decisions together; the most recent to decorate her room in the Zen style she’d got into. We’d painted her room white, took away the base of her bed and put the mattress on the floor, a bamboo blind at the window, a single poster in black and white depicting yin and yang in a circle on the wall, a small Buddha in the corner and books on Mahayana Buddhism piled up by her bed. I went for a more bohemian look. I liked the Pre-Raphaelites and we chose posters of Ophelia by Millais, Beatrice by Rossetti, Hylas and the Nymphs by Waterhouse for my walls. We bought vases and a chenille bedcover from an antique emporium in town, used embroidered silk shawls as throws on the sofa. Marcia said it had the look of a Victorian brothel. I was happy with that. I was the romantic back then; Marcia, ever the seeker, had just got into yoga and meditation, interests she tried to pass onto me but without much luck: I could never sit still for long enough. After years of friendship through school, it was great to be actually living together, and it was really thanks to her that I didn’t miss my family more in those early weeks after their departure. She more than made up for them.

‘It’s about Pete,’ she said as she handed me the joint. ‘He wants to take a year out to go travelling before university.’

I took a drag. ‘Oh Marcia, I am sorry,’ I said. She’d just met him at Glastonbury back in June where he’d been manning a food stall, and I knew she liked him a lot because he’d been staying at the house every weekend for the last month.

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s me that’s sorry.’

‘Of course you are. Where does he want to go?’

‘All over. Cuba, Goa, Thai Land.’

‘Sounds wonderful. You must be gutted.’

She looked away. ‘No, you don’t understand. I’m going with him.’

‘With him?’ My heart sank and my head swam as the marijuana took effect. ‘But you can’t. Your place at college—’

‘I’ve already spoken to them. It’s OK. I can start next year instead. Look, I am sorry, really I am, but it’s too good an opportunity to miss.’ What was she saying? She’d been making plans and not telling me? We told each other everything, everything: periods, moods, how far we’d gone with boyfriends and how they rated as lovers; everything. My heart sank further. This was the first time I’d ever been excluded. ‘And you’ll be OK here, you’ve got Matthew and Juliet. You’ll meet people.’

I laughed. My brother and his girlfriend had even put in a mini-kitchen up on the top floor so they could be self-contained, away from the rest of us.

‘When?’ I asked.

‘In a week or so.’

‘Or so?’

‘On the twenty-eighth of August.’

I felt sick. She couldn’t be going. We had everything worked out. The house. Parties. Barbecues. College. We’d bought secondhand bikes to travel in together. We were going to bunk off in the afternoon to see movies. Go shopping. Bake our own bread. It was all planned.

‘Come with us if you like,’ she added, though with little conviction.

‘I can’t. You know I can’t. Mum and Dad left both Matthew and me in charge here. I can’t abandon him. Anyway, I couldn’t come and be a tagalong with you and Pete – that would never feel right.’

‘They shouldn’t have left you with all this,’ said Marcia, ever my champion. ‘What about your Aunt Carol or Uncle Mike? Can’t they take over?’

‘Not that simple. I mean, yes, they’re meant to check in on us every now and again, but they have their own families. Anyway, it was my choice to stay. Dad did keep asking if I wanted to go with them. I insisted on staying.’ I didn’t add that it had mainly been because I thought that, as long as I had Marcia for company, I didn’t think I’d need anyone else.

‘Yeah right, some option, the middle of nowhere, a million miles away,’ said Marcia.

‘You’ll be going that far. Millions of miles.’

‘Different. We’ll be travelling.’ She could see she had no argument and blaming my parents didn’t wash. She was abandoning me and she knew it.

‘We’ll have to find a new lodger to take your room.’

‘I guess.’ She couldn’t look at me.

I couldn’t help it. My eyes filled with tears. ‘Is it definitely definite?’

Marcia nodded. She still couldn’t look me straight in the eye. We’d had our own plans to travel in the holidays: Europe, maybe India. But why should she hang around waiting for me just because I had responsibilities? She had a boyfriend, was in love. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to go.

‘Maybe you’ll meet someone when I’m gone,’ she said.

‘Yeah right,’ I said. By that time, I’d had a few boyfriends: Bruno who was my brother’s exchange student and here for a summer. Before him there had been Kevin, but I’d lost touch with him when his family moved away; a few dates in between, but no one special like Pete was to Marcia.

‘You’re too fussy,’ said Marcia.

‘I just don’t see the point of compromise, that’s all.’

Marcia smiled. ‘Some day your prince will come. In the meantime, get a bit of practice in.’

‘Maybe.’ But I knew I wouldn’t, not unless it felt special, and the idea of ‘practice’ was not one that appealed, not since the Andrew Murphy disaster, a time I’d told no one about. Despite him, though, I still was a romantic at heart, hoping that one day I’d run into a man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting by Burne-Jones or Rossetti – a King Cophetua down the deli, or Hylas buying hummus at the corner shop.

She left two weeks later. I sat in her empty room after she’d gone and thought: family gone, best friend gone. I’d never felt so alone in my life. It’s sink or swim time, I told myself, and decided I’d swim. I’d be strong, become the type of person who didn’t need anyone; not in a cold-hearted way, but in an independent, self-sufficient way. I’d become cool. I’d be more Zen and detached than Marcia could ever be. If I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t be let down.

Marcia did come back a year later, but she didn’t return to the house or go to college. She and Pete had got married on a beach in Goa, so it wasn’t Marcia and Bea any more, it was Marcia and Pete. Her parents helped them buy a small house near Chorlton Green, and he started his vegetarian café serving Eastern-style food with Marcia by his side as manager. Though I grew to love Pete, and Marcia was still my dearest friend, it was never the same again. The lesson had gone deep: people move on, make their own plans, and I could never depend on anyone. You’re born alone, you die alone and sometimes you have to live alone too, I’d thought, even though by that time I had a boyfriend, Sam, who had declared undying love for me. I kept him at arm’s length. I wanted to make a life where I needed no one, and was perfectly happy with my own company.

*

A noise outside brought me back from my trip down memory lane. I ran to the window to see what had happened. A blonde lady at the wheel of a Mercedes sports car was attempting to park in a space much too small for it, and had reversed into the Volkswagen Golf behind: my Volkswagen Golf. And we’re back to reality, I thought as I raced to the front door. My neighbour, Jon, had also heard the commotion and was outside on his pathway laughing. Probably pissed, I thought.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he called when he saw me. ‘Hey, you’re home. Have a good time in India?’

‘That’s my car she’s bashing into,’ I said. I could barely believe it. I’d been back five minutes and he was already causing problems. There was always something with Jon, usually involving one of his many conquests, parking in my space or parking without a permit, or generally causing problems. We’d had many altercations over it. Parking was sparse on our road and each resident had a limited number of permits to give out when there were visitors. With his many callers, Jon abused the system. He had so many women arriving at all times of the day and night that I’d joked to Marcia once that he was maybe a male escort for women who liked older men. Not that Jon was that old: he was in his mid-fifties, his brown crew-cut hair had only a little grey around the temples, and he had twinkly eyes that looked full of mischief. He worked hard at staying fit and lean, too. I often saw him out jogging or off to play tennis when I was leaving for work. And another one bites the dust, I thought, as the latest leggy girl got out of the car and tossed Jon the keys. ‘Be a darling,’ she said. ‘Parking never was my strong suit.’

Jon headed for the car as I sighed and turned to go back inside. It was freezing out there, I was tired, and I could examine any damage better in the daylight the next morning.

‘So sorry Bea,’ called Jon. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Welcome home. Happy Christmas.’

Without turning back, I waved. ‘And Happy Christmas to you too.’

I couldn’t be bothered to get into an argument at that moment. The silver-tongued charm that won his women over had ceased to work on me months ago when, as well as the parking, he repeatedly left his rubbish in front of my house. He hadn’t got the hang of separating plastics from cardboard from glass, and I’d had to do it for him on more than one occasion for fear of inciting the wrath of the bin-men. God, he made me cross!

Once back inside the warmth of my house, I found my laptop and googled Saranya Ji again to see if anyone had left a review of her readings. Once again, the pages came up showing links to people with that name, but not my Saranya Ji. I googled psychics in India and found that there were hundreds, some with thousands of reviews, many who claimed to do past life readings but, again, no sign of the woman we’d seen in Udaipur. Marcia must have found her somewhere, but I was hesitant to email or text to ask her where. It would indicate interest, and that would be adding fire to Marcia’s flame, something I did not want to do. Best I forget all about it, I told myself, it’s a pile of nonsense anyway.

I went upstairs and flicked the TV on; I could unpack later. The screen filled with a commercial showing the perfect Christmas, a big happy family around a festive table, everyone laughing and smiling as newcomers arrived and were welcomed at the door. I changed channels to see that a rerun of The Holiday had just started. I’d seen it before. Two women, Kate Winslet in the UK and Cameron Diaz in the USA, do a house swap and find the loves of their lives. Now there’s a thought. Maybe next year I should do just that: take off to a house in the middle of nowhere and hide under a blanket until Christmas – and all its reminders that I was on my own – had passed. And maybe, just maybe, some handsome hunk in an Aran sweater, looking like Jude Law, would turn up and rescue me then … with my luck, would probably run off with one of my friends.