Читать книгу The Family - Louise Jensen - Страница 21

TILLY

It had been a shit week at school.

On Monday I’d gone into the sixth form common room. Rhianon was there, alone.

‘Hi.’ I grabbed a plastic cup and poured water from the cooler.

‘Hey.’ Her voice was flat. I noticed how pale she was.

‘So, the weekend? What was that about?’ I tried to act casual as I leant against the wall, uncertain whether I should sit next to her.

‘Like, I literally have zero clue. Mum and Dad basically fight all the time at the moment.’

‘Your mum told mine we’re not family anymore.’ I shrugged feigning nonchalance.

Before she could answer, Katie burst into the room. ‘You’ll never guess what Kieron said?!’ She noticed me and sat next to Rhianon, cupping her hand against Rhianon’s ear and whispering in the way five-year-olds did.

‘See you later then,’ I said snarkily.

‘Yeah. Whatever.’ She didn’t even look at me as I left.

I hadn’t had the chance to speak to her again, spending my free periods in the library. I had only missed six weeks but there was mountains of coursework to catch up on.

And then it was Saturday. I should have been writing up my notes on Othello but I was so bored. Mum asked if I wanted to go with her and visit a friend who lived on a farm. I said yes. I’d pictured somewhere pretty with animals I could feed, but we stopped at these massive gates with threatening signs and everything. Honestly, it was as creepy as hell. The man who let us through started talking about how if anyone could help us Alex could, a bit like we were off to see the wizard. I almost expected there to be a road paved with yellow bricks.

We got out of the car. Mum hugged this woman who was stunning. It’s so hard to pull off white in the winter but she managed it, with skinny jeans disappearing into black Uggs. She turned to me. I immediately felt six sizes larger than I was, and I wanted to put a paper bag over my head.

‘Saffron, this is my daughter, Tilly,’ Mum said and I only just managed to push out a shrill ‘hi’. I could feel Mum glaring at me and was about to say something really lame about the weather to appease her, but then Saffron commented on my boots. I was so happy I couldn’t say anything at all.

It began to rain as we walked across a field. I was glad the wind snatched away the chance of conversation. In the woods it was sheltered. Peaceful. Through the trees there was a cottage. Familiarity soothed my anxious stomach. It looked so similar to the one pictured in the fairy-tale book Mum used to read to me when I was small. I tried to remember the name of the story but I couldn’t.

It was bubble bath warm inside the cottage. I sniffed as my nose began to run. Mum pushed a tissue into my hand.

‘Wait here, Tilly,’ Saffron said. ‘I’ll take your mum through and then I’ll show you around the farm.’

‘You’ll have a lovely time,’ Mum said, in her fake happy voice, as Saffron ushered her through to a different room.

I perched on one of the chairs that was threadbare and faded. The sideboard was chipped on its corner. A dark stain on the carpet near the fireplace. The walls were probably white once, but now had an odd yellow tinge. Somehow all its faults made it look homely, or perfectly imperfect, as someone would say on Instagram.

Saffron returned a minute later.

‘Shall we head off, Tilly?’

The buzzing in my mind increased along with my anxiety. Before I could tell her that I didn’t mind waiting there for Mum, she flashed me a smile full of white teeth and something I hadn’t seen for a long time – friendliness.

Outside, the smell of damp earth hit my nostrils. When I was small I’d love to crunch through autumn-coloured leaves in my wellies, Dad hoisting me onto his shoulders when my legs grew too tired to walk. Now, everything was soggy and limp. The rain sleeting down harder than it had before, the wind gusting it into my face. I knew my makeup would run and my hair would go frizzy. As we hurried through the woods I smoothed my hands over my scalp, wishing my palms could absorb the moisture.

‘Your hair is amazing,’ Saffron said. My body stiffened as I waited for the punch line. ‘No really,’ she said when I didn’t reply. ‘It’s really striking.’

‘Katie says it looks like pubes.’ I inhaled sharply as if I could suck the words back in.

‘And Katie is?’

‘She’s friends with Rhianon. She’s my cousin. And best friend. Well she was. My best friend, I mean. She’s still my cousin.’

You’re not family anymore.

‘Katie sounds… delightful.’ Saffron laughed. My jaw tightened until she nudged me with her elbow and I realised she was laughing with me, not at me. And then I was laughing too.

‘Your hair’s prone to frizz like mine.’ She reached out and rubbed the strands that framed my face between her fingers. ‘I can give you some tips.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I was bullied.’ She drew her hand away and stuffed it into her coat pocket, leaving me that little bit colder. ‘At school. It was a few years ago now and it stopped after I’d moved to a new area but…’ She stopped and turned to face me and held my gaze. ‘It hurt. There are scars we carry, Tilly. Scars that can’t be seen but it doesn’t make them any less painful.’

I had never really understood what a soul was. Mum used to say mine was old, I was wise beyond my years, but in that moment I was sure Saffron could see into mine. There was this weird kind of connection between us. We were rooted in the woods like the trees, still and silent. There was so much I wanted to say. It had been such a long time since I’d had someone to talk to properly, not just Mum asking me how school was, or if I wanted ketchup with my tea, but to share just how bloody awful everything felt since Dad died.

I parted my lips, wanting to tell Saffron about Dad dying, about what he did before he died, but no words came. Instead I let the rain fall light and cool on my tongue before I swallowed it down with the painful lump that had risen in my throat.

‘I’d got to the stage where I didn’t know who I was anymore, you know?’ Saffron said. I nodded. ‘Where I’d spent so long pretending to be someone else I had lost sight of the real me. Putting on an act to impress people who didn’t give a toss about me. Joking all the time became a sort of defence mechanism I guess. Pretending I didn’t care. Of course now I do care, but I’ve realised I’m hilarious so the jokes have stayed.’ She laughed. I loved that she didn’t take herself too seriously.

I stopped worrying about the rain, my hair, as we started to walk again.

‘Living here has changed me.’ She was serious once more.

‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘I always wanted to live on a farm.’ I had badgered Mum and Dad endlessly when I was small, longing for piglets, lambs, chicks of my own. It wasn’t until Rhianon told me where meat came from that I stopped asking.

‘It’s not a working farm anymore. It’s a place for communal living. Do you know what that is?’

Instinctively, I started to nod my head the way I do when I don’t know something but don’t want to appear stupid. But something told me I didn’t need to try to impress Saffron.

‘No. What is it?’

‘We’re a group of like-minded people who have chosen to live together. There’re fourteen of us.’

‘Why?’ I was curious.

‘For different reasons. Some because it’s just too damn expensive to get on the property ladder. There’s a chance of a better quality of life here, splitting the bills, sharing the chores. Daisy is hugely into all that save the planet stuff. Hazel is here because she got divorced. We also get drop-ins. People that temporarily want to step out of their daily grind whether for a weekend or a week.’

‘And you? Why are you here?’

‘I lost my mum when I was small, and then later I lost my dad. I was confused. I wanted to find out who I was, away from all the pressures of society. Where I fit. What I want to do with my life.’

We were heading towards the farmhouse. Fields and sky merging on the horizon. Without the hum of constant traffic I got at home the world seemed slower. Stiller. Smaller. Or maybe I just felt bigger without the incessant noise and movement.

‘It’s hard to explain,’ Saffron said. ‘And I know it sounds a bit arsey to say I’d lost my identity, but that’s how I felt.’

‘Yeah. I get that,’ I said. It was how I had been feeling for months. Mum and Dad had been watching a documentary a while back when she said, ‘It must be nice to live without technology.’ I thought she was having a dig at me because I was on social media, but when I looked up I saw these women in long dresses and hats on the TV making a quilt. They looked so content and their happiness formed a knot of envy in my chest. I spent so much time taking selfies for Instagram. Running them through a filter to make myself as flawless as possible. Posting them with captions that had to be funnier, snappier than the previous one. It was in that moment I realised I had become a patchwork version of myself. Each photo, each square, had to be brighter, more vibrant, more beautiful than the last. So dazzling people didn’t know where to look first, didn’t see things too closely. The stitching coming apart. The hem where it’s starting to fray. The material dull and fading from constantly being in the light. What everyone saw on the outside never matched how I felt on the inside. I had become a black and white, washed out version of myself. Tattered and threadbare.

Thunder clapped. Saffron grabbed my hand. ‘Run!’

A stitch burned in my side as we tumbled through the door of the farmhouse into the kitchen.

I didn’t know what to make of what I saw inside.