13. 1968
1968
Frank, Jimmy, and I are out in the sheep field the first time I leave to meet Leo. We have fed and watered the ewes and checked over the lambs, revising the list of which ones will be sold first at next week’s auction.
Even with a fresh trough of water and the buckets of feed, some of the sheep stay clustered around Jimmy, braying and butting his thighs for attention. It’s always this way—Jimmy is their rock star.
“Away with you now, Mrs. Tiggywinkle, we’ve work to do,” Jimmy says, with a slap to his favorite ewe’s rump.
It was Bobby who began the tradition of naming our ewes, Jimmy who insists on upholding it.
“Bloody hell,” Frank says, glancing at his watch. “You’re right, how did it get to half three already? The cows will be bellyaching. Give us a hand, Beth?”
“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” I say. “Puppy training.”
Frank spins around. He’d forgotten I was going to Meadowlands today. And I see—the way his face changes from resentment to a forced placidity—that he is never going to feel all right about me and Gabriel.
I watch him registering my clothes, not the old Viyella shirt of Frank’s, the cords and wellies I normally wear, but a black polo-neck and a pair of dark jeans, a castoff from Nina that is still more fashionable, with the slight flaring at the ankle, than anything else I own.
I flush beneath his scrutiny, feeling self-conscious and overdressed.
“Why are you bothering with that clown?” Jimmy says.
He’s seen Frank’s face too.
“Because, Jimmy,” I say, and my tone is too defensive, too spiky, “sometimes it’s nice to put yourself out for other people.”
“Even when that person is a complete asshole?”
“He’s joking, Beth,” Frank says, before I’ve time to rise.
“Half joking,” Jimmy corrects him, and we eyeball one another for a second, but that’s all before we’re both smiling. I can never stay cross at my brother-in-law for long.
I decide to walk to Meadowlands rather than drive, I need the time to think. I’ve told Frank he has no reason to feel concerned about these afternoon visits, my spending time with Leo but, inevitably, seeing Gabriel too. Told myself the same. But my body, my mind, refuse to listen on the ten-minute journey from my house to theirs. There’s a knot of tension in my stomach, I can sense the blood pulsing, pulsing in my veins, an anxious rhythmic tattoo. There were things that happened back then that no one knew of; I live in dread of those secrets worming their way out. And something even more unnerving—a gathering feeling of excitement at the prospect of seeing Gabriel again.
I knock on the door, pushing from my mind the memory of the time I once stood here, heart pounding, for very different reasons.
Gabriel answers, smiling when he sees me. He is wearing jeans and an untucked white shirt, a tattered black jumper on top, full of holes. He looks as if he hasn’t shaved in days. Dark circles beneath his eyes. I wonder how he’s managing, a single parent who still has to fulfil his writing obligations. Not very well, by the look of things.
“Beth. Come in. Someone’s very excited to see you.”
Leo runs into the hall on cue, the little dog in his arms.
“Have you named him yet?” I ask.
“Hero,” Leo says.
“I like it. Suits him.”
“Cup of tea before we get started?” Gabriel says. “I was just about to make one.”
“No, thanks. And don’t worry about coming with us. We’ll go out into the garden, you carry on.”
Something passes across Gabriel’s face here and I wonder if he’s been looking forward to some adult company for a change. So be it. I’m determined to spend as little time with him as possible. I owe that to Frank, to myself.
“All right,” he says, evenly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The swoop of disappointment as I watch him walk away is almost as pronounced as my relief.
Out in the garden, Leo and I begin with the command “sit,” rewarding Hero each time he manages it with a little cube of cheddar or a piece of ham, treats I have brought with me from home. He catches on quickly, so we progress to “stay.” I demonstrate first getting Hero to sit, then showing him the palm of my hand, and repeating “stay.” Then Leo tries it and, each time, the puppy stays put, even when we start to walk away from him, one step at a time.
“This is going to be a cinch,” I say.
“Is he a genius?”
“I think he might be. But we should leave it there for today. Geniuses need their rest.”
“You’re not going already?” Leo says. “Do you have to?”
I can tell he’s spoken without thinking. And, in a flash, I see his loneliness. “How about you show me your tree house first?”
He looks so delighted.
Inside, the tree house is a revelation. It’s a fairly big space, tall enough to stand up in, around eight feet wide, with a big open window looking out over the grounds. The walls have been painted sky blue and the floor is covered with giant velvet cushions in gorgeous jewel colors: emerald green, ruby, sapphire blue. There’s a pile of comics and Tintin books, candles, an old-fashioned kerosene lamp, a box of dominoes, packs of cards, a Ludo board.
“I wish I had a tree house like this. It’s a proper den. Have you slept up here?”
“In the summer we will, my dad says. He loves camping. He used to camp by the lake when he was a boy.”
My heart lurches, but I ignore it.
“We painted it one weekend. We had our supper up here and played cards by candlelight. It was the best.”
I catch the wistfulness in Leo’s voice. “You need to invite some friends over. They’d love it up here.”
“Maybe,” he says.
“How are you liking school?”
“It’s fine, I guess.”
“Doesn’t sound it.”
I see him weighing up whether or not to tell me the truth. “It’s no better? I thought you might be settling in now.”
“I hate it so much.” He looks angry suddenly.
“Did something happen?”
“I’m always in trouble. Every day I get sent to the headmistress. Or I’m made to stand outside the classroom.”
“Why?”
“I get cross. Sometimes I shout at the other kids. I hit a boy yesterday. He was saying mean stuff and I punched him. It just happened. I didn’t mean to do it.”
“Does your dad know?”
“Not everything. Only what the teacher tells him.”
“That sounds hard. No wonder you hate it. It’ll feel better when you’re more used to it.”
“Doubt it.” He looks so glum, this young boy, it doesn’t feel right for him to be so unhappy.
“Fancy a game of Ludo before I go?”
“Yes,” he says, his face brightening as he reaches for the box.
I’m glad to keep him company and yet there’s a slight feeling of sorrow nagging at the edges of my mind. I’m not sure it’s even about Bobby, the usual thing. I can feel myself starting to care about this boy already, even though I’ve promised Frank, promised myself, I wouldn’t get involved. And it feels a little dangerous, opening my heart like this, just a chink. Knowing I should stop. Knowing I’m not going to.