Chapter 21
Beatrice
Funny, isn’t it? How the world likes to toy with you.
It was always my life-long dream to share my ideas with Mr Cavendish, to collaborate with him on a project, be a peer, a colleague to him, to match his success.
The irony isn’t lost on me as I sit beside one Mr Cavendish, brainstorming from the first light of the sun until the last, exercising my mind in ways I haven’t for so long.
And now I think I should have perhaps been more specific in my dreaming.
The creator of the universe, whomever she may be, has sent me Arthur instead of Mr Cavendish senior.
And instead of some posh London bistro, writing for one of the big studios, she has settled on Ms Riches’ farmhouse dining table writing a story that no one has asked for.
‘Staring at me isn’t getting the first three scenes written now, is it?’ Arthur looks up at me from under his lashes with a smug grin, and I hide my face behind a stack of papers at the shame of being caught.
‘I wasn’t staring,’ I insist unconvincingly. ‘I was thinking and you just so happen to be situated in my line of sight as I’m doing it.’
‘Hmm.’ He maintains his grin, as he continues sliding through his laptop. His face is illuminated softly by the light of the screen as the evening draws in and the distant sounds of the bleating sheep and Ms Riches’ soap operas accompany the tapping of his fingers on the keys.
‘What are you even doing anyway? Or are you just playing minesweeper whilst I do all of the work?’ I ask with a pointed look.
We’ve been at this for at least a week now.
When I’m not working, I’m sat at this table, and when I am working, Arthur Cavendish trails behind me transcribing my words verbatim so I can write whilst retrieving sheep from wherever they manage to get themselves stuck.
Arthur turns the laptop to face me and a spreadsheet fills the screen.
‘Contacts,’ is his brief explanation, and when he notices my look of confusion, he continues, ‘I’m compiling a list of people and places that we can pitch this to.
Who we can work with to film, who will fund it, actors, you know, all of the boring stuff.
’ He scrolls through the tab and it stretches on and on, with each extended page filled with all of the information he could possibly need, and it makes my eyes hurt just looking at it.
‘You must know some people too. Want me to add them to the list?’
I’ve had my fair share of meetings; I had my fair share of phone numbers and email addresses that would have been perfect.
But they’re all gone now. I changed my number, never transferred over any of the contents of my old phone, and left that part of my life behind me when I came home two years ago.
Even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t call on them now.
I couldn’t let them see me like this. I was a different woman when Tommy was alive.
No one in London would recognise me now.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I reply simply, and I’m grateful when Arthur doesn’t press. ‘So, you fancy yourself a producer, eh?’ Shifting the topic, I take a boiled sweet from a jar on Ms Riches’ shelf and plop it into my mouth.
‘I thought I’d start somewhere.’ Arthur follows suit and takes a Rhubarb and Custard for himself.
‘Suits you,’ I say and he tucks the sweet between his teeth to smile.
‘You always know that you wanted to write?’ We both resume our work as he speaks. It feels less strange this way, as though we’re not sat alone in a lamplit room and I’m not spending intimate time with him outside of my contracted hours for his grandmother. At least if we work, we have an excuse.
‘Nope.’ He flicks his gaze to me briefly. ‘When I was at school, I wanted to be a professional egg and spoon race athlete.’
‘Oh yeah?’ His soft chuckle fills the high ceiling of the room for just a moment. ‘And how did that work out for you?’
‘I did my knee in when I was twelve. Could have gone all the way if I’d have been fit.’
‘I can see it now, headlines on all of the papers: Beatrice Norton, world champion.’ I nod, amused that he’s going along with it. ‘Imagine all of the riches you could have had!’
‘Yeah, so, a year 8 PE injury crushed that dream. It was around that time that I was looking for a career that requires sitting down all day and settled on writing.’
‘And ended up with two jobs that have you on your feet all hours of the day. I never had you down as lazy. I always just assumed you were one of those people happily up at the crack of dawn raring to go.’
‘God, absolutely not. Every morning is a sheer test of will. All of my days off are spent horizontally. Only momentarily sitting upright to dunk a biscuit in my tea. And even then, I’ve perfected the art of only having to lift my chin to do it.’
‘In your Christmas pyjamas, of course?’ His smirk tickles as it hits me from across the table and I shake my head to try and dispel some of the simmering feeling that overcomes me for a moment.
‘Always the Christmas pyjamas.’
‘So why did you end up with two jobs doing things you don’t particularly care for?’ he asks, suddenly serious, and I crunch through my sweet at the surprise.
‘Who said I don’t care for them?’ I compose myself quickly.
‘Perhaps care was the wrong word.’ He taps the stubble on his chin, trying to think of a way to rephrase his disarming question. ‘Why settle for something other than your dream? It’s obvious you’re talented, why not stick it out in London?’
Scoffing, I try to balance my emotions before I say anything I regret.
‘You know that talent alone can’t guarantee your success, right?
’ I can’t help but release a sarcastic laugh.
‘I could be the best writer in the world but if I have no close friends in high places, if I don’t have my parents’ millions to support me in between jobs, it isn’t a viable career for someone like me. ’
My bitterness comes out a little stronger than I had anticipated and I can see from how Arthur shrinks a little into himself that he’s regretting his choice of conversation.
Now I’ve started, though, I can’t stop. ‘I had other jobs down there too, but have you ever tried to be creative when you’re exhausted from a shift or you’re living paycheque to paycheque and you just don’t have the energy to think? ’
‘I’m sorry.’ He sinks into his chair and my regret begins to grow.
The truth is, I could have coped, I could have stuck it all out, but it just didn’t seem worth it after I lost Tommy.
But no one will know that. For all my friends and family know, I’m just another working-class girl who was chewed up and spat back out by a career in the arts.
It’s easier to believe, and it’s easier to explain.
‘You can’t help who you are, just as much as I can’t.’ I sigh, my excitement for writing soured as I lay my pen down in the crease of my notebook. ‘What is it like? Having famous parents?’ It’s my turn to ask the uncomfortable personal questions.
‘I don’t know any different.’ He shrugs, tapping away on his keyboard, though I suspect he isn’t actually writing anything at all.
‘They’re good parents. I’ve always had everything I’ve needed.
I don’t see them much when they’re working but they always made sure to take me to awards shows and things.
Though, the older I’ve got, the more I hate those. ’
‘How come?’
‘Lots of people, lots of cameras. You can’t pick out a wedgie without a hundred people seeing you, at least.’
‘You should probably find some better-fitting pants then.’ He flicks his eyes up from his screen to chuckle at me.
‘I hadn’t thought about that, cheers.’ It’s Arthur’s turn to shake his head.
‘I just find it all so false. Everyone desperately trying to be noticed by all of the people around them, or people forcing themselves to be gracious in defeat even though they want to scream and cry. Everyone acting all pally for the cameras and then walking away without a word once they’re gone.
They’re places filled with people who pretend for a living, so none of it feels authentic. ’
‘Then you get New York where all the oldies in the pub can’t help but tell you their life stories and how they feel about things that don’t even concern them. All within the first five minutes of meeting you.’
‘I like that.’ Work takes a back seat for him too as he closes the lid of his laptop to give his full attention to the conversation.
‘And that’s exactly how I can tell you’re not a local.
’ I’m reminded of the number of hours I’ve lost listening to various residents discussing someone’s controversial choice of new windows, or the exact coordinates of potholes, not to mention the assortment of opinions on relationships and haircuts of people who frequent the corner shop.
‘I was thinking …’ he begins, looking nervously at the array of pages scattered across the table, ‘everyone knows everyone around here, right?’
‘I reckon the folks round here know me better than I know myself. Or at least they’d like to think so.’
‘Exactly, so I was thinking, we should get them involved, listen to their stories and work them in somehow. Make this project something that the whole village get to see themselves in.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’ I’m sceptical.
‘You don’t think they’d like it?’ His expression is dejected, as though he’d hesitated to voice the thought aloud.
‘Oh no, I think they’d love it.’ It’s true, and he untenses a little in relief.
‘That’s what worries me.’ He creases his forehead and wordlessly encourages me to explain myself.
‘You haven’t seen that lot organising the village fete.
There are political power struggles, passive-aggressive Facebook posts, and one year they even had special sashes made that the committee walked around in to draw attention to their roles.
You’ve only known Barbara for five minutes but I guarantee you’ve already thought about her trying to usurp you as director.
’ Arthur nods slowly. ‘Exactly. It’s a good idea in theory, but in practice … ’
‘I suppose you’re right.’ He laughs softly. ‘I would like them to be a part of it all somehow though. I feel as though this is New York’s story as much as it is Jim’s, or Dad’s.’
He’s right. The setting is perhaps one of the most important elements of a story.
Each and every one of us is a product of the place we were brought up, for good or bad.
Perhaps Jimmy and Edward Cavendish would have made entirely different choices in their lives had they been born in a city, or even just fifteen miles away.
Both of them, and all of us, were raised by this village.
Even if the only influence is that they both hated it so much they did everything they could to leave, this village is the centre of both of their stories, so why wouldn’t it take an important role in the narrative?
‘How about we do it in secret? You know, ask the locals questions but not tell them that we’re using their tales for anything other than just a bit of friendly conversation?’
Arthur pauses for a moment to think over my scheme. ‘I thought there were no secrets in New York?’
I smile though his words and expression come out serious. ‘I’m sure that between the two of us, we can keep a secret, don’t you think?’
Arthur says nothing; he only outstretches his hand for me to shake and I take it in mine with a squeeze.
In the next moment, the sound of footsteps echo in the hallway, growing closer with each shuffling step. ‘Perfect timing,’ I whisper just as Ms Riches steps into the kitchen sporting her slippers and hair rollers.
‘You kids are working late. What are you up to?’ She flicks on the kettle and spoons some Horlicks powder into a mug. ‘Want one?’ She gestures to the pot but both Arthur and I refuse politely.
‘I’m trying to teach Arthur here a little bit more about life in New York.’ I glance at him from the corner of my eye and he watches with great interest as I try to wangle a story from his grandmother. ‘Has it changed much over the years?’
‘Christ no. Apart from the farm machinery gets bigger and the jets from the air base get louder.’ She shakes her head as though she’s made herself annoyed with the thought. ‘Not a lot has changed at all, oh except Jan and Mick have painted their house that god-awful colour on the main road.’
‘The bright blue one?’ Arthur asks and his grandmother grimaces.
‘That’s right. Not very in keeping, is it?’ she states and I struggle to hold back my smile as all of my words from just minutes ago are proven right in one conversation.
‘It’s hardly changed, even in all of the years you’ve lived here?’ I try to steer her back on topic.
‘I think that’s why people like it so much.
It’s home. Even if you’ve been away for twenty-five years, you can come back and everything is just as you left it.
’ Ms Riches casts a sad glance at Arthur and I wonder if she’s thinking of her son.
‘I think the pub has had that very same layout since the Seventies. Some would say it’s outdated or whatever, but people round here find it comforting.
In a world that won’t stop changing and you can’t help but feel like you’re getting left behind, there is one constant: home. ’
The kettle clicks and she fills her mug, stirs her drink and then shuffles out of the kitchen once more with a: ‘Night, kids. Make sure you switch off all the lights when you’re done.’
‘It sounds silly to say that a pub is an important place, doesn’t it? Makes you sound like some sort of alchy. But, especially round here, that place is our beating heart.’ I shake my head at how absurd I must sound.
‘Do you think that could be why Jimmy ends up in there every day? Looking for the familiar?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’ I sigh. ‘Pub?’
Arthur collects together all of his things on the table and stands up with a start and a smile. ‘Pub.’