Chapter 27
Beatrice
Well, that was fucking dreadful.
The sheep stare at me whilst I cry. Not out of any sort of inter-mammal sympathy, but because I’m crying into their feed and they’re impatient for me to finish my breakdown so they can have their breakfast.
‘All right, all right,’ I concede and empty out the bucket and their attentions shift instantly. ‘Bunch of arseholes.’
The rest of my jobs around the farm take longer than usual as I drag my heels through the dirt like some sort of cartoon personification of depression.
I just can’t bring myself to function beyond what is necessary.
The conversation alone has exhausted me, and Arthur’s rejection is enough to make me want to climb into the nearest dyke to curl up into a bed of nettles or a discarded shopping trolley.
For years, I have lived a life that I can control.
I work, I work, and I sleep. Nothing can creep up and take me by surprise, nothing I do has any opportunity to throw up any unwelcome emotions; it’s all safe.
Arthur Cavendish has bulldozed it all. He’s infiltrated my work, he’s intruded on my sleep, and he’s penetrated every last one of my emotions and I hate myself for letting that happen.
Tommy would shake me, more than likely. And he’d laugh.
He never liked any of my potential suitors.
They were never good enough in his eyes, and all of the things I forgave through my love-tinted glasses, he never could.
I can picture him now, shaking his head, telling me I’m a fool for allowing a bloke to make me feel like this.
But then again, I know he’d love Arthur – well, after they got through Tommy’s distrust of anyone who owns a pair of ski salopettes.
They’d bond over movies, or clothes, compare their shoe collections, Tommy’s trainers and Arthur’s loafers.
But even if Arthur did like me after all of this, and if I even like him, he will never get to meet Tommy.
I’ll never get to introduce them, or see them shake hands whilst they eye each other with suspicion only to turn into the best of friends over a pint.
Continuing to live when someone you love has died means grief hits you in the most unsuspecting moments; all of my moments of happiness, and heartache since he’s gone, have always been underscored with the reminder that he isn’t here with me, to celebrate, to smile, to console.
Even the good feels lonely without him, and my God does the bad feel soul-crushing.
I suppose then it’s a good job that Arthur doesn’t feel about me the things I have been trying to suppress about him. It would only hurt knowing that Tommy couldn’t see us together, and there’s a happy chapter of my life without him in it.
My grandparents are waiting excitedly at the door when I finally trundle down the garden path home.
I had called their landline to tell them where I was and then finally when I was on my way, otherwise it would have been the police that caught me and Arthur in the hayloft this morning.
My nan clutches her hands together in suspense and my grandad wears his proud grin and I know that watching that falter will be harder to swallow than the bad news itself.
They wait for my news but I only shake my head.
My nan releases her breath, squeezes me on the shoulder, and kisses me on the head.
Grandad retreats to his armchair in the front room with a heavy plod.
I follow him and crash into the adjacent sofa and hope that the old embroidered cushions will swallow me.
It’s strange, this weighty sadness. I never thought I’d be this old and still be upset about the same things.
I thought by now I’d have found a solution.
I thought by now something might have changed.
But I still cry, about the same feeling of perpetual loneliness I’d cry to my mum about in primary school.
Although she never listened and pissed off without me too.
I understand Tommy on days like these. I don’t want to die; I just want to disappear for a while, to rest my mind so I can come back restored.
I’d just like some respite from the heaviness of it all before I am crushed entirely.
‘You’re giving up.’ My grandad speaks from behind his newspaper, not looking up, not wanting to scare me off.
‘The producers don’t want it. There’s no other choice than to give up.’ I sink further into the cushions.
‘No, Beatrice, you’re giving up on you.’ Grandad has always been the fun one, the one who sneaks you a biscuit under the table before dinnertime, or lets you stay up late on nights that Nan is at the bingo to watch the nine p.m. film that you’re definitely too young for.
Listening to him so serious makes me sit up straighter.
‘Where has this come from?’ My hackles prickle a little as he slowly presses at my sore spots.
‘You used to dance around this living room. I could never see The Antiques Roadshow for you twirling and prancing. You’d have that camcorder in my face all hours of the day that I’d feel like I were the star of a show that was never aired and you had such an opinion on you that we’d never have one meal in peace without you making your political statements.
Where has that girl gone? You were so sure of yourself, so confident, so brilliant.
If someone told you “no” you’d not rest until you had proven them wrong. ’
‘I’m still the same girl,’ I say weakly, knowing that I lie.
‘Beatrice Norton, what on earth are you still doing here?’ He finally shoves down his paper and it crumples beside him in his fit of passion.
‘I thought you liked having me home.’ I feel the tears again but I try and push them aside.
‘Aye, I do, though not when you’re always getting the last of my liquorice all sorts.
No, kid, as much as everyone wants you to believe, you don’t have to leave your home and your family to move to some big city to be successful.
You don’t need some bloke in an expensive suit to tell you your film is good.
No, you just have to make sure you’re doing the things that make you happy, put yourself first sometimes, don’t cheat yourself out of your dream because of all the obstacles you think might be in your way.
Now, I’ve never been much of a fan of them Cavendishes, but we’ve all seen you these last few weeks, Bea.
That boy brings out that sparkle we saw all those years ago and now I’m just an old fool who knows nothing about the hearts of young ladies, but I know that boy brings out what is good in you, and so does your writing. ’
‘He doesn’t feel the same.’ I can’t hold back the tears any longer.
‘Then fuck him. Fuck them old London toffs too. Old Beatrice would have given them all the finger and made that sodding film anyway.’
Laughing through the tears, I say, ‘I love you.’
‘Me and your nan love you more than anything, Bea. We’d have you here to look after you for the rest of your life if we could, but more than anything, we want to see you happy; we want to see you have something to fight for.
’ Getting to my feet, I clutch him by the shoulders and plant a teary kiss on his head that he rubs with his wrinkled hand and with a smile adds, ‘Now, sod off, you. Let me read my paper in peace.’
Everyone in the Big Apple knows that we failed.
Nan must have rung ahead but the remnants of a planned celebration still remain.
Barbara has forgotten that she’s wearing a party hat and Bill blows on a little paper horn that unravels and hits Tracy in the back of the head before she quickly snatches it out of his mouth and crumples it behind the bar.
Sorry, the landlady mouths to me with a sympathetic grimace but I wave her off.
With a few minutes left before my shift begins, I take the seat opposite Jimmy and he looks up from his pint to smile a genuine smile. ‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Oh, Jim,’ I breathe. All of the confidence I had built after my chat with Grandad has evaporated as I look Jimmy in the eye. ‘We didn’t get the funding. I’m sorry.’
‘I know that, duck.’ He laughs, his eyes glowing with genuine pride.
‘I’m proud of you for trying. It’s a nice thing you did, wanting to turn me into a superstar.
’ He winks. ‘It’s been fun. Everyone’s been asking to hear about my stories, and, for the first time in ages, I know what I’m on about.
I don’t feel like I’ve quite lost all me marbles yet.
’ He nudges me with his elbow and with just that slight action, I am jolted into action.
This was never about me trying to be the girl I used to be.
This was never about Arthur trying to impress his family.
It was about telling stories that we are at risk of losing.
It’s about making the people we love live on in spite of all that limits them.
It’s about a community that loves every single member. We haven’t failed.
Fuck Natalie. Fuck Rhys. Fuck fame. Fuck money. And fuck Arthur. Just like Grandad said.
‘Babs.’ I stand up and point to the old woman in her furs at the bar.
‘What?’ She looks at me wide-eyed as if I’m about to scold her for having her elbows on the table.
‘Have you still got that camcorder from your daughter’s wedding?’
Barbara narrows her eyes across the pub. ‘I kindly lent it to Amanda to tape the nativity in 2014 and the donkey must’ve run off with it because I ain’t seen it since.’
‘I lent it to Steve,’ Amanda says with watery eyes.
And Steve turns around from the fruit machine in the corner and replies disinterestedly, ‘Bill’s got it.’
To which Bill replies, ‘No, mate, I gave it back to Barbara after the police cautioned me because they thought I was peeping.’
Okay, this is not quite exactly going the way I planned.