Chapter 7
? Unexpected reunion
Scarnbrook was about twenty minutes from the motorway, thanks to the
ring road that had been built during my childhood. Back then the smooth,
efficient bypass had saved me from the previously winding and
travel-sickness-inducing route we’d always taken on our way to Auntie
Sandra’s swanky apartment in West London.
The dual carriageway eventually gave way to familiar A-roads, followed by B-roads, followed by residential streets too insignificant to be identified by letters and numbers.
And then I was there. Scarnbrook. A tucked-away pocket of suburban Bristol that liked to call itself a village but, in reality, was a hodgepodge collection of vast residential estates – with occasional clusters of cottages – that had gradually absorbed farmland either side of a valley over the course of the last century or so.
Driving along the high street as my dad’s ancient satnav indicated I was approaching my destination, I clocked the village hall where Mum and Dad had once organised community dinners for the local senior citizens.
It was weird to think that they themselves were now old enough to attend such an event.
Over the road was the dog groomer’s where I’d inexplicably done work experience in Year Eight, despite having zero interest in canines.
Oh, and there was the old sweet shop that Mum used to take us to after the dentist as a paradoxical reward for keeping our teeth relatively clean.
The sweet shop now appeared to be a luxuriously appointed residential property boasting sage window frames and a fancy-pants festive wreath on the front door.
My expectations for my holiday cottage jumped up a couple of notches.
Seeing these places – which were somehow so different yet achingly familiar at the same time – brought home to me just how long I’d been away. How much the place had moved on. How much the people here must’ve moved on, too.
I took a deep breath and turned right down a narrow lane between the fish and chip shop and The Star, a pub I’d only been to once on a memorable night out with Elle just before we left for university.
In the noughties, it’d been one of those pubs where underage drinkers could sneak into the function room through the beer garden entrance and spend the evening crammed around a pool table while the eldest-looking members of the party were despatched to the bar to fetch drinks.
But that’s not the context in which Elle and I visited on that single occasion.
No, that would’ve been far too normal. Instead, Elle had managed to wangle a gig on the local mystery shopping circuit and had talked me into going ‘undercover’ with her.
And so, one humid Friday night in August, the two of us had rocked up to undertake our strict mission of ordering two cocktails, a plate of chips and inspecting the toilets for cleanliness.
After doing our duty by ordering two cosmos from the cocktail menu – and burning our mouths on the hottest chips in the world – we’d left, and never returned.
Despite the fact that the story had gone on to become one of mine and Elle’s favourite Scarnbrook anecdotes – largely because the pub had ended up with a perplexingly high mystery shopping score due to the automated diligence of the staff – I remembered feeling disappointed at how the night had panned out.
Because, at the back of my mind, I’d been half-hoping – fine, three-quarters-hoping – to see Tom Brinton there, since I knew he and his friends went there quite a bit.
Elle and I had only heard about their riotous nights at The Star from snatches of overheard conversations on Mondays at school.
Week after week, the two of us secretly updated our ever-growing ‘saliva chain’ diagram based on who had snogged whom that particular weekend.
Eventually, we were able to prove that, in a roundabout way, practically everyone in that particular friendship circle had snogged everyone. Including themselves.
But little did Elle know that I had a vested interest in the saliva chain. Because each week I waited with silent fretfulness to find out if Tom Brinton had entered the DNA-based mix in any shape or form. As far as I could tell, he’d always remained beyond the boundaries of the flow(!)chart.
As I drove alongside the pub, I noticed it’d been smartened up since then.
I pulled into Hollyhock Close, a modern-ish looking cul-de-sac that had cars mounted on every pavement due to the lack of sufficient parking.
I double-checked the address that Elle had only got around to sending me this morning. It was definitely the right place. Huh.
Elle had described the holiday rental to me as a ‘mews cottage on an exclusive private road’, but really it was a two-bedroom end-terraced house on a nondescript development of new-builds.
The house had a driveway, which I managed to squeeze onto in between two parked cars.
Reversing out of there was not going to be fun.
As instructed, I unlatched the narrow gate to the side of the property to find the key access box, which was caked in a layer of grime. Following the passcode instructions, I tugged the plastic tab upwards to find a key nestling inside and let myself in through the yellowed UPVC door.
First impressions? It was… underwhelming. The heating must’ve been off for quite some time, and there was a distinct aroma of bleach in every room. Well, at least it was clean.
Elle had said something about the place being more basic than she’d have preferred due to recently imposed expenses constraints, which was fair enough.
I was only going to be here for a couple of nights, anyway.
And I couldn’t help but think that the crappy standard of accommodation would probably give me at least one funny thing to write about in my article.
Speaking of which: I really needed to come up with an efficient trope-ticking plan for the next couple of days.
I heaved my suitcase up the stairs and dumped it in the only room with a bed in it before sticking my head round the door to the bathroom. Bloody hell, there wasn’t even any loo roll in this place! A trip to the shops was definitely in order.
I considered wandering along to the nearby Co-op to pick up a few bits, but then I remembered about the Big Tesco with the petrol station off the ring road. I needed to top up Dad’s tank, and the BP garage that used to be at the end of Scarnbrook’s high street had been turned into a Lidl.
I somehow managed to reverse off the narrow driveway without needing to leave my insurance details on anyone’s windscreens, and headed back to the dual carriageway, my inner satnav remembering the way to the supermarket.
The car park was starting to empty given there were only forty-five minutes until closing. I’d have to be quick.
I grabbed a shallow trolley and headed inside.
A blast of industrial heating hit me as I crossed the threshold, the glare of the harsh, fluorescent lighting burning my tired eyes following all the day’s driving.
And that’s when the realisation hit me, too.
The realisation that people might stare if they recognised me.
After all, I was connected to one of Scarnbrook’s saddest historical chapters.
Unless they’ve all forgotten.
More than anything in the world at that moment, I wanted to be back in my draughty but familiar London flat, wrapped up in my bobbly slanket and watching a plasticine-faced man with a felt-like beard fix the broken-down car of a rosy-cheeked owner of a small-town inn.
I considered performing a dramatic U-turn with the trolley and hiding outside to collect myself – or scarpering altogether – but the wind was picking up again and my stomach was growling with hunger.
I took a shaky breath, cast my eyes upwards and glanced around.
It wasn’t too busy at all. I relaxed a little, and focused my attention on scooping up my essentials as quickly as possible, as if I was a contestant on Supermarket Sweep being cheered on over the Tannoy.
At the end of the final aisle, I guided the trolley to an empty till. And there he was: perhaps the only person I hadn’t mentally prepared myself to bump into – Tom blimmin’ Brinton – stood with his own full-sized trolley at the adjacent checkout.
As his eyes briefly met mine, my insides did a flippy-floppy thing I hadn’t felt since school.
I unloaded my collection of processed foods while trying to give off an air of calm indifference, while internally I was trying to figure out if my tummy had ever felt like this with any other man.
I wasn’t convinced it had. I’d always put that down to the fact that I was now, apparently, a fully grown woman rather than a stupid teenage girl with a ridiculous, unrequited crush.
But perhaps not? I thought I detected a glimmer of recognition as Tom flashed his trademark dimply grin and continued to fill the conveyor belt in an admirably practical order with the heaviest item first – which appeared to be the world’s largest frozen turkey – and a loaf of fresh bread at the very end.
Back at school, I’d always found him endlessly interesting to look at.
He was attractive, but less conventionally so than some of his peers, with an angular, pointy face and strong, straight nose.
His rich, conker-brown hair was always perfectly tousled – short round the sides but thick and wavy on top, just crying out to be mussed, though I reckon I would’ve struggled to reach it given the height difference.
His understated eyebrows sloped down towards his slightly protruding ears, one of which had glinted with a small, gold stud.
He had generous, mouth-hugging dimples under both cheekbones when he grinned, which was often.