Chapter 14 #2
Next morning: Wednesday. He has a hot shower, two boiled eggs and an entire cup of coffee before he checks his phone.
Still no reply from Nora, and she’s been back from Devon for a few days now.
He throws himself into his mother’s garden because she has an endless list of jobs that don’t need doing, in his opinion, but which he can do for her anyway.
He gets hot while he’s weeding, takes his T-shirt off, realises Josie might see his tattoos so puts it back on again.
Gets out the mower, cuts her already neat grass.
Freya’s lawn next door is unruly, brimming with wildflowers, but his mother prefers to keep hers respectable.
Pays a professional to maintain it, maybe, seeing as he’s never seen her in her gardening gloves, or in the straw hat that hangs by the back door.
The sun is strong for early April. Sweat beads on his hairline, and memories rise like the tiny moths in the grass as he mows.
Family barbecues on bank holidays. His dad flipping burgers.
Both mothers in deckchairs while he and Nora swung their legs in the oak tree, talking around packet ice lollies, laughing.
They’d laughed a lot, back then. He wonders if laughing less is an adult thing, or just a them thing.
A not-sure-where-you-stand-with-each-other thing.
Sweat in his eyes, now, as he cuts the mower.
And then a swear word explodes over the fence, followed by a small crash from next door.
And while Bren has not seen her, since all they’d found out – has avoided her in the driveway, not popped over for more tea – it’s a reflex for him to call out, all right, Freya?
There is a short pause before she calls back, Brenavin? Could you come over here, please? I’ve dropped the Tomorite.
The what?
Just get over here, will you?
He considers it, then drops the handles of the lawn mower, curiosity winning out over pride. Unlatches the gate his father built between their fences and finds Freya scrabbling on her knees on the decking, in a pool of broth-like liquid.
What a mess, he says as Freya scoops the spillage towards her, her hair tufting so high out of her head she looks like a leafy vegetable herself.
So observant of you, Bren, she says.
Her audacity is kind of outrageous to him, but also unsurprising.
She’s always been thick-skinned. He’s guessing she’ll just blast by the whole intercepted phone call thing.
The whole, lied-to-them-both-for-no-good-reason thing.
Then she snaps at him to do something, to go and get a Tupperware, man, from the log store!
Shaking his head, Bren does as she says, retrieves two and hands one over. Freya snatches it and starts scooping the fluid over its rim with her hands, her kaftan now stained with it too.
What is this stuff, anyway, Bren asks, crouching at the other end of the decking, trying not to get it on his shoes.
Tomorite, Freya repeats. Tomato feed, for my cordons.
Expensive stuff, then?
Not in the slightest, she says. But waste not, Brenavin.
And he can’t help it; he laughs. Finds himself easing up, a little, as she rootles around on all fours with her mad hair and grubby hands; wondering, not for the first time, why this woman, of all people, would have kept his message from Nora. Would have stopped her from boarding that plane.
It’s the last thing he’d have expected, from her.
Freya was always badgering them to be unencumbered by societal norms. Let them stay up late.
Bought Nora her first packet of condoms and told her to get lucky, but not unlucky, like she had – not that she regretted it, of course, she rather liked having a pal she could paint with, and read to, and teach to cook so she could make dinner for her one day.
And they’d laughed about all that, him and his parents, with affection.
Sometimes awe. His dad had delighted in her.
His mother, even more so. Freya marched for women’s rights and animal rights and the rights of the planet that was burning up and freezing over and dying, day by day, didn’t they know, didn’t they care?
She had opened his mind in ways that his own mother had not, and for that reason, Bren thinks, as he watches her scurrying about, it is hard to remain fully angry with her.
What’s it do, then, he asks, as he joins her in her rescue attempt.
Tomato feed? Funnily enough, Bren, it feeds my tomatoes.
She wipes her forehead, leaves a brownish streak on her eyebrow.
Such promise, you had, as a boy, she tells him. All that heat abroad must’ve addled your brain.
And the disapproval in her tone throws him right back – Nora’s with your mother, like you should be – and that’s it: he snaps.
I don’t think you’re in a place to tease me here, Freya. After what you did.
She looks up at him, then, over her Tupperware, and their eyes meet. Wild and gold on his steady green.
Well, she says, and she stands, her knees cracking. Give me a minute, will you, before we get into all this.
Why, he says. Is it a greenhouse moment?
A snort, then, because he’s remembered, but she says no, Bren, not quite. But it is a moment for alcohol, I reckon, don’t you?
_
Freya cleans herself up inside while Bren decants the tomato feed back into the bottle. She reappears after a short while wearing fresh dungarees, two glasses of tomato juice clutched in her hands.
Bit early for a cocktail, isn’t it? he asks, as he takes one from her.
Not when it’s a breakfast cocktail, she says. Home-made, of course. My little labour of Love Apples. That’s what they were called, back in the day, due to their aphrodisiacal qualities. Probably why I can’t get enough of them.
Bren chokes, just slightly, on his drink.
Don’t be a prude! Freya crows, settling on the decking beside him. We all need some spice in our lives! And my punters seem to agree.
Your punters?!
Not those kind of punters! she says, seeing his face. I sell Love Apple Juice at farmers’ markets and things. Slap labels on them, charge a fiver a bottle.
That’s terrible.
That’s capitalism.
Not the price, Bren says, the name. Surely people just think they’re buying apple juice?
Exactly, Bren! It’s a crying shame that oranges and apples get all the attention, don’t you think?
Imagine opening someone’s mind to the possibilities of a tangy, sweet-as-earth tomato, grown on our very own island, no less.
More vitamins, fewer air miles. It’s all part of the plan, Brenavin.
Cajole the apple juice bores into expanding their horizons.
Bren decides not to engage on this, knowing she’s playing for time. He takes another sip, mouth tingling. Waits her out.
I suppose we should talk about the elephant in the garden, Freya says, after a swig of her own. And I don’t mean my statue of Ganesha.
How long have you been waiting to say that sentence?
Oh, a good twenty years.
Traded smiles, then, as they both drink again. Soft clink of ice on their teeth.
Nora isn’t speaking to me, Freya says, when she lowers her glass.
I know, Bren says.
So she’s speaking to you?
Why wouldn’t she be?
Josie implied you’ve been somewhat … solitary, for a while. I wondered if something had happened, between you two.
You mean after we clocked that you’d lied to us both?
Maybe Bren is imagining it, but after he’s said this, Freya looks almost relieved. She cocks her head at him, then tucks her legs into a lotus position. Puts her glass down.
Lied is a bit strong, she says. You need to communicate, for that, and you and I barely spoke, Bren.
Unbelievable, he says.
Am I?
It’s not our relationship that matters here, Bren says, and you know it. You feel bad about Nora, and frankly, Freya, you should. You had no right to withhold that message from her. No right to rob her of that chance.
And what chance is that?
To see the world! Get out of here! Do – more.
Chase some crush across the globe, you mean? Freya shoots. It seems, Bren, that I’m the one who wanted more for her, here.
Some crush?!
Yes, Bren! I’m sorry, but what would you rather coin yourself? What have you proven yourself to be, to her, over the years?
Bren’s mouth hangs open, astounded at how assertive she’s being. At how he, in spite of everything, is the one on the back foot here.
We’re, he says. She’s my.
Freya raises one eyebrow.
My best friend, Bren says, and it sounds infantile as soon as it’s left his mouth.
The wind blows then, sweeps their hair over their heads.
Freya’s glass, left on the decking, tips over.
And it’s because of how he’s been feeling, because of how agitated she’s made him, because he can’t get on a plane this second or bungee off a bridge that he has to take a risk some other way so he says, without holding back: maybe more than that.
He thinks this will stun her. Provoke a staggered silence, at least. But Freya simply scoffs as she picks up her glass, takes another swig and says come on, Bren. When have you ever been more than that, except in your own head?
It is harsh, and she does not apologise for it. But Bren has nothing to apologise for here, either. So instead he asks her a question: the one he’s been asking himself, ever since he got home.
You think she’s happy, marrying Robin?
I really do. She loves him. She loves her home, and her business. Loves her life here, even if it’s a life you wouldn’t touch with a barge pole.
But it’s a life she might not have touched either, Bren says, if you’d given her my message!
And not doing that was a selfish, impulsive move I can’t take back, Freya says, and I hold my hands up, there, I do. I’ve been waiting for you to piece it together, for years, but it turns out I needn’t have worried, because the pair of you never talk properly. Which only proves my point.
Which is?