One Good Thing, page 19
That said, not even Liv could make Shakespeare less boring. Because, sorry: his plays were so boring. All those long soliloquies and iambic pentameter that were so difficult to understand. Maya hated having to study him. Like Zac said, why was she wasting her time studying some old, dead white guy? He had no relevance to what was happening today. Saying that, old white guys seemed to be running the world these days.
Maya said as much to Liv when they were sitting in the audience, waiting for the curtain to go up, but Liv had simply smiled, like she was in on some secret. Maya wished she was at Zac’s. She hadn’t heard from him all day; he was busy updating the protest group’s website and trying to organize a new rally. He’d wanted her to help, but she told him she had to stay home revising. She felt bad lying, but Zac said the theatre was just for luvvies and the bourgeoisie. Thing is, the woman next to her in a hoodie and trainers didn’t look like a luvvy. She looked quite normal. In fact most people in the audience did.
The first scene was the one with the witches. Maya tried not to roll her eyes. Seriously, were they supposed to be scary? Hasn’t anyone got Netflix? The first twenty minutes dragged on forever and she tried not to fidget or look at her phone to see if Zac had texted back. But then something weird happened: she totally forgot they were actors dressed up onstage, and somehow the words they were saying, which had never made sense when she read them in class, suddenly seemed to make perfect sense and the play immediately came to life for her.
It was the strangest thing. She’d expected to sit there for two hours being bored to tears, but instead she found herself gripped and on the edge of her seat. The time flew by. It was like she was right in the action. It was epic.
Why had no one ever told her that Shakespeare’s plays weren’t meant to be read, that they’d been written to be performed? No wonder she hadn’t got it. But watching it onstage was a game-changer. Lady Macbeth was a badass. And the whole bit about Macduff and the C-section. That was sick.
Maya couldn’t believe how wrong she’d been. Talk about being relevant today. It was all about the corruption of power – about people being motivated by greed and ambition, and jealousy and revenge. All the flaws of human nature. She’d been blown away. Seriously, it was better than anything she’d seen on Netflix. The end was so shocking and gruesome; when they appeared onstage with Macbeth’s severed head, she’d had to hide behind her hands. Who would have thought it?
Well, Liv – because she whispered when it was safe to look again.
Wait till she told Zac! Maya hadn’t told him she was going to the theatre, after he was so dismissive about it. She didn’t want an argument, but now she couldn’t not share her experience. So as soon as they left the theatre, she called him as they were walking through the city centre. Across the street were several bars and they were a bit rowdy, so she held her phone to her ear to hear it ringing.
And that’s when she saw Zac. Across the street. Standing outside the Brasserie, with his arms around a girl and his tongue down her throat. Saw him pull his phone from his back pocket, look at the screen to see who it was and decline the call. A moment later a text popped up:
Working late. Call you later babe. x
And, just like that, she saw Zac for who he really was, and her teenage heart broke.
Things Left Unsaid
Often, when things are such a mess, you can’t imagine they can improve. Deep in the thick of it, it’s so easy to feel as if you’re taking two steps forward, only to take two steps backwards; that everything is so uncertain and nothing will ever change.
Yet ironically, change is the one thing we can be certain of – nothing can ever stay the same. And while at first these shifts can be so small they’re imperceptible, gradually, day by day, little by little, they grow and build. Until one day you catch yourself in the mirror and notice that you’ve somehow lost those extra pounds. Or a date on the calendar reminds you it’s your ex’s birthday and you realize that you haven’t thought of him for weeks. Or you wake up to find that suddenly, as if by magic, the house seems to be taking shape.
It’s the beginning of June. After two months of seemingly constant setbacks, we’ve started to make progress. Years of watching fraught owners on Grand Designs had warned me about spiralling budgets, but no number of spreadsheets could protect me from the various unforeseen issues I’ve so far encountered.
If it wasn’t the discovery of woodworm or rising damp, it was a family of common pipistrelle bats roosting in the attic. Despite Ben’s assurances that everything will be fine, there have been many nights when I’ve lain in bed worrying about expensive surveys, different treatments and specially designed bat-boxes, and wondering if there would ever be an end to all the problems and delays.
But gradually each hurdle has been overcome and, slowly but surely, it’s taking shape. The main shell of the extension has been built, and the kitchen has been knocked through to create a large open-plan space. It’s still a long way from being finished – one end is still open to the elements, and there are wires everywhere and rubble for the floor – but the cottage is now flooded with light. Best of all, I can see directly out into the garden, which, after a lot of hard work, is starting to really come together.
Upstairs, with the help of Valentine, the spare bedroom is almost finished. In the end I decided to go with a lovely pale yellow that catches the morning light, while on the wall with the chimney breast, Valentine expertly hung the Victorian hand-painted wallpaper I found in the garden shed. And it’s true what he said: he really is the cat’s miaow, when it comes to decorating. Seriously, I’ve never seen anyone so handy with a plumbline, lining paper and wallpaper paste.
Still, there’s a lot of hard work ahead. There’s the mouldy bathroom to tackle, floors to lay, walls to plaster and the log-burner to install. Plus a million other things on my to-do list. But sometimes, when I walk through a doorway and catch the evening light streaming through a window, or run my fingers over an old oak beam that’s been stripped back and oiled, I think how far we’ve come and I feel excited. Because it’s not just this old house that’s slowly been rebuilt and transformed over the past few months – it’s its owner as well.
‘So I’ve gone over the measurements and I’ve got a suggestion.’
Two weeks after the pub quiz I find myself standing next to Ben in my bathroom. It’s past six o’clock and the other builders have left, but he’s been looking at the plans and wanted to share an idea with me.
‘You can’t do a proper loft conversion – with this being a conservation area and not being able to raise the roofline – but you could still make a third bedroom underneath the eaves.’ He shines a torch into the open loft hatch, illuminating the dusty attic, which, thanks to my new bat-boxes, is no longer home to a family of pipistrelles. ‘It would perfect for when your friend and her little girl come to stay. Much better than a tent.’
‘But they loved the tent!’
‘They wouldn’t love it so much if it was winter and raining – and it rains here a lot, trust me.’
I didn’t have to trust Ben. I’d seen with my own eyes. There was a reason Yorkshire folk have so many words for rain.
‘But how do we get up there?’ I peer into the rafters.
‘Easy. We add a staircase up to the attic.’
‘Gosh, yes, I love that idea . . . But hang on, where do you put the staircase?’
I turn to look at Ben. He’s been working outside on the extension and his face is tanned.
‘Well, that’s the only downside. You’d need take off this corner of the bathroom here, which would reduce its size.’
He reaches for the pencil that is permanently tucked behind his ear and draws on the plans to show me.
‘But then how do I fit in a roll-top bath?’
I gesture around my bathroom, with its avocado bath suite, dark-brown tiles and cottage-cheese ceiling. I’ve been living with it patiently since I moved in nearly six months ago – it’s the last on the list of renovations – but now I’m desperate to make a start on it.
At this point Ben does this thing where he scrunches up his face. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during these last few months, this scrunching-up is not a good sign.
‘You don’t.’
‘In that case, no.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘I’d rather have a tent.’
‘You could have a lovely walk-in-shower – much more energy-efficient,’ he encourages me, but I’m steadfast.
‘You know how much I’ve set my heart on having a proper cast-iron claw-foot bath, Ben. I’ve been dreaming of it for months, years probably. It’s on my Pinterest mood board and everything,’ I add jokingly, but he doesn’t laugh.
‘And you know you don’t have the budget for one, don’t you?’ He pulls out a spreadsheet. ‘They don’t come cheap, those baths – not if you want an original one that’s been restored and refurbished.’
I hate it when he reminds me about the budget.
‘You’re renovating a cottage, not opening a boutique hotel, you know.’
He’s right, of course. The prices are ridiculous. Even the cheapest one I found on eBay was more than I could afford. I’ve been bringing in more money from tutoring, but I still need to be sensible.
‘Stanley loves his attic bedroom.’ Switching off his torch, Ben closes the loft hatch. ‘And you could even have a wet room, if you wanted.’
‘OK, you win,’ I concede with a sigh.
Satisfied, Ben turns to leave the bathroom, and it strikes me that this is the first time we’ve been alone in the house together. I think about the speech I’ve been rehearsing in my mind ever since I learned the truth about his wife: how sorry I am for his loss; how I want him to know that I’m here for him and Stanley, should he ever need anything.
‘Ben.’ As he starts to walk downstairs, I quickly follow him before the opportunity is missed. ‘I wanted to say something.’ I’m abruptly nervous.
‘Don’t tell me. You’ve changed your mind about the mixer taps for the kitchen island.’
‘No, it’s not about the mixer taps.’
Our footsteps clatter loudly on the bare stone steps as we go downstairs.
‘Because you know I wasn’t sure about the brass fittings, either.’
‘No, I like the brass fittings.’
At the bottom of the staircase, he turns. ‘I did wonder if we should have gone with the brushed steel instead.’
‘No, Ben—’
‘But don’t worry, I can change them tomorrow.’ He reaches for the door.
‘I know about your wife,’ I blurt.
For a moment my words seem to hang, suspended in the air. Regret stabs. That’s not how I rehearsed it. With his back to me, I watch his body stiffen.
‘I’m really sorry, I had no idea.’
There’s a silence. Ben doesn’t speak or turn to look at me. Instead there’s a pause as he raises his hand to his brow and tilts his head skywards, as if he’s thinking how to reply.
‘Shit.’ He lets out a heavy sigh.
My chest tightens as I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’
Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? I’m intruding on his grief, and it’s none of my business. I feel the urgent need to explain.
‘I’ve thought about it forever – I wasn’t sure what to say, but I couldn’t ignore it.’
‘This is all I need.’
In horror, I stare at his back. Ben’s still turned away from me. He can’t even look at me, he’s probably so angry. I feel terrible. I’ve made everything ten times worse.
‘I just wanted you and Stanley to know.’
‘It must be coming from the new boiler.’
We both speak over each other, and it takes a second to register.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The leak.’ Turning to me, he gestures above his head. For a moment I can’t see anything . . . until there it is, emerging through the ceiling: a drip of water. He wipes it from his forehead. ‘Something must have come loose or burst.’
‘Burst?’ Distracted from my speech, I step closer and together we watch as the drip slowly grows bigger and falls, before another appears. I don’t know much about plumbing, but ‘burst’ doesn’t sound good. ‘So what do we do now?’
It’s that inevitable moment when you can see it happening, but can’t stop it. A split-second pause. And then the ceiling suddenly collapses and a deluge of water, mixed with messy chunks of lath and plaster, pours down from above us, completely soaking us both.
Hiding in Plain Sight
From my back garden you can watch the sun setting over the Dales: streaks of orange and red across the vast expanse of sky, illuminating the dark-purple ribbons of clouds. Ben and I sit side by side in a couple of old stripy deckchairs – another vintage find from the garden shed – watching as it slowly sinks into the horizon. Next to us, Harry lies stretched out on the grass, exhausted by all the commotion of the last few hours.
After my ceiling came crashing down, Ben managed to turn off the stop valve to prevent the boiler from refilling and creating any more damage, and called Flood, his plumber, who was busy but promised to come and fix it first thing tomorrow. At this point I reasoned it was probably too late to ask how Flood got his name. However, the water had already shorted all the electrics, so after we’d done our best to clear up, we decamped outside to wait for Ben’s electrician.
‘Sparky shouldn’t be long,’ he says now, checking the time on his phone again.
Stripped down to our underwear, we’re both wrapped in towels. I’ve hung our clothes from the branches of the tree, hoping they’ll dry a little before the electrician arrives. Thankfully, it’s almost summer and the evening air is warm and syrupy. Thankfully also, to spare my blushes, dusk is falling and the only illumination comes from the soft amber glow of the solar lights strung in the branches of the old sycamore. I’d put them up for Naomi’s visit and they were so pretty, I haven’t taken them down.
‘I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
Ben makes some murmur of rebuttal.
‘Faulty valve on the boiler. It’s just one of those things. Once that’s replaced and the ceiling is patched up, it should be as good as new.’
‘Thank you.’
He doesn’t say anything. There’s a beat.
‘Sorry, I should have offered you a drink,’ I continue awkwardly. ‘I’ve got wine, and I think there’s some beer in the fridge.’
‘Thanks, but no. I’ve decided to stay off it, after the other night. Stan doesn’t need a drunk for a father . . .’ He trails off. He doesn’t need to say any more.
‘You know, you don’t have to wait with me. It’s late. I’m sure you want to get home – see Stanley.’
‘He’ll be asleep in bed by now.’ Ben glances across at the rear of the houses whose long gardens back onto mine, then tuts. ‘At least he should be. I can see his light’s still on.’
‘Where?’ I ask, feeling curious. Until now I hadn’t realized I could see Ben’s house from mine.
He points beyond the line of silver birch trees at the bottom of the garden. High up, I see a small attic window and a tiny square of yellow light.
‘Who’s looking after him?’
‘Holly,’ he replies, then pauses. In the dusk I can’t see his expression. ‘Holly’s Stanley’s aunt. She’s Janet’s sister. Janet was my wife.’
I absorb his words for a moment. So that explains who the woman was that I talked to in their garden.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say simply. ‘I had no idea. I saw your wedding ring . . .’ I let my voice trail off into the shadows.
He doesn’t say anything. Why should he? He doesn’t need to explain to me.
‘For a long time, after Janet first died, I couldn’t get my head around it.’
His voice is so low I have to strain to hear him.
‘How could she simply disappear from our lives like that and not come back?’ He breaks off and there’s a long pause. It’s a question to which there is no answer. ‘I kept thinking she was at work or seeing friends, and one day I’d walk into the kitchen and there she’d be. Just like with a sunset.’ He gestures at the sky. ‘The sun doesn’t stop existing because you can’t see it.’
We both watch as the last bit of sun finally disappears into the landscape.
‘But I don’t feel like that any more,’ he continues. ‘It’s been two years, and I know she’s not coming back. I still have conversations with her in my head, though. Mostly about Stanley, telling her about the things he’s been up to, or asking her advice. Janet always knew the right thing to do, whereas I feel like I’m playing catch-up all the time.’
Listening, I notice his left thumb instinctively go to his wedding band. He notices me noticing.
‘You know, there’s all these rules about when you should take off your wedding ring – people tell you to put it on your right hand, or wear it on a chain around your neck.’ He snorts at the idea, as if he finds it ridiculous. ‘But I don’t wear it because I still feel married. I wear it because sometimes, when I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing with Stanley, when I feel like I’m getting it all wrong, it reminds me that someone believed in me once to get it right.’
He turns to me fully then, his eyes searching out mine in the dusk.
‘Does that make me sound crazy?’
‘No, not at all.’
He lets out a deep sigh, leaning forward in the chair and scraping his hands through his hair. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen him without his beanie or a baseball cap, and his hair is dark and wavy, like Stanley’s.
‘The hardest part was telling Stan she’d died. How could I explain it to him when it didn’t make sense to me? That you can get in a car one day and drive off like normal and never come back. That it can be nobody’s fault. That if she’d set off a few minutes later, everything would be different; that truck would have finished turning, she wouldn’t need to brake, the car wouldn’t have skidded off the icy road.’
