Someone I Used to Know, page 11
The kitchen is warm, thanks to the always-hot Aga, and it smells delicious, but it looks as though a bomb has hit it. Mum has evidently been baking for the café, and the thick wooden countertops are cluttered with dirty bowls, the pale-blue cupboards are splattered with cake mixture, and the well-worn red-tiled floor is coated with a dusting of flour and who knows what else.
‘Now then, son, that’s looking better.’ Dad nods at Theo’s lip.
‘Yeah. Thanks,’ Theo replies awkwardly.
Joanne and Preston home in on the plate of freshly baked flapjacks and Dad barks at them: ‘Oi! Hands!’
Mum comes into the kitchen, carrying Ashlee.
‘Hello!’ she says with a big smile at Theo, putting Ashlee down.
‘Mum, this is Theo.’ I make the introduction.
‘Lovely to meet you,’ Mum says, although I’m sure, like Dad, she remembers him. ‘Do you want to use the cloakroom?’ She directs him into the hall while the rest of us take turns washing our hands at the kitchen sink.
When Theo returns, I try to see things from his perspective: the mess, the chaos, all these people. He must feel as though he’s wandered into a madhouse.
Ashlee is regarding him warily, so I tickle her ribs and make her squirm and giggle.
‘I was about to see how much she’s grown,’ Mum tells me, opening the larder door wide.
Names and heights are charted all the way up the wall on the left-hand side. You have to look closely to be able to decipher the messy scrawl, but we’re all there – even me.
‘Come on,’ Mum urges Ashlee, standing her just inside the door. ‘Ooh, you’ve grown a whole inch!’
Ashlee beams up at her as she marks the wall with a Sharpie.
‘You next, Lee-Lee, you haven’t been measured in a while.’
‘Do we have to do this now?’ I gripe, shooting a look at Theo. He’s leaning against the counter and munching on a flapjack, seeming perfectly content.
‘Chop chop,’ Mum replies, her attention momentarily pulled away by Preston and Joanne trying to make a speedy exit. ‘Where are you two going?’ she shouts after them.
Joanne ignores her, but Preston calls back: ‘I have to pack.’
‘Fine, I’ll get you later,’ Mum replies, but I don’t miss the pain that briefly contorts her face.
Preston is leaving us tomorrow. He has two younger siblings and one older sister who have all been in separate foster homes. He’ll be the second to be reunited with his mother. The woman was grossly neglectful – addicted to drink and drugs and willing to do anything to get her hands on them, from the stories I’ve heard Preston telling Jamie and Joanne – but she’s out of rehab now and allegedly doing well. All Preston has wanted since he came here eight months ago was to return to her. Despite everything, he loves her and he can’t wait to go home.
My parents have witnessed too many failed reunions to not be sceptical about this one. They’re very fond of Preston, even with all his moaning and laziness, and they’d have him back in a heartbeat if it didn’t work out.
But at the same time, as long as he’s happy, I know they’d be at peace if they never saw him again.
Whatever the eventual outcome, tomorrow will be hard for everyone.
Mum is still waiting for me, so I drag my heels over to the larder cupboard and stand there dutifully as she marks my height.
‘There you go,’ she says when she’s finished, and I turn around to inspect the wall.
‘Ooh, a whole millimetre,’ I say sarcastically.
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Up you get, George, you’re next.’
George stares at her with alarm.
‘Hurry along, George,’ Theo urges in an amused murmur, giving him a shove.
George glares over his shoulder at him, but does as my mum asks, scraping his wooden chair legs over the tiled floor with a screech and unfolding his long body.
‘I’m not going to be able to see over the top of your head,’ Mum says.
‘I’ll do it.’ Dad’s shorter than George by several inches, but manages to make a faithful marking on the wall. ‘You’re the tallest of all of us, and I bet you’ve still got some growing to do,’ he muses.
‘Come on,’ I say to George and Theo, nodding towards the door.
‘Can you bring the rabbits in?’ Mum calls after us as we head outside.
‘Okay.’
Theo is more vocal than George was at the sight of our absolutely enormous, white, ball-shaped bunnies. George was struck dumb, but Theo exclaims, ‘What the fuck?’ and stares with disbelief as George steps over the low fence and scoops one off the grass.
‘Who’s this?’ George asks me, tickling her behind her long pink ears.
‘Sooty,’ I reply.
He cocks an eyebrow at me.
‘Jamie was going through an ironic phase,’ I tell him.
‘Can I pick one up?’ Theo asks.
‘Go for it. They’re used to being handled.’
He climbs into the pen and reaches for the nearest. ‘Whoa! It’s heavier than I thought it would be.’
‘She,’ I correct him. ‘That’s Ewok.’
‘Star Wars phase?’ George asks me.
‘No “phase” about it,’ I retort. ‘That one’s Wookie.’ I point out another rabbit.
He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Are you named after Princess Leia?’
I laugh. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me. My dad has a thing for her – you can see it on his face when we watch the movies – but my name is pronounced Lee-ah, not Lay-ah.’
‘Why do you have so many?’ Theo asks, and I get the impression he’s only half listening to us.
I give him a brief overview of the fleece farm as we carry the rabbits back inside and secure them in their cages.
Angora rabbits are primarily bred for their wool, which is extremely fine and softer than cashmere. Ours are Giant Angoras – glossy white and round in shape with striking pink ears and eyes. They’re so fluffy that they look like big balls of cotton. It’s hard to believe that they’re real, let alone useful.
But although these rabbits do produce fleece for the farm, the main purpose of our bunnies is less widely known. My parents bought these animals not so much for their fur but for their therapeutic value. It wasn’t until Jamie came to live with us that I realised. We only had two of them then as opposed to the six we have now, but I remember how much they would calm him after he’d had a meltdown. Jamie could go from yelling and screaming to quietly grooming the rabbits in less than twenty minutes.
It’s quite hard to feel angry when you have a surprisingly hefty fluffball sitting on your knee – I know, because grooming them chills me out too.
Every silky strand they shed when being brushed or plucked is kept and put aside, ready to be carded and spun. The spinning itself – whether it’s angora wool or alpaca fleece – is also therapeutic. There’s something about the gentle rhythm of the wheel that seems to quiet busy minds.
It doesn’t always work, though. The only child my parents have ever had to move on was a twelve-year-old boy named Connor who squeezed one of the rabbits so tightly that she had to be put down. Everyone has a threshold, and causing harm to the animals is the one thing that will push my parents over theirs. But I know that their failure to help Connor will haunt them for the rest of their lives.
‘Do they need brushing now?’ Theo asks as we’re making our second and final trip.
‘Always. You want a turn?’
He shrugs. ‘Sure.’
‘Let’s take these two to the Yarn Barn.’
‘Er, I might go and change,’ George says, glancing down at his black blazer.
‘Okay, see you in a bit.’
As George sets off across the courtyard towards the kitchen door, Theo follows me into the adjacent barn. It’s much bigger than the Bunny Barn – a long rectangular space full of tables, drying racks and various equipment, from washing machines to spinning wheels.
Right now, it’s relatively clean and tidy, with white-painted walls and a well-swept light-grey linoleum floor, but in the weeks and months to come, practically every surface will be covered with alpaca fleece.
We send a lot of our fibre away to be processed, and keep some of it here at the farm. It has to be cleaned and carded and spun into yarn before it can be used, and each of these techniques takes time.
We go to an empty table and I pass Theo a brush and an apron, settling Annie – Annie the Angora; no story there – before me on the table while I tie up my apron. Theo drapes his apron over the back of his chair instead of putting it on, an act he will soon come to regret.
‘You can brush or pluck.’ Grabbing a handful of oats from a container on the table, I sprinkle some in front of Annie and Wookie and they tuck in, sitting there quite contentedly.
‘Doesn’t plucking hurt them?’ he asks apprehensively as he watches me tug gently on Annie’s fur. A tuft comes away easily.
‘Not at all. They moult anyway, and if they take in too much hair while grooming themselves, they might get wool block.’ I place the tuft in my left hand and pull out another, laying it with the first in a long strip.
‘What’s wool block?’
‘It’s when they swallow so much hair that it makes a hairball. Rabbits can’t vomit them up like cats can, so it can be fatal. Start at the top, around her neck, so you know where you’ve been.’
Theo falls quiet as he gets to work.
‘This is actually quite relaxing,’ he says after a while.
I smile at him. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘If my masters could see me now…’ he adds darkly.
‘Why did you leave boarding school?’ I finally ask the question that’s been on my mind.
‘I didn’t leave.’ He pauses. ‘I was expelled.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Because I was naughty.’ He says this in a low voice, exaggerating the last word to make it sound strangely sexy. ‘Disobedience, smoking, vandalism,’ he continues. ‘And there might’ve been drugs involved.’
Ah. Okaaaay… ‘Why didn’t you go to another boarding school?’
He smiles, but the humour doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘That was my third. Dear old Daddy had had enough. He told me I could take my education or leave it, but he wouldn’t pay another penny either way. It’s not like I matter to him. Acton will inherit. I’m just the spare.’
He says all this flippantly, but it clearly bothers him.
‘What do we do with it now?’ He shows me the hair he’s collected.
‘Now it has to be carded.’ I pick up two curved brushes that are covered with small metal tines. Laying the hair across the top of one brush, I drag the other over it repeatedly until all of the hair is collected by the second brush. ‘You’re brushing the hair into fine, straight layers so they can be spun more easily,’ I explain as I repeat the process. ‘These are hand carders, but that machine does the same job.’ I nod at the drum carder on the table next to us, which consists of two round drums, pressed up against each other and covered with tines.
‘Are you guys still at it?’ George asks from the doorway.
‘Yep,’ Theo replies. ‘Mind if I have a go?’ he asks me.
‘Watch your fingers; the tines are sharp,’ I warn as I hand the brushes over.
‘Shall I put the bunnies back?’ George interrupts.
‘Sure. Ta,’ I reply.
He picks up Annie and walks out.
I get the feeling he wasn’t expecting to spend his Friday afternoon like this. He returns to collect Theo’s rabbit a couple of minutes later.
‘Why were you laughing?’ Theo asks when George has walked out of the barn again.
He’s asked me this question every single day over the last fortnight, still keen to know why I cracked up in hysterics on the bus.
‘I am not telling,’ I repeat with a grin.
There’s no way I can admit to what I wanted to make out of his hair. He’d think I’m barmy.
Theo tuts and shakes his head.
‘I would show you how to spin this into yarn, but I think George has had enough bunny fun for one afternoon,’ I whisper when George reappears, purposefully saying it loudly enough for him to hear me.
Theo grins over at him. George raises his eyebrows, and rocks impatiently on his heels.
‘I need a smoke,’ Theo declares bluntly. ‘Is there anywhere we can go that’s safe from your parents?’
‘My parents won’t bat an eyelid.’ I get up and push my chair back in.
‘Still, I’d rather not flaunt it in their faces.’ He catches sight of himself as he stands up. His lap is covered in white fur.
‘That’ll teach you not to wear an apron.’ I laugh at the look on his face.
‘I can’t wait to explain this one,’ he mutters.
‘What did your family say about your lip?’ I ask.
He shrugs. ‘They didn’t notice.’
I stare at him as he pats his pocket for his cigarettes. I turn to gauge George’s reaction, but he doesn’t seem at all surprised.
I realise then and there that Theo may, on the surface, seem as if he has it all, but he’s damaged like everyone else who comes here.
Chapter 13 Now
‘Thanks so much,’ I say to Robin as I reach for my door handle.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies in his baritone Canadian accent. ‘Call me if you need a lift home, okay?’
‘No, no, we’ll definitely catch a cab,’ I hear Becky assure him as I step out onto the pavement. ‘You should get an early night.’
Through the window I see my old friend lean across the centre console to peck her husband on his bristly cheek.
I like Robin – I always have – but I don’t know him well. This journey into Ripon has helped me get to know him a bit better, although I still couldn’t tell you what he does for a living. Something to do with computers and finance, but Becky cut him off before he could grant my request to explain in more detail.
‘Don’t, we’ll be asleep before we get there.’
He laughingly brushed off her ribbing.
I thought Robin was still abroad when I rang to ask Becky if she fancied going out for dinner. When I discovered he’d only returned from his business trip to Canada this morning, I expected her to turn me down so she could spend the evening with him. But she jumped at the chance to have a girls’ night out.
Robin insisted on driving us. He’s lovely: tall, dark and handsome. Tonight is one of the rare times I’ve seen him in casual clothes, and he seemed more approachable somehow: more of a cuddly giant than an imposing businessman.
He drives away and Becky and I grin at each other.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt excitement.
I actually enjoyed the process of getting ready this evening and Becky has made an effort too. She’s wearing black jeans and a long-sleeve black lace top and has blow-dried her dark chin-length locks to shiny perfection.
As for me, I dug out my curling tongs and now my previously limp ’do has a bit of a kink to it, falling in tousled dark-blond waves to a couple of inches free of my shoulders. I’m wearing heels for the first time in ages – suede ankle boots – with a thigh-length navy shirt dress. I’ve put on a little weight thanks to Mum’s home cooking over the last few weeks, but I know I’m still too thin. The dress helps to disguise my slight frame.
Robin has dropped us off near the cathedral and it makes for a spectacular view as we click-clack along the pavement beside the towering beauty. The setting sun is hitting the warm sandy-coloured stone of the building and making it shine a golden orange, while its myriad of tall arched windows are reflecting the light and sparkling back at us blindingly.
Across the road is the Cracked Teapot. Festoon lights hang from the leafy tree outside, making the place look inviting even though it’s dark and empty and the outdoor furniture has been packed away for the night. Twinkling fairy lights are suspended from the window frames inside too, along with a blackboard propped up against the glass, revealing the day’s specials. Tomorrow’s cakes will be banana and caramel, coffee and walnut and a classic Victoria sponge – I know because Mum was baking them earlier. She also made animal biscuits for Emilie with brightly coloured icing: yellow giraffes, pink hippos and green crocodiles.
I should say ‘with’ Emilie, but I know that my daughter was more of a hindrance than a help. Still, they looked as though they were enjoying themselves.
The warm summer air is perfumed with the scent of the roses growing in nearby garden beds as Becky and I cross over the road to the high street. The road slopes down and curves away to the right, and bunting zigzags between the old terraced buildings on either side, fluttering in the breeze.
I’ve booked us a table at the pub where George works, but the fact that it’s my favourite place to go out in Ripon doesn’t alleviate my guilt. The sad truth is, I’m itching to see him.
My butterflies spiral into a frenzy at the sight of him behind the emerald-green panelled bar. He’s pulling a pint, his dark eyes cast downwards, but then he looks up and sees me, doing a double take. His initial surprise transforms into genuine pleasure. I smile at him, feeling very edgy indeed, and then Becky reminds me of her presence.
‘Is that George?’ she asks with surprise.
She saw him at the wake and we’ve spoken briefly about his return, but she didn’t know he worked here at this pub.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
She helped pick up the pieces after he left, but she never fully understood why I was so destroyed. The spring that George came to live with us coincided with Becky contracting meningitis, and in the summer, she got her first boyfriend, so she wasn’t around much. If she had been there, I doubt George, Theo and I would have got so close.
‘Eh up,’ George says as we walk up to the bar. He finishes with one pint glass and reaches for another. There’s a man waiting.
‘Hi.’ I smile and prop my elbows on the polished mahogany bar top.
‘Are you here for dinner or drinks?’ George asks.
‘Dinner, but we’ll have a quick one at the bar first, shall we?’ I check with Becky.
