Truestory Page 6

  ‘Aye, well, when the table’s cleared we’ll have a proper look at it, shall we?’ Larry smiled at Sam. ‘We’ll see what we can see.’

  I cleared the dishes and wiped the table while Sam sat there clutching the map. Duncan lit the fire and made a big show of selecting some bottles of ale from his stock in the washroom. Larry went outside for a smoke. I could see him on the granary steps stroking Bess’s ears. She liked him and butted his hand with her nose and licked his fingers.

  When he came back Duncan said, ‘Fancy a brown, Larry?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Duncan grinned but then stopped grinning when Larry took the brown ale to the table and sat down beside Sam.

  I put the ironing board up and dragged out the teetering ironing basket.

  Larry opened the map and pointed to all the places he’d stayed and talked about the jobs he’d done.

  He could spin a good yarn that was for sure.

  He said he’d worked at potato picking, haymaking, mushroom picking, knocking down a cottage, pheasant beating for some shooters, whitewashing outhouses, putting up hen cabins and goodness knows what else.

  When he got to the bit about mushroom picking Duncan shouted from his chair in front of the fire:

  ‘There’s nothing like being kept in the dark and fed shit, eh?’

  Larry laughed.

  ‘Whereabouts are you from?’ I asked.

  ‘Wee place in Midlothian,’ he said. ‘That’s Scotland,’ he said to Sam. ‘If I had a map I’d show you. But I havenae.’ He took a long pull on his ale. ‘I left so long ago I can hardly remember it.’ He looked at me. ‘I got out of there as soon as I bloody could, pardon my French, and I won’t be going back.’

  Sam gazed at him wide-eyed, waiting for more.

  ‘Where’s home now?’ I said, hoping he took the hint that home was definitely not here.

  ‘In the summer I pick flowers and fruit in the south of England. It’s a good life, keeps me fit and out of trouble.’

  ‘So is that where you’re heading?’

  Larry gave a vague kind of smile and didn’t answer.

  He showed Sam different places on the map and embarked on stories about the slavers that sailed into Lancaster, the drunken boys press-ganged into the navy and the Pendle Witches hanged at Lancaster Castle. He ran his finger down the coast and told Sam about the stone graves cut from rock at Heysham where St Patrick landed from Ireland.

  I watched Sam taking it in, a slight frown on his face. He wouldn’t have sat so still if I’d tried to tell him stories. Although come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I had tried to tell him a story. We’d got out of that habit years ago – Sam had been able to read himself stories since he was about three. Nowadays our evenings consisted of me reading a magazine or some novel or other, Duncan watching the telly, and Sam clearing off to his room to go on his computer or draw a map.

  I bashed the iron on the ironing board.

  ‘You’ve got plenty of stories,’ I said.

  Larry smiled and said to Sam: ‘I’ve got plenty of stories because I’ve been to plenty of places and seen plenty of things.’

  I put the last bit of ironing on the pile.

  It was that map that was doing it; Sam was mesmerised by that map.

  Duncan had been rattling bottles of ale like a kid waving a bag of sweets most of the time the stories had been going on. He got louder and more persistent until Larry said:

  ‘Well, that’s maybe enough for tonight, son.’ And Duncan, spotting his chance, said:

  ‘I’ve got a Hobgoblin, or a Cockahoop, or an Old Rascal?’ and he chinked a handful of brown bottles.

  Larry helped Sam fold the map.

  ‘So we’ll need to dig that trough round the polytunnel tomorrow before we get the sheeting on,’ shouted Duncan, who obviously didn’t want Larry getting sidetracked by Sam again. ‘Let’s hope the wind stays down.’

  Larry held the folded map out to Sam and said:

  ‘Now you need to explore for yourself, eh?’ Sam’s hand faltered and a look of mingled terror and hope flickered across his face.

  A knot tightened in my throat. The map showed a small corner of the world – a small corner of a flat and wet and windy Lancashire – within touching distance of this farm, but it was out of reach for Sam. It was a terrifying world through the Wildwood, past Big Hill and down Hell Fire Pass and he might as well have been planning a trip to the moon. My heart twisted at the fear and the hope on his face.

  Larry put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam flinched.

  Duncan shouted:

  ‘You heard the weather forecast, Larry?’ and Larry turned away and took his ale over to the fire.

  ‘No yet. You joining us for a drink?’ he said, looking at me.

  I shook my head.

  Duncan flicked over to the news channel. Sam stroked the cover of his map and held it to his face as if he was smelling it. Cuddling it to his chest and with his chin down, he disappeared upstairs.

  Duncan talked over the telly, droning on about the polytunnel.

  ‘. . . it’ll be a mob-handed job . . . It’ll take us a bit . . . best get it done early . . .’

  blah blah blah

  Like he had a clue about it.

  I picked up the wobbling stack of ironing and, peering round it, carried it upstairs. I hoped there’d be a sodding hurricane tomorrow. I hoped the stupid tunnel took off like a parachute and flew off over the hills and far away, and was never seen again.

  I perched on the edge of the bed. It was like being locked in a prison cell. I jumped up, opened my wardrobe and pulled at stuff: going-out clothes, dresses – when did I ever get to wear dresses? – strappy sandals, clutch bags, a glittery belt. All useless. I threw them in a pile; they’d be next for the tip.

  The heap on the floor made me feel a bit better, but it wasn’t enough. I opened Duncan’s wardrobe and pulled out a sports jacket. And there was his old T-shirt, pale blue and soft – one he wore when we were first married. I thought that had gone ages ago. I dragged it out. He’d worn this T-shirt when we went driving on summer nights in his TR7, the windows down and my hair whipping about. We sang along to Downtown and Don’t Sleep in the Subway and other cheesy old songs he had on his eight-track.

  That was when Duncan’s dad was alive and we were both young – still only teenagers in the early days. The farm was busy then; there was money in it and nobody thought it would ever change. The place was a bustle of activity with contractors, delivery men, salesmen; folk coming and going all day long. It felt like a thriving, living, breathing business back then.

  I worked at the bank. Dead boring, and the money was rubbish, but it was clean and warm. I planned to do it until I had a baby and then I’d throw myself into being a mum. I’d make a better job of it than my own mother, that was for sure. No way would any bloke come between me and my kid; no way would any bloke drive my kid from home so they ended up feeling like they’d got no family and had to get married at eighteen, to get one. Like me.

  There was a shout of laughter from downstairs – Duncan and Larry must be on their second or third bottles by now. I buried my face in the T-shirt and wiped my eyes then, catching sight of the pile of rubbish, I flung it on top.

  In the aching silence I heard Sam pacing round his room. Round and round he went. Sometimes he paced for ages – hours – sometimes it went on all night, with silences when I presumed he went on his computer or drew something or gazed into space.

  I strained to listen and heard him open his window. He liked to stare out at the black night – there were no streetlights at Backwoods – and watch the light of the moon silhouetting the tops of the trees in the Wildwood and the infinity of stars stretching out overhead. I’d watched him do it. I’d sat in the pitch black garden and watched him silhouetted in the window, thin and young and vulnerable-looking, as he stared up at the sky and out at a world that fascinated and tempted him but that was so terrifying it was way out of his reac
h.

  Chapter 10

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  How do I know what I want?

  Truestory

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.09

  Is it possible to want something and not to want it at the same time? Is it possible to want something so much it hurts but to be so terrified of it that that hurts too. How do I know what I want?

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  JC

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.13

  Go have a conversation with God. Believe in him and you will find your way.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  Fizzy Mascara

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.15

  Why the hell do you lot always bring god into it. God can’t save you – only you can do that. Now get real and stop believing in magic.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  Root Toot

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.16

  LOL. Chill Fizzy Mascara.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  SpiritLove

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.21

  Hi Truestory There are so many things out there getting in our way. Desires for fast cars, fancy houses, beautiful clothes. None of these things matter unless we are happy within ourselves. Money cannot buy the things that are truly valuable. Come and find out more click here – this is what the Spirit&Soul Spiritual community is all about.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  ChocolateMoustache

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.30

  Steve Jobs said you should do what you love – and he didn’t do so bad did he?

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  DiamondSky

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.44

  Doing wot u luv is the DUMEST ADVISE. LOVE DON’T PAY THE BILLS.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  PlainSpeaker

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.50

  WRITING IN CAPS IS SHOUTING. STOP SHOUTING DiamondSky IT IS NOT NECESSARY OR HELPFUL.

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  Truestory

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 21.58

  What if what you want might kill you?

  Re: How do I know what I want?

  Root Toot

  Date: 4 June 2014

  Time: 22.00

  Then you’d die happy, Truestory!! Go for it man.

  Chapter 11

  Next morning I found Larry frying bacon, his fag propped against the open window.

  ‘Morning.’

  I didn’t answer. I was dying for a drag but there was no way I was asking for one. I flicked the kettle on.

  ‘Sit down. I can do it,’ said Larry. I ignored him and grabbed Sam’s bowl and Weetabix and plonked them at his place. I switched the radio on and turned it up.

  Duncan came in from milking, stamping his feet to knock off the bits of clinging straw.

  ‘Heard the forecast?’ He lobbed his jacket at one of the armchairs and looked at Larry.

  Larry shook his head. ‘Naw.’

  ‘We’ll be lucky, I dare say,’ said Duncan.

  Larry had daubed butter on slices of bread and was dribbling bacon grease across the counter as he dumped the rashers on top.

  ‘Great,’ Duncan slapped another slice on and sat down. ‘We’ll have that tunnel up good as new today. No trouble at all.’ And he took a big bite.

  Sam came down at half eight and slipped into his place. He went through the Weetabix routine without saying a word. Duncan wolfed his bacon butty then said: ‘Alice, I’m going to need you and Sam to give us a hand this morning getting this sheeting on the hoops.’

  I stared at him, coffee cup halfway to my mouth. After all I’d said about his idiot scheme, he was asking me to help?

  Sam said: ‘Today I am studying two-dimensional shapes on the internet.’

  ‘You can leave your work for this morning,’ said Duncan. ‘I don’t see what difference it makes anyway.’

  ‘He’s got stuff to do,’ I said. ‘It’s my job to make sure he does it and doesn’t waste time putting stupid polytunnels up. That’s what difference it makes.’ I slammed my cup on the table.

  Sam stared wide-eyed at Duncan; he put his spoon down and his hands hovered over his ears in case there was any more yelling. Sam’s study of two-dimensional shapes was news to me but, so what, it was still more important than a polytunnel.

  ‘What’s so important about this shape stuff anyway?’ said Duncan.

  ‘It’s Maths. Then he’s going to do some History.’

  ‘Well he doesn’t need to bother. He’s coming outside and helping us.’ He turned to Sam: ‘Get your wellies on.’

  Sam didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure he’d heard – after all he did have his ears covered.

  ‘I SAID NOW!’ yelled Duncan, and Sam squeezed his ears tight. Then he slid off his chair and headed for the shoe cupboard by the door.

  ‘You’re a bully,’ I said. ‘He should be doing his schoolwork.’

  ‘It’ll do him good working outside with us. It’s better than being stuck inside staring at a bloody screen all day, eh Larry?’

  Larry pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll get the lad to help me unroll the sheeting.’ He went over to Sam. ‘You give us a hand, eh?’ But Sam didn’t hear because he’d got some cotton wool from up his sleeve and stuffed it in both ears and was now pulling one of my old bobble hats over his face.

  I sat at my laptop after they’d gone out. I was meant to be lesson-planning but my stomach was churning. This was vintage Duncan – throwing Sam in at the deep end and to hell with the consequences.

  It was hopeless trying to concentrate. I needed to keep my eye on Sam, so I grabbed my gardening coat and my basket of tools and headed outside.

  The vegetable garden had gone berserk and needed some serious digging if I was ever going to get some spuds in. I grabbed the fork and set to, pretending to be absorbed, but with all my senses tuned to Sam.

  Duncan and Larry were manoeuvring a roll of plastic round the house on the wheelbarrow. Duncan was loving it – yelling instructions: ‘Left a bit, left a bit, right a bit, right a bit,’ while Larry got on with it and Sam hovered by the hoops.

  Duncan got Sam to pull on the sheeting as he and Larry unrolled it and slowly the sheeting was spread out on the ground. They all stood and looked at it.

  ‘I predicted the sheet would be a rectangle,’ said Sam. ‘That prediction was incorrect. This sheet is a 4-sided polygon or a tetragon or a quadrangle.’ There was a silence. Duncan rubbed the back of his neck and Larry stroked his stubbly chin as though he was hiding a grin.

  Sam went on: ‘There is no line of symmetry, so it is not a rhomboid and none of the sides are parallel so it is not a parallelogram.’ Another silence and by now I was biting my lip too. I thrust the fork hard into the soil and put all my weight on it. Sometimes I wondered if Sam was an actual comedy genius – a comedy genius with no discernible sense of humour.

  ‘There’s fucking algae on it,’ said Duncan pointing at several green slimy patches.

  ‘We can deal with algae, nae bother,’ said Larry. He turned to Sam. ‘We’ll get an old sheet and when the tunnel’s up we’ll fix two ropes to the sheet and pull it backwards and forwards over the tunnel and wash it down.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ said Duncan. ‘We’ll use the power washer once it’s up.’

  ‘I’m no sure the power washer’s a great idea on a polytunnel,’ said Larry to Duncan, but Duncan ignored him and set off for it. Larry sat on the grass and took his tin of roll-ups out of his pocket.

  ‘Alice?’

  He indicated the tin to me but I shook my head.

&n
bsp; After a minute he squinted up at Sam through the smoke.

  ‘You still liking that map of yours?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I have looked at it twenty-six times since last night,’ he said. Larry raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Twenty-six times?’

  ‘Yes, twenty-six times,’ replied Sam.

  ‘You should study it and make a list of the places you’d like to visit. Make a wish list.’

  I could see Sam thinking hard about making a wish list and what that might entail.

  ‘Making a wish list is writing a list of places you wish you could go but know you never will,’ said Sam.

  ‘Well – ,’ said Larry.

  ‘I will put the graves cut from rock near the place where St Patrick landed from Ireland on my wish list.’

  ‘Aye – ’

  ‘I Googled St Patrick last night,’ said Sam. ‘St Patrick had green robes and a halo and a big stick called a staff.’ Larry nodded as Sam continued. ‘St Patrick chased all the snakes out of Ireland when they attacked him up a hill, like Big Hill. And all with just his stick.’

  ‘Yep,’ Larry said. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘I know. The internet said so.’

  I rested on my fork while Larry puffed away.

  ‘When the internet says it, it means it is a true story,’ said Sam.

  I stood up straight and frowned. I don’t know how many times I’d told him the internet was choc-a-bloc with rubbish but before I had time to interrupt Duncan came rattling back with the power washer.

  ‘We’ll do it when it’s up,’ he said. ‘Best get going and beat the wind.’

  Larry stood at one end of the hoops and Duncan at the other and they started to work the plastic sheet over the hoops. Duncan yelled at Sam to stand on the opposite side and to grab the plastic as soon as he could reach it and pull it over.

  It was then I noticed the breeze was sticking my hair to my lips.

  ‘There is a westerly wind,’ said Sam. ‘The leaves are rustling which means the wind is in the range of one to three on the Beaufort scale.’