Five Years From Now Page 6

  I make my way back to Drew and the others.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ I tell Drew miserably. ‘I’ll have to ask my dad about tomorrow. He’s a bit funny about other people giving me a lift.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He looks bemused. ‘Call the pub and let me know. Ellie, too, if she likes.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Ellie asks.

  ‘I’ll tell you on the walk to the car,’ I interrupt, mumbling my goodbyes to everyone and giving Brooke a hug.

  On the way home, my disappointment and embarrassment gives way to anger. I sit there, seething, while Ellie makes awkward small talk with Dad.

  I know he only came to get me because he’s worried about me, but he can’t keep treating me like a child – I’m fifteen!

  ‘Ellie and I want to go to the beach tomorrow with Andrew and Nicholas Castor,’ I state as he pulls up outside Ellie’s house.

  It’s the first thing I’ve said since we set off.

  ‘Nicholas is giving us a lift,’ I add.

  Dad shakes his head. ‘I don’t trust Nicholas Castor.’

  ‘Dad, this is ridiculous!’ I shout, making poor Ellie flinch.

  ‘I’ll just…’ she starts to say quietly, opening the door and getting out.

  I wait for her to shut the door before continuing. ‘Tonight was so humiliating! What was wrong with Graham bringing us home? He was right there in Helford!’

  ‘You should have told me,’ he says crossly.

  ‘I didn’t because I knew you’d freak out about it! I want to go to the beach tomorrow and I want you to let Drew’s older brother take me.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  I shake my head, tears of frustration filling my eyes. ‘Dad, I can’t bear this. What happened was… awful…’ I shudder. ‘But I’m not Ruth! I need space and independence! I bet Vian gets lifts from friends all the time. In fact,’ I say, as the rage that I sometimes feel at night begins to swallow me up, ‘I bet, if he was still here, you’d let him get into a car with just about anyone. You didn’t give enough of a shit about him to keep him, so why would you care who he hangs out with?’

  ‘How could you say that?’ Dad looks stunned. ‘I didn’t have a choice—’

  ‘Ruth would be so disappointed if she knew what had happened to him – what you’d let happen.’

  Even in the darkness of the car, I can see that his face has drained of colour.

  ‘Oh, Nell,’ he murmurs, and a wave of guilt swiftly snuffs out my anger. ‘I miss Vian just as much as you do.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ I’m agog at his claim. ‘That is such a lie! I think Scampi missed him more than you did when he left! You never talk about him—’

  ‘I don’t talk about him because I know it hurts you to be reminded of him!’ he cuts me off. ‘And the reason I know that is because it hurts me, too! But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss him, and despite what you say, Ruth would have wanted him to be with his biological father. She felt guilty that John and Vian didn’t have a proper relationship.’

  His eyes are glistening as he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, pulling out a folded scrap of paper. ‘I think about him all the time,’ he says as he hands the paper to me. I open it up and stare down in a daze. ‘I’ve carried this with me ever since he left.’

  It’s one of the edges from Vian’s green painting that Dad trimmed off almost five years ago.

  The lump in my throat trebles in size.

  ‘I still miss him so much!’ I burst into tears. ‘I don’t feel like I know him any more, who he is now. He sounds so different on the phone. I’d give anything to see him again.’

  ‘Maybe he could come and visit,’ Dad suggests gently. ‘Perhaps I could offer to buy his ticket. I’ve been putting some money aside,’ he divulges as my insides fill with hope. ‘It was supposed to be for a car for you, but…’ His voice trails off.

  ‘I can’t imagine you ever letting me get behind the wheel myself,’ I mumble.

  ‘No, maybe not.’ He purses his lips.

  ‘Could he come for Christmas?’ I ask.

  ‘We could call and see?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘What about Ellie?’

  ‘I’m not in the mood for a sleepover,’ I reply. ‘She’ll understand. I’ll grab my stuff and let her know.’

  It’s after eleven by the time we get home, which means it’s Saturday morning in Australia. As I stand in the hall with the phone pressed to my ear, feeling flatter with every second that passes without Vian answering, I think back to one of the last times I saw him. He was stoically fighting back tears as his dad knelt in front of him, saying that he couldn’t wait to take him home.

  John scared me, the first time I saw him. He was so tall, much taller than my dad, and he had to bend right down to pass through the rooms of our cottage. I remember that his clothes seemed dark and foreboding, and he had a bushy, black beard. I couldn’t believe we were letting this giant of a man take our beloved Vian away.

  But when he knelt down, I was glad to see that his face was kind.

  I shake my head quickly – I can’t bear to think about those hellish days. I’ve tried to block most of them out. But sometimes, I can’t escape the nightmares, where I’ll be running, running, running, up the road, trying to prevent Vian from reaching his mother’s broken, lifeless body and my father screaming with agony at her side.

  I fail to stop him in my dreams, just as I did in reality.

  There’s a click at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Nell!’

  A beat passes. ‘Hi.’

  He has an Australian accent now – and a deep voice. I still remember when it broke: in the months between us speaking, Vian turned into a stranger.

  ‘I thought you must be out surfing,’ I say.

  ‘No, the phone ringing woke me up.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ He does sound sleepy, I realise.

  ‘ ’S’okay.’

  We don’t speak often and not simply because it’s expensive. It’s actually kind of awkward. Vian isn’t much of a talker – he never was.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’ I glance at Dad. ‘I have something to ask you. Dad and I have been talking and we wanted to know if we could persuade you to come here for Christmas. Dad wants to pay for your ticket.’

  There’s no answer from the other end of the line.

  ‘This Christmas?’ he asks after what feels like forever.

  ‘Yes, as in, a few weeks away.’

  There’s another long pause. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replies eventually. ‘I’d have to ask my dad.’

  ‘Why, because you’re working? Can’t you get out of it? Your dad wouldn’t mind, would he? We miss you!’ I ramble. ‘Hang on, Dad wants to talk to you.’

  I place the phone in Dad’s waiting hands and pace the floor, crossing my fingers while I listen to my father offer to speak to John on Vian’s behalf. Eventually they say their goodbyes and Dad hangs up.

  ‘He says he’ll ask,’ Dad repeats what Vian told me. ‘He’ll call us back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it won’t be in the next few hours, so we may as well get some sleep.’

  It belatedly occurs to me how tired he looks – the bags under his eyes are protruding almost as far out from his face as his bushy eyebrows do.

  I feel a rush of affection and step forward to give him a hug. ‘I love you. Thank you.’

  He kisses the top of my head. ‘I love you, too,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you tonight. It’s only because I care.’

  ‘I know,’ I mumble. ‘But please, Dad, you’re going to have to lay off a bit.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he promises gruffly.

  The next morning, Vian calls with news – his dad has said yes! He breaks up from school at around the same time as me, but has the whole of January off, so we get straight on to booking his tickets.

  ‘Where
will he sleep?’ I ask Dad, wondering if he’d still fit in my bunk.

  ‘I was thinking we could clear out the annexe and turn it into a guest room.’

  I’m hit with a memory of Vian and me standing on the stairs, shouting at our parents.

  They wanted us to have separate rooms.

  At the time, of course, we didn’t understand why boys and girls shouldn’t sleep together, but now…

  Dad is still waiting for my response.

  ‘That sounds great.’ I try to sound bright and breezy. ‘Shall we get started on it today?’

  On Monday, I bump into Drew coming out of the dining hall.

  ‘How was the surfing?’ I ask.

  ‘Good,’ he replies coolly.

  Uh-oh. I’ve messed up. I’ve been so sidetracked by Vian that it didn’t even occur to me to call the pub and let him know I couldn’t go to the beach.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t come,’ I say quickly, going on to elaborate more than I would’ve under different circumstances. ‘I had a huge fall-out with my dad. It was awful, but it ended up with him asking Vian to come and stay for Christmas!’

  ‘That’s great!’

  ‘Maybe we could take him surfing when he comes?’ I ask, hopefully.

  ‘Absolutely.’ He flashes me his dimple. ‘Keep me posted.’

  I definitely, definitely will…

  Two weeks later, Dad and I go to collect Vian from the airport. I’m buzzing with nervous excitement as we stand in the arrivals hall, waiting for him to come through. Will we even recognise him? I haven’t seen a photo of him in years. His dad sent us a picture of him in his school uniform when he was about twelve, but that’s the last one I remember.

  ‘There he is!’ Dad cries, waving madly.

  I follow the line of his sight and my jaw hits the floor.

  If I thought Vian sounded like a stranger, it’s nothing compared to how he looks.

  My eyes travel up…

  …and up…

  …and up…

  …until he’s standing in front of us and I’m cricking my neck, staring up at the human version of the Eiffel Tower.

  Dad throws his arms around this… this… alien… while I stand there, completely lost for words.

  He must be six foot three or four – taller than Dad by at least half a foot – and very slim, as if his body has been stretched and he hasn’t had a chance to fill it out yet. His sleek head of dark, slightly wavy hair comes to well past his chin, and he’s wearing black jeans and a denim jacket over a grey hoodie.

  The two of them break apart and then Vian’s arms are around me and he’s hugging me hard. My heart is going haywire – can he hear it? Can he feel it pounding against his ribcage?

  Who are you?

  He withdraws and looks down at me, his smile reaching his dark-blue eyes.

  I blush and avert my gaze, but as Dad starts to natter on, asking about the flight and whether he managed to get any sleep, my attention is drawn back to Vian’s face, taking in his long, dark lashes, his striking, angular brows, his sharp, high cheekbones and his dead-straight nose.

  I try to focus on what’s being said and realise that he even sounds different than he did on the phone.

  Man, this is freaking me out.

  ‘Come on, let’s get to the car,’ Dad says in a no-nonsense tone, taking Vian’s suitcase.

  Vian slings a battered army-green canvas rucksack over his shoulder. I give him a shy sideways glance as we walk and he catches my eye.

  ‘You look so different,’ he says.

  I can’t help it. I burst out laughing.

  ‘What?’ he asks with a frown.

  ‘You’re unrecognisable!’ I exclaim.

  His face breaks into a wide grin, making the angles of his face look even more pronounced.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he says, but the humour I heard in his voice vanishes from his expression.

  The closer we get to home, the more on edge Vian becomes. I’ve been sitting in the back, watching him, and I’ve noticed the tension creeping into the set of his shoulders and the butterflying of his jaw as he grinds his teeth.

  The conversation dried up a while ago – he always was quiet in the car, preferring to sit and stare out of the window than chat incessantly like Ellie and I do. He and Dad have that in common, at least, so the silence has been relatively comfortable.

  ‘I recognise this village,’ Vian murmurs.

  ‘Yes, we’re not far from home,’ Dad replies.

  When we pull up outside our cottage, nobody gets out of the car. It’s a bright, crisp winter’s day and the silvery slate tiles are glinting in the sunlight. Between the crack in the buildings, green grass rolls down to the river, and beyond that, the tide is out, and small rivers from the creek carve through the thick mud on their way out to sea.

  Dad turns to look at Vian, and from his side profile, I can see my father’s unkempt eyebrows pulling together with concern. ‘How about a cup of tea and a biscuit?’ he asks.

  In his mind, those two things could solve quite a lot.

  The air is punctuated by the sound of car doors clunking shut, Dad’s keys jangling and the scuffling of Vian’s suitcase on the narrow garden path, but Vian’s pain resonates through all of that and hits me square in the gut. As Dad passes through the gate and opens the front door, Vian hangs back, staring at the annexe – once his mother’s studio.

  Scampi squeezes out past Dad, instantly diverting Vian’s attention.

  ‘Scampi!’ He laughs and sinks to his knees as Scampi’s tail waggles excitedly from side to side. Vian cups the dog’s head, chuckling as Scampi licks his cheeks. Scampi breaks away to greet me in the same manner, but Vian stays kneeling on the freezing paving stones, his eyes glistening with tears as he watches his old friend scamper back inside.

  ‘How do you like your tea, Vian?’ Dad sounds jovial, but Vian jolts visibly.

  ‘Milk, one sugar, please,’ he replies in a strained voice, getting to his feet. His narrow shoulders hunch upwards and inwards as he follows Dad into the kitchen.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I whisper when we’re sitting at the table and Dad is at the sink, filling the kettle.

  Vian nods, but his attention is fixed on the dog rather than me.

  ‘Do you want to have a look around first?’ I ask.

  He hesitates, then nods again.

  ‘I’m going to show Vian the cottage,’ I tell Dad, getting to my feet.

  Vian’s chair legs screech on the tiles as he pushes out from the table, making Dad and me cringe.

  He only ever used to do that when he was angry or upset…

  ‘Everything seems so small,’ he comments, when I lead him through to the living room. He takes in the cosy space with its low ceiling and tiny windows. This is the original part of the four-hundred-year-old cottage, and it still has traditional cob walls, made from mud, straw and stone. The bathroom, hall and kitchen were a later extension.

  ‘Careful on the stairs,’ I warn, nodding at his head as we walk up. He has to duck under the beams and under the door frame when we go into my room.

  His eyes rove from the window to the chest of drawers to the bunk bed.

  ‘You wouldn’t fit in it now.’ I state the obvious.

  ‘No,’ he agrees, bending down to look at the wall and freezing.

  ‘I still have your picture,’ I say. ‘And all of your postcards.’

  His dark hair has swung forward to obstruct his face, but I have a clear view of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, once, twice, three times.

  ‘And if you look under…’ I point at the wooden slats holding the top mattress, ‘you’ll see I still have all of your stars, too.’

  He says nothing, so I fill the silence.

  ‘We’ve turned the studio – I mean, the annexe – into a guest room.’

  My correction was fast but not effective, judging by the mask of agony he’s wearing when he straightens back up.

  Before I can say anything, Dad calls
up the stairs.

  ‘Kids! Tea’s ready!’

  ‘We’re not kids any more,’ Vian mumbles, more to himself than me, I think.

  He’s agitated as we sit at the table. He keeps glancing towards the door and I know that he’s impatient to get the rest of his walk down memory lane over.

  Dad is eager to show off what we’ve done to the annexe, but the invisible thread that tied me to Vian – though pulled thin and tight – still connects us and I can feel his grief as his eyes rake over the pale-blue, freshly painted walls, the double bed with its red-and-navy-striped bedspread, and the new rugs on the polished floorboards. The old built-in wardrobes still line one wall, but Dad points out a chest of drawers for him to put his things in instead. Vian wears a polite smile throughout all of this, but his eyes are flat and dead.

  ‘It’s great,’ he says blandly.

  ‘You could have my room if you prefer,’ I offer hastily. ‘He might prefer to be in the house,’ I say to Dad, who is clearly wondering what on earth has got into me. After all our work! ‘I’d be more than happy out here,’ I persist.

  ‘But—’ Dad starts to say, flummoxed.

  ‘No, this is amazing,’ Vian cuts him off. ‘Really.’ He almost sounds sincere, and then he smiles at me – properly. ‘Still the same,’ he mouths, prompting a bubble of happiness to burst inside me.

  ‘Right then,’ Dad interrupts awkwardly. ‘Vian, would you like to freshen up? I could run you a bath?’

  Vian nods, but when he speaks again, the strain is back in his voice. ‘That’d be great.’

  ‘Want to have a quick look down on the deck first?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Don’t slip,’ I caution as we make our way down the hill.

  ‘I can’t believe how steep it is!’

  ‘We used to roll down. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yeah.’ His expression is tainted by sadness and I realise then that every memory of ours is contaminated. I try not to dwell on that thought, concentrating on navigating the slick, slimy deck instead.

  ‘Wow,’ he says drily, staring at our small, grubby rowing boat, resting, lopsided, on the muddy riverbed.

  ‘Want to go out in it?’ I joke.

  He wrinkles his nose. ‘Maybe another day. You know, when the tide is actually in. Hey, what happened to Webster?’