‘I’ll never see the geese again, Annie. Someone else will have to feed them, and wring their necks and pluck them for the pot. I can’t go with you to Megan’s cottage. I have to be miles from here before the sun rises.’
She didn’t say anything but stood silently in the mottled shadows, with her arms hanging. Then I heard her sobbing, tight little bleats of grief high in her throat. I took her in my arms and she let herself be held. Her sadness was more than I could bear. So I left her there, stiff and shaking. I climbed on Gideon’s back and set off alone through the wood.
I was not far along the track when I saw Roland. I pulled again on Gideon’s rope and held still. Roland sat on the ground, bound to the trunk of a tree with sacking and bindweed. I watched him from a distance of forty steps, as a cottager might stand in her doorway to watch her neighbour across the street. And I saw that he saw me too. He was there for his calling, tied by the young men of the village to sit out the night, and at first dawn to call to Megan – his soul calling to hers. And from her bedroom she would hear him. She would know, anyway, that it was time, having sat awake all night. And her friends would be there already outside her window to help her down from the sill, and to run with her through the wood. Not finding him, not at first, for all the men whistling and barking from other trees, but moving at last to where they knew he waited, so that Megan might be drawn to claim him, and everyone could start in wonder, and laugh and tell whoever would listen that she had come to his calling. And then such kissing. And the pair of them to be left to make their promises and enjoy each other and watched only later in sleep, and not to be flogged for it either since a wedding was sure to follow.
What children we are, I thought, to play these games. Running in the woods like children. The endtimers knew how to call to each other, but the knowledge is lost to us. We should do what we know how to do, feed and clothe ourselves, and leave these longings. This reaching for what we will never grasp makes us pine uselessly. We are all of us in the red room and the housework neglected.
Gideon flicked his tail and ducked from the flies that settled on him. Then he stooped his head to eat, stirring his flanks, content to have grass to pull on. If I were a horse, I thought, I would graze and nothing more. But always I’ve longed for what I can’t have. Since my father died I’ve lived half in a dream.
I watched Roland and he watched me, both thinking our own thoughts. I felt sorry for him that he must wait for Megan and would rather wait for me. Sorrier for myself, sent away forever from everything I’ve ever known. I feared he might shout my name and so draw others to find me whether he meant to or not, so I put my finger to my lip and watched him fiercely, while I roused the horse. As I passed, his eyes widened to see me so brazen, but he made no sound. And so I left the village.
It hurts me now to think of what I’ve left and might never see again. I think of the geese trailing from the stable yard and over the lawn. I think of the trees – the gnarly orchard branches that will soon bend under the weight of plums and apples, the aspens and the willows by the river, the ancient oaks in the High Wood. And I think of the words I might have spoken to Roland. ‘Forget Megan. Come with me and live among the scroungers. I’ll make you happier than she ever could.’ I should have dropped to the ground, crawled on my knees to kiss his feet. ‘I’m bad and I don’t deserve you, but if Daniel can love Annie’s baby you can learn to love mine. Everything will be all right if you’ll only come.’ Words I couldn’t speak because I was too proud. And too angry. And because I don’t believe them and wouldn’t have meant them. Because they aren’t true. Too good for me? What has Roland done to earn my love? To make himself worthy of me? I should have spat in his face and called him a weakling to be snared by Megan’s sly smiles and straying fingers.
And yet I might have said those things, and I might have meant them, true or not.
I make slower progress than when I sat behind with Brendan. Though I am no weight on his back, I let Gideon stop more often and haven’t Brendan’s skill at driving him on. The night is warm still and he breathes heavily.
I wait now while he rests by a stream. Or he waits for me to write these sad things in my book.
Jason
Django’s lurking in his room. Abigail says he might be sick but she doesn’t think it’s serious. So he’ll be back to his old self again soon enough, worse luck. Meanwhile he gets to lie around in my house without even pretending to contribute.
There was a time when I would have known how to put a stop to it. Dealing with squatters could be ugly but someone had to do it. You bought some property. It stood empty while you were putting a deal together, fixing someone on the planning committee, waiting for the last neighbour to see sense and sell up – all that. Some squatters were sneaky about it – broke in the back way and kept a low profile. Others were on a mission, championing the cause of the underclass, going on as though you were the criminal for having shelled out good money for the place. Either way the police were wary of getting involved. You could apply for a court order and wait until it got messy. Quicker and easier to get round there yourself and sort it. You needed to know where to apply pressure, how hard to lean. A couple of apes and a crowbar would usually do it. No harm done except to the door, which the squatters had usually nailed up anyway or otherwise brutalised. The apes were mainly for show.
There was this stub of a backstreet near the Elephant. It was a run-down terrace – a lot of student bedsits and short term lets, and the odd old timer watching telly behind threadbare curtains and shuffling out once a week for the pension and some cat food from Tesco’s. But someone had opened a creperie on the corner. At the other end was a tapas bar with seats on the pavement and a glazed frontage that opened up on warm summer evenings. The street had gentrification written all over it. It didn’t take me long to acquire vacant possession of three adjacent houses and I was ready to make my mark. And then came the padlock on the door and the posters in the windows announcing the death of capitalism and advertising cooperative vegetables.
When I broke in I wasn’t expecting to surprise my kid sister in her underwear. In all the empty houses in all the towns in all the world she had to squat in mine. She was high on something and there was a boy beside her on the mattress so out of it he could hardly stand. The place stank of skunk, stale pizza and piss.
I never told you, Caroline. You were my new life. You didn’t need to know any of this. I’d put it behind me, mostly, by the time we met. I was going legit. This was the fag end of an old way of doing business. I was moving into luxury new build. There were grants for transforming brown field sites. I was getting into steel and glass with balconies and river views, 24-hour concierge services, underground parking, onsite gym facilities. London was booming and I was going to be part of it. People would be a problem I’d leave to estate agents. This wasn’t the moment to come face to face with my past.
It wasn’t just the Jesus bus I’d left behind. I was fourteen when I cycled away from Lloyd’s farm. I thought I’d get odd jobs like Derek but no one hires a kid to fix their plumbing. I scrounged my way to London and lived rough with the piss-artists and glue-sniffers. On the street, everyone’s got a story, and most of the stories are bullshit. You could drown in the steady drip of self-pity. I was moving up and didn’t much care how. I did my share of begging, scrounging the fare for the last bus home to nowhere. And there are things men will pay you to do in cars and doorways that aren’t easy to forget. But I had my eye on the future. Finally I talked my way on to a building site and started earning regular money. Some people are proud of the rags to riches thing. I just wanted the stink of rags out of my nostrils.