The Way Back Home. Freya North
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you back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Back – here?’
‘No.’
‘I –’ Jed shrugged.
Oriana raised her face, sucking her lips on words she could neither release nor swallow. ‘How are you?’ she asked. Formal.
‘I’m fine,’ he told her. And then he laughed. This was mad. Crazy. ‘I’m fine.’ He felt compelled to shake his head as if to dislodge any risk this might not be real. ‘And you?’
She scratched her head. ‘Just me.’ She shrugged.
Jed looked over his shoulder and nodded at the house. ‘Have you been in? Have you seen your dad?’
‘No.’ She followed his gaze though her childhood home was out of sight from here.
‘Are you going to?’
He watched as she stared at the house for a long time.
‘I don’t know.’ She fidgeted. ‘Not today, though. I haven’t – it’s been years. It’s all been years.’ She looked at him, marvelling shyly. ‘But you – you’re still here?’
Jed suddenly felt an extreme urgency – like meeting someone on a train, for whom this was the wrong train, someone who might just jump off as soon as they could and who he’d never see again. Oriana was here, at Windward, but he sensed it was momentary and he sensed this wasn’t her true destination. If it was a chance encounter then serendipity had to be shackled quickly – as if he’d have to grab her forcibly before he dared loosen his grip. He sensed he had limited time and, as such, he didn’t want to waste it on formal pleasantries but feared anything intimate might cause her to bolt. He just couldn’t think what to say. It was crazy. It was Oriana. It’s only Oriana. It’s only ever been Oriana.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Here – Windward? Or UK here?’ She paused and shrugged. ‘Time for a change,’ she said, looking again at the house. ‘I was ready to come back. I didn’t think anyone would be here. I assumed everyone would have sold up and moved.’
Jed thought about telling her about his parents and Denmark and the mortgage and the nice new carpet in his old room. But it struck him that, as she hadn’t thought he’d be here, then she hadn’t returned to find him. His hope rapidly deflated.
Don’t ask about Malachy.
I’m not going to ask about Malachy.
They fidgeted with their thoughts.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, genuinely sincere.
It was as if he’d said smile for the camera. He saw how she fixed a beatific expression to her face.
‘Oh, I’m fine! Fine. Just time to come back, really.’ She grinned and nodded and looked around and grinned and nodded and gave a satisfied sigh. It was pretty convincing – to someone who didn’t know her as well as he did, perhaps. He didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d better go.’
‘Wait – can I? I mean – if you’re around, now – perhaps we can meet, just for a drink and a catch-up?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll be sure to call you!’
An unconvincing transatlantic twang to her accent. Oh he could have taken her into his arms and said shut up you silly thing. And swung her around and kissed her and said I knew you’d come back, I knew I hadn’t lost you. Quick! he thought, give her your number before she changes her mind! He chanted his work number as well as his mobile to her though they came out in a tangle.
‘So – you’re not going in?’ He nodded at the house.
She glanced there and shrugged as though it was no big deal. ‘Not today,’ she said. It was as though she hadn’t intended to come, as though she’d just been passing and had suddenly remembered Windward was here. ‘I have to go.’ Though her voice wavered, she didn’t take her eyes off him as she stepped close and gave him a small, soft kiss on his cheek. ‘Bye, Jed. It’s so good to see you.’
He watched her walk away, taking the longer route around the opposite side of the house to her old home. And then she was gone and all that was there was the house. He spied Malachy’s rogue shoe on the grass, as though it had been flung off in glee. Jed looked down, surprised by his one bare foot. He hadn’t noticed. Had Oriana? He cringed. But it didn’t matter because he could feel the kiss on his cheek. He heard a car start, then listened as the sound of the engine faded. And then he thought shit, you stupid idiot. You didn’t take her number. What if she never calls? What if you never see her again? Having been this close.
* * *
It did cross Oriana’s mind that she was probably less safe to drive than if she had been ten times over the limit. But she needed to put distance between herself and Windward, so on she drove. She felt peculiar; light headed and slightly sick, hyper yet exhausted. Her throat was tight and her mouth was dry and her eyes itched with tears that she was furious about. She needed a drink of water. Perhaps she needed a drink. She drove on, thinking please be there, please be there. But the old petrol station was gone, a barren concrete slab the only remnant. She continued, heading helplessly into Blenthrop. She’d dive in, she decided quickly, buy water, perhaps walk around in a haze and then phone Cat. That was a good idea. Perhaps she’d be around this afternoon and Oriana could call on her to workshop through the headfuckness of what just happened.
The first thing she noticed was traffic wardens as though they were a newly introduced species. There was a one-way system too, which flummoxed her, but it led her to the car park by the library. It was much changed. She looked around – the little booth she remembered with the wizened old toothless man had gone. Invariably, he’d left the barrier up, but they’d never not paid. Now there were dictatorial signs everywhere. Pay & Display. She went to the machine and bought a ticket. At that price, an hour would be plenty.
Walking tentatively down Church Street, it felt initially as though all eyes were on her. But she knew it was doubtful that anyone knew her, and if they had known her years ago, they wouldn’t recognize her today because she’d be the last person on their minds. And wouldn’t most people have grown up and moved away or just grown old and died? There were a lot of pushchairs, it seemed. Pushed by parents perhaps a decade younger than she was. Changing times and with it, a new community. New housing. Self-service petrol from supermarket forecourts. She felt a stranger. She felt anonymous. She didn’t know a soul and it calmed her down.
The shops were all different and yet they seemed so established that she found it hard to remember what had been there when this had been her town. Marketplace was awash with stalls selling fruit and vegetables, sickly-smelling sweets and cheap dogs’ beds. A smart lorry with one side down had fresh fish on beds of tumbling ice scalpings. A van vending coffee. A stall selling crepes. A butcher yelling sausages! at passers-by like someone with Tourette’s. Where can one buy just a simple bottle of bloody water these days?
Remembering that there used to be a newsagent’s on Ashbourne Road, she headed there, pleased that, despite the disconcerting unfamiliarity, some things remained instinctive. Turn right. Go straight. Turn right. Oxfam! Oxfam’s still here! She peered through the window but it was all changed. It looked like a proper shop, brightly lit with veneered shelving carrying fancy goods, and she wondered where in town today’s teenagers went to rummage for clothes to customize. That’s new – that hairdresser’s. But that isn’t – the kitchen shop. It has a new name but it’s still a kitchen shop.
‘The White Peak Art Space,’ Oriana said quietly. A gallery in Blenthrop – there should always be a gallery in Blenthrop. She doubted that the old one, fusty with dingy oil paintings and insipid watercolours, had survived. To her relief, this new place appeared to be a proper gallery – not a shop selling dreadful generic pictures of sand dunes, or bluebell woods, or squirrels, or small