Tyme's End Read online

  He crosses the road slowly, as if he doesn’t care if he gets runs over, and goes right up to the gates. He reaches out and touches the padlock, shakes it a little, so it chinks on its chain. It’s like he’s checking how securely it’s locked. Then he leans forward and rests his forehead against the bars.

  He stays there for so long my heart stops thumping and my breathing goes back to normal. I take a few steps forward, so that if he looked round he’d see me, but he doesn’t move. I keep going until there’s only the width of the road between us.

  He’s mostly in the shadows, and his clothes and hair are dark, so it’s as if he’s blurred at the edges. His hands and neck are very pale. I can see the shape of his back through his jumper, the breadth of his shoulders.

  I open my mouth because I want to say something, but I can’t manage to speak. I feel strange, like I’m not quite real. I’m scared that if I called out to him he wouldn’t hear me.

  More than anything in the world I want to go up behind him and touch the bare nape of his neck, where his jumper dips. I don’t know why. I want him to turn and see me and –

  Somehow I know he’s going to turn round a split second before he does.

  He frowns. For a moment we stare at each other, silently. Then we both speak at exactly the same time.

  I say, ‘I wasn’t following you. I just wanted to say I was sor—’

  He says, ‘Leave me alone. Go away. Go away.’

  .

  I run home without looking back. I stumble through the front door and slam it. I nearly bolt it behind me, so he has to stay outside all night. He’s got Tyme’s End, after all; he can stay there, with the rats and wasps and my emergency whisky and Coke. But I have just enough self-control not to do it. I pound up the stairs to my room, not caring if I wake Sam up, and slam that door behind me too.

  I don’t cry. I refuse to cry.

  I wasn’t following him. Not like that. I just –

  I shut my eyes and think of Tyme’s End, quiet, waiting for him beyond the locked gates. I remember that moment, just before he saw me, when I felt like a ghost. I wanted to touch him. I wanted him to –

  I curl up on my bed without taking my shoes off. I arrange my papers around me, building a landscape of computer printouts and pictures from magazines, desert and dusty villages and bright Mediterranean sea and tower blocks and beaches. I do it so that when I narrow my eyes it’s as if I’m looking out of a blurry aeroplane window, gazing down at the place where I was born. Then I put my favourite photo in front, so the background merges into the rest of the pictures. Now my mother’s standing there with me in her arms, and behind her the country is spread out in widescreen Technicolor. She’s grinning at the camera. I stare at her and try to remember what it felt like to be held like that, to be so small she could balance me on her hip.

  I keep looking, until I’ve almost convinced myself I’m there. I concentrate, blocking out the noise of the road and the scent of the rain still coming through my window.

  After a long time I fall asleep. I don’t hear Oliver come back in.

  *

  The next morning I’m sitting behind the counter in Eddie’s shop, my head in my hands and my sunglasses on, because the light’s streaming through the front window and my eyes don’t feel up to the challenge. I feel hungover, even though I’m not. I didn’t sleep very well; I had uneasy, sticky dreams that left a kind of damp taste in my mouth and made me struggle to escape from my duvet. Now I feel like death – and I don’t look much better, according to Eddie. He was whistling a second ago, but I made a noise like an animal caught in a trap and he shut up. Now he’s piling books on top of each other with exaggerated care, making a point of how quiet he’s being. He glances round at me and smirks. I ignore him.

  Leila comes through from the back office with a cup of tea. She puts it in front of me. ‘There you are, lovely. Toast?’

  ‘Don’t give her toast, she’ll get crumbs in the till.’

  ‘No thanks, Leila,’ I say. I don’t want breakfast. When I left the house Mum was cooking a full English, presumably for Oliver, and the smell made me want to throw up.

  She pats my hand. ‘No problem. Any time, honey. We foreigners need to stick together.’

  Right now, I could do without people telling me I’m a foreigner. But she means well, and she’s just made me a cup of tea, so I only smile.

  Eddie says, ‘I’m a foreigner too, if it comes to that.’

  ‘Being Welsh doesn’t count,’ Leila says.

  He mock-scowls at her through his beard. ‘Try telling Owen Glendower that.’ He squints at my tea and then turns back to Leila. ‘And where’s mine?’

  ‘No, maybe you’re right.’ Leila winks at me. ‘They’re not like those polite English people. Always wanting something, the bloody Welsh.’

  ‘It’s easy to be polite when you’ve stolen everyone else’s country. Now – tea, woman! And make it –’

  The bell tinkles and Eddie stands up to peer round the bookcase into the front area. I slouch down and close my eyes behind my sunglasses, because I can’t handle someone I don’t know, not first thing in the morning, when I feel this rough.

  Eddie says, ‘Good morning. Do excuse the mess – I’ve just had a delivery.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ The voice hesitates. It’s a soft, American-sounding voice. Oh, crap. I slide even further down, so I’m almost hidden behind the counter. ‘Um . . . I just wanted to look around.’ He clears his throat. ‘It says outside, second-hand books?’

  ‘That’s right, boyo. Section through there – see the doorway?’ He never calls anyone boyo in real life, but he likes to make a point of it for the tourists.

  Either Oliver doesn’t notice me as he goes past, or he’s ignoring me. I’m glad. I glance up and then force myself to turn away, because it’s not as if I care what he looks like. He doesn’t seem to see me.

  Then he stops. He reaches sideways to the nearest bookcase and pushes against the books with his fingers in a strange, tense, distracted way, as if he’s trying to keep his balance. He’s looking at Eddie’s half-built display. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s pressing so hard that the top joints of his fingers bend backwards.

  Eddie looks up from his unpacking and says, ‘New book. Just in. One for the tourists.’ Then he adds, hastily, ‘We get a very high class of tourist, you know, very educated, not just your average –’ He’s probably about to say your average American, because he stops. He pulls another armful of books out of the box and proclaims, ‘Mapping the Sands: The Strange Inner Life of H. J. Martin. Nice cover. I mean, they all use that photo, but the blue’s good, unusual – normally they’re sort of yellowish.’

  A pause. Eddie looks from him to me, raising his eyebrows, and I shrug, knowing he can’t see through my sunglasses. Finally he says, ‘Well. Feel free to have a look if you want.’

  Oliver takes one of the books from the display and flips through it awkwardly. His fingers slip and fumble with the pages. He stops in the middle, on a page of photos. I count to ten slowly. Then he puts the book back in the display case and looks round, as if he’s seeing the H. J. Martin section for the first time. He clears his throat. ‘How many – you’ve got a lot of biographies of H. J. Martin.’

  ‘Well, yes. That’s what a lot of people come for. Bit of a pilgrimage site, Falconhurst. I do the books, Malcolm down the road is the Secretary of the H. J. Martin Society. Steeped in history, this bit of the world.’ Eddie staggers to his feet with an armload of books. ‘Not you, then? He was a fascinating man, though. I recommend The Owl of the Desert if you’re at a loose end while you’re here.’ Eddie grins, pointing to the de luxe illustrated edition in the window, which costs a good thirty quid more than the paperback classic. Then his smile slips. ‘Now I may be wrong, but haven’t you been here before? A long time ago? I seem to remember
–’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Possibly.’ A pulse is beating in Oliver’s temple. He rubs at his face with his hand, as if he’s trying to hide it, or his expression.

  ‘Oh, well.’ Eddie walks past him and starts to prop the books up one by one, until there are dozens of them, all with black-and-white faces on the front. ‘Great writer, H. J. Martin, interesting man . . . One of the most controversial and intriguing figures of the twentieth century.’

  I know for a fact that he’s quoting the blurb of The Owl of the Desert. He looks wistfully at the book in the window and back at Oliver, then sighs and gives up. He adds, more casually, ‘The grave’s in the churchyard. Pity the house isn’t open to the public.’

  ‘Is it? A pity?’ His voice is tight, but Eddie doesn’t notice.

  ‘We’ve got a petition somewhere, if you fancy signing it. Thousands of names. Not that we’ve ever had a bloody answer. But you have to think, sooner or later –’

  ‘You’re probably wasting your time.’

  ‘I doubt the solicitors pass it on to the owner, frankly. Every month we send off the new names, get a nice little note back – yes, thanks very much, all duly noted. But there’s never been anything else. And the house – have you seen it? It’s a disgrace. I mean, even if it wasn’t of historical interest it’s scandalous, letting a listed building go to seed like that. Must have been worth a bomb when the old man died. It was in a decent state then, but now –’

  Leila comes through the door with a mug of tea. ‘Eddie! Let the poor gentleman look at the books. He doesn’t need a rant.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’m just browsing.’ Oliver smiles at her, but it seems to take an effort. He glances at the books again and takes an odd, lurching step sideways, as if he’s trying to get past the display. Unexpectedly, he catches my eye.

  For a second I think he hasn’t recognised me, or that he has and he’s going to smile at me or say hello. Then he turns sharply on his heel and strides towards the door to the street. Eddie rocks backwards, surprised.

  Suddenly, for no reason, I feel my throat constricting. It’s stupid. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I don’t care.

  I say, ‘You could just give him the petition now, Eddie. Now that he’s actually here. Then at least you’d know he’d seen it.’

  Eddie frowns and does a kind of double take. ‘Er . . . ?’

  Oliver pauses, so abruptly it looks like it was involuntary, on the doorstep. I see his shoulders move as he takes a deep breath.

  ‘He owns Tyme’s End. That’s him. The mysterious owner. Why don’t you just hand the petition over right now?’ My voice comes out hoarse and spiteful.

  ‘Oh.’ Eddie and Leila swap a glance. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘He told us last night. He’s staying with us. He’s going to sell it.’

  ‘Well, that’s –’

  ‘To the highest bidder. He doesn’t care who gets it. So it’ll probably be converted into commuter flats. Won’t that be nice?’

  Oliver puts the flat of his hand on the door, spreading his fingers out on the glass so that a mist grows between them like mould. Without turning round, he says, ‘That’s right. Won’t it be nice.’

  Eddie says, ‘Oh. Well, maybe – if I could give you Malcolm’s phone number – the H. J. Martin Society might –’

  ‘Tyme’s End is mine. I don’t want it, but that’s the way it is. So –’ He does turn round, then. His eyes are narrowed, shining brown-green, and he’s looking straight at me. One dark lock of hair has fallen over his forehead. ‘Jesus! What’s your problem? Why don’t you mind your own business? Just – leave me alone.’

  He slams the door. The bell tinkles and clinks and finally rattles into silence.

  ‘Oh dear.’ Eddie coughs. ‘I can see why he wouldn’t want everyone in the village to know that –’

  I pick up my mug with both hands and take a sip, but it doesn’t taste of anything. I put it carefully back down on the counter. ‘Sorry, Ed. Sorry, Leila.’ My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

  Leila says, ‘Honey, are you –’

  But by then I’m out of the door.

  I can’t go to Tyme’s End, and I don’t know where else to go. So I go home.

  .

  .

  III

  .

  .

  I get in through the front door and Mum and Dad are talking about me.

  I don’t realise at first. I go through to the kitchen, because I’m hungry all of a sudden. There are some leftover sausages sitting on top of the fridge and I eat one of them in two greasy, salty bites. It makes me feel queasy, but I take the other one and eat that too. I sit down at the table and put my head on my arms. I feel like crap.

  Dad’s voice comes through the doorway. I didn’t know they were there, so it’s not like I’m eavesdropping, and anyway he’s talking so quietly I only catch one word in three. ‘It’s only . . . no friends in the village and . . . holidays . . .’

  Mum says, ‘I know . . . summer job . . . but . . . miserable . . . don’t know what to do . . .’

  ‘Teenager, Meg . . . but guests . . . can’t let her . . .’

  Mum raises her voice. ‘We don’t know that’s why he’s leaving.’

  ‘Oh, come on. She didn’t exactly make him welcome. Jesus, Meg, it’s like she’s going out of her way to sabotage everything.’

  ‘Maybe she needs more attention.’

  ‘She already gets more than Sam, and he’s – oh, Christ, Meg, I’m not saying she’s –’

  I raise my head and look at the wall in front of me. I say loudly, ‘Not saying she’s what?’

  There’s a pause. In the corner of my eye I see a blurry shape come and stand in the doorway, but I keep staring at the wall.

  Mum says, ‘I suppose you were listening to all of that?’

  ‘I was having breakfast. What was I supposed to do? Put my fingers in my ears?’

  Dad says, ‘Our guest has decided to leave.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ Mum says, ‘we were trying to arrive at an understanding of what might have influenced his decision.’

  ‘You mean you think I drove him away.’

  ‘No, of course not, darling.’ Her voice is soft and careful. ‘He said himself that it wasn’t anything to do with you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But the fact remains,’ Dad says, ‘that he paid for four nights in advance. And then this morning he came and told us, very politely, that he’d changed his plans.’

  ‘So he changed his plans. People do, you know.’ I sound too aggressive, but I can’t help it. They’re right, and I hate them. Of course it’s my fault. After what happened last night, and just now with Eddie and Leila, who wouldn’t cut and run? ‘Sorry you’ve lost all that money. Why don’t you feed me on bread and water for the next week, to make up for it?’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid, Bibi –’

  ‘He wouldn’t take a refund,’ Mum says. ‘He said that as we’d reserved the room for him –’

  ‘Great. What a perfect bloody gentleman.’

  Dad hisses through his teeth and swaps a look with Mum. ‘Bibi, we’re trying very hard to be reasonable. The B&B pays your school fees, you know. If –’

  ‘And Sam’s. And his are more than mine.’

  ‘Yes, but Sam –’

  ‘Isn’t adopted.’ I spit the word at him.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud! Sam isn’t being a complete bloody pain in the arse.’

  ‘Having to spend your own money on someone else’s kid,’ I say. ‘Sorry, that’s rough. I can see why you’re so miserly. I expect you’re wishing you’d never agreed to take me in –’

  ‘Bibi,’ Mum says, ‘this is not the issue. Stop trying t
o use it as a weapon. You know we love you just as much as –’

  ‘Or would do,’ Dad says, ‘if you weren’t being so obnoxious. I am so tired of all this. Actually, sometimes I do wish I’d never –’

  ‘Chris! Don’t be so –’ Mum says; but it’s too late.

  I look up at them both and the silence grows. I can still taste the sausages. I feel sick.

  Dad takes a deep breath. ‘Come on, Bibs, you know what I mean. If Sam were behaving like this, I’d wish I’d never had him.’

  I stand up and walk to the door. Neither of them tries to stop me.

  I say, ‘I’m sorry if I made Oliver go away. I didn’t mean to.’ Then I turn round and walk down the hall and out of the house. I shut the front door with a cool, distant click. I make my way carefully down the street, as if it’s in danger of collapsing under my feet at any moment. The sky is a high, cloudless blue. The sun blazes into my face. I tilt my head back and wrap my arms round myself, squeezing until my shoulders start to ache. But I still feel cold.

  .

  At least if Oliver has gone, it means I can go back to Tyme’s End.

  The High Street is full of tourists, even more than yesterday, because Saturdays are always the worst. There are already a couple of people sitting outside the Cloven Hoof with pints of real ale and OS maps. But I’m not really here; I walk steadily, slowly, and somehow everyone gets out of my way. Eddie’s shop is doing good business. I see someone come out, already getting his copy of the new H. J. Martin biography out of the bag, turning it over in his hands so that the cover reflects the sun. I keep walking and he glances up and stumbles out of my path just in time.

  I go past the gates to Tyme’s End and round the corner. I’m still treading lightly, gliding, as if I’m trying not to touch the ground. I don’t want anyone to see me, or hear me, or touch me. I pretend I don’t exist.