Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Forty-One
Freddie
“You look like you could use a cuppa, my boy.”
They’re the first words Mum says when I come into the kitchen. A steaming hot cup of tea is the answer to all the world’s woes. There’s no use saying no, I’ll have coffee, juice, or a nice mug of arsenic, tea’s what you get first thing in the morning, no argument. It’s the way it’s always been and the way it is, and I’m so glad for that solid as a rock consistency. I can’t help but throw my arms around her. She knows something’s wrong, but she hasn’t pushed, she hasn’t asked why I phoned asking her to pick me up from the station a couple or so days before I was due home, and I love her all the more for it.
“Get off me, you silly bugger,” she chides, but her flushed cheeks and smiling eyes tell me a different story. “You sleep okay?”
“Yes, I did.” No, I didn’t, just like I haven’t in what feels like ages.
I’d tossed and turned, reading and re-reading Elliot’s texts, listening and re-listening to his voice message. I know I have to speak to him, to confront him, even, and I resolve to do it today, but my heart cringes from it. Who knew I was such a coward?
Mum doesn’t believe me, but she says nothing as she busies herself making the tea and cooking up a storm of breakfast for me — another thing it’s futile to say no to — as I look around the room that’s been the hub of my family for as long as I can remember.
The kitchen’s ramshackle and large, and nothing matches. It’s old-fashioned but in a rural, rustic way. Except for the massive silver American-style fridge freezer. When did that land? It looks like it’s come from outer space. In the corner, in a beaten-up dog basket, Mervin’s curled up and snoring. He’s an old, mixed mutt, the gentlest dog we’ve ever had. I smile, but it falls away almost immediately, as I remember another kitchen where everything’s mismatched and eclectic, another dog in its basket.
“Dad’s out, meaning it’s just the two of us.” She places two piled-high plates down, followed by the old teapot that’s older than me, and swathed in its woolly jacket, before settling herself into her seat.
I swallow a groan. So much for her not pushing, but I’d turned up out of the blue, phoning from the station callbox because my mobile had run out of power, late on Wednesday night after a nightmare journey of cancellations and diversions.
“Yeah, I know. It’s nice spending time alone with my old mum.”
“Not so much of the old,” she huffs. “What brought you home all of a sudden?”
She looks at me over the rim of her teacup waiting for me to take the bait, but I resist.
“I told you I was coming home for a few days.” It’s evasive and she knows it.
“But at the weekend. Saturday, you said, which is today. You arrived Wednesday night.”
“Is it a problem, me coming a bit early?” I’m defensive and truculent, but she doesn’t rise to it.
“Well,” she says, her voice taking on a softer edge, “it’s lovely that you’ve come early because you know how much me and your dad love having you here. You can stay as long as you need to, you know that.” She reaches across the table and ruffles my hair the way she’s done for as long as I can remember, and always when I was worried or anxious or upset about anything. The touch always held some magic and it does so now. I blink hard to stop the tears welling up and overflowing. “Freddie love, if there’s anything you need to talk about—”
Her words are chopped off as Dad crashes into the kitchen. He’s a dynamo, always moving, always busy, and I’m relieved beyond belief that this ruddy-faced, big-boned man, clad in oily mechanics’ overalls, is here in the kitchen and taking possession of it.
“You’re supposed to be at work this morning,” Mum says, frowning at Dad.
“I am. Just forgot something that’s all, and thought I’d nick a couple of these to take back with me.” He raids the battered tin box on the side, which for as long as I can remember has held the sugary, yeasted fruit buns Mum makes every week. “I’ll have one now, though, before I set off, just to keep my strength up. Hmm, lovely. Nice buns, Julie,” he says with a grin, but Mum just tuts and shakes her head. “You make sure you eat up all that breakfast Freddie, because you’re looking a bit too pale and tired if you ask me. You got dark shadows under your eyes, too. You ain’t sickening for something, are you?”
“No.”
He grunts, but his chewing slows as his eyes narrow, and he looks hard at me. Too hard.
“Nobody’s been knocking you about, have they?”
What the—?
“Dad!”
“Simon!”
Me and Mum gasp at the same time.
“Of course they haven’t,” I splutter. “I’m tired because I’ve been working like a dog. Supermarket shifts, working at the university, doing my research.” It’s the truth, but every word feels like a lie. “And of course waiting to hear from Oslo has been a strain.”
I say the magic word.
“We were so proud when you told us,” Dad says, diverted from his cross-examination. “I told Carol Porter in the village shop, so it’s probably all round the place by now. The t’interweb’s got nothing on that woman,” he says, laughing, and I smile because I know he’s right. His attention’s diverted further when Mum cuts a huge slice of cake, taken from another battered tin, and wraps it up for him.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to the garage?” Mum says. She’s itching to push him through the door, but Dad shakes his head and instead of leaving, sits down at the table.
“Leo can man the garage for a bit. If there’s a bacon sarnie going spare…?”
Thanks Dad. Thank you, thank you, thank you…
“We didn’t tell you, did we, about Karen? You know, Ted and Tina Webster’s girl…”
Local gossip and scandal, it spreads like wildfire between the villages and hamlets, and I let it all wash over me, smiling as my parents bicker over the fine detail. More tea’s poured, and even though I’ve just fought my way through a week’s worth of calories, a tin of homemade biscuits is plonked down in the middle of the table.
“Get some of them down you boy, you need building up.” Dad nudges the tin towards me, a hint of concern still shadowing his eyes. I give him what I hope is a bright, sunny, and convincing grin as I tuck in to more food I can barely stomach.
“Suppose I’d better go,” Dad says, pushing up from the table. “You on mobile library duty this morning?” He looks at Mum, who jumps.
“Oh my goodness, yes I am. If I don’t go now all the grannies’ll be moaning and tutting.”
Thank God, they’re both going.
“I’ll wash up,” I say, getting up and filling the sink, hoping it’ll assuage my guilt to some degree. It doesn’t.
“Thanks, love.” Mum throws me a knowing look, the one that says we’ll talk later, and I find fascinating information on the washing up liquid bottle until she goes.
* * *
The big, rambling house where I lived the happiest childhood imaginable is silent. I’m used to the city, of the ever present background noise of traffic, of the heavy bass beat of speeding cars, of police sirens, and shouts and laughs out on the street. I love the old place, but with its low ceilings and dark beams, it’s too hemmed in and I feel the need to be outside under Suffolk’s big, broad, bright blue sky. The sun’s out, but autumn’s stealing summer, and the cooler, chiller air lies in wait, just around the corner.
The sea’s cold along this stretch of coast but I don’t care. I’ve swum it so many times before and I’ll swim it again. Upstairs, I unearth a lurid pair of swimming trunks from the drawer in the room that was always mine and I know always will be, for whenever I need it. My throat catches. Just like I need it now.
Elliot. I know I need to speak to him, I know I’m running away, but running away feels like just what I need at the moment. It’s what a kid would do, and I’m not a kid. But I don’t want to do what’s grown-up and sensible, not now, not just yet. I don’t want to talk about him and me, or him and Gavin. I’m going to have to, but not just yet, because I need time to fortify my heart for that sensible, grown-up conversation where we tell each other we had fun, but this is it, as he and Gavin mend and I board a plane in a few short weeks, and never see him again.
My stomach churns and I rush out onto the landing and race for the bathroom, where I sink to my knees in front of the toilet and throw up so hard my head spins and my eyes water, and I’m left gasping on the washed-out mat. Staggering to my feet, I clean my teeth before I head for the cold North Sea, to lose myself in the never ending, pounding waves.
* * *
Breathing hard, I collapse onto the pebbly beach, and let the sunshine warm my goosebumpy flesh. Closing my eyes, I immediately think of another beach where I’d lain, not on sun-warmed pebbles, but on sun-drenched sand, with a man who I stared at in wonder as he’d lain sleeping.
Christ, I’m missing him so much it hurts.
I miss his smile, which fans out the creases at the outer edges of his eyes, and the little frown that wrinkles his brow as he concentrates on everything I say to him.
I miss the way he looks at me, like I’m the most important person in the world
I miss the casual touches, and the way he sweeps my hair away from my brow.
I miss the way he notices when I’m anxious or nervous and gently eases my hand away from my neck, where it always clamps itself, the telltale sign I need reassurance.
My tears break through the dam of my eyelids and stream down my face, mixing with the remnants of the cold, salty water that clings to my skin.
“Elliot, why did you have to break my fucking heart?” I cry out to nothing other than the waves and the gulls swirling above me in the empty sky. But he didn’t break my heart, I broke it myself.
I broke it by letting myself get involved with a man I should never have got involved with.
I broke it by the lies I told myself, that everything between us was casual and no strings when for me it never has been.
I broke it because I let myself believe in something that would never be.
I broke my heart when I fell for him.
Dragging my hands across my eyes, I wipe away my traitorous tears. What’s the use in crying? It won’t stop what’s happening. He and Gavin, they’ve got too much history to throw away. What’s a few weeks against ten years? I’m just a footnote in Elliot’s history.
Slinging my towel over my shoulder, I scramble up the stony beach and cross the little road, that’s really not much more than a track, and push open the wooden door that leads into the back of the garden.
The sea’s tumbled and tossed me, and pounded me mercilessly, and I should be exhausted, but l’m still antsy and restless. The quickest of showers before I pack up some food into a small rucksack and, pulling out one of the many bicycles that always seem to be hanging around in the big brick-built shed, I head out for the day, along Suffolk’s flat lanes.
