Blast from the Past. Cathy Hopkins

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СКАЧАТЬ I had been out on the Heath with my dog Boris, and he had dug his heels in at the bin area by the gates and was refusing to move.

      ‘That’s how I feel some days,’ said a voice behind me, and I’d turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in a long herringbone overcoat with a red scarf wrapped around his neck. He was smiling at me while trying to control a golden Retriever puppy. He looked interesting, not conventionally good-looking, but there was something attractive about his features and I immediately felt drawn to him.

      ‘He will not budge,’ I said as I pulled on Boris’s lead. ‘I think I might have to carry him home.’

      Stuart laughed. ‘Good luck with that.’

      ‘I know. I’d need a wheelbarrow.’ Boris was a big dog, a black German shepherd.

      ‘How old?’

      ‘He’s twelve now. Actually, he’s my parents’ dog – or rather was my parents’ dog – but they moved to Spain and weren’t sure he’d adapt well to the hot climate at his age. They couldn’t bear to put him in a rescue centre and nor could I, hence here we are.’

      Stuart pulled a dog treat out of the pocket of his coat, knelt down and held it out to Boris, who miraculously recovered his mobility and trotted over to him.

      ‘Looks like you’ve got trouble too,’ I said as I noticed his puppy, who was on his hind legs, chewing on the end of Stuart’s scarf as he leant over to fuss Boris.

      ‘This is Monty,’ he said. ‘I got him for my daughter, she’s always wanted a dog, but look who’s ended up looking after him.’ I checked his left hand for a wedding ring. Of course, I thought when I saw that he was wearing one: all the good ones are taken. ‘He eats everything – socks, scarves, dirt, leaves, you name it,’ Stuart continued. ‘I’ve already been to the vets’ twice with him and I’ve only had him three weeks.’

      I laughed. ‘I’m sure he’ll learn.’

      Boris decided he might walk after all, so we strolled along together sharing dog-training tips. Conversation came easily and I felt as if I’d known him for ever, an old friend I happened to have come across on the Heath. As he talked about his family and his wife, I’d quickly pushed away the initial attraction I’d felt for him. I never got involved with married men, never had, never would – not that he gave me any encouragement anyway. But I knew I wanted him in my life. When he’d said he was an accountant, I’d told him I was looking for one, and so the deal was sealed and, as I re-read his note by the kettle, I felt thankful that here he was ten years on, a friend I valued greatly.

      I checked the heating was going to stay on then went from room to room switching on more lamps to give a sense of life in the place. On the ground floor, there was a large kitchen-diner, with glass folding doors at the back which opened onto a tiny courtyard garden. The sitting room and cloakroom were on the first floor, then up to a bedroom and bathroom on the second floor, from where there was access to a roof terrace, which was a heavenly place to retreat to in the summer.

      Having checked that all was in order, I went back downstairs to the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of Chablis. I picked up the large pile of post that had been left on the island in the kitchen, took it up to the sitting room and sank into one of the sofas there. I could see that they were mainly Christmas cards, a few bills and one official-looking letter. I felt a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I had an idea of what it might say. I’d look at it later, not today. Why ruin a good holiday on the first night I was back?

      It felt strange to be on my own after having had constant company and, despite my attempt to warm it up, the house felt empty of colour and life. Now don’t get maudlin, I told myself, and said my mantra. I’m OK. I have a good life. I’d worked hard to create it and, although the house was small, it was a space that was a pleasure to come back to. The rooms had been painted in the neutral shades of Farrow and Ball: Cornforth White, Skimming Stone, Elephant’s Breath. Pale linen and silk curtains hung at tall windows on the upper floors. Large, overstuffed, dove-grey sofas were in the sitting room, with cushions a few shades darker. Tasteful artefacts from my travels to India, Morocco and Turkey were placed on shelves and surfaces, not too many to look cluttered; big art and travel books were stacked on the coffee table. The atmosphere was elegant and serene. That was what people said. That was what I worked so hard to present to the world. Hah. What a joke. If only they knew. It was all so perfect but sometimes it felt sanitized, a show house, and I longed for the clutter and chaos of Pete and Marcia’s home, always full of people and mess, their children and friends. I felt a sudden urge to have the whole house repainted in lime green and turquoise with a gold loo and red ceiling, then go and … and buy a dog, two dogs; but knew I wouldn’t. I’d drink too much wine, sleep fitfully, then get up tomorrow and carry on, because that’s what I did best, I carried on. Saranya Ji’s words replayed in my mind: ‘You believe that people you love leave you, and you are destined to be alone.’ Bah. I’d got used to being on my own; it had made me what I am, independent and strong, well … most of the time. I had good friends. What more did I need? As I sat, sipping my wine, I thought back to a time when even Marcia had disappeared.

      *

      I had been eighteen when my parents left home. Not only did they move out, they left the country. Dad had tried to emigrate and get a job abroad before – Hong Kong, Singapore, Canada, Kenya. He had considered them all over the years but, this time, it was definite. He longed to get away from rainy, grey Manchester, and when a post as a senior lecturer at a university came up on sunnier shores, it was a dream come true for him. Apart from my elder brother, Matthew, and me, my family were off to New Zealand and taking everything I took for granted with them – regular meals, Sunday lunches, family Christmases, my mother’s words of concern and care on days of exams, interviews or illness, bills paid, warmth and company when I returned at night. With them went a sense of belonging, security, a home.

      Not that I cared at the time. I couldn’t wait for them to go, particularly my father, who in my late adolescence had become increasingly critical and sarcastic. No, their departure meant independence. I had a place at Manchester Art College. A world of possibility would be opening up in front of me, and there would be no one to hold me responsible. At last, the freedom to live the kind of lifestyle I’d longed for, all my teenage years.

      Of course, we made lots of jokes about them going at the time, like ha-ha, Matthew and I were so dreadful that not only did Mum and Dad leave home, they went as far as possible. But I wasn’t laughing when it came to the day for them to go. Watching them load everything up one day in July, get a taxi to Piccadilly Station, get on a train and disappear: not my happiest memory. Mum was crying as they boarded and my younger brother, Mark, kept asking, ‘Why aren’t Matthew and Bea coming with us?’ I burst into tears, which set Mark off too, even though he was sixteen at the time. Mum was too busy trying to get everything on the train to notice that I was freaking out inside. I was determined not to make a scene. I didn’t. I turned away and put on a cheerful mask. Dad kept saying, ‘You can still change your mind. There’s a place at the university over there if you want it.’ But no way was I leaving Manchester, Marcia, my place at art college – no way.

      I felt weird all the same.

      When the train started up, took off along the track then disappeared, I thought, Right, that’s it, now you haven’t got any family, like they’d died or something.

      There was still Matthew but he rarely showed his feelings. He didn’t that day. He just shrugged and set off to meet his girlfriend, Juliet, so I went home alone.

      The house felt eerily quiet when I got back.

      Mum had left СКАЧАТЬ