Driving Home For Christmas. A. Michael L.

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       ‘She was right,’ Lucas laughed. ‘I think you’re in need of a little rebellion. And I am a master.’

      ***

      The first night at Whittleby Cottage went smoothly. Mainly because they’d had wine with dinner and Jonathan had opened the good whisky. They ordered in Chinese food because the turkey was burnt and Megan tried not to think about the waste of it all, how much money they’d probably spent on that turkey only to give it to Minnie. She shook it off. There was no way to avoid the situation – if they were too familiar and had too good a time; it was painful. If she made it difficult, everyone felt awkward, and Skye would be upset.

      She watched her daughter, sitting on the floor at the coffee table, Jonathan on the other side as they played chess. A Christmas compilation played in the background, and the house smelled like cinnamon. Minnie was sitting on her feet, and her mother was sitting with her sketch book in the corner. Megan had a sneaking suspicion she was drawing Skye, but didn’t say anything. There was no need for conversation, no need for explanation, at least not yet, and that was comforting.

      When it got to ten o’ clock, Megan roused herself. ‘Come on bub, time for bed. You can finish the game tomorrow.’

      Skye grumbled but stood up, putting her hand out to shake Jonathan’s. ‘Thanks for playing with me, Granddad. I look forward to beating you tomorrow.’

      ‘I’m sure you do, but it’s not likely to happen!’ He stuck out his tongue.

      ‘We thought Skye could stay in your old room, and then you could go in the guest room? Or whichever way you want to do it…’ Heather trailed off, looking at Megan for approval.

      ‘Sounds great, Mum,’ Megan nodded, realising she hadn’t addressed her mother so far, not properly. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Are Matty and Claudia staying over Christmas or…?’

      ‘They’re only down the road, they might stay Christmas Eve night, depending on how things go…’ Heather trailed off again, but Megan knew what she meant. In case it all got a little too emotional, Matty would play buffer.

      ‘Good idea.’ She waved, then guided Skye upstairs. ‘Night!’

      Her room. What would they have done with it? Created another beautiful guest room, so posh that every visitor felt uncomfortable sleeping in it? She pushed the door and saw it still squeaked. Megan stepped in and felt the energy leave her body as she looked around. It was unchanged. Everything was exactly in its place, the same as she left it, almost ten years to the day.

      The posters, everything from The Kinks to Bob Marley to Tom Waits. The photo montage above the bed, the band posters. The scratched dresser with all her creams and perfumes still as they had been. The poster for that last gig at The Nag’s Head lay on the side, crumpled and unfolded a million times, until all their faces were faded away. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know if it meant her parents cared, they wanted to keep her close, or if they were mourning her like some dead daughter, instead of reaching out. Keep the old Megan in a mausoleum and mourn her. Abandon the real one to get on with her life.

      Skye bounced on the bed, tracing the edges of the black and white bedspread. There was a knitted blanket at the end she’d bought from IKEA when it first opened, and Dad had taken her. Pingu the penguin sat on her pillows, as if he’d been waiting all this time, stalwart and loyal.

      ‘This was you, huh?’ Skye looked around in awe.

      ‘Yeah, guess it’s pretty strange for you, all of this.’ Megan sat down beside her. ‘How are you doing?’

      Skye thought about it, her brown eyes rolling up to the ceiling, head tilted. ‘I’m good. I like them. But I love you, and if they’re mean to you then that’s it.’

      ‘You’re just saying that so we can go to Disneyland.’

      Skye shrugged, and grinned. ‘So am I sleeping here?’

      ‘If you want to.’

      Skye nodded, looking around as if any object could tell a story. Which, Megan supposed, they could. Her gaze wandered to the photo montage. Pictures of the band, looking all stoic and serious, her and Luke pulling faces, her with her arm around Belinda. The Christmas the year before she left, posing for the camera, encircled in Luke’s arms as he held up mistletoe. Her chest felt like it was going to cave in. Luke would have left, wouldn’t he? Got on a tour bus, become a big star in London dive bars, or LA’s sleek scene. Maybe he’d moved down to Cornwall, to teach kids guitar, living in a little cottage on the side of a cliff.

      She’d looked out for him, in NME, gig listings, every time she thought she saw a Lucas listed. But the truth was, he could use any name, be in any band by now. She had the means to find him, she could join all those social media sites, sniff him out. But in all honesty, it was too late, and she had things to be ashamed of too.

      Skye changed into her pyjamas, and Megan brushed her hair as her daughter read out from To Kill a Mockingbird. They snuggled in close, Megan helping with the longer words, adding a bit of context here and there. She looked to her bookshelf in the corner and found her own copy sitting on the shelf, as well as many other books that she had always wanted to give to Skye. The smell of her old room, the familiar give of the cushions surrounded her, until Skye drifted off to sleep, and Megan followed, never making it to the guest room.

      ***

      May 2003

       ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ he said, standing up and placing his guitar down on the bed.

       ‘I’m not!’ Megan tried to contain her irritation. ‘All I said was maybe we could use a minor seventh chord…’

       ‘Unfathomable!’ Lucas paced up and down his room, his hair spiking up at all angles as he ran his hand through it irritably.

       ‘Oh I’m sorry, could someone tell me where the Artist Formerly Known As Lucas has gone?’ Megan rolled her eyes, unplugging her cherry red Fender Strat from the amp they were sharing. Lucas’s room was barely big enough for them to play together, let alone argue about playing together.

       ‘Shut up, Meg. Just because you dyed your hair to match your guitar you think you’re Courtney Love now?’

       She raised her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, oh musical genius! It’s just that usually when we write songs together we actually write songs together!’ She stood by the window, leaning against it, unsure why things seemed to have changed.

       ‘Why are we always arguing?’ she asked him, seeing him look up suddenly, blue eyes clouding over. He’d stopped wearing eyeliner since summer had hit, and she had to say she preferred him without. The girls in the village had loved it, their little punk rock god crush. They used to turn up at the gigs wearing Nirvana T-shirts and shrugging when he asked them who Kurt Cobain was. Megan preferred when he was just Lucas. Her childhood friend, her bandmate. Just him, playing music, being him. No facade.

       ‘We do seem to be, don’t we?’ he said simply, staring at the ground.

       ‘I…I don’t think it’s me who’s starting it, Luke,’ she said gently. ‘I seem to be pissing you off a lot more recently. Since we started sixth form…do СКАЧАТЬ