Page 74 of Oz
“That’s lovely,” I say hoarsely. He doesn’t reply which is good because I want to shout,I can do that. I want to be your home.
I don’t. Instead I lie naked with him hidden in the shadow of the tree, stroking his hair on a drowsy summer’s evening and wishing I had more time.
Chapter
Fifteen
Why don’t you ever perform according to expectations?
Oz
The drive to London is relatively pain free. Silas has an appointment with his solicitors and I need to get a dinner suit, so we separate with a kiss and a promise to meet at a pub nearby in a few hours.
I walk off, my lips still feeling sensitive. I look back, but he’s gone, and for a second everything feels strange, like I’ve been set adrift on an unfamiliar sea.
I love London. It’s been my home since I was twelve and came over from Ireland with my mum. I love the history, the bustle of the dirty streets, and the sudden quiet when you come into some backwater. However, today I feel like my twelve-year-old self again. Everything feels wrong, as if I’ve tried to put on someone else’s clothes.
There are just so many people. They shove past me, rude in their rush to get somewhere, and everyone seems to be en route to something important. And the noise. Buses and car engines. Horns blaring and the asthmatic wheeze as a bus drops another load of people off to join the throng.
At first, I can’t place the problem, but then I realise. I’ve lost my edge. Before Cornwall I was one of this throng. I was fast and impatient. I’d move quickly, coffee in hand, eyes on somewhere further along the road, elbows out and with that hip-swivelling strut of someone who knows that this is my home.
Now, I’m used to a slower pace in everything. I’m used to a wide-open space where the noise comes from the sea or the sheep in the field. The smells around me now are beeswax and lavender and salt, not car exhaust and someone’s perfume that’s choking in close proximity.
It’s lunchtime, and I remember my lunch the other day which was spent in the knot garden with Silas, who’d stolen some time in between calls. We ate thick doorstep sandwiches of cheese and ham and drank fresh coffee while the sun beat down on us from a clear blue sky and bees buzzed busily and importantly. We talked and laughed and it seemed like there was just us in the world. Well, us and Sid, who was snoring behind an Elderberry bush.
For the first time I feel a shard of worry. What happens when I come back here? I’d thought that eventually Cornwall would just be a faraway place in my memory, but what if that doesn’t happen and instead London is the stranger and I’ll be trying to move through it without a map?
I shake my head at the silly thoughts and plough through the crowds, brightening as I see Shaun waiting outside John Lewis. He grins as soon as he spots me and wades through the shoppers to grab me in a big hug.
“How are you?” he mutters. “It seems almost strange to see you here.”
I jerk. “God, I was just thinking that. It feels weird being here.”
“Bound to,” he says comfortingly. “You’re used to something different now.”
“Well, that’s just silly. It took me ages to get used to London. I’ve only been in Cornwall for five fucking minutes.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Perhaps that’s because Cornwall feels more like home.” I open my mouth, but he carries on talking. “I remember when you first came here; you were a country boy through and through. Maybe that never left you. Maybe you’re more at home in the peace and quiet.” He shrugs. “Or maybe it’s the company you’re keeping nowadays.”
His words stick with me through the long, sweaty process of buying a dinner suit and they stay as I bitch and moan my way through the cramped underground journey. I look around at the compartment stuffed as full of people as a tin of sardines. Then I breathe in deeply and choke slightly at the odour that fills the area. It’s like fish left out in the sun.
Shaun shakes his head. “Rookie mistake.” I shoot him a finger and he laughs.
We push ourselves off the train, then fight our way up the stairs and through the ticket machines, but even when we’re out I feel itchy and grumpy. I tug at my shirt irritably and look up at the pub we’ve arranged to meet Silas in. It’s one of our old haunts, principally because the beer is cheap and Mick, the owner, turns a blind eye to everything going on. It’s hard to care too much when you’re asleep at the end of your own bar.
Now, I look up at the dirty windows, the peeling paint, and the sign swinging in the slight breeze that would proclaim the pub’s name if anyone had a few buckets of soapy water.
“Why did I agree to meet him here?” I say faintly.
“Because it’s near home and you needed alcohol before you introduced him to your mum,” Shaun says placidly. “If you have too much to drink, you’re hoping that you won’t have to do it and we can just carry you home unconscious.”
“That sounds horrible,” I groan. “I love my mum. I’m not ashamed of her.”
“Of course you’re not,” he says simply. “You’re just a bit scarred by introducing her to some of the pricks that came before.”
“I don’t want him to look at me like they did,” I whisper.
He turns on me fiercely. “Stop it,” he says crossly. “That’s not going to happen and there are two very good reasons for that.” He holds up a finger. “One, he isn’t that type of bloke. He’s real class and I don’t mean titles and posh houses. I mean he’s decent and honest and he cares about people. I felt at home with him instantly even in that big fucking house. He’s got the ability to put people at ease because he cares about them. That’s class and there aren’t too many people like that.”
