Pillow Talk (14 page)

Chapter Eighteen

It was dusk when Petra arrived in Stokesley and found the Old Stables. The first thing she did was check the security; the windows and doors – how they locked and how well they locked. This was a procedure she undertook in every place she visited; not to keep potential intruders out, rather to keep herself in. Only when she'd noted that the door was locked by two different keys and two bolts in opposing directions, that the windows were secured by thin metal rods which needed a specific Allen-type key and a lot of turning to be removed, did she divest herself of her rucksack, sit down and take stock of her surroundings.

If she'd been shown photographs of the place, and a list of people to whom it might belong, she would never have picked Charlton Squire. In utter contrast to the edgy chic of his gallery and totally contradicting his own blatantly camp leather-and-silk urban gayness, the Old Stables was almost monastic in its simplicity but all the more homely for it. Charlton had knocked four stone stables into one space, keeping some features like the cobblestone flooring and one old iron hay rack while imaginatively adding others. The front door opened straight into the sizeable living area and Petra almost wished it was winter so that she could have a fire in the stone fireplace which was positioned in the centre of the room and subdivided the space into living and dining areas. Off the dining area, in a little modern lean-to that blended subtly, was the small kitchen with an original loose-box door out to the garden. Off the living area to the other side, in another quiet modern extension, was a cosy double bedroom and surprisingly luxuriously appointed bathroom.

Everywhere the walls had been painted a chalky white, allowing the shape of the stone to butt through, adding texture and hue. The cobblestone floor was made more practical by a homogeneous assortment of woollen rugs; an old leather tub chair was softened by a sheepskin; and an old tapestry sofa was made more welcoming by a variety of plump cushions. Window sills presented local finds – antique glass bottles, interesting pebbles, esoteric books by local poets and artists.

Nothing was over-styled, it was neither rustically twee nor rurally ascetic. Sympathetic and sensitive was how Petra thought she might describe the place to Lucy or Eric or the others. And hadn't Charlton been sympathetic and sensitive to Petra too, in handing her the keys? The Old Stables was quiet and sturdy, unpretentious and obviously loved. For someone so publicly theatrical as Charlton to allow essentially an employee access to his more private and perhaps truer self was a compliment indeed. Petra was touched and she felt at home.

Though she purposely didn't hunt around for the window-lock key, and though she hid the door key under one of the rugs and hauled the tub chair on top of it, she actually slept the whole night through for the first time in a long while.

When she woke, she lay in bed listening to birdsong. It sounded vivid and close by and despite the fact that she was in a single-storey building in a little town sitting at the foot of the Cleveland Hills, she felt higher up than hitherto she'd been. She'd spent most of the previous day travelling, arriving in a place further north than she'd ever travelled. She visualized her journey as a small dotted line heading steeply up a map of the country. Consequently, she had the sense of having travelled uphill all the way from King's Cross. As if the further north you went, the higher your place of arrival. Way down at the bottom of Petra's hill, she imagined the South in general, almost out of sight. It made her think of Mrs McNeil's tales of Scotland, how herbs and plants of a similar genus to those found in Tibet grew there. She sensed those herbs and Mrs McNeil's Scotland simply further north up this great hill, that she was closer to them than she was to the weeds eking out a living between the paving slabs of Finchley.

‘Look where I am,’ she said quietly, as if to Mrs McNeil. ‘Look at me.’ She felt peculiarly triumphant. Big bloody deal, she could faintly hear Rob say but she shook her head to dislodge his voice and thought to herself that actually this
was
a big deal, to up sticks and leave and travel up, up and away, to have herself totally to herself.

She reached for her mobile phone; the signal was scant and it was with some satisfaction that she turned the thing off. It wasn't as if London seemed simply downhill; the city felt so far away as to be in another country altogether.

As she took a shower, Petra wondered. Was this all it took? Has a quick injection of North Yorkshire vaccinated me against heartache? If I were to pack up and go back down south again, right now, would all be right as rain? Perhaps. Perhaps. So perhaps I'll treat myself to a long overdue holiday before I go. They say a little TLC goes a long way – but maybe you have to go a long way first to find it.

After breakfast, when she ventured out across the small walled garden and checked out the compact but well-equipped studio, Petra knew she wouldn't be putting a time limit on her stay. Initially she'd thought in terms of running away to convalesce, of fleeing from London and escaping the spectre of Rob. Now she was actually here, feeling rested already, feeling herself unwind, she decided to skip the melodrama and simply see her stay in terms of a working holiday perfectly timed.

The market town of Stokesley surprised Petra in its elegance. She hadn't really noticed much on arriving the previous evening; the Old Stables had been the sum of her focus. Now, on a bright and mild Wednesday morning, Petra ventured out and swiftly let go of her preconceptions of rugged types with whippets, of ee-by-gum, of quaint rustic cottages with smoking chimneys and all manner of parochial cartoonery in general. Located in the lie of the Cleveland Hills and the North York Moors National Park, Stokesley sat proud and sedate, boasting fine Regency and Georgian buildings either in rosy brickwork with pale pointing or else rendered in subtle heritage colours. A bustling wide high street, partly cobbled, with buildings in the middle too, open spaces either end, and the River Leven flowing just behind the main street. But what pleased Petra from the start – more than the revelation that she could get a decent cappuccino – was that Stokesley was a big enough place for her not to be stared at, yet small enough to preserve a quality of community spirit. People, it seemed, had the time of day for each other. Quite literally, in Petra's case. Out and about on the high street to establish her bearings and pick up some shopping, she regularly asked the time because she was heartened by the little conversations which ensued – from the teenagers hanging outside the Co-op to the pensioners pottering about. Ten to, five past, quarter past, twenty-five past ten you say? Is it really ten to eleven? Thank you. Oh, another thing – where would I find a chemist? A place to buy light bulbs? A bus timetable? Is there a bookshop? A public library? Yes, I'm new around here. Well, more of a working holiday, really. London, actually. No, I don't drive, I came by train. Sorry – I forgot to ask, is there a bike shop in town? There's a bike at the place I'm staying, you see, but it's set up for a big bloke.

The bike shop assistants winced and tutted at the state of Charlton's bike and shook their heads gravely when Petra asked them to lower the saddle to fit her. They told her to push it back home and come and hire one of their bikes. Half an hour later, she was happily cycling back to the Old Stables with a clutch of photocopies of local rides and a free sports bottle; a bag of groceries, light bulbs and the local paper swinging from the handlebars.

Though it was fun for a couple of days to make like a tourist and pore over guidebooks and maps, tasting the unusual place names and genning up on local history while planning excursions, Petra was also keen to set herself up as an honorary local. After learning certain routes off by heart, she was soon pedalling off as if she'd ridden the roads her whole life; a nonchalant smile hiding the fact that her lungs throbbed from the limited fitness she'd maintained in London. Another good reason to stay on, she thought. Within a week, she was softening her Southern accent, dropping the ‘r’ from words like ‘ask’ and ‘fast’ and ‘laugh’, and she even dared ditch the occasional ‘g’ from the endin' of certain words, especially when she was goin' cyclin'.

Great Ayton, to the east of Stokesley, quickly became one of her favourite routes and Captain Cook was soon her local hero. She visited the museum dedicated to him in the old school he attended, she walked up to Easby Moor and ate her sandwiches by the monument to him, returning to Great Ayton by the obelisk of stones from Australia marking the site of his childhood cottage. But perhaps the best thing Petra discovered in Great Ayton was a small, old-fashioned sweet-shop and café, Suggitts, whose eponymous ice cream, whether taken away in a traditional sugar cornet or eaten at one of the Formica tables, was irresistible. Before she rode off home, she'd treat herself to a quarter of some childhood confectionary or other – pear drops, sherbet lemons, chocolate bonbons, liquorice comfits – all of which were invariably infused with the nostalgic taste of paper bag by the time she arrived back at the Old Stables.

One morning, Petra decided to cycle south for a couple of miles, to visit Great Broughton, but soon after ran into the escarpment glowering above her and meekly decided to return to Stokesley for an afternoon in the studio and a lot of muttering to herself about improving her fitness. The next ride she did was to the north, on the old Nunthorpe Road, the landscape not so dramatic and the flatter farmland towards Middlesbrough gentler on her tired legs. Revitalized, she cycled west from Stokesley the following day to the village of Carlton and, with prior warning from her guidebooks, she only cycled the first part of Carlton Bank, sitting by the ponds and looking out over Cleveland while she had her packed lunch. She pushed her bike up the rest of the climb, a strenuous slog demanding gritted teeth and determination and rewarded by the wide open plateau of the bank itself. She stood there, holding her handlebars as if they were her best friend's hands, wiping the sweat from her face, her heart pounding, a satisfying ache in her legs. She propped her bike by the Lord Stones café which appeared to be hewn from the rock, and made her way out onto the bank. It was flat and high, carpeted with closely cropped downy grass. Overhead, gliders silently swooshed like great colourful benevolent birds and she felt that if she belted to the edge of the bank and took a huge leap off the edge, she'd join them. Far below, the arable patchwork land of the Cleveland plains; the vista stretching all the way to industrial Teeside. All around, greater than she'd ever known, a vast sky virtually cloudless, a lively breeze whispering excitedly that summer wasn't far off.

Petra lay on her back with her eyes closed, her heart rate settling. The air smelt so fragrantly clean and, as she inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled fully through her mouth, she felt herself let go of any vestige of angst that still lingered. She could have drifted off for a nap, it was so tempting, but instead she sat herself up, ready to face a few home truths head on while her sight was filled with the beauty of the landscape. It was as if only in a place so high and uncompromised, with air so clean, could she finally look back over recent events with the clarity of hindsight.

It wasn't pain that I felt when I came across Rob and Laura. It was mortification.

It wasn't heartbreak really, it was humiliation.

My heart isn't actually broken – it was mostly my pride that took a pounding.

I suppose that what I felt for Rob wasn't love at all, it was need.

I thought I needed to be in a relationship.

I wanted to believe that I could inspire him to love me.

For a while I judged myself on that.

Daft cow that I am.

Was it a good thing or bad overall? Probably bad.

Was it a waste of ten months? No, not really.

Am I damaged by it? No, I am not.

I suffered more of a knock when I physically sleepwalked into my wall, than the emotional knock from my relationship with Rob coming to such an undignified end.

I think I can finally see some providence in the situation. I wouldn't be here, today, would I? Up on Carlton Bank on a glorious day with the Old Stables all cosy and awaiting me.

I'm OK.

I'm lucky, really.

I feel well.

I'm going to have an ice cream.

I called him a cunt. I never use that word! I rarely go stronger than ‘sod'.

And actually, Rob was just a bit of an oaf, really.

We were not a match made in heaven – but neither have I gone through hell. His moral code conflicted vastly with my own. Fuck-buddies – I don't ever want to be someone's fuck-buddy. Not for me at all. I'm a romantic. And that's nothing to justify or defend – it's something to be proud of.

This place is so beautiful. The world feels really pretty good from up here.

It's Good Friday the day after tomorrow. So tomorrow I'll pop into Great Ayton and treat myself to an enormous Easter egg from Suggitts.

* * *

Which was precisely what Arlo Savidge was thinking.

He doesn't much care for chocolate, though.

He's planning to go to Suggitts tomorrow to buy an enormous Easter egg for his mother. Because then he's off down to London to visit her.

Chapter Nineteen

Arlo looked around his room. There wasn't much he'd be taking on his trip south. Unlike some of his less seasoned colleagues, Arlo had happily adapted to the confines of his living space and was not remotely bothered by the fact that his life had to fit the distinctive dimensions of the folly. Because of its nooks and alcoves and obtuse angles, life was easier if one didn't try to make the space fit one's belongings. Fortunately for Arlo, beloved possessions such as his guitars seemed to back nicely into corners as if the room had been custom designed for such a teacher. In fact, apart from his guitars – and he had four of them – Arlo had few personal effects, though what he did own he had in startling quantities. Racks of vinyl in 7 and 12 and even 10 inches, towers of CDs. It meant that there was no wall space for pictures or clocks or mirrors but as Arlo was neither vain, nor bothered by the passing of time, this was no sacrifice. However, he did need to take
something
home to show his mum, it would be important to her. He decided to take his students’ work because therein lay the proof of a worthwhile and successful career. He travelled light. His bashed-up old canvas shoulder bag contained a change of clothes, a clutch of exercise books, his iPod and room enough left for an Easter egg.

He had the loan of a car from a colleague who was spending the long Easter weekend in Amsterdam, on the proviso that Arlo chauffeured him to and from the airport. And Arlo had said yes, he accepted the terms and conditions, as long as they could detour via Suggitts so he could buy his mother a very large Easter egg.

It was raining but the rain didn't seem to come from the sky at all. It wasn't falling downwards from above. It built its momentum from the moors and appeared to travel cross-ways in great swathes of wringing-wet mist, sweeping and tumbling across the land like wafts of wet gauze, drenching everything in its path.

‘Want anything?’ Arlo asked, parking the car and thinking himself an idiot for wearing only a T-shirt. ‘Sherbet Dip Dab? A quarter of boiled sweets for the plane? Some genuine Yorkshire toffee to endear yourself to the Dutch? Lemfizz? Dolly Mixture? Tom Thumb drops?’

‘Will you just fuck off and hurry up, Savidge.’

Arlo shrugged. ‘I don't share,’ he said, ‘and I intend to spend a fair whack in Suggitts today.’

‘Savidge, you're a prat. Hurry up.’

Leaving the car, Arlo thrust his hands deep into his pockets – as if, by hunching his shoulders up and looking down at his feet as he ran, he'd somehow get less wet. Not a chance. Once inside the shop, little rivulets dripped off him into puddles, as if he was a shaken umbrella.

‘Nice day for it!’ he said cheerily at large.

‘Lovely,’ said the shopkeeper, hoping he wouldn't touch anything with a paper wrapper.

‘Got any Easter eggs?’ he asked, terribly solemn so that she didn't know whether he was being funny, facetious, blind or just dumb. She tipped her head in the direction of the impressive display. Then she caught the eye of her solitary café customer dawdling over a cup of tea on the other side of the premises and they raised their eyebrows at Arlo's expense.

The door opened and another drowned rat squelched in.

‘Wow! It's
mad
out there!’

‘And I thought you were just a fair-weather rider,’ the shopkeeper said warmly. ‘Hullo, pet, you're wet.’

Arlo chuckled without turning around. He did love the local humour, their ability to state the obvious in such a deadpan way. Their humour remained dry whatever the weather.

‘Easter eggs!’ Arlo heard the wet pet declare and a few footsteps later she was standing by his side.

And there they stood, their arms almost touching as they perused the seasonal chocolate in the little shop area to the left of the cash desk and café. They didn't look at each other – what was the point, it was raining, everyone looks the same when they're that wet. There was something cheering about being the only two people mad enough to get that wet for the sake of chocolate. But it was the serendipity of both reaching for the one huge Lindt chocolate bunny at exactly the same time which made them turn and regard each other.

And he doesn't have the lovely mop of Bob Dylan hair he had seventeen years ago. In fact, he seems generally smaller. But his dimple is still there and his eyes haven't changed and nor have his forearms. Today they glisten with rain as he passes the bunny over to her. Seventeen years ago they were sheened with sweat as he played ‘Among the Flowers’ for her. And Petra knows it's Arlo.

And she doesn't have the bouncy bob she had when she was fifteen and it doesn't matter that her hair corkscrews off her head in sodden spiralling rats' tails apparently made of treacle – he'd know that face anywhere. Those great big brown eyes and that little retroussé nose. And the fact that she seems to be wearing a tent doesn't fool him. And when he sees that it's a man's cagoule, that doesn't bother him either. For Arlo, not even revolting pea-green Gore-Tex can hide the fact that it's Petra Flint under there.

‘Petra?’

‘Arlo?’

Just then it doesn't seem crazy or weird or even amazing that they should meet like this, right here, after all this time, in an old-fashioned sweetshop on a God-forsaken day in North Yorkshire. For a perfect moment it makes sense completely.