The Last Summer of Us (18 page)

“Uh…wow.”

On the other side of the hedge is – as the sign suggested – an ostrich farm. The field, which is mostly rough, tussocky grass, stretches away and down towards the sea; from here, it almost looks as though it drops straight into the water. There is nothing but the sparkling blue, catching the early evening sun, and the dusty heat-yellowed green of the grass. And there are the ostriches. Obviously.

I can see maybe a dozen of them, wandering around aimlessly. They look odd, all legs and neck; so out of place here. Somehow, they belong and yet they don't, and I can't quite put my finger on the how or the why of it.

“What's it like?” Steffan slaps my knee with the back of his hand. He's obviously bored of not dropping me.

“Oh, you know. Ostrich-y.”

“Ostrich-y.”

“It's a word.”

“Sure. So, can I put you down now – because you're—”

“Don't even think about saying it.” I nudge the side of his ribs with my foot. “You may put me down, good sir. Gently.”

“Thank Christ for that.” He drops into an awkward crouch, and my feet touch the surface of the road.

“Ostrich-y,” I say again with a shrug, straightening myself out. My clothes still feel slightly damp in places and they cling to me. The heat of the day has turned sticky, almost as though there's a storm on the way – but the sky is clear, even out over the sea. If there's a storm coming, it's hiding itself well.

“Where's he gone now?” Steffan is looking around. Jared has vanished.

“Eaten by ostriches, mate,” says a voice from the hedge, and Jared's head pops out of the middle of it. “There's a hole in the hedge.”

“We're not going in there. No way,” I say, hoping I sound firm and authoritative and, well, sensible.

“Why not?” asks the hedge.

“Because it's…a farm. And there's a hedge and a sign and basically it's trespassing.”

“So?”

“Also, ostriches. Can't they break your arm or something?” I sound less firm now. More desperate.

“Only if you give them a reason to. I just want a look that doesn't involve having to sit on his shoulders. Besides, it's not like we're going to try and ride them or anything, is it?”

Steffan, hearing this, suddenly looks thoughtful.

“No,” I say.

He looks wounded. “Thought never even crossed my mind,” he says.

Like I believe that.

We both peer through the gap in the hedge. Jared is through, standing in the field. His back is to us, and he's silhouetted against the sparkling sea; his hands at his sides. Several of the ostriches are walking towards him, obviously expecting him to feed them. Either that or they're getting ready to eat him. I won't lie: it's a bit creepy. One comes close enough for him to touch – and slowly, slowly, he raises his hand, gently setting it on the bird's back. It turns to look at him and blinks. He takes his hand away again.

I can feel my heart pounding in my throat. What if it had decided to attack him? What if it hadn't been tame (well, tame-ish)? What if, instead of seeing his touch as friendly, as curious, as harmless, it had decided to rip his hand off? How did he know that it wouldn't – and why would he be nuts enough to risk it?

And then it occurs to me that he's risking getting his hand torn off because he wants to. Because he thinks the risk is worth the reward.

“You done being the Ostrich Whisperer?” Steffan calls. He's not impressed; standing there with his arms crossed, he's obviously not forgiven any of them for pecking his car roof. Not that one more dent would make a difference to the Rust Bucket, but I know better than to point this out. Has anyone ever had a blood feud with a bird? Because this looks like it could be the first.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jared, turning around to face us. He's smiling. Not grinning; it goes deeper than that. He looks
happy
. Like whatever he was thinking has washed everything else away, wiped his mind clean. He looks different, somehow. And when his eyes meet mine, they hold my gaze and without knowing when it happened, or how, or why, I'm smiling too.

“Wait. An actual bed?” I can't quite believe what I'm hearing. That whole “on the road, staying in tents” thing lasted about as long as a packet of crisps near Jared. Not exactly surprising, knowing Steffan (whatever he says). I'm relieved. Granted, it's only been one night since I slept in a bed – my bed – but somehow, the idea of Not Having To Sleep In A Tent Tonight is already exotic. Maybe because time has twisted and stretched since I walked out of my front door. Maybe because I have. Although perhaps I'm not so much twisting as bouncing back. Rewinding and replaying. Rebounding. Becoming what I was before, but more.

For better or for worse; the same but different.

The hostel was Steffan's idea. I
knew
he'd crack; him with his “Yeah, sure, we're camping.” He might have been a Scout, but that was a long time ago – and when he saw the hostel, right down by the beach in the next village along the coast, he made such a big fuss from the passenger seat (yes, I've been relegated to the back again – what can you do?) that Jared didn't really have any choice other than to pull over. I wonder whether the hostel being slap bang next to one of the best pubs round this way – and one which happens to be a bit flimsy on the ID policy in the summer – has anything to do with it. Not that I'm a cynic or anything, you understand…

This is the surfing sweet-spot of the coast – hence the hostel, and the astonishing predictability of a whole row of old VW camper vans parked up along the road with boards leaning against them – not to mention the townies sitting on the benches outside the pub, wetsuits rolled down to their waists, dripping gently onto the pavement. I swear I just saw one of them shake a head full of (bleached) hair back, braying something about “the lifestyle, man”. Yeah, right.

Alright for some, isn't it? The ones who can just load themselves into a van and drive off into the sunset when the mood takes them. The ones who can come and go as they please – who can get out if they want to. But then, looking at them and listening to them, I guess the trade-off for having that particular “lifestyle” is to be an insufferable wanker, so it's all a question of balance.

While Steffan and Jared attempt to deploy their considerable charm at the hostel to get us beds for the night (and when I say “charm”, I mean it in the loosest possible sense; ditto “considerable”) I cross the road and sit on the wall above the beach, dangling my feet over. There's a big drop here; the slipway's further along, and beneath me is the part of the beach where all the dinghies are tied up, far above the reach of the high waterline. They're used for sailing lessons, mostly by kids, and usually they're busy all summer long – but looking down at them now, I don't think some have been in the water for a long time. They're high and dry and safe on the shore – but that's not what boats are built for, is it? For waiting, for staying safe. They're meant for sailing; meant to be out on the waves.

Amy has sent me a text message. It's brief and to the point, and tells me nothing more and nothing less than I was expecting.

Dad in2 treatment 2morrow. 6 weeks residential. Will take him. U want to stay with me? Let me know when ur coming back. xx A

That word again. Treatment. Weirdly, the first thing I think about is his office. I wonder if everyone he works with knows. I wonder if they already did. Would hearing this be a relief to them? Some of the people from his work came to the funeral and they were almost as careful not to get too close to him as they were to be polite to me.

But…
treatment
.

Maybe it isn't too late for him. Maybe I should take that as a sign ­– as some kind of encouragement. Maybe.

The sun is finally on its way down into the water. It looks like it's hovering right above the surface, just hanging there – and the evening has brought a calm that's still enough for the sea to reflect it perfectly. In the bay ahead of me there are two suns: one sinking into the waves as its twin rises to meet it…and then they're both gone.

I half-wonder whether Jared wants company on his Great American Journey; whether Steffan can smuggle us both out in his suitcase when he leaves. Everything here feels such a mess. Can you blame me for wanting to run?

There's laughter behind me, and footsteps, and then someone shoves a ratty piece of laminated paper in front of me.

“Dinner, isn't it?” says Steffan, dropping into a slouch beside me and swinging his leg over the sea wall. Jared follows a moment later – but oddly, he doesn't sit on the other side of Steffan. He sits, much to my surprise, on the other side of
me
. This is…unusual. It makes me momentarily forget what I'm meant to be doing. I look blankly at the paper Steff just handed me, then at Steff. He looks blankly back at me.

“What?” he says.

“What?” I say.

“Food?” He taps the front of the sheet, and I finally get myself together enough to actually look at it. The word MENU is printed in wonky capital letters across the top.

Dinner. Right. Yes. So, not expecting me to eat the paper, then. Good.

“Let me guess. Pie?” I hand the sheet back to him. They both make appreciative noises. After all, it can only be a matter of half an hour since they scoffed that pack of chicken wings that had somehow got left in the car. (Meat sitting in a hot car all afternoon? I passed, thanks.)

“Not having the ostrich steak?” It's still funny. It is.

“I'm not sure Jared should – you know, not now he's bonded with them and everything. It'd be like eating one of his own.” The slight wobble in Steffan's voice gives away just how hard he's trying to keep a straight face. Jared nods calmly, chucking a pebble down onto the beach. He manages to hit one of the dinghies. There's a fibreglassy clonk.

“Whoops.” Jared glances around to see whether anyone heard.

Only me.

Even Steffan's too busy pawing at the menu. You'd think he was a starving man, looking at him: he's reading every single thing on there – even though he knows as well as I do that he'll order a pie, because given the choice between pie and anything else in this world (untold riches! Wisdom beyond the reach of men!) he will
always
choose pie. The pie always wins.

It feels fake somehow, this. Like we're playing at being grown-ups. Frauds. And maybe we are: just playing. But I don't feel like
I'm
a fake. Yet here we are, sitting on a wall and ordering dinner from a pub like civilized people.

Mind you, the second I think this, Steff lets out an almighty great belch and sniffs loudly. “Beer,” he says, and rubs his hands together.

“You're disgusting.”

“Better out than in.” He looks revoltingly pleased with himself. Almost as revolting is the faint waft of cigar smoke that's still lingering around him like a cloud of cartoon flies. I flap my hand dramatically and he rolls his eyes.

“Such a grouch,” he says.

“Steff?” I say sweetly, leaning back to look at him as he stands up, menu in hand. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Scampi?” I bat my eyelashes in what I hope is an adorable, irresistible manner.

“You want to get that looked at,” he says, tapping the edge of the menu against the flat of his palm. “Might have conjunctivitis.”

“Funny.”

“I know.” He grins and ducks over the road and into the pub.

Behind us, one of the bar staff is bringing out lanterns to set on the tables clustered around the front of the pub. She's got an armful of them, and we half-turn to watch her weaving between the surfers and the locals and a group who look like they're pretty much exactly the same as us, and are probably staying in the hostel too. There's a clatter as she drops one – and before I can even blink, Jared's off the wall and across the road and is helping her pick it up; taking the others off her and setting them on the end of the nearest table for her to light. The bleach-blond-wetsuit-surfer-boys were right next to her and not a single one of them moved.

And what's that sudden sour spike I can feel, somewhere inside my chest? It feels a lot like jealousy, but it can't be that. Not when Jared is simply being Jared. But he smiles at her and says something that's too quiet for me to hear, and she laughs and hands him a lantern, and suddenly there's fingernails raking down the inside of my ribs.

I think it's fair to say that this is an overreaction. Just a teeny one.

The real shock, though, is that I feel anything at all. Because this is Jared, and…

And this is Jared.

And.

And.

“You alright?” Jared asks, sitting back down on the wall. He sets the lantern down between us and the little flame inside it flickers, then straightens and steadies.

“Me? Oh, sure.” I slide my hands underneath my knees so he can't see them shaking.

Because this is Jared, and suddenly I understand.

“How's the hand?”

There's still no sign of Steffan. He's got talking to someone, that's my guess. Steffan attracts conversation; he just has one of those faces, one of those demeanours. The kind of general Steffan-ness which suggests to people that yes, he'd love to stop for a chat. The thing is, he usually would. It's fine. I'm used to it.

“The hand?” Jared's question takes me by surprise. I actually hold both hands up and look at them as though, up till that point, I'd forgotten what “a hand” is. I realize how stupid this looks and put my hands back down again.

“Is it sore?” Jared nods towards my right hand.

Ah. He means after I walloped Becca.

Was that only yesterday? It feels like weeks ago. Months. And if that was yesterday, the funeral was only the day before. How does that work? Already it feels like it was so long ago that it may as well have been another lifetime. Like it happened to someone else.