Bringing the Summer Page 12

  While we wait for the dinner to cook, Theo tells me about the poet John Keats. He’s been reading him this term. ‘He wanted to live a life of sensation, rather than thought. You know, experience things in the moment. Feel everything.’ Theo reaches over to the coffee table and picks up a small hardback book. ‘Listen to this. It’s about trying to catch a moment of beauty.’

  I’ve heard the poem before; that famous one about a Greek urn.

  ‘She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

  For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’

  Is he still thinking about Bridie?

  He flicks through the pages of the book and finds a second poem to read aloud. He reads well: the words make a kind of sense to me even though some of them are very old-fashioned. And they are beautiful: they linger in the air, casting a kind of spell over us both. We watch tiny sparks spiral up like fireflies as the logs slowly sink and crumble and turn to ash.

  Theo goes to the kitchen to check the dinner. ‘Won’t be long,’ he says.

  ‘Good! I’m ravenous!’

  Finally it’s ready and we can eat.

  There’s a knock at the door about nine.

  Theo opens it. ‘Harry! Toby!’

  ‘We’re on our way to the pub,’ the tall one – Harry – says. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Come in and meet Freya first,’ Theo says. ‘And seeing as we’re about to have pudding, you can join us.’

  Theo cuts the Linzertorte into slices and we eat almost all of it, piece by delicious piece, even though it’s so sweet and rich. Theo seems different with his friends. I go quiet. They are all so much older and cleverer than me.

  Harry goes over to the piano and plays some classical piece, mournful and lovely. I think of that moment in the college courtyard, the notes of music hanging in the cold air. They each take turns. Theo isn’t as good as they are – both Harry and Toby are studying music, like Duncan – but he’s a million times better than I would be. Harry and Toby play a duet.

  I stay in the background, listening, but not saying much. They don’t seem to mind, or even to notice.

  Toby starts rolling a joint.

  ‘I’m tired, Theo,’ I say. ‘I’m going up to bed.’

  ‘Night night, Freya!’ Toby says. ‘Good to meet you.’

  At the top of the stairs I hesitate.

  I turn right, into Duncan’s empty room.

  Theo comes up after a while and stands in the bedroom doorway.

  I’m still fully clothed, sitting on the bed in the dark.

  ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you coming with us for a drink? Or are you fed up with us? Do you disapprove?’

  ‘No,’ I say, though I do, a bit. ‘Had you forgotten? I’m sixteen, Theo! Not old enough to drink in pubs, not legally, anyway.’

  ‘No one’s going to know,’ Theo says. ‘They’ll assume you’re our age. A student.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Do you mind if I go?’ he asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll be OK. I mean, it’s perfectly safe round here.’

  ‘Of course! It’s fine, Theo. I’m tired, I’ll go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  The front door bangs shut behind them.

  I lie there in the silent house. It’s a bit weird of Theo, isn’t it? Going off with his friends like that and leaving me here, when I’ve come all this way to see him.

  But, surprisingly, I do sleep, deeply and without dreaming.

  Next morning, I wake up to a freezing cold house. I get dressed quickly, go downstairs. Theo’s coat and shoes are lying in a heap on the floor, so I know he did come back last night even though I didn’t hear him. I try to get the fire going, but there’s not enough wood in the basket to keep it burning for long. I pick up all the empty beer and cider bottles lying around the sitting room and put them in the bin in the kitchen. I make tea. I stand at the French windows, staring out at the small back garden. The grass is thick with frost; tiny birds flit in and out of the bare branches of the tree. The sky is clearing to brilliant blue as the sun climbs higher. I’m so cold I find my coat and put that on, an extra layer.

  The house is completely silent. I pick up the volume of Keats’ poems and find the second one Theo read aloud to me last night and read it again to myself. A love poem. What does that mean? Was Theo trying to tell me something? Or was that all about Bridie too?

  While I wait for him to surface, I do a series of quick drawing exercises in my sketchbook: one minute, then five minutes, then drawing with my opposite hand, which taps into the other side of your brain, and then drawing without looking at the paper. I draw the tree. I try to draw from memory the figure of the boy playing the lute in the chapel, but I can’t get it right.

  I switch the radio on.

  Finally, Theo appears.

  I smile. ‘It’s so beautiful outside! Let’s go out!’

  He frowns. ‘What, now? So early?’

  ‘It’s not so early. I’ve been up for hours. And yes, now: before the day spoils.’

  All the murk and darkness of yesterday has cleared away in the brilliance of sunshine on frost.

  ‘Come on! Run with me!’ I tug Theo’s hand, pull him along through the empty streets.

  He grumbles to begin with, but after a while he gets into it.

  ‘I know where I want to take you,’ he says, and he runs faster, dragging me this time.

  We are like two children, excited and silly, running and sliding on the iced puddles, watching our breath make clouds of dragon steam. We hold hands, and slide together, and laugh and laugh when we both skid over. Our voices echo down the street, bouncing off the high brick walls of the church we run past, and then muffled by the trees as we take a short cut along the shadowy edge of the frozen canal. The boats are silent. No sign of anyone else awake, even here.

  We come out of the shadows into the brightness of Port Meadow. It comes as a surprise to me, this vast flat open field so close to the city where horses roam freely over the marshy grass. Everything’s shiny, sparkling, reflecting light. The river looks like molten silver. The horses stop grazing, lift their heads to watch us, and then, all together, they toss their heads and run too, in a wide arc, away to the edge of the field, whinnying as they go.

  I let go of Theo’s hand and spread out my arms, running as fast as I can, down to the river. It’s like flying, almost, with the rush of cold air on my face, freezing my ears, blowing back my hair.

  I wait for Theo to catch up. He doesn’t look so pale. His eyes look brighter. It’s good for him to be outside like this, and running, and mucking around. He doesn’t do it enough. He’s too serious to play, usually. Takes himself too seriously.

  The shallow edge where the river runs against the sandy bank has frozen into ribbons of white lace.

  ‘Imagine,’ I say to Theo as he comes close up, ‘if it stayed cold long enough for the river to freeze solid! We could skate on the ice, like Hatty did.’

  ‘Hatty?’

  ‘You know, the girl in Tom’s Midnight Garden, who skates on the frozen river from Castleford all the way to Ely and Tom skates with her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’ Theo says.

  ‘Hah! And you call yourself a reader!’

  ‘Well, I have some things to catch up on, clearly.’ Theo puts his arms round me and hugs me tight. He rests his chin on the top of my head. I breathe in the musky smell of woollen coat; boy.

  ‘Shall we walk on to Binsey? Or back to town for breakfast?’ Theo asks.

  ‘Breakfast, please! Race you back to the bridge!’

  We go to our café on Holywell Street and afterwards I insist we go to the Darwin exhibition. I spend ages studying his notebook drawings of the Tree of Life. At one level, it’s simply an image of how everything is connected to everything else; how the whole of life comes from a single source. And it’s a metaphor, too: how if you mess with one part of the natural world, it puts it all out of sync. Like the honeybe
es.

  My mind’s whizzing. If everything is inter-connected, then what happens to anyone else is going to affect me. Like, what happened to Bridie . . . I have to care about it. And if I put that on a global scale, I have to face other uncomfortable truths. What happens to a street child in Brazil, or a family in Uganda or a teenager in Afghanistan . . . it all matters. I can’t stick my head in the sand and think it doesn’t concern me. After a while, my head begins to spin. I try to explain what I’m thinking to Theo.

  He shakes his head. ‘That way madness lies,’ he says. ‘If you are going to take on the suffering of the universe, Freya, you will go crazy. It’s too much to feel. Impossible. Overwhelming.’

  And yet I don’t feel like that. Not negative, or depressed. Quite the opposite: I feel life zinging along every nerve. I’m awake, alert, as if my eyes have opened to something so blindingly obvious I don’t know why everyone can’t see it.

  ‘If we’re all connected,’ I tell Theo, ‘we’re not just connected to the sad things that happen, but all the wonder and the beauty and the goodness, too! And there’s so much more of the good and beautiful things.’

  ‘When will you be coming back home?’ I ask Theo at the station when it’s time for me to go back.

  ‘Next week, or the one after.’

  ‘Will you all be at Home Farm for Christmas?’

  ‘Of course! You should come, too.’

  ‘Really? Could I? I’d love that so much!’

  What about Gabes? I push the thought away again.

  I can so easily imagine how different their family Christmas will be from mine. There would be loads of people, a huge delicious meal, talking and arguing and laughter. Fun. Whereas in our house, there will be my parents’ quiet, unspoken sadness, where every tiny thing reminds them how much they are missing Joe.

  It’s not that I don’t miss him too; I do. But I’ve got my own life now, here, and stretching ahead, and I refuse to spend every minute feeling sad, or thinking back to how things were. Joe would so hate that.

  I think about all this on the train home.

  Eighteen

  I fumble for my keys, open the front door. Silence. No one’s here. Again.

  I dump my bag in my room, fish out my creased and dirty clothes, take them with me back downstairs, and shove them in the washing machine. It strikes me how immaculate the house looks, as if no one actually lives here. No papers on the table, no crumbs anywhere, nothing lying around. Mum’s put all my things upstairs in my room. Is it because of the contrast with a student house, or because I’ve been thinking about the kitchen at Home Farm, that this hits me all over again?

  I wish Theo was here with me.

  I phone Miranda, but her mobile’s on answerphone. I text her instead, and when she doesn’t answer I phone her home.

  Her grumpy younger brother answers.

  ‘It’s Freya. Is Miranda there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When will she be back?’

  He grunts. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Tell her I called.’

  ‘OK.’ He puts down the phone.

  I feel even more lonely after that. I switch on the computer and fill the house with music. I make toast, and eat it in the sitting room. I read bits of the Sunday newspaper and leave the loose pages all over the floor. I write the postcards for Gramps and Evie, and another for Danny. I never phoned him back, I realise. I think carefully what to say. I tell him about the washed-up whale, and about the lighthouse being for sale. Love Freya, I write, and I add three kisses.

  My phone bleeps with a text message. But it’s from Theo, not Miranda.

  You are officially invited to Christmas dinner at Home Farm. Mum says hope you can come.

  Yes! I text back immediately. Thanks xx

  And he texts me back, just as fast:

  Take care, bright star.

  I stare at the words for ages, tingling with excitement. Bright star, like in the poem. I turn up the music, and dance over to the window.

  It’s dark outside already.

  Bit by bit, a familiar Sunday afternoon gloom begins to descend on me. Eventually, I draw all the curtains and turn on the lights. I go up to my room and check my notebook to see what homework I need to do before tomorrow. I open my Biology textbook and start to read the chapter for Monday’s class, but it’s hard to concentrate for long. I keep seeing Theo’s pale face, with his dark eyes, and the long fringe of dark hair. I can still smell his woollen coat, hear the echo of his voice reading poems. I think of how I held him while he cried.

  The car draws up outside. I listen to the slam of doors, and footsteps up the path. Mum turns her key in the lock, opens the front door and calls out, ‘Freya! You home?’

  I put down my book and walk slowly to the top of the stairs. ‘Where’ve you two been?’

  ‘Just lunch out. Did you have a good time, darling?’

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘I expected you to phone us for a lift home,’ Mum says.

  ‘No. It was fine.’

  Dad comes up behind Mum and puts his arms around her. She leans back against him, giggling softly. She’ll have had wine with her lunch. Just one glass makes her like that.

  I turn away. She’s not listening to me, really. It doesn’t matter that I’m not telling the truth.

  ‘They’ve invited me for Christmas dinner,’ I blurt out.

  ‘Oh!’ For a second, Mum goes pale. But Dad’s still holding her, and she recovers herself. ‘How . . . how kind of them to ask you.’

  ‘And I said yes,’ I add. I go back into my room quickly. I know I’ve hurt them, but I can’t bear to actually see it on their faces.

  I force myself to turn the page of my Biology book. Photosynthesis. I make myself read the words. Plain words, facts, science. I imagine a conversation with Theo. Intellect and rationality: sometimes they come in handy. You can’t be feeling all the time, whatever your poet Keats says.

  Mum brings me a cup of tea, later. She comes right in and sits on my bed. ‘Freya? It’s fine, about Christmas. I want you to know that. I understand, I really do. We need to do things differently. It’s a good thing. I’m glad for you.’

  ‘Really?’ I swivel round in my chair at the desk.

  She has tears in her eyes.

  I sit down next to her on the bed, put my arms round her. ‘Oh, Mum.’

  She burrows her head into my shoulder and hugs me tight.

  ‘I won’t go,’ I say. ‘Not if you are going to be so sad.’

  ‘No. I want you to. It’s just what you need. And it will make Dad and me think about what we really want to do, too. Joe wouldn’t want us all to be moping around.’ She puts on a smile for me. ‘It’s fine, darling. Really.’

  Miranda phones me at bedtime. She sounds furious. ‘Where have you been all weekend?’

  ‘I tried to phone you this afternoon,’ I say. ‘Didn’t your brother tell you?’

  ‘Never mind that. You had your phone switched off the whole of Saturday. Don’t deny it. And you certainly weren’t with Gabes.’

  I don’t speak.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me? Or what’s the point of us being friends? Come to think of it, Freya, there isn’t any point. I’ve had enough.’

  And that’s it. She’s gone.

  Nineteen

  ‘There you go. Uno cappuccino!’ Gabes says. We settle ourselves down at our usual table in the Boston café, next to the window, at the end of the college day.

  The door opens and Miranda comes in with Charlie and the rest of their crowd from Geography; she deliberately goes to sit at a different table.

  We’re still not speaking. It’s been four days: the longest time we’ve kept up being angry with each other ever, since we first became friends. I can tell she’s trying to listen in on my conversation with Gabes, though, from the way she’s sitting, half turned round in her chair. She’s not really paying attention to Charlie.

  ‘I hear you’re coming to ours for Christmas,’ Gabes
says. ‘Mum said.’

  I feel myself blushing.

  ‘I hear it was Theo’s idea,’ Gabes says.

  ‘Well. Yes. He asked me, when I saw him in Oxford.’

  ‘When you went to the Art school Open Day?’

  I nod. I feel terrible, lying to Gabes.

  Miranda glares at me and goes back to her conversation with Charlie. I’m praying she can’t hear my actual words.

  Gabes notices her too. ‘What’s up with her? You two fallen out?’

  I sigh. ‘Sort of.’

  He laughs. ‘Lovers’ tiff.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You and Miranda. The amount of time you two spend together! Though not so much, recently, I’ve noticed. You weren’t with her at the weekend.’

  ‘No.’ My heart sinks. Is he about to ask where I was? Any minute now and it’s all going to come out.

  ‘Is something wrong? You seem kind of nervous,’ Gabes says.

  I’m terrified that Miranda’s going to say something to Gabes right this minute. She’s standing up. But no, she’s just going to the counter to order drinks. She doesn’t say anything when she goes past us. Her bag bumps the back of my chair deliberately.

  Gabes pulls a face.

  ‘She’s in a mood with me,’ I say.

  ‘Obviously! What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, really. She’ll get over it. I hope.’ I change the subject quickly. ‘So, Christmas. You sure it’s OK?’

  ‘Course. The more the merrier: you know Maddie.’

  ‘I don’t mean her, I mean for you. It’s just that, well, my last few Christmases at home have been totally awful. Me being the only child. No Joe.’

  Gabes looks sympathetic. ‘I can imagine,’ he says. ‘And it’s usually fun at ours. Lots of people, anyway. You’ll have a good time.’ He’s silent for a while.

  I finish my coffee and spoon up the milky froth at the bottom of the cup.

  ‘I’ll hear whether I’ve got my place in London, soon.’ Gabes says.