Drawing with Light Read online

  ‘I ought to get back, soon,’ I tell Rachel when she finally wakes up. ‘I’ve got loads of work to finish today.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Perhaps she’s glad to get rid of me. The weekend has been unusually intense. Too many feelings swilling around. She’s seeing Luke later, in any case.

  I try phoning Dad, for a lift, but he doesn’t answer.

  Amanda gets the bus timetable out for me. ‘I wish I still had a car sometimes,’ she says. ‘Like now. I’d be able to take you back. Sorry, Em.’

  ‘Still, you’re helping save the planet!’ I say. ‘So it’s good, really.’

  She laughs. ‘Come again soon. And I meant it about Paris. Ask your dad if it’s OK by him.’

  They wave me off from the front-door step. Rachel’s still in her pink pyjamas. Amanda stands behind Rachel and puts her arms round her, and they rock slightly together. Mother and daughter. For the first time, looking at them so close together I notice a sort of twinge in me, a pang of something like regret.

  It’s spitting with rain by the time I get to the bus stop. I watch the way the wind whips the leaves off the silver-birch tree on the other side of the road: they whirl and dance, gold specks caught in spirals. It would make a good photograph. A car whizzes by too close to the kerb and splashes a puddle right up over my jeans. Finally, the bus turns up.

  The heater under the seat pumps out stale warm air over my sodden jeans. I smell like an old wet dog drying out. Luckily the bus is practically empty. I start wondering where Dad and Cassy are. Perhaps they were still in bed when I phoned. Or they’ve gone out somewhere for the day. I hope not. For some reason, I really want to see them. Want everything to be normal, and OK.

  Just before the bus gets to my stop, I’m looking out of the window when I glimpse Seb again. At least, I think it’s Seb. A boy in a black T-shirt, and shorts and trainers, long dark hair soaked to his head, running in the rain along the edge of the road. I clear a bigger space in the misted-up window, crane backwards to see: he veers off the road down a track by the bridge, down towards the river, and disappears.

  6

  It’s Friday before I can go to the house again. The place is heaving: workmen in yellow hats everywhere; a digger carving out a trench for pipes; and the whole building covered inside and out with scaffolding, so it looks like it’s in a horrible cage. Nick, Seb’s dad, is working on the roof.

  I lock my bike against the beech tree and walk across the field to the river, away from all the noise and mess. The water is pelting along. A duck trying to swim upriver keeps getting swept back down by the current. It gives up, eventually. I take a series of photographs of the water: I’m trying to do lots of different natural forms before I choose the theme for my project. We’ve got to tell Mr Ives next week what we’re doing. I take different angles: I want to get the texture of the moving water, and the metallic sheen where a thin shaft of sunlight hits it. I walk further along the bank away from the house and all the noise, and find a row of old willow trees twisted into interesting shapes, so I take photos of them, too and a bit of rusty old fence railing.

  The other side of the river, a dark figure is running in this direction. Black T-shirt, dark shorts. As he gets closer I can see his long hair, and this time I know for sure it’s Seb.

  He hasn’t seen me yet. His eyes are fixed on the path, dodging the mud and the puddles. I move out from the trees, and he looks up. For a second he breaks his rhythm, and then he gets back into it. I think he’s seen me, but he runs on, directly opposite me now across the river, and keeps on running. Once he’s passed, further away, I focus the camera lens on him, the blurred image of a figure in movement. Click. And again. Click. I check back at the sequence of photos I’ve just taken. Black and white, they’d look better. I take some more of the ducks, and then some other bird, that flaps noisily up from one of the trees. Moving images. Flight. They’re good, those last few pictures.

  I’m just about to go back to my bike when I hear footsteps thudding along and realise Seb’s coming along this side of the river. He must have gone all the way up to the bridge and then back.

  He slows down, checks his watch, stops. His forehead is beaded with sweat. Mud is splattered all over his legs and shoes. He grins. ‘Hello, you!’

  I take a step back. ‘You’re all wet!’

  He shakes his head, and his hair sends tiny droplets of water over me in a fine spray, like when a wet dog shakes.

  ‘Yuck! You did that on purpose!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Disgusting!’

  He pulls his hair back; his face looks much thinner like that. High cheekbones, deep brown eyes. Stubble along his chin.

  ‘So, you’re not working on the house today?’ I say.

  ‘Very observant. Not today, not any day.’

  ‘Why? What’s happened?’

  He looks down for just a second, as if he’s ever so slightly embarrassed to tell me. ‘He was getting on my nerves. Dad. Criticising all the time. He’s never satisfied. We had an argument. So I packed it in. He went ballistic. Usual stuff.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why should you be sorry?’

  It’s my turn to look embarrassed. ‘Never mind.’

  I can’t tell him I’m sorry because it means I won’t see him when I visit the house, can I?

  I watch that stupid duck trying to swim up the river. I look at Seb again. ‘So, what are you doing now?’

  ‘Running. Obviously.’

  ‘For work, I meant.’

  He shrugs. ‘Nothing. Something will turn up. Or not.’

  He looks at the camera. ‘More photos? School work?’

  ‘Yes. So?’ I know I sound defensive, but I hate that tone in his voice. At least I’m doing something constructive with my life.

  We stand awkwardly side by side. In the distance, the digger roars and revs.

  ‘They’re getting on with it fast now all right,’ Seb says.

  ‘I liked it better, before. Now it’s all noise and mess.’

  Seb starts hopping from foot to foot. ‘Got to keep moving.’

  ‘Sorry. Go on, then.’

  ‘It’s OK. I mean, I chose to stop. When I saw you. I’ve done an hour, already. I’m going back home now, anyway.’

  My face goes hot. ‘So, what else are you doing, apart from running? Now you’re not working?’

  ‘Nothing much. Driving lessons. Films. Reading.’

  I don’t mean to look surprised, but he obviously notices something.

  ‘You don’t have to be at school to read, you know.’

  ‘I know that.’ Most people I know at school hardly read anything at all. Even people doing English with me, which is weird. But Seb? Running. Reading. I clearly don’t know the first thing about him.

  ‘Why aren’t you at school, though?’ I ask. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen. No point. Hated exams, useless at them. It’s all exams. There isn’t anything else.’

  ‘That’s so not true! There’s friends, and fun and stuff –’

  ‘Fine. You don’t need school for that, though. And it ought to be about learning, but it isn’t really. People are just going through the motions. Just the little bit they need to pass exams. Then they can go to university. Pass some more exams. Get a job with a salary. Get some ridiculous mortgage. Work till they die.’

  ‘You make it all sound horrible. But I like what I’m doing. My subjects, and seeing my friends. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing. It just doesn’t suit me. Hate sitting down. Hate being inside all day. Being told when I’ve got to do things. Someone else bossing me about.’

  ‘What do you like, then? If you hate all that so much? What’s the alternative?’

  ‘Playing music. Running. Sleeping. Thinking. Making stuff.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘This and that. With wood. Carpentry. Stone carving. I like that.’

  ‘Except not with your dad.’

&nbs
p; ‘Not every day. Not nine till five. Not with him giving me the most boring, easy job and then telling me I’m doing it wrong all the time. Or too slowly. Calling me a loser, just because I don’t want to do some stupid job for less than the minimum wage.’

  It starts to rain again. I watch the raindrops hit the river water, making silver thimbles on the surface.

  ‘I’m going to get running again,’ Seb says, ‘before I freeze up. See you again.’ He touches my arm, ever so lightly.

  It takes me completely by surprise.

  ‘I didn’t mean to sound so harsh,’ he says. ‘It’s just, like with my dad and that.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘I know. I understand.’

  I watch him as he runs back the way he’s just come, towards the bridge again. I’m already wet through; staying a bit longer isn’t going to make any difference. My arm seems to burn where his hand was, fizzing with energy. I put my other hand against it, to keep the feel of it there as long as possible. I wait till he’s run past on the other riverbank, and then I walk back over the wet grass to my bike, and cycle home.

  Cassy slams the door and collapses in an exhausted heap on the sofa, still wearing her coat.

  ‘What’s the matter, Cass?’

  ‘I’m wiped out, that’s what. Having to walk down the lane in the rain is the final straw.’

  ‘I thought Dad was giving you a lift?’

  ‘He had site visits. Said he’d be late again, and I couldn’t bear waiting any longer in the library.’

  ‘I’ll make supper, shall I?’

  ‘You’re such a love!’ Cassy flicks on the telly. She watches a bit of the news, then flips channels again. She looks too pale, as if she’s going down with flu or something.

  ‘Take your wet things off, Cass!’ I put on a pan for pasta. Find a jar of sauce in the cupboard. I throw together a salad from bits and pieces in the fridge. By the time it’s all ready, Cassy’s asleep. I turn everything off; it will wait. The caravan is steamy from the damp clothes drying off, and the cooking. The windows are running with condensation.

  Dad finally comes in at seven. ‘Hey, kitten!’ He kisses the top of Cassy’s head. ‘All right, Em?’

  ‘You’re late,’ I say. ‘Supper’s cold.’ I heat up the sauce again and stir it into the pasta. I ladle it out into bowls and carry them over to the table.

  ‘How was your day?’ Dad asks me. ‘Do anything interesting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How’s it all coming along? Keeping on top of your school work?’

  ‘It’s all fine, Dad.’

  ‘You know how important it is. I was chatting to one of the stonemason chaps, at the house. His son’s about your age. Just drifting along, not doing anything. He’s a bright enough lad. But no sticking power.’

  Cassy stretches and yawns. She takes her bowl back to the sofa to eat. ‘Expect he just hasn’t found the right thing yet,’ she says. ‘It takes some people longer than others, to find the right path. And some of us never do!’

  I zone out while she goes on about her work at the library, and her friend Anita who wants to be a writer but never actually writes anything.

  ‘Dad?’ I say. ‘Rachel’s mum’s going to take me and Rachel to Paris. She said to ask you.’

  Dad glances at Cassy. ‘Well,’ he says, slowly.

  ‘She’s going to pay for it all,’ I say. ‘Everything except for spending money. So me and Rach are going to get jobs at Christmas. Then I can afford driving lessons too.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Dad says. ‘For a start, Rachel’s mother hasn’t got the money to pay for you. It isn’t right. And we’ve got huge expenses with the house renovation, and there’s Kat to support, remember . . . It’s not a good time, Emily. Your first exams are only just round the corner, in January. I don’t want you taking on a job.’

  ‘Just typical! ’ I dump my empty bowl in the sink so it clatters loudly.

  What I’d really like to do is flounce off into my room and slam the door. But it’s freezing in there, and you can’t slam a flimsy MDF partition, not so it makes a loud bang like a proper wooden door.

  ‘We’ll think about it,’ Dad says.

  Right.

  ‘Got homework?’ Cassy asks.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You have the table, then. I’ll stay on the sofa and read. Rob can wash up, yes? For a change!’

  The room seems smaller than ever, filled up with my bad mood. Soon as he’s finished crashing pots and pans around in the stupid kitchenette, Dad comes back in. ‘Want to go for a quick drink, Cass? At the Crown?’

  ‘Not tonight, babe. You go. I’m too tired.’

  Once he’s gone, my mood shifts a bit. I show Cassy my photos, and she says she likes them, and how clever I am.

  ‘I’ll get round your dad, about Paris,’ she says. ‘Give us a week or two.’

  ‘And about the job?’

  ‘That too. It’d be good for you. Somewhere else to go at the weekend.’

  ‘Thanks, Cassy.’

  We go to bed early. It’s warmer under the duvet. I listen to Cassy sorting out the fold-down sofa bed. She watches telly till Dad gets back at eleven.

  It’s the pits, living in this tiny space. It’s going to drive us all crazy.

  When I close my eyes, I let myself imagine our real house, finished. Those solid stone walls and big rooms and tall, beautiful windows. Under-floor heating. Huge, proper bathrooms. My own room under the roof. Acres of space.

  Another thought bubbles up.

  Francesca. Another house, somewhere a long way off. A house that I haven’t seen and can’t possibly imagine. But it’s out there somewhere, for real, and Francesca is living in it. My mother, living her parallel life.

  7

  ‘When developing negatives, the film must be kept in complete darkness until the fixer is added. It can still be affected by the red “safe light”, so it is placed in a light-proof bag before being extracted from the film canister . . .’

  Rachel reads my notes out loud. She hasn’t written hers up yet. We’ve been learning how to use cameras with film, as well as digital, and how to develop our own negatives (black and white). I love the magic of watching images slowly appearing on the strips, and how everything is the opposite of what you’d expect: dark where it will eventually be light.

  My trees, and the river sequence, and the birds in flight have come out well.

  ‘What’s this one?’ Rachel holds up the black and white photo of a blurred figure.

  ‘I’m experimenting with movement,’ I say. ‘That’s someone running along the riverbank.’

  She peers at it more closely. ‘Who, exactly?’

  ‘Just some random person!’ Why do I lie, exactly? I’m not sure; perhaps because of the way Rachel doesn’t let things go. Or because it’s such an early stage of me knowing Seb, it feels special and secret. There’s nothing for her to get hold of in any case. Not like her and Luke, practically an item now.

  Mrs Almond is taking this lesson, not Mr Ives. She’s going round the tables, checking our themes for the AS-project coursework. She flips through my notebook, and then picks up the pile of new photos I’ve just developed and checks through them.

  ‘Lots of good work here, Emily.’ She smiles at me. ‘You’ve done well to keep your project log up to date too. Some people,’ she looks at Rachel, ‘would do well to take a leaf out of your book.’

  Rachel sighs dramatically. ‘What kind of a mate are you? Showing me up all the time.’

  ‘The trees are particularly interesting, technically speaking,’ Mrs Almond says. ‘They’d make a good study. Those silver-birch trunks, the willows and the back-lit beech tree. Stunning compositions. And perhaps you could contrast them with trees in more urban settings. Have a look at the work done by photographers like Graham – he’s Canadian. And Adams, of course. You need to show the examiners you’ve researched the field. And find your own emotional connection to the material. Your original �
�take” on it.’

  ‘How can they expect us to be original?’ Rachel grumbles. ‘We’ve only been doing Photography for about ten weeks!’

  I spread out my new pictures over the table. I rearrange them, in date order of taking them. I think about doing a series of time-lapse studies: one tree, over a whole day. Or I might go back at the same time each week, from now till Christmas, and see how the light changes, and the tree too: the leaves will all have fallen by then. But what’s my own connection to the material, like Mrs Almond said? The emotional link?

  I work at it.

  I suppose the beech tree is special because it’s right next to our new house, and because it is so huge and beautiful. The birches, I just liked the look of, the way the slender trunks made silver lines, almost an abstract pattern. But there’s a poem too, about birches, we read in English last summer, which I love. And Dad used to read me a poem about stopping in woods, in the snow . . . Perhaps I could cut out bits of poems about trees, and use words in some way, with the photos?

  Later, waiting at the bus stop at the end of the school day, I’m still getting ideas. I’m looking at the line of sycamore trees up the school drive and that makes me think about their seeds: sycamore keys, that hang in bunches in the summer. There were sycamore trees next to the primary school and when we were in Year Three or Four we used to take the seeds and stick them on our noses and pretend to be dinosaurs.

  I start remembering other things: Kat and me, making a den under an oak tree in some woods near the house we lived in when I was about nine. We piled logs up against the trunk, and wove bracken in and out like a lattice, and sat inside in the dry, listening to the patter of rain on leaves and felt happy and safe . . . Now I start thinking about it, trees have always been special to me.

  I’m so busy daydreaming I don’t see him till I’m actually stepping on to the bus: Seb, waving at me to join him on the seat at the back. I’m so taken by surprise I go and sit down right next to him, and before I can stop myself I’ve blurted out: ‘What are you doing here? Can’t keep bumping into you like this!’

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth I’m thinking how stupid and clichéd I sound. But he doesn’t make a sarky comment or even give me his usual ironic look.