A Part of Me (15 page)

‘These walls are paint-eaters, buddy. Fresh plaster will suck the colour straight in. It’s too bad we hadn’t painted them a few times for you first, or your lines would’ve been sharper.’ The kid let his surprise show only for moment before disappearing again behind his scowl. The police officers looked at each other. ‘So where are your friends at?’ Rohan said, walking leisurely back into the kitchen, ‘They’re older, right? Faster on their feet than you, huh?’

‘The other kid made a run for it,’ the taller of the two male officers said. ‘This one’s bike is still outside, though,
so his mate’s probably back in Earleswicke by now if he’s on wheels too.’

Rohan looked at the two male offers. ‘There are
three
tags in there; three kids’ trademark graffiti. So that’s
two
kids who managed to give you the slip,’ he said, appraising the more portly police officer. The kid smiled at that until Rohan shot him another look. ‘I’ve seen your work on the back of my ramps out there,’ Rohan said, pointing his thumb at the kitchen windows. ‘You were hanging around here a few weeks back with a couple of bigger lads. They’re your crew, I take it?’

It was like we’d all just slipped into the
Twilight Zone
. The kid looked at Rohan and gave a feeble shrug.

‘Now would be a good time to name names, my little friend,’ the tubbier policeman contributed.

Rohan moved to stand in front of the boy. ‘You gonna turn your friends in, buddy?’ Rohan asked him. The kid said absolutely nothing.

‘Sure he will, when we start talking charges of breaking and entering, and criminal damage over with his parents,’ the taller officer added.

Rohan’s eyes didn’t leave the boy. ‘No he won’t,’ Rohan said to himself. The boy looked straight at him then.

A clattering from the front door knocker ricocheted through the mill. No one said a word at first, just waiting for either Rohan or the boy to break their stare-off.

Rohan shook his head, almost imperceptibly, then
straightened up from the kid. ‘Would you excuse me a minute?’ he asked to nobody in particular before heading back out of the room.

‘That’ll be my taxi,’ I said quietly to the officers, following Rohan off into the darkened hallway. I was a few paces behind him when he stopped suddenly and planted his arm across the hallway in front of me.

His voice was low and unyielding. ‘Disabled?’ I’d never heard one word hold so much, like a storm cloud about to burst with thunder.

‘Rohan, I—’

‘Good to know how you regard me.’

His comment, though justified, took me aback. ‘That’s not what I meant, I was struggling to speak coherently at the time.’

‘Why didn’t you call me, then? Instead of the police?’ he whispered heatedly.

‘I didn’t know they were kids! I was … frightened.’

‘And you didn’t think the disabled man would be any use? Incapable of keeping you safe?’

‘That’s not what I thought at all.’ Actually, his safety had been the snag.

‘Then what did you think exactly?’

The door knocker rapped again.

‘It was a quick decision, Rohan. No offence intended.’

‘This is
my
house, mine to defend. I was in the workshop and you didn’t call
me
?’ The light from the newly
graffitied lounge filtered through the darkness of the corridor towards us. I watched it pick out the edges of his features as he spoke, reaching like a new dawn across his jawline. He’d shaved. The hard line of his mouth unobscured. ‘I don’t need anyone to make my decisions for me,’ he said bitingly.

That caught me off guard too. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I snipped, trying to hold ground. ‘I didn’t decide anything for you!’ It was tiring constantly being on the back foot with this guy.

‘I’m not some invalid who can’t take care of his own home.’

‘
What
? That’s not how I look at you, at all!’

‘No? How about yesterday? Out back with Carter, it was how you looked at me then.’

The door knocked aggressively. Rohan turned and yanked it open to a short balding man in a denim jacket, ‘One minute, mate,’ he demanded.

I felt my eyes narrow. ‘You think that was
pity
?’ I said, steeling myself.

‘Wasn’t it?’

I shook my head and smiled coolly. ‘That wasn’t pity, Rohan. I was about to tell you it was your own stupid fault that you’d been stuck out there on your own in a field all afternoon.
You’re
the one who likes to play games! So don’t sound off at me when they backfire.’ Rohan seemed taken aback by my tone. I was too but it seemed to give me a second wind. ‘And while we’re on it, you’re missing
far more integral parts than your bloody leg, and I DO pity you for that!’

The look on the cabbie’s face said it. He was in the presence of a madwoman, one he probably didn’t want in his cab. I’d be on the dole by Wednesday.

I stood there like an idiot, not really sure what to say next. I hadn’t flounced out immediately after my rant, and so that ship had sailed. Now where was I? Marooned, that’s where, standing uselessly on my metaphorical pier with bugger all else to say.

I caught the cabbie trying to glance down at Rohan’s legs. Rohan was too choked with surprise at me to notice. Then, in the dimness of the mill’s entrance, he dared to start to smile. ‘Like what?’ he asked, his tone buoyed with amusement.

I tried to muster more annoyance, but it was already running out on me. ‘Like whatever it was that left that big chip on your shoulder,’ I said, trying to sound as mad as before. I saw another chance at a big exit, so I launched myself out of the door, storming straight past the cabbie, stopping for nothing until I got into his car.

I waited there, seething a little, for the driver to hurry up. He got in apprehensively after me, the car instantly filling with the smell of someone else’s home. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ he croaked drily. He was watching me in his mirror. ‘If looks could kill, eh? No wonder the coppers have turned up,’ he chortled.

We drove away from the mill, a pulsing of blue light
throbbing behind us, until finally we were out onto the road. I slunk into the seat, angling myself so that the driver couldn’t see my face, and spent the remainder of the journey trying to decide what it was exactly that was making me cry.

I
WASN’T BEING
a coward, not with a temperature of 39 and a head like a bag of spanners. Okay, so the Lemsip was precautionary, but I knew the onset of something flu-like when it leaked out of my nose.

Mum had left me this morning with two pearls of wisdom. The first, that a third of all sickies are thrown on a Monday, and the second, there wasn’t an influenza virus known to man that could stand up to Granny Sylvia’s chicken broth. She was detouring to the supermarket on the way home from school. She’d also said that despite my minor concerns regarding a potential brush with bird flu, she thought I was probably just run down, all things considered. I’d told James I didn’t want him to catch my bug, which had bought me a little more time here at Mum’s.

Phil had decided to bypass the statistical trivia, medicinal recipes and sympathy, and dive straight in with the accusation that actually I was being a coward, avoiding this afternoon’s office meeting alongside Sadie et al. She was half right, but the office had slipped to number two in this week’s chart of places-to-avoid-at-all-costs.

After a long soak in the tub, and an hour of brain-zapping daytime TV, I found myself flopping downstairs sulkily, shuffling straight to Mum’s biscuit jar. The green tyrannosaurus-feet slippers Sam had given her for her birthday were the only things that had taken the chill off my feet. I’d commandeered them for the day, shuffling back into the lounge with the free paper and a steady supply of Maryland cookies. If I was going down for a sick spell in the foreseeable, I was going down with double chocolate-chip.

I snuggled into the sofa and began flicking through the paper. The jobs pages were looking abysmally fruitless as predicted. There were a few part-time positions, and a handful of vacancies doing the ghost shift in a haulage depot. An ad asking for reliable and enthusiastic teenagers for paper-rounds. I wondered how many would apply for that. I couldn’t remember being very reliable, or enthusiastic, for most of my teens. I’d better hold off that letter of resignation. I flicked through to the property pages, drawing first blood on the Marylands. I popped a whole cookie straight in, which wasn’t very intelligent with a blocked nose. Even around the gasping I couldn’t taste it much, but it was still laden with calories so its comfort value hadn’t been negated.

I flicked a crumb off the paper in my lap and motioned straight past the modest two and three-bed semis to the killer properties at the back of the section.
Property porn
, James called it, but nosing through pictures of indoor
swimming pools and stable blocks was both gratifying and depressing, so I scanned back through the pages to some of the more realistic entries. I nearly lost the half chewed biscuit in my mouth when I saw the photo of the imposing Victorian town house. Stunned, I ran through the particulars beneath the Park Lane property. James had given our details to the local estate agents, stating our interest in the address. It needed work, but it would never have been in our price range otherwise.

My hand went automatically for my phone before the thought struck me – what would I say to James about it?
Look! Our Happily Ever After! When can we get the keys?
A heavy sinking feeling began to bed down. That property was like us, tired and unstable, its delicate potential to be cautiously managed. I lobbed the paper onto the floor and took my frustrations out on another biscuit.

Other than my crunching, the house was utterly quiet. I sent another cookie to meet its maker when a buzzing against my stomach made me jump. In addition to the places-to-avoid-at-all-costs, I also had a list of people-to-avoid-at-all-costs, and numero uno on that list was flashing on my screen.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t had forewarning.

‘Hey, Anna,’ I said stiffly.

‘Amy! Hi! How are you? It feels like I haven’t spoken to you for
ages
!’ I already felt clammy and I hadn’t even lied to her yet. ‘How was the holiday?’ she enthused.

Sod!
Had James given a destination? I hadn’t thought to ask him.

‘Good, thanks. Glad to be back into the swing of things, though,’ I said vaguely, trying to lead her away from the destination question.

‘You must be pooped! How was the party? Did you take lots of pics?’

‘Er … not
really
. We were mostly talking and …’

I quickly ran through the minor deceptions we’d laid out in front of her.
Holiday. Party. Happy solid relationship
. Yup, I think that was it.

‘You don’t sound over-well, Amy. Are you under the weather?’ If only she knew, it was highly plausible that I had my very own personal black cloud hovering a foot or so above my fuggy head.

‘Not feeling brilliant, unfortunately, Anna. Nothing my mum’s home cooking shouldn’t sort out though.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I won’t keep you then, but I think this will definitely lift your spirits. Now that you’ve got all your celebrating out of the way, I was calling to see if we can get together – I know you’re
dying
to hear about matching!’ she said, her elation pulling at something floating aimlessly inside my chest. ‘Could you both do the eleventh of May? It’s a week today?’ she asked chirpily.

‘A week today?’ I sniffed, trying not to sound like I had a coconut stuck up each nostril. ‘That sounds great. At your office?’ I asked, crossing my fingers.

‘No, I’ll come to you. You can show me what you’ve done with the nursery!’ she enthused. That thing that had been floating around inside me suddenly felt cast adrift again.

I looked down at myself miserably, and felt my head begin to spin. It could still be bird flu. A pressure was building behind my eye-sockets. I brought my hand up to sooth it, rubbing big circles over them and the bridge of my nose.

‘That sounds great,’ I said, trying to blot out what the next week was going to entail. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Great! Shall we say lunchtime again? Makes things a bit easier with your work schedule, yes?’

‘Yep. We’ll see you at twelve then!’ I said, mustering every drop of enthusiasm I had left in me. As if the cloud above me suddenly broke in my favour, Mum’s doorbell rang. ‘Oh, sorry Anna … I’ve been waiting for a delivery,’ I lied again, ‘that’s the doorbell now.’

‘That’s okay! More play equipment for the garden, I suppose?’ she laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell James you’ve been spending again, it’ll be our secret.’

I feigned a laugh. ‘Thanks, Anna. I’ll see you next week.’

‘Bye for now!’ she sang, hanging up the phone.

The doorbell rang again. I got up slowly so my head didn’t spin and immediately my nose started running. ‘Just a second,’ I croaked, fishing for the last scrunched-up Kleenex I’d shoved into my pocket.
I reached the door, considering for a second the state that was about to confront the poor postie, canvasser or feather-duster salesman I would open the door to, deciding quite quickly that I didn’t bloody care anyway.

I turned the latch.

He seemed taller in my mother’s doorway. Dark jeans sat over sturdy brown leather boots, a battered dark brown leather jacket gaping open over a snugly fitting black tee. It took a few seconds, but my fuggy brain confirmed that it was definitely Rohan Bywater standing there on my mother’s doorstep.

I looked him over, trying to make sense of him. He was holding a brown shoebox in one hand. In the other, a well-worn motorcycle helmet.

‘I was passing,’ he said, glancing back at the chrome and onyx-black motorcycle at the mouth of my mother’s drive. ‘Your friend Philippa stopped by my place this morning, said you were sick.’

‘Umm …’ I was getting fuggier by the minute. ‘What are you doing here? How did you know …?’

He began mimicking my frown and it threw me. A crooked smile moved over his lips. ‘Peace offering,’ he said, holding out the shoebox in his hand.

I tried not to look stupid. ‘A pair of trainers?’

Rohan smiled awkwardly. ‘It was the only box I had.’ He shrugged.

Okay. This was officially weird.

‘Would, you … like to come in?’ I shrugged gawkily.
Please say no. Please say no
.

‘Sure. Thanks,’ he said, moving past me in the doorway. I closed the door after him and we both stood for a few seconds in Mum’s open hallway, him in his James Dean get-up and me looking like a nothing that would feature in a James Dean flick.

‘Nice slippers,’ he said, beginning to smile. I was definitely going to need something stronger than Lemsip.

‘Um, come on in. The kitchen’s just through here,’ I managed, shuffling off in front of him.

I moved around Mum’s island unit to stand behind one of the pine chairs at the kitchen table and watched him follow me in, placing his helmet on the table and the shoebox down on the table top. He pushed the box over to me.

‘What is it?’ I asked, lifting the lid of the box.

Rohan rubbed his hand up the back of his head. ‘I’d like to say it looks like that because of the journey, but that’s how it came out of the oven. Pretty much,’ he said, a boyish smile reaching over his lips.

I took the bread tin from the shoebox and laid it carefully on Viv’s table.
‘SORR?’
I asked, reading the scruffy pastry lettering.

Rohan shifted onto one leg and laughed uncomfortably. ‘Carter’s idea,’ he apologised, shaking his head. ‘I think he ran out of pastry.’

I inspected the top of the loaf-shaped pie. ‘Or maybe
he ran out of room? So, this is
Carter’s
peace offering?’ I asked quizzically.

Rohan shifted back onto his other leg, scuffed hands braced over the back of one of Mum’s chairs.

‘Not from Carter, exactly. Carter was only on decoration detail because your girl Philippa kept insisting I show her around. I got it eighty per cent of the way, honest, then Cart took over.’

Rohan’s unease was nicely balancing out my burning need to run upstairs and slap some foundation on immediately.

‘For someone who doesn’t like being helped out, you sure do change the goalposts,’ I said bravely.

Rohan nodded, he was going to give me that one. Unceremoniously, my nose began running again. I rummaged around in my sleeve for my tissue.

‘I’m sorry I flew off the handle the other night,’ he said, a seriousness settling in his features. He leant away from the chair, against the edge of Mum’s Welsh dresser. ‘I know, I can be …’

‘Touchy?’ I was a lot braver in my mum’s house, it turned out.

‘If I blamed it on a dodgy upbringing, would that wash?’

I stopped swabbing my nostrils and thought about it. ‘No.’

Rohan nodded to himself again. ‘Didn’t think so.’ He laughed. ‘Look, there are guys on site asking me questions
I don’t know the answers to, and your friend Philippa scares me. So … if I promise to behave myself from now on, will you come back? When you’re better, I mean?’

He looked different somehow; it made me want to look at my feet.

‘What made you think I wasn’t coming back?’

His features grew solemn. It reminded me how he’d looked when the police had arrived. When he’d heard how I’d described him. Labelled him. ‘Call it a hunch.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t try calling you, Rohan, when the kids got into the mill. I never meant to offend you.’

Rohan’s honeyed eyes were still guarded. ‘So, you’ll come back and save me from your friend?’ he asked hopefully. I could only imagine what Phil had been up to. He smiled with me. ‘Want to seal the deal with a spoonful of rhubarb pie?’ he asked.

‘Rhubarb? From your place?’ I asked.

‘Carter said you liked it, so we saved you some.’ I didn’t know why he’d gone to the effort, or why I felt so gladdened by it, but I did. I turned away for the spoons in the drawer behind me.

‘You first,’ I said, passing one to him.

Rohan dug into what looked like a pretty respectable attempt at baking. For the first few chews, he’d kept an even face. I couldn’t taste a thing, but he didn’t have to know that. I nodded and smiled. ‘You’ll make a fine husband some day.’

Rohan’s eyes began to lose their smile as he chewed.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked, finishing my mouthful.

‘Are you okay?’ he choked.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, gawping uselessly from my side of the table. ‘Er, the bin’s in the island unit – under the sink,’ I said worriedly, passing him a sheet of kitchen towel. What could they have done between them to make rhubarb so offensive? I was instantly glad for my defective nose.

Rohan turned his back, discreetly ridding himself of what he could of the pie. ‘Too much ginger!’ he rasped. ‘Carter’s idea!’

I took a clean spoon from the drawer and dug another small spoonful. Come to think of it, my nose did feel a little breezier for eating it, maybe Carter had just stumbled across a super-food.

‘Did he use raw ginger?’ I asked, discovering something crunchier than rhubarb.

‘How can you keep eating it?’ Rohan asked, laughing. ‘My throat is on fire!’

It was true, there was a nice warm sensation in my throat too. ‘I think this might clear my cold!’ I said happily. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled, slipping out of his jacket. He hung it over the back of the chair. ‘You know, if your throat is fire-proofed, you should get a few hot toddies down you. Help clear you up. My foster dad always swore by anything that involved whiskey.’

I pulled the milk from the fridge and poured him out a
glassful. ‘And did he also advocate riding high-powered death traps?’ I asked, glancing at the motorbike helmet on the table.

Rohan sunk the drink I’d offered him, the sinews of his neck flexing as he swallowed. I waited patiently for him to finish. ‘He liked machines. Liked anything with nuts and bolts,’ he said, setting the glass down.

I passed him a piece of kitchen towel. ‘You have a, er … little milk moustache.’

Rohan laughed, his chin low against his chest as his face blossomed into warmth. I felt something stir in my chest as I watched his rise and fall in soft convulsion.

‘So he passed all that on, did he?’ I said, distracting myself. ‘Knowing your way around bikes, and nuts and bolts, I mean.’ I needed to go and get some decent clothes on.