Page 50 of The Promise of Tomorrow
‘Well done,’ said Rory. He got up. Crouched by Tahoor’s side. Took his hand. ‘You must feel lonely. That’s how my dad felt after we lost Mum, even though I was around. Things will improve, I promise.’
Tahoor wiped his eyes. ‘Elena said the same. Thanks, lad. You two youngsters have given me the push I needed. Now I’ve got a sense of… hope, for the future. I think I was waiting for some magical moment when I’d suddenly get over her death. But it doesn’t work like that.’
They chatted a while longer and then Rory left, after giving Tahoor a hug. Not wanting to wake up Elena, he tip-toed up to the spare room after bolting the front door. She’d never left a note out before asking him to do that. After getting changed and cleaning his teeth, Rory sank into the bedclothes and an uncomfortable sensation rose in his chest.
He picked up his journal.
Wednesday 11th December
I realised in Paris that I’ve been holding back from committing to a relationship, because I didn’t want to get hurt like Dad did, when Mum died. Tonight with Tahoor has confirmed that. Like him, I’ve also been waiting for some magical moment when I’d get over Mum’s death. Perhaps grief is like that for everyone, a song you sing that never ends;there’s always a different verse to add. When death first happens, you assume the song is already written. It’s not. The lyrics, the music, for my song about Mum, started off soft, when I was a toddler. They became angry and wild during the teen years, when I felt sorry for Dad and envied friends with mothers at parents’ evenings; when I found out exactly why she died and blamed myself. During my twenties, the tune has settled into a routine, me visiting Mum’s grave, me avoiding emotional intimacy with partners; a tune that’s become background music – weak, in a way, without direction. It just goes on and on and on. Whereas I can see Dad’s song has grown in recent years, in strength, in vibrancy, as he’s trusted romance again and now found his long-term girlfriend, Jenny. It’s reached an end point of acceptance and harmony, the baseline of which is everlasting love for his Linda. She’s there, always there, but not in a way that holds him back. His song is solid, everlasting, but the volume’s turned down.
Chatting to Gayle told me more about Elena… How safety-conscious she was as a child, a child who liked routine, a child like an adult in so many ways… Perhaps she’d grown up quickly, what with being bullied. My neighbour, Julian, had a difficult childhood and had to grow up quickly too. He loved his mum but she was domineered by his dad, who teased Julian about his gap teeth and said working with animals was a cop out, and who was generous with his fists when Julian tried to protect his mum. I never knew mine, but Dad always did his best to support me like two parents would have.
Okay. In case I’m losing your attention with my musical metaphors and reflection on my childhood, I’ll share some figures.
1 tank arrived for the stick insects – it’s huge! 45 x 45 x 60cm. But as Elena pointed out, it’s nowhere near as big as arainforest. She’d also ordered a special substrate for the floor and a little rope bridge, along with a guide on how best to look after stick insects. Her excitement was contagious and I wanted to wrap her in my arms as she chatted about Brandy and Snap’s new home, to feel her breath on my neck, to run my fingers along the curve of her hip and… I need to keep those dreams in check.
30 minutes is how long Elena disappeared for last night. One moment she was in her bedroom, the next she was gone. I’d knocked on her door when I got back from surveying the building work at my apartment to see if she wanted a drink, as I’d put the kettle on. She’d been on the landing, heading for her room, when I’d got in and took off my coat. But there was no response, even after I knocked harder. 30 minutes later, the landing floorboards creaked and I opened my bedroom door. Elena stood stock still, as if she shouldn’t have been there, and mumbled some excuse about having been downstairs to fetch a drink of water. But if that had been the case, surely she’d have brought a glass back up?
32
ELENA
Elena sat at her desk, lost in the romance of Jane Austen’sPersuasion. She couldn’t help picturing Rory in a cravat and tailored Regency jacket and trousers, floral of course, further enhanced by his unique charisma. Gary and Rory stood opposite her, arguing over which was more impressive – to have been scouted to model in Paris or have a Spanish boyfriend who’d once cooked for Taylor Swift.
She sipped coffee and her phone beeped. An email from Jimmy Fletcher! It’d been several days, and she’d almost given up on getting a reply to her short message saying she was trying to track down a fortune teller from 2004. There was no reason why he should help. As Gary and Rory continued to argue their cases, Elena put down her book and read it.
Hello Elena. The fortune teller was called Morag. I remember her well! She was Scottish. But I gave up the fair when my arthritis got bad about seven years ago, and didn’t keep in touch with everyone. I never did like computers – my wife makes me have this email and, back in the day, I hired acompany to set up my old, basic website. I didn’t have the enthusiasm to edit it myself, therefore details showcasing the stallholders, for example, were never put online. I used to work out the figures for my tax return manually and send them to my accountant. I have kept the paperwork. You’re welcome to drop by and look through the boxes yourself – there’s a stack of them in the outhouse. Sorry, I’m not up to it. There should be copies of the invoices I sent the stallholders, for their pitches. Your email sounded as if it’s important. I live a few miles outside Liverpool. Best, Jimmy
Singing ‘Shake It Off’ out of tune, Gary went back to his desk. Elena held up her phone. Rory read it and gave the thumbs up. He insisted on going with her. She wholeheartedly thanked him. If only Elena could show her gratitude with a long, lingering kiss that wouldn’t be out of place in any Regency romance. With a little over a week to her birthday, she’d emailed back and asked Jimmy if there was any way she could make the journey from Manchester today.
Relieved he’d said yes, she drove whilst Rory told her he’d called in on Tahoor last night and that he seemed to be doing better and had even started sorting through Isha’s clothes. Rory didn’t seem as fired up as normal though while talking about his latest sport activity. Yes, the whitewater kayaking was tiring. No, he’d hadn’t swallowed too much water when his kayak upturned. The last time he’d been, Rory had come into the office, full of excited bluster, explaining how the river rapids were graded like ski runs and that he was still on a high from the exhilaration. Instead he talked about their visit to Gayle.
‘So, as a child you were super-sensible? Like you are now? Checking windows and the hob… They were the last things on my mind as a little boy. In fact, I haven’t changed much. I left the heating on once, twenty-four seven, when I was away on a week’s trip. It cost a small fortune.’
‘It’s just the way I am. Gran was very particular about things. She’d say, “It costs you nothing to double-check.” She’d been burgled twice and suffered a chip pan fire once. Perhaps that was why.’
Rory stared at her intently. In so many ways the two of them really were so different.
They pulled up outside a small bungalow and Elena got out, a very fine layer of snow crisp under her feet. It had only fallen lightly again today, and hadn’t settled until the temperature went below freezing, when the sun disappeared. Having double-checked she’d locked the car. Elena surveyed Jimmy’s lawn that was perfectly square with neat borders, filled with lines of shrubs. A lit-up reindeer stood in the middle of the lawn. The full moon revealed that the tiled roof was free from moss and the plastic, white front door was spotless, with a Christmas wreath tied to the knocker. Across the front of the bungalow hung twinkling fairy lights. Elena couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She’d imagined that the owner of a touring fair lived a ramshackle, bohemian life that every person, trapped in suburbia, secretly envied. She knocked and waited several minutes before the door finally opened. A man smiled at them, bald with a face deep with wrinkles and tanned, giving away the number of years he’d spent outside. His body leaned to the right and his misshapen fingers displayed the damage done by his arthritis.
‘Jimmy? Thanks so much for seeing me so quickly,’ said Elena. ‘I do hope my visit isn’t too much of an inconvenience.’
He smiled to reveal pearly dentures. ‘Not at all. My Val is out, she goes to the Bingo on a Thursday, but she made a flask of tea for us before she went, and has left out three mince pies. My hands aren’t so good in this weather and the kettle’s heavy.’
‘This is my friend, Rory,’ said Elena. ‘I hope you don’t mind if he helps.’
‘Good to meet you, lad. Come on in, it’s Baltic out there.’ Jimmy beckoned for them to enter and Rory shut the front door behind him. Limping, he led the way to the back of the house and the small kitchen, as tidy as the front garden. The only indication of Jimmy’s past was a framed photo of him in the hallway with his arms around two men in front of the carousel.
Jimmy rubbed his hip and then pointed out of the window. ‘See the outhouse at the bottom of the garden? Val unlocked it before she left. When you go in, there’s a light switch on the left. The cardboard boxes you need to sift through are in there. I accidentally threw one out a couple of years ago. I was sorting through, only keeping the records from the last five years of the fair running. Morag didn’t attend every one, so what with that and losing some of the paperwork, I can’t promise you’ll find what you want.’ He passed them the flask. ‘I’d suggest we have a drink together first, but you’d better crack on, as it could take a while. I always did like setting up shop on Bridgwich Common. It was a shame when property developers bought it. Morag had something to say about that.’ He grinned.
‘You said you remember her well?’ said Elena.
‘Quite a character but sound as a pound. Very no nonsense. She used to camp out at some of the locations, instead of booking a B&B if it was far from her home. Even in the middle of winter, can you believe?’
Yes, more than he’d ever imagine.
‘Morag didn’t rate technology – hadn’t got a mobile phone, let alone a laptop. It was nothing to do with saving money. She used to get cross when people accused her of being that money-pinching Scottish stereotype. It was more a case of believing in simple living. Apparently she grew her own fruit and vegetablesand bought her clobber from charity shops.’ He leant against a kitchen unit. ‘One year, towards the end, I had to cancel the first week of the fair at a location on the outskirts of Sheffield, at the last minute, as one of the worst storms the area had ever seen was due to hit. The ground would have been too muddy even if the storm passed quickly. Morag was the most difficult to contact. There had been bad weather in Scotland too and her landline was down. She’d given me the email address of a neighbour who kindly agreed to Morag giving it out to a few people for emergencies, but I didn’t hear back until it was too late and Morag had already left.’
