Page 86 of The Truth About You and Me
Opposite us, a staircase climbs in a curve and splits across three different landings. I half expect them to start shifting like they belong in Hogwarts.
‘In the kitchen!’ a woman’s voice replies.
There is a sense of vertigo as I tread across the floor, as though everything in the house is leaning towards the cliff, to the sea. But as soon as I’m certain this house is going to fall into the ocean, I can feel the centre of gravity switch, pulling it back inland. It feels alive. Like it’s got its own thoughts and desires, its own instinct to protect.
I step into the kitchen, olive green cupboards, large wooden counters that look like they’ve been lifted straight from the beach below, all sporadic curves around the edges. In the centre, a large island, a hunk of wood that looks as though it’s still sunk deep into the cliff, as if the house has been built around it. The room smells of coffee, pastry and stewed apples.
At the far end there are huge double doors looking out to the darkening sky, and a table that could easily sit twelve, and where his family are all seated, looking over with expectant faces.
I misstep, Jack checks I’m OK, but it’s not the volume of his thoughts or the uneven flooring that has knocked me off balance. It’s like I’ve stepped on a paving slab that’s not fixed in place. Jack takes my hand without hesitation. Time doesn’t slow, it slackens. The anxiety deep in my chest unravels. His thoughts and love for his family ground me, yet unbalance me. Like I’m tapping into some deep sense of belonging that doesn’t belong to me.
I look to Jack. He’s smiling over at them, as they sit around the table.
Christ I hope they go easy on her.
You.
Sorry.
There is a tiny hint of nervousness from him, a judder in his words that climbs up my spine, but it’s not for himself, I realise, it’s for me.
He rests his hand gently over mine. His thoughts are becoming more distant, like he’s trying to calm himself, but his love for them is searing through my veins, blooming in my chest.
‘Maggie!’ Jack’s mum, the woman I recognise from the pictures on his wall, stands with a welcoming smile. She’s tall, blonde, elegant. ‘Goodness, you’re just as pretty as he described you! Hello, Jackson.’
‘Jackson?’ I question under my breath.
‘After Pollock. I was quite the finger painter apparently.’
He releases my hand.
There is a feeling of emptiness without his hand in mine. Like I’ve been walking around with a hole inside me that I didn’t know was there. Something hidden, or out of reach, like a memory in the corner of my mind.
‘Maggie!’ his father booms, rising from his seat. I swallow, step back. He looks like Jack, but more weathered: he could be cast as a sailor, all creases and broad shoulders, like he’s used to hurling lobster pots on board. His hair is grey, longer than Jack’s, wilder.
‘Mr Chadwick.’ I manage a smile. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’
He lets out a roaring laugh. ‘Mr Chadwick? Good Lord, that makes me feel like my great-uncle Rupert and Great-Uncle Rupert was a right tosser. Studied fruit flies.’ He shakes his head at Great-Uncle Rupert’s choice of job. ‘Tom, please. Good to meet you.Youdon’t study fruit flies, do you?’
‘I… no.’
‘Ignore him,’ Jack says rolling his eyes. ‘Dad thinks he’s hilarious.’
‘I am hilarious.’ He throws an arm around Jack’s head and knuckle-rubs his hair. ‘At least seventy per cent of the time!’ He releases Jack who straightens his hair. Tom settles himself back into the chair.
Jack begins introducing the others semi-circling the table. ‘This is my sister, Charl.’
‘Hi! You’re not at all what I was expecting!’ The redhead wearing bright-purple dungarees with a yellow ‘land girl’ tie in her hair grins at me.
‘Charl…’ Jack shakes his head.
‘What? She’s not! No sign of a wooden pole stuck right up her backside like your usual type.’
Charl is bursting with energy, eyes wide and brown, strong chin, kind.
‘Cool jacket. Lunch is almost ready.’ She gets up. ‘Shit. You can eat things made by other people, can’t you? I promise I’ll wash my hands.’
‘Yes, it’s…’ I begin.
