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‘I can barely use the Internet, Steph.’
‘Frankie!’ Steph all but chided her. ‘You, with your work, your fans – you should be! Do you have WhatsApp or Snapchat, at the very least?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Frankie. ‘Do I?’ And Steph laughed and laughed and said oh Frankie, you’re so funny.
Frankie looked at her phone and thought what’s the point of calling Peta – she’ll just say phone Mum.
‘Hello Mum – it’s me.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Frankie.’
‘I know.’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh – you know.’
‘It’s lovely here at the moment – we had rain but it’s just made everything lush.’
‘You said it never rains in Norfolk.’
Fill the pause. Just fill it.
‘My publishers want me down in London next week. For a couple of days and I was wondering –’
There was silence.
‘Might you be free? I’ll have everything organized. If you’d rather take the train I could collect you from King’s Lynn.’
‘The train?’
‘If you’d rather not drive.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I didn’t mean – I just.’
I just always say the wrong thing or I intend to say the right thing and it always comes out wrong.
‘I will come,’ her mother said. ‘Otherwise no doubt I won’t see my grandchildren this side of Christmas.’
So that was that.
Sometimes, Frankie told herself, you have to be grateful for your third choice. Her mother could come to Norfolk and pick holes in Frankie’s life while she’d be in London, in a triple-glazed hotel room. Glancing in the mirror, she conceded that Annabel was quite right – what was going on with her hair? It no longer bounced off her shoulders but seeped over them, like seaweed lanking over a boulder. She’d washed it yesterday and it was already lifeless. She couldn’t turn up at her publishers looking like this. She looked at her hands, they were dry. Jeans, shapeless T-shirt and trainers. This is what my kids see every day. I have to have my hair cut before my mother sees me.
* * *
As Frankie parked her car at Creake Abbey, she could almost hear Peta saying ah! now this is more like it. It ticked all her sister’s boxes. A short drive from Burnham Market, quietly set in rolling fields, old farm buildings in the grounds of a twelfth-century abbey had been tastefully renovated to house select lifestyle shops, a mouthwatering café and food hall, a monthly farmer’s market and even a smokehouse. Hitherto, Frankie had only visited to walk to the Abbey itself, loving the brooding melancholy of the skeletal structure, the way what was left of the church seemed to grow from the land as much as being buried by it. She saw Alice having an adventure here, places to hide, secrets to discover, trees to climb and hedgerows to explore.
The ruins of the Augustinian priory, but so much more – that’s what Peta would say and she’d head straight for the shops. She’d approve of Frankie’s choice of hairdresser; hip salon, skilled stylists, Aveda products and bare stone walls. Well here was Frankie today sitting with her hair hanging like twisted wet yarn around her face, no time to stroll around the ruins hoping Alice might pop up. The stylist combed and cut and chatted. Was Frankie just visiting, on holiday? Where was she from, what she was she planning on doing here in North Norfolk? It crushed her a little, she thought she might be recognizably native by now.
‘I’m a friend of Ruth?’ she said. ‘Ruth Ingram? She recommended you.’
‘Oh – so you live here?’
‘Nine months now – I live out Binham way,’ Frankie said as if being half an hour away was reason enough for the stylist not to know she was local.
‘Do you want your hair like Ruth’s?’
Frankie thought of Ruth’s immaculate ebony-glossed bob and she started to laugh. ‘My hair would never do that.’
‘Well, you don’t have to have a Ruth,’ the stylist said, her hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘But you needn’t look quite so mumsy.’
Sometimes, Frankie found it difficult to tell the difference between a compliment and an unintended insult.
Flipping through magazines, she found the lowbrow celebrity gossip and articles on improving her figure, her sex life, her family’s diet soothing in their inanity. One magazine proposed the power of saying Yes. Another, the thrill of saying No. She marvelled that this stuff was even published. If Alice had no story for her, perhaps Frankie could just scribble off 10 Steps to Sizzling Sex. Or, rather, Regaining Your Virginity if You Haven’t Had Sex in Three Years.
‘So you moved here with your family?’
‘Yes – last September.’
‘Does your husband work locally or go to London?’
‘I don’t have a husband,’ said Frankie. ‘I’m on my own.’
‘Oh I’m sorry.’
People often told Frankie they were sorry.
‘I hope you haven’t come to Norfolk looking for love!’
‘No. Not at all. Just for the lifestyle. And the sea. And the solitude.’
‘You know that expression seek and ye shall find? Well, in my experience, it’s the times when you aren’t looking that love finds you.’
Frankie thought about that, how people often hoped that love was on its way for her. ‘I’m happy as I am,’ she said. ‘I’m used to it. I’m too busy anyway for extra headaches in my life.’
‘But love isn’t a headache. Not when it’s what’s been missing.’
‘Nothing’s missing,’ she muttered. She glanced at her reflection and thought her fringe was way too short. She caught sight of the time. She’d have to forgo the blow-dry and rush away to school. No time to linger over the cheeses and meats, salads and delicacies in the food hall. It would have to be fish-finger sandwiches for supper. It didn’t matter about her fringe, she’d be late to pick up Annabel and everyone else would have gone.
‘What do you think, Buddy?’ Scott stood at the window which spanned side to side, ceiling to floor, one entire end of the room. In the soft silence of his home, he looked across to Mount Currie where the spike and march of the myriad firs made easy work of the steep climbs. Under his hand, the feel of his dog’s warm round head. It was his ritual before leaving – to fill his senses with the sights and sounds of home to tide himself over during his time away. ‘A good day to fly?’ Scott looked down and his brown dog looked up and they conversed silently for a moment or two. ‘I thought so too,’ Scott laughed.
‘Is Aaron on his way? You sure you’re not cutting it fine?’ Jenna said.
‘Stop worrying,’ Scott told her. ‘And anyway, I like to stand here awhile – I always do.’ He returned his gaze out over the vast valley.
‘I know – I’ve watched you over the years. Same spot, same view, different dog.’ She linked her arm through his and he kissed her forehead. They could see Shelley’s car snake up the steep serpentine drive to the house and noticed Aaron not far behind her.
‘Our own personal cab service,’ Scott said.
‘I’d do anything to drive my own car and be the lift-giver.’
Jenna’s light tone belied the deep emotion. There was not a lot Scott could say. He checked his watch. ‘Listen, Saturday the kids are coming up to use the studio.’
Jenna nodded. Scott mentored young musicians, forming and coaching bands that combined young talent from the white and Ĺíĺwat communities. ‘How’s it going with them?’
‘They’re good – but they think they’re better than they are. They just want to jam instead of work at it, practise. They get a little dumb – but hey, they’re kids.’
‘As long as they’re not smuggling in beer like the last lot.’
Scott had to laugh. ‘And there was I thinking that mentoring high-school kids would be all about the music.’
‘You love it really,’ Jenna said, nudging him. Shelley was walking towards the house. ‘See you next week – have a safe flight.’
With his hand back on his dog’s head, Scott watched Jenna leave, chat awhile with Aaron and say something that made his friend tip his head back and laugh at the sky. Then she waved and blew a kiss before climbing into Shelley’s car to head to work in Whistler.
Aaron loped up the steps and Buddy turned circles at the door, yowling with joy.
‘Yep,’ said Scott, ‘you get to hang out with Aaron while I’m gone.’
‘Beautiful day to fly,’ Aaron said, letting himself into the house and heading straight for the kettle and ground coffee.
‘Jenna says we’re running late.’
Aaron laughed, not so much at Jenna’s expense, just that he was always laughing. When Scott was a kid, a serious, reflective kid, Aaron’s laughter would physically rub off on him and he’d feel lighter about life and better about himself. Forty years on and Aaron still had that effect on Scott. That boy’s laughter could lift the tarnish off silver, Scott’s mother used to say.
‘We’re all fuelled up and ready to go. Took her out yesterday and treated her real good.’ Aaron licked his way seductively around the words as if his little Cessna was a woman.
‘It’s enough that you have my dog for me. I’m happy enough to drive to Vancouver. It’s no big deal. I always tell you.’
‘And deny Buddy here – the flying dog – his time up in the skies?’ Aaron shook his head and whistled long and slow. ‘You’re a cruel man, Scott Emerson. I always say it.’
‘You tool,’ said Scott.
‘Splaont,’ said Aaron, in his native tongue.
‘Don’t you go using your tribal insults on me, hoser,’ Scott laughed. ‘Anyways, did you just call me a skunk? Are you going to try and tell me the skunk is a heroic symbol for the Ĺíĺwat nation?’
Aaron just laughed. ‘You remember when we were kids and I’d teach you Úcwalmícwts words and have you believe they were compliments?’
‘Aaron, you made me tell your dad he was slícil – fish slime – and I thought I was telling him he was a mighty eagle.’ Scott took the cup of coffee Aaron had made him, thick enough to stand a teaspoon upright, and drank it down quickly. ‘Well, it’s a beautiful day to fly, so thank you.’
‘I’m not doing it for you, man – I’m doing it because I get to drive your truck and hang out with Buddy. Your truck cost more than my plane.’
In the air, with Buddy managing to fit on his lap, Scott looked down and around the landscape. Mount Currie, stately and benevolent today, like a wise old monarch surveying her kingdom. Pemberton and then Whistler – both glinting and self-contained, as if unaware that life also went on elsewhere. The ice fields and falls and meadows; the mercurial paths of the Lillooet, Elaho and Cheakamus rivers. All the blues and every green. Blue and green should never be seen, wasn’t that what his grandma said? What a load of bull Gramma, Scott thought. He looked at Aaron, grinning away, delighted to be flying him to Vancouver, choosing a circuitous route for the sheer joy of it. Birds might fly economically, with purpose, from A to B. Not Aaron. That was not the point of flight. Scott would still make his international flight with time to spare – so for the time being, why not just fly for the hell of it. It’s beautiful down there. Up here. Everywhere. Life doesn’t get much better than this.
* * *
Margaret Shaw could not guarantee what time she’d arrive and certainly she was not prepared to arrive before lunch. Actually, she arrived at her daughter’s at 11.00, which was a blessing and a curse. Frankie might make the earlier train but the house was still a mess and her mother greeted her with a sharp kiss and a raised eyebrow.
‘I did have a cleaner,’ Frankie said. ‘But she was a bit useless. So I’m looking for another.’
‘And you’re not doing it yourself in the interim?’ It seemed highly unlikely, to Margaret.
‘Actually – I am. With the children. I think it’s good for them to help. So we have our little timetable for an hour on Saturdays mornings.’
‘An hour?’
Frankie thought of Oscar Wilde. A handbag? It gave her a comforting private giggle. Margaret Shaw and Lady Augusta Bracknell. What a fabulous comedy of manners that would make. Who would play her mother? What a role! Her children thought their grandma to be lifted straight from the pages of a Roald Dahl story. When she was very little, Annabel had pointed to a Quentin Blake illustration of Aunt Spiker and said look! it’s Grandma!
‘Let me take your bags to your room. The kettle’s just boiled. I’ve written out everything – and been through it with the kids.’
‘Children.’
‘With the children.’ Frankie paused. ‘I’ve made supper for tonight and tomorrow night – that’s the snack drawer there. I’ve put Annabel’s fruit for school on the windowsill – there.’
‘You have labelled an apple?’
‘Well, the ki – children – put their fruit in a basket in the classroom. You see.’
‘I see.’
‘There’s Rich Tea for you. And real butter. And full milk.’ Frankie thought about what else what else what else. ‘Palmolive soap,’ she said quietly. ‘Vosene shampoo.’
‘Have you fixed that interminable draught in the bedroom?’
‘Yes,’ said Frankie. ‘I hope so. I put the electric blanket on your bed too.’
‘It’s May.’
‘It can get chilly in the evenings still. Here’s a map to Annabel’s school. And here’s Sam’s mobile-phone number.’
‘He has a mobile phone?’
‘For emergencies,’ Frankie lied. Actually, Frankie had bought Sam his phone because he desperately wanted one because everyone has one these days, Mum, everyone. However much she hated technology and couldn’t bear to see children obsessed by screens often at the expense of books, that her son could feel he was cool and that he belonged was something she yearned for him. Sam with his orthodontic braces and protruding ears and two left feet when it came to football.
‘I’d better go, Mum,’ she said. ‘Just call me, or have the kids-children call me, for the slightest thing.’ And she kissed her mother and gave her a squeeze if only to pre-empt Margaret from saying I raised two girls single-handedly, I’m sure I can cope with your offspring, Frankie.
* * *
Jenna needn’t have worried; Scott was at Vancouver airport with time enough to do a little work. He could have gone through to the lounge – they were flying him over business class – but the place he always favoured was right in the middle of the International terminal, in an amphitheatre of sorts dominated by the immense sculpture of The Spirit of Haida Gwaii, a vast jade-coloured bronze canoe filled with symbolic figures of First Nations legend. He sat on a lower tier and set his laptop up on his knees. Somehow, amidst the thrum of people in transit he could concentrate far better than in an airport lounge clogged with the conversations of self-important businessmen. He hadn’t checked his emails for a couple of days and ploughed through them, reading each carefully if only to answer them with his characteristic one or two spare sentences. His agent had emailed to say he needed to speak to him and it surprised Scott to see the missed calls on his phone from yesterday. Had he not checked it since then? He called him to apologize.
His relationship with his agent was a strong one stretching over almost two decades but the business side of his career bored Scott and he found himself listening to the sound of his agent’s voice rather the content of his words. For Scott, even in spoken tones, there was music to the human voice and just now, his agent talking combined with the rhythm of rush in the terminal. To his left, seated a tier up and in a world of their own, young lovers clung to each other, forehead to forehead, eyes transmitting the depth of their goodbye. To his right, his guitar. In his head, suddenly, an idea.
‘I have to go,’ he told his agent. ‘I need to work. I’ll call you from London.’
