Going Home

‘No, it makes sense,’ I said, because I’d been thinking that more and more often lately. ‘But you can come back any time. You know it’s always going to be here.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mike, darkly. ‘Your dad might sell it and move to a bungalow on the coast.’

‘Or form a nu-metal band,’ I said.

‘Or join the Rotary Club,’ Mike replied, jamming his trilby on his head and smiling.

‘Or the Steven Seagal fan club. Why did you meet David for a drink in New York?’ I asked suddenly, hoping to catch him off-guard.

‘Ah.’ Mike stopped and looked down at me. ‘Did Rosalie say something? I’ve met up with him a couple of times, actually. Since…er…you two…He’s a nice bloke.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said.

Mike corrected himself: ‘Sorry. He’s Satan’s master-worker, and I hope his eyeballs dry up, but that aside, he’s a pretty nice bloke.’

We were approaching the village. Mike patted my arm.

‘I’m sorry, Lizzy, my love, I should have told you but it isn’t a big deal. Look at it this way. He doesn’t have any friends, he’s been ostracized from normal society, so that’s why he doesn’t mind meeting up with me.’

I released Mike’s arm. ‘Does he ever ask about me?’

Mike looked alarmed, as if this was some kind of test and he didn’t know the answer. Then he said, slowly, ‘He’s mentioned you, but I’ve told him not to. He’s a great bloke in many ways, but he’s weak. The way he treated you…Bit crap, really. So we just don’t…Well – you know. It’s over, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Dear girl, have I said the wrong thing?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ I replied. ‘In fact you’ve said absolutely the right thing. Don’t worry.’

Mike was saved by Jess running past. ‘Come on, people,’ she called. ‘We’re nearly there – and it’s Sandringham time.’

Every year we play Sandringham Church, a game Jess invented when she was a teenager and obsessed with Hello!. We all pretend to be a different member of the Royal Family walking to church on Christmas morning, waving to the crowd of well-wishers, though to those who choose to wait outside in the freezing cold on Christmas Day to see Prince Edward I say, Think about what you’re doing and whether you need medical assistance.

Anyway, Mike is brilliant as Princess Anne, while I always get landed with someone totally duff. This year I’d got Sophie Rhys-Jones, Tom was Fergie, which is great (mad eyes, shunned by the others and sucking a finger as a toe-substitute), and Mum was an impressive Prince Philip, shouting at imaginary foreigners. We had to keep stopping to laugh and help Rosalie with her portrayal of Mrs Simpson (she offered).

The organ was playing and there was a buzz of excitement, and Mum, Dad and Kate paused to kiss people and chat. Tom, Jess and I grabbed two pews and watched our parents gesturing to Rosalie, smiling and explaining about Mike’s new wife as something they were all over the moon about. Rosalie was loving it all, you could tell the words ‘quaint’ and ‘cute’ were hovering on her lips as she gazed at the stone carvings, the little gargoyles above the arched windows and the pretty stained-glass picture of the flight into Egypt.

‘Is that Mary and Joseph?’ she asked, sitting next to me and pointing as the other grown-ups chatted in the aisle.

‘Who? Oh, yes, and that’s Jesus. They’re fleeing from Herod,’ I said, niftily disguising that almost all my Bible knowledge comes from The Usborne Illustrated Bible Stories. ‘Into Egypt.’

‘Praise be,’ said Rosalie, solemnly, bowing her head.

Kate had sat down and was tapping her watch crossly because the service was late starting and she hates that. It applies to all events in which she is participating but not the leader – church services, concerts and dinner parties.

A few seconds later the organ stopped, there was a shuffling sound, and it started up again, wheezing into ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. We stood up and sang as the choir shuffled down the aisle. As always, Silas Hitchin, the oldest member, brought up the rear, about fifteen feet behind the rest, singing a different carol – I think it was ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’.

Tom and I were convulsed with laughter and Mum turned to frown at us. I snatched my glove out of my pocket to shove it into my mouth, and the other sailed out to land in the pew behind.

Someone tapped my shoulder. ‘Disgraceful behaviour,’ a familiar voice said. ‘Here’s your glove.’

I look round and then blinked, to see if I was dreaming.

It was David. My David. David Eliot.

He was smiling at me, holding out my glove. I dropped my hymn book.

When I was eight I had nits and was sent home from school early to be deloused. It was horrible. I was one of only three culprits in my year so I was shunned. My parents had only just moved into Keeper House and I was new at the village school. My mother was accosted in the chemist, our doors were daubed with sheep’s blood and we had to move to a new home. Well, not exactly, but I felt like a leper and, worst of all, even after I was 100 per cent nit-free, I had to sit in assembly with a row of girls behind me and the gnawing fear that overly acrobatic lice might leap across the gap. Ever since I’ve had a thing about people sitting behind me, and now was no exception.

As the carol finished, I took my glove and sat down. The back of my neck felt cold, though the rest of me was hot and my heart felt as if it might burst out of my chest.

The vicar’s Christmas sermon might have been the calendar for the Barron Knights’ next UK tour: I have no memory of the rest of the service, except that I was seized with the desire to run screaming from the church and all the way home.

David Eliot was back. Why? When? How?

As we filed out, Chin hissed, ‘Is that David?’

‘Where?’ I asked casually.

‘Behind you! Leaving his pew! Kissing your mum and shaking hands with Mike! Looking gorgeous in a black coat! With—’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Shut up!’ I fingered the silky-thin tassels on my scarf, not wanting to look up. ‘Say something to me, pretend we’re having a great chat.’

‘Hahahahaha!’ said Chin, casting her eyes around the church, which was emptying rapidly. ‘Good one, Lizzy!’

I stared at her in despair. ‘God, you’re awful, aren’t you? Come on, he’s nearly outside. We can go now.’

Gavin, the vicar, was relatively young and trendy. As I passed into the porch I shook his hand and stopped to say hello. Chin drifted off to join the others. ‘It’s Lizzy, isn’t it? I’ve just seen your sister,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is. Happy Christmas, Gavin. That was a lovely service.’

Mrs Kenworthy from the choir brushed past. ‘Sorry, Lizzy. Just getting your uncle Mike a history-of-the-church pamphlet.’

‘Ah – for Rosalie, I suppose,’ I said.

‘Is that his new wife?’ Mrs Kenworthy didn’t sniff, but there was a degree of doubt in her voice.

‘Happy Christmas, Lizzy,’ said Gavin. ‘Well, I hear the carol singers weren’t the only visitors to Keeper House yesterday.’

Rosalie, in her pale pink cashmere coat, was standing nearby, talking politely to Mr Flood, who used to work the Earl of Laughton’s whacking great estate nearby. He’s retired now but must make an absolute fortune; he’s in every single documentary about old agricultural practices, life in a great house before the war, after the war, during the war, and in those village reminiscences that people publish. He’s even thought about getting an agent. The sight of this very old, hairy man grasping the cuffs of his too long shirt in his fists and waving them enthusiastically at the immaculate Rosalie was quite special, and I looked at Gavin, who is perceptive about these things.

‘You’ve met Rosalie, then?’ I said politely.

‘Yes,’ said Gavin, and I knew he understood it was a little strange for us all. ‘But it is the season to be jolly, isn’t it? And to welcome those without shelter into our homes,’ he added, his face pink with pleasure at the relevance of the Christmas message.

‘She’s got an apartment two blocks from Central Park,’ I told him. ‘I don’t call that being without shelter.’

‘People find shelter in different places,’ said Gavin. If he hadn’t been a vicar I might have punched him, but it’s the kind of thing vicars are supposed to say.

‘You’re right. Thanks, Gavin,’ I said.

A voice at my side said, ‘Hello, Lizzy.’

I searched desperately for Chin, and saw all of my family making their way to Uncle Tony’s grave, so I turned and looked up at him. David sodding Eliot, the man who had ripped out my heart and used it as a doormat. He was so tall – I always forgot that.

‘Hello, David,’ I said.

FIVE

‘Hello, Lizzy,’ he repeated.

It had been such a long time since I’d seen him properly that I’d forgotten little things about him – the tiny scar next to his mouth, the hollow at the base of his neck. How dark his eyes were. I’d tried to remember all this so many times since he’d left, tried so hard to picture what it would be like to have him standing in front of me, and now that he was I almost wanted to laugh with the strange, strange shock of it all.

‘Sparkling conversationalists, aren’t we?’ he said, gazing into my eyes. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine,’ I said, pulling myself together. ‘When did you get back?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘From where?’ Of course I knew the answer to this but I wanted to sound as if his movements weren’t of the slightest interest to me.

‘Still New York.’

‘Going well, is it?’

‘Yes, thanks. I’ve seen your uncle Mike a couple of times.’

‘Good,’ I said briskly. ‘Well, give my love to—’

‘So, you’ve met your new aunt,’ said David. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books, isn’t it?’

‘What did you think?’

‘I think she’s nice.’

‘Yes, well,’ I said, glad we were keeping the conversation afloat, ‘I’m not sure about her, but she likes Some Like It Hot, so she can’t be all bad.’

There was an awkward silence. Some Like It Hot was the film we had watched on the night before David left me. Sheesh, it’s a long story, I’ll get to it later.

Tumbleweeds rolled casually by and a church bell tolled mournfully (no, it really did, we were outside the church) David frowned and stared at the gravelled path. People were drifting away – I think. Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t involve talking about us.

‘How’s Miles? And your mum?’ I asked eventually.

‘Mum’s good, been working hard. Miles is fine, working hard too.’

All the rest of the Eliots were accountants, which I imagined must make for captivating exchanges around the family hearth.

‘They’re over there,’ he said, pointing towards the lychgate. Miles raised his hand in a gesture of greeting. I looked to where my family was standing, staring at us intently, making no attempt to pretend they were thinking solemn thoughts at my uncle’s graveside. Rosalie even waved at David.

Suddenly the spell was broken and I remembered that he’d left me at Heathrow last year on a beautiful spring day, promising to phone every day, to write letters, emails, texts, telegrams, poems, essays and doctorate papers about how much he loved me. I never considered that we might break up. I remembered how his lips felt when he kissed me.

But as I looked at the man who had kissed me with those lips, I remembered he was also the man who, before the first month of our separation was over, had slept with someone else, then dumped me by email. Turns out it’s not such a long story after all. Breezy, be breezier than a sea breeze, I told myself as a wave of enormous sadness washed over me. ‘Well, glad to hear all’s well.’ I wrapped my scarf round my neck. ‘Happy Christmas, David.’ I allowed myself one last glance at him as I turned away. A fat wood-pigeon was cooing loudly in the yew trees skirting the churchyard.

Abruptly, David reached out and grabbed my arm. ‘Tell Mike I’ll be in touch. How is he?’

‘Oh, you know, happy, successful, just closed a big deal, got married – so in quite a bad way, all in all,’ I said, with a feeble attempt at sarcasm.

‘I mean it. Tell him I’ll give him a call. There’s something I want to ask him.’ I felt the warmth of his hand on my arm. He looked at me intently and I could feel his breath on my cheek. ‘Don’t hate me, Lizzy,’ he said. ‘It’s not worth it any more.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ I whispered. ‘Let me go. I don’t want to see you again.’

He released me at once, then caught hold of my hand. ‘I’m sorry. I just – I want to tell you something. I want you to know—’

‘No, David,’ I said. My face flamed. ‘I don’t want to do this again.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘I talked to Miles about it yesterday and I’ve never understood why you wouldn’t give me another chance.’

‘What?’ I said. My throat seemed to be closing up.

‘I made a mistake, but…Come on, Lizzy, isn’t it time you stopped being Miss High and Mighty about it?’

‘How dare you?’

‘You always do this!’ David said, raising his voice. He swallowed hard, trying to bring himself under control. ‘It’s always you who’s the one who’s hurt, who has to be at the centre of attention. Did you ever think about how it affected me? I just hoped you weren’t as selfish as I thought you were. But you were. And you still are.’

Tears welled in my eyes, just as Kate and Alice Eliot appeared beside us. They greeted each other, in unison, as we glared at each other. ‘Well, I want to know something too,’ I said. ‘I want to know how you pulled Lisa in the first place. How soon was it after I’d gone? Or did you fix up a time to meet up for a quick fuck while I was still in the room?’ David’s mother looked totally shocked and she and Kate huddled together like the humble servants in Dangerous Liaisons, watching with trepidation from the sidelines.

‘I managed to persuade you, didn’t I?’ David said, eyes glittering with rage.

‘That’s true.’ I could have hit him. ‘But you certainly punished me for it, didn’t you?’

David was white with fury. I’d never seen him look like that at me or anyone else. He swallowed, took a step back, and said, in a much calmer voice, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I know I was wrong, but you were too. And since you’ll probably never understand what you did, perhaps it’s best we leave it at that. Bye, Lizzy.’

‘You always have to have the last word, don’t you?’ I couldn’t put my gloves on, my hands were shaking so badly. ‘I know you better than you think. Goodbye, David.’ (Please note this shows I, in fact, had the last word.)

As I walked towards Tony’s grave I could feel David’s eyes on my back, and had to cling to Kate’s arm to stop myself running back and either stabbing him with a nearby icicle or throwing myself into his arms. I couldn’t help it. I’d tried to stop feeling this way for nine months but suddenly the gates were open again and I felt totally miserable but incredibly happy because I’d seen him again.

I shook my head involuntarily and murmured, ‘No’ and Kate put her arm round me. ‘You are bonkers, aren’t you, darling? Never mind, we’re going home soon and you don’t have to see him ever again.’

‘I know,’ I said quietly. ‘But I want to.’ We were almost at Tony’s grave. ‘Was it ever like this with you two, Kate?’

Kate set her jaw in a firm line. ‘Erm – no.’ She bit her lip. ‘We were never apart from the moment we met.’ She smiled at the memory of the husband she had married when she was a slip of a girl and whom she had had every right to expect would be around for the rest of her life, not taken away from her when she wasn’t even thirty and had a small child.

I was horrified by my selfishness. ‘I’m so sorry, Kate,’ I said. ‘Forget about it – stupid David Eliot and his stupid bloody gorgeous eyes.’

She looked at me, perplexed, and kissed my cheek. ‘You are bonkers, you know.’

‘Conditions at base camp, the forty-eighth day after settling here by the graveside, are poor,’ intoned Tom. ‘Tom Walter had a simple wish, merely to visit his father’s grave. But he was to be plunged into a horrifyingly tedious wait that no modern Briton should be expected to endure. In freezing temperatures, he was forced to watch as his cousin flew into a strop with a tall dark stranger from her past and screamed obscenities in a way that brings shame not only on herself but also on her family and friends. Are Britain’s young women binge-drinking? Are they descending into a spiral of drink and drugs hell? Are they—’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Kate. ‘Come on, let’s get this over with.’

Since we were really only there to pay our respects and she was the one who’d brought the flowers, none of us was quite sure what to do next. There was a silence. Eventually Mike touched the headstone. ‘We miss you, old man. Happy Christmas.’

‘Happy Christmas,’ we murmured softly. Each year on Christmas morning, Mum and Kate unpick the wreath of holly, ivy and mistletoe that hangs over the front door at Keeper House, and make it into a bunch of greenery to lay on Uncle Tony’s grave. Now Kate picked it up from the grass where she’d left it and put it on the grave. ‘Happy Christmas, Tony,’ she whispered. Mike put his arm round her and kissed her hair. Tom’s head was bowed and his lips were moving, as if he was praying. Neither of us remembered his father – when Tony died, Tom was a barely toddling two-year-old – but the loss had affected us badly. I slid my arm through his, and we walked away from the grave.

The wind was biting cold and cut into our skin, but the sight of the house across the field, its windows glittering in the winter sun, was calming. Mum, Dad and Rosalie walked together, chatting quietly, while Mike strode along behind them, his arm round Kate, who occasionally laughed at him. Chin, Tom, Jess and I brought up the rear.

‘So, David Eliot, Lizzy,’ said Chin, and I could tell she was trying to take Tom’s mind off Uncle Tony’s grave.

‘Yes?’ I answered.

‘What were you talking about? It looked from where we were standing as if the two of you were about to fight.’

‘We almost did,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten how…’ passionate he was, I wanted to say, but that sounded so corny ‘…worked up he got about things. Weirdo. Idiot. Jeez.’

‘I don’t understand him,’ said Jess. ‘Why’s he so cross with you? He’s the one who slept with your friend, for God’s sake.’

‘I know!’

‘He broke your heart. You didn’t go out of the flat for a week and you wore those pyjama bottoms through in the bum,’ Tom chimed in. ‘He really has got a nerve, acting like you dumped him.’

I had trained myself to harden my heart against David after he’d sent me that email and since the terrible, short phone call when we’d decided to split up. I couldn’t think about him without sadness, so I tried not to think about him at all. Early on I used to dream about him every night, tortuously realistic dreams where none of it had happened, then wake up and cry because it wasn’t my real life. Then grit my teeth and get ready for work.

I’d just have to do that again now – forget how lovely he was, and how he had seemed generally perfect to me in the departments of height, looks, taste in things like films and TV and, finally, sex. I nodded at Tom, with tears in my eyes, cursing my selfishness and wishing I hadn’t seen David today of all days.

Then I remembered something I’d learned on a slightly dubious self-motivational course at work which is that whether or not you have a good day is mainly up to you. So, I would enjoy the rest of Christmas and not let this ruin it. I tugged some ivy off a tree next to the path. The leaves were green, glossy and thick. I twisted them into a little crown and put it on Tom’s head as we walked. ‘I hate men – except you, of course, Thomas.’

‘Thank you, Elizabeth.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Good grief, what is he doing?’

We were still a little way from the house, and as we caught up with the others we could see a smallish figure emerging from the front gate, trousers and hair flapping in the wind. It was Gibbo, and as we got nearer it became apparent he was carrying a tray loaded with glasses of champagne. ‘Happy Christmas, people!’ we heard him cry, as he came towards us. ‘Hurry up, it’s good stuff here and I don’t want to drop the tray.’

‘You crazy man,’ Chin shouted. ‘Put some proper shoes on! I can’t believe you’re wearing those horrible old flip-flops!’

‘Love me, love my thongs, woman,’ Gibbo said, as we reached him.

‘I think you might be a contender for the title of Greatest Living Australian, Gibbo,’ said Mike, as he took a glass. ‘Chin, I love your boyfriend, in an American, warm and fuzzy way.’

‘Me too,’ said Rosalie. ‘You’re a class act, Gibbo.’

‘Thanks, Rozzer.’ Gibbo handed her a flute. ‘Here you go – take one, Suze.’ I don’t think anyone’s called my mother ‘Suze’ since she was about fourteen. ‘Get stuck in, everyone. Lunch is totally under control – you don’t have to worry about a thing. I’ve been a bit experimental too, Suze, hope you don’t mind.’

I love Gibbo.

SIX

As we entered the house there was a warm reassuring smell of something good happening in the kitchen, and Mum breathed a sigh of relief. Despite her passion for experimentation, she’s still a megalomaniac when it comes to culinary matters. There was a brief but tense stand-off over ownership of the oven gloves (the kitchen equivalent of the remote control), but Gibbo emerged victorious and proceeded unchecked towards the Aga. Mum leaned against the doorframe, looking pale.

‘Come on, Suzy, finish off your champagne,’ said Kate, bustling in behind her. ‘Gibbo, do you need a hand?’

‘No, everything’s under control,’ said Gibbo. ‘No worries, go and relax.’

‘But I can’t!’ wailed my mother, grinding her teeth. ‘You’ve disenfranchised me. What shall I do?’

‘I can’t believe you’re a doctor and you’re allowed to be so irrational, Suze.’

‘You’re quite right,’ said my father, appearing behind me. ‘Come on, darling, you can be my helper. We’re going to hand out the presents in a minute.’

‘Do I get to wear the hat?’ asked Mum hopefully. ‘I’ll do it if I can wear the hat.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Dad, patting her shoulder like he used to pat our ancient Labrador, Jockey, towards the end when he was old and confused.

We always open our presents after church on Christmas morning, and Dad is always Santa, with Tom as his helper. Long ago our grandmother knitted Dad and Tom bright red bobble hats to wear as they were giving out the presents. Dad’s still has a white pompom, but Tom’s fell off ages ago, and they’re both rather lopsided and uneven because she was quite short-sighted when she made them.

I followed my parents into the sitting room, where Mike was on his knees lighting the fire, and watched my father trying to wedge Tom’s hat on Mum’s head. I wondered where its owner was. Tom was the only person I’d ever really talked to about David, and I wanted a debrief with him now.

‘Are you OK, darling?’ Mum asked.

‘Yep, thanks, Mum,’ I said. She snatched the better Santa hat away from Dad. ‘We should have realised David would be there, I’m sorry.’

I was outraged that they’d known David was back and had said nothing about it, but I merely smiled. ‘Mum, it’s fine. He didn’t kidnap and torture me, we split up. I can cope with seeing him for a few minutes each year, you know.’

‘Did—’ Mum began, but Dad tapped her shoulder and solemnly removed the Santa hat from her grasp.

I felt depressed. Both my parents had loved David, and neither of them understood why we split up, because I didn’t tell them. I think Mum had thought we’d have an emotional reunion by the gravestones. Well, yet again I was going to have to disappoint her. I went back towards the kitchen, looking for Tom. As I passed the study I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye and peered through the gap between the door and the frame, where the wood had warped. Rosalie was sitting at my father’s desk, still in her coat, with an open box file, scribbling notes furiously on a pad.