The Twist in the Branch Read online

  That would be the easy part. That would be the part that might just be possible, the part that still exists, hanging there half-living, half-dead, somewhere in the distance. But there would be so much more, and that’s the thing that hurts; twists in my guts. I wish I could cut it out like a tumour, but I can’t. The impossible thing.

  If I could change anything I would take away the cancer that ate my nan, and the broken heart that took my grandfather. If I could change anything, I would bring him back – my dad. More than anything.

  I’d listen to him when he told me some boring piece of information. I’d look up when he came in through the door. I’d notice what was written on his face. I’d ask.

  If I could change anything, my name would be Sarah or Katie or Emily, not Sephone. If I could change anything, I would not be me.

  5

  WEEKENDS ARE THE HARDEST here. Nowhere to escape. The time when I have to stop myself thinking about why the hell we came here. When it’s easy to get lost in the landscape of your own mind. No-one tells you that it’s the people, the things, the normal, the everyday rituals and routines that anchor you down, hold you there so that you don’t get blown away by the storm, or drop below the surface when the ground cracks open. That’s why we’re here. I suppose we all want to return to what we know, what’s in our blood and bones – that’s why she came back here. That’s why I want to go back there.

  I try to keep my head down in my schoolwork – always plenty to be doing and always extra reading when that’s done – and not think too much about why I’m doing it. University feels like it’s another world away. More change. It’s suffocating.

  11:35am. I’m still in my dressing gown – for reasons that escape me – watching some awful Saturday morning TV programme. I give a quick thought to getting dressed but decide that I might as well wait until twelve now.

  I check my phone. No texts. No messages. No calls. No signal. Again. It’s slowly driving me insane. No phone signal and no Wi-Fi. How is anybody ever supposed to get hold of me?

  I think about Stu and Mina and how they must feel I totally abandoned them when we moved here, but it was never intentional – just a lack of communication, literally.

  The landline hardly ever rings. It could be the ancient phone I keep reminding my mother; one of those dial phones, the looped cord clinging to the receiver and the phone at either end. No hope of any privacy. It looks like it should come with a health hazard warning, years of dirt and filth ground into the cream plastic lacquer. When I have used it it’s taken me three attempts to get through. It’s not worth the stress, or the dreams that come afterwards – dialling the wrong number, never being able to get through, waking up sweating with frustration.

  Mum is pottering about in the background. She comes and collects my plate and empty mug from the floor beside me.

  ‘Don’t think I’m waiting on you all day,’ she says in a bit of a huff, ‘are you thinking about getting dressed at all?’

  Oh well, it was bound to come.

  ‘Yes actually, I thought about it and decided that I’ll get dressed at 12 if that’s ok with you? You know with me being nearly eighteen, and not eight.’

  This winds her up.

  ‘Don’t start with the attitude Seph – I’m not in the mood for it today,’ she snaps.

  ‘Ditto,’ I say with the same amount of force.

  Just as she’s about to launch into me, the front door opens and my uncle walks in. He sees us both there and makes his way into the living room awkwardly, aware that he’s just stepped into a domestic between my mother and me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says looking anywhere he can to avoid eye contact with either of us. This isn’t unusual for him. He’s got a way about him that is so awkward it’s unsettling. This isn’t helped by his imposing figure, tall and strong, and also by the way he hides his eyes – the same deep-brown as mine and my mother’s – beneath the long wavy dark hair that lay over his forehead.

  I hate him being here. I hate being here.

  ‘Gabe!’ Mum says excitedly catching her breath, swallowing down the frustration from our spat.

  This is his home, though you wouldn’t think it as he’s hardly ever here. It doesn’t bother me, quite the opposite, it’s just weird. He’s lived in this house all his life, but now is always coming and going. Finding labouring jobs on other people’s farms my mother reckons, though there are plenty nearby, so I don’t know why he goes further afield for the work. He takes his old van everywhere, that wreck of a thing, seemingly dossing in it when he’s not here.

  Since we moved in he’s been mostly gone, helping us get our things in and disappearing a few days later, though turning up every few weeks.

  He makes my mother smile. Not me. He is strange and unsociable and makes me feel on edge. I’ve seen little of him over the years, though I’m not so sure why. He is like a shadow, here and not here.

  Mum is glad to see him.

  He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do with himself. She touches his arm gently and says ‘This is a nice surprise, I wasn’t expecting to see you for a few weeks.’

  He doesn’t know how to react. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable with being touched, though he manages not to flinch.

  ‘Thought I’d drop by. Just checking you’re ok – the house is ok – and to see if you needed anything doing. I know there’s loads to do. Thought I could make a start on some of it over the weekend.’

  He hasn’t even looked at me since he came in.

  ‘That’s nice love, but don’t worry yourself about that. Remember this is your home – you don’t need an excuse to come here. Anyway, we’re getting on fine, aren’t we Seph?’ she says turning to me.

  ‘Fine,’ is all I can manage. Mum glares at me.

  ‘I was just telling Seph to get herself together. I wanted to have a bit of a sort out today – look at sprucing the place up a bit. I mean … if that’s ok with you. I don’t want to come in and start changing everything, but, well, it could do with being a bit more homely don’t you think – like it used to be? Mam always made it nice.’

  He nods, but he seems distant.

  I look around. She’s right. Everything about the place seems old and dying. The living room isn’t very big but it doesn’t feel cosy, even with the log fire burning. On the mantel there is an old wooden clock with a brass face that ticks constantly and chimes every hour. It looks like it should be in a museum. To the right is an horrendous old vase that Mum has filled with some flowers to brighten the place up. They’re not working. On the brown tiles in front of the fire stands an old set of iron tools; I have no idea of what they are or what they are for.

  There isn’t much light. The windows are small and the weather doesn’t help. But the thing that I really hate is the stone. The thick stone walls. The flagstones on the floor. It’s so bloody cold. I can’t stand it.

  A couple of pictures hang around the room. Mostly crappy dated old photos of the area – farms and fields. On the side-table next to the frayed red sofa there are a couple of frames with pictures of my grandparents, and a few of Mum and Gabe when they were younger. Mum found them shoved in the cabinet under the stairs and decided they should be out on display.

  Other than that, there are just general piles of crap in most of the corners and against the wall under the stairs. Looks like old paperwork, photos – stuff that accumulates over the years. No doubt the stuff that Mum plans to tackle, in a pathetic attempt to make this place a home.

  ‘Right, well Seph’s decided she’s not getting dressed until 12,’ she says with an edge to it, ‘so I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll sit and have a cuppa – have you had anything to eat, I’ve got some bacon in the fridge for a sandwich if you like?’

  ‘No – I’m fine,’ he says as he reluctantly sits down on the sofa, while she walks off.

  Please don’t walk off into the kitchen … awkward.

  We sit at an angle to each other. Me at the fireplace in
the chair; him on the sofa to the right of me. I don’t like the way that he looks at me. I don’t like the way that he actively avoids me. There’s always something on his face that suggests he’s uncomfortable in my presence. Like now. This infects me too, and for a long hideous moment we both marinade in this discomfort.

  Mum comes back in with the tea. Thank god.

  ‘So – how long you here for?’ she asks. ‘It’s great to see you – I do worry about you you know.’

  ‘Just til Monday morning,’ he replies quietly.

  ‘I don’t want you to feel forced out of here. And if it’s a matter of money I’m sure we can sort something out. Maybe even start making some plans for this place – that’s if you want to?’

  A sigh escapes from her, long and deep, as if it’s been dragged up from the depths of her belly.

  ‘I don’t know. I just want everything – everyone – to be alright.’ She’s trying not to cry but I can tell it’s getting to her, and why wouldn’t it?

  She sits next to Gabe on the sofa, her tea in one hand, her other hand at her forehead covering her eyes, yet I can see a few tears make their way out, and I can hardly stand it. She swipes them away, drying her hand on her jeans.

  Gabe stares straight ahead at the fireplace. He doesn’t react when she moves closer to him, just sits there rigid as a post.

  ‘We’ve all been through so much, and we’re all we’ve got now – just the three of us.’

  I hear her words, then they register, and that thought leaves me cold.

  6

  SOME NOISE IN THE background is making its way into my awareness. I’m not sure if I’m sleeping – it’s loud – my ears strain, my eyes open and fight against the black, and then I am awake.

  The rain is pounding relentlessly at my bedroom window. It’s beating down so violently that I worry it may break the glass. I look over at the digital clock on my bedside cabinet. 6:03am.

  It’s the moment that I hate – the cruellest trick of the mind – that moment when you wake up before you remember everything and reality sets in.

  The dread that creeps in is eased slightly by the relief of having a calm night’s sleep. No dreams, no waking up. This comes as a surprise and is such a rare thing these last few weeks. Especially after Friday.

  Don’t have to be up for another hour.

  I stay in bed, appreciating the warmth.

  The rain doesn’t stop.

  The alarm sounds at 7am and I begin to think about getting myself sorted. The thought of going down to that bathroom to shower is too much to bear and the cold has already started to work on my warm body. My hair gets pulled back into a ponytail and I put on my dressing gown and slippers.

  ‘Seph!’ Mum’s voice makes its way upstairs from the living room.

  ‘Coming,’ I reply

  ‘It’s just gone seven.’

  ‘Coming!’ I bark back.

  ‘I just don’t want you to miss the bus love.’ As usual she is ignoring my early morning irritability, making her point without trying to wind me up as I appear at the bottom of the stairs. It winds me up anyway, and the first look of the day that she receives from me is a cold one.

  Still, she hands me a hot mug of tea and I settle in the chair beside the fire with my feet up at my side, feeling angry and guilty at the same time. As if to play with these feelings even more she then goes off into the kitchen and comes back smiling, handing me some buttered toast and touching my shoulder before disappearing upstairs to get dressed.

  I sit clutching my mug in both hands, staring into the fire, while the plate of toast sits on my lap due to my lack of appetite. Before I know it my she’s back downstairs and ready to go, alerting me to the fact that I have been sitting and staring for too long and that I need to get a move on.

  I’m in no great hurry to get to school, but the alternative is to sit alone in this place all day, so within twenty minutes I’m washed, dressed and climbing into the passenger seat of the 4x4, throwing my bag into the back as I then check the state of my shoes – not too bad – and reach for the seat belt. The car is cold, damp and unwelcoming, and I’m glad that she’s only taking me to the village, where the school bus picks up the pupils from this area.

  ‘You know I was thinking – maybe we could get you insured on this car for a while? I know it’s not exactly brand new but it would give you a bit of independence when I’m not using it?’

  Silence.

  ‘My dad always said it was good to have a banger to start with, makes you more confident and I’d feel more comfortable on these roads with a car that can handle them.’

  More silence.

  ‘It runs fine, and Gabe can look at it just to make sure – he’s good with that stuff. You haven’t driven since you passed your test – might be a good idea to get back behind the wheel.’ Eventually she’ll have to stop talking.

  This car stinks.

  There’s a mustiness, mixed with the smell of wet mud and the general stench of ‘old’ that comes from the aging workhorse that has traipsed up and down country lanes and fields, and has carried farming items over the years, from hay-bales to animals. I always carry a small bottle of perfume with me to cover up any lingering smells before I get onto the school bus, usually giving the car a good spray just for good measure.

  My mother thinks this is funny. She seems to have adapted so well over these last few weeks, settling back in to her more rural, laid back ways, while her daughter wrinkles her nose at every smell and complains about the cold, the wet, and the downstairs bathroom.

  It’s not that I mind – it’s so nice to see her return – I’ve missed her. For months after my father’s death I watched her wither and die slowly with each day that passed. Everything shrank; her body, her personality, her energy, all taken away from her. From me.

  She was still there in lots of ways, but I knew that they were just for my sake. I was looked after. Meals on the table, food in the fridge, clothes hanging washed and ironed in my wardrobe, a hand on my shoulder. But her eyes became hollow. She rarely went out even to work, bills poured in and the house seemed darker and emptier. She was disappearing into a black hole, and I wanted to pull her out so badly, but had no idea what to do.

  I now feel the same black hole swallowing me.

  I miss my old life.

  There’s no point in trying to pretend that this is going to get any better for me, which is why I’ve stopped. It won’t happen here. Not in this place.

  My old world was safe and predictable and involved the people who I cared about most. But a phone call can change everything; can take you from one place to another. How does that happen?

  7

  ‘SEPH WAIT THERE!’ she shouts, in that bossy way that somehow she’s able to get away with. Her pink-blonde wavy bob bounces along with her, with the same amount of attitude.

  ‘What?’ I say trying to make my way out of the building, avoiding as much eye contact as possible.

  ‘What’s going on? We were worried after the mansion last week, and you’ve been avoiding everyone since.’

  ‘Sorry Beth,’ and I mean it because I feel her concern, and even though I’ve only known her for a short time, I believe it.

  ‘No probs hun, just wanted to see you’re ok, nobody’s heard from you all weekend and I got a lift in late this morning so missed you on the bus.’

  As bad as it sounds I was glad that I didn’t see her on the bus this morning, the embarrassment still coursing through me, even now. Nothing escapes Beth – I have been avoiding her and the others, and was glad that today was one of those days when people tend to drift in and out due to free-periods and study time.

  ‘Let’s go to Johns for a cuppa – said I’d meet Lowri there later. C’mon.’ She’s bossing me again, but she’s very skilled at it. Still, I try to wriggle out of it.

  ‘Got to get the bus,’ I say as convincingly as I can, shaking my head to elaborate my point.

  ‘I’m meeting my mum in town afterwards fo
r a lift. She’ll drop you back.’ That’s a statement not a question, and before I know it she’s taken my arm and linked it in hers, and off we trot to John’s Caff.

  When we get there Lowri is waiting, occupying the corner table, with her coat and bag slung over the other chairs so that nobody else takes them. John’s is always busy, especially at this time of the day when it’s kicking out time at the school. The year seven and eight kids, mostly boys, crowd around the till to get their sugar fix, drinks or snacks that can’t wait until they get home. The sixth formers come in to order hot drinks and sit with their friends to dissect the day and plan their evening, as if they haven’t been doing this throughout the day in the sixth form room anyway.

  I’m one of those girls, though I feel less and less like being one, as the weeks roll on. Again, more guilt creeps in because I should realise how lucky I am. After all, I’ve only been here since the start of the Autumn term and I’ve got these two girls who have really welcomed me in, despite my efforts at trying to distance them, and now my new weird behaviour.

  Lowri smiles and moves her stuff for us to sit down.

  ‘Alright chick?’ Beth says.

  ‘Nice one Seph, didn’t expect you to be here.’ Lowri looks genuinely pleased to see me.

  ‘Didn’t really have a choice,’ I state, trying to sound light, but underneath sort of meaning it.

  Beth makes no attempt to defend herself, just blurts out ‘I’m starving,’ and picks up the plastic-coated menu from the edge of the table. It’s hard not to love her, even when she pisses you off.

  John leaves his daughter at the till to deal with the pre-pubescent boys and their energy levels, and comes over to take our order.

  ‘Hiya girls, sorry about the noise – what can I get you?’

  ‘Large hot chocolate, extra cream and a large bowl of chips please John.’ Beth wastes no time in getting in there. Lowri looks at her and laughs.

  ‘Just a cappuccino for me,’ she says.