Harriet Evans - Going Home

‘Good idea,’ said Mike. ‘Bar work. Haven’t been back for ages, you know.’

‘A year,’ I said.

‘Pah! Not a year – I came back at Easter.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ I said. ‘You were going to, for Dad’s birthday party, but you had to cancel.’

Mike appeared to be in the grip of some unpleasant memory. ‘You’re right, Titch. Matheson deal. Phones ringing off the hook. Screaming. I don’t think I left the office for three days…’

‘Ooh, Mike,’ I said, ‘you’re so important and hardworking, aren’t you?’

Mike had been supposed to make the speech at Dad’s party, which had also celebrated my parents’ silver wedding anniversary (I know ! You do the maths…) but, typical Mike, at the last minute he had to cancel his trip and Chin made the speech. The party was good, but Chin was a bit of a flop, drunk and rambling. And, besides, she wasn’t Mike, who would have told a story, played the kazoo, got the audience to sing along, then probably slipped over and lain, with aplomb, on the floor unconscious for the rest of the evening.

‘Well, you’re back now,’ I continued, seeing that he was looking rather depressed.

His face twitched into a smile. ‘And I can’t imagine how I stayed away so long. I could give it all up and live in the shed in the garden just to be near the old place. Does that make sense or sound completely crazy?’

‘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!’