‘Think they remember you?’ says Emma, nodding at the cows with a smile.
‘Of course,’ I reply, smiling too, but distractedly, preoccupied with the déjà vu I’ve once again found myself swimming in, from the moment Nick heaved open that servants’ gate, and which has deepened with every step we’ve taken towards Heaton.
It all but overcomes me when, emerging from the fields, we reach the village itself, its glistening rooftops coming into view. The pub’s on the outskirts, at the end of a lane called Bramble Rise, so we don’t go all the way into the centre. I still get a good look at it though as we pass by, my pace slowing as I take in its frosted houses, stone church, glassy pond, village green, and war memorial.
I know this place,I think, just as I did when I first arrived at Doverley,I have been here before.
Andhere, of course, I have. I’ve run across the green. Thrown stale bread for ducks in the pond. Sat in the church. There was a man there who used to stare at me, with hard, blue eyes. His face rises up from deep within my memory, making me tense with hatred. Then, just as quickly, it vanishes again, sinking back into my subconscious.
Gladly, I let the man, whoever he was, go, and settle my focus on the war memorial. It’s Remembrance Sunday this weekend. We all have poppies fixed to our coats. There’ll be a service here in Heaton on Sunday morning, but none of us on the movie will come to it; we don’t want to turn it into a press frenzy. Instead, we’ll pause filming to lay wreaths at Doverley’s memorial. Justin Holmes – who’s playing Jacob,Mabel’s Fury’sbomb aimer – is an incredible musician, and will play the last post. No photos or recordings will be allowed, and that feels right.
Decent.
Really, it’s the least we can do, given how much everyone’s hoping to profit from the loss being marked.
A duck takes off from the village pond, its wings batting frantically. At the splashing, it comes to me how soundless the morning otherwise is. There’s no one about at all, no cars nor bikes on the road, and although I suspect Bramble Rise is going to be much busier – acircus,like Nick said – I don’t think about that.
I think about Nick, and the fact that he’s just reached for my hand, taking it in his as we continue walking behind Emma and Felix. Easily, our fingers weave together, just as they have hundreds of times before, only not recently – not until last night, when, recalling Emma’s words,I think he might need you to be you,I was the one to reach for Nick, telling him his was the only child I’ve ever wanted. And now here we are, holding hands again.
It’s funny how much easier it can feel to do something, once you start doing it.
Tightening my grip on his, I move my attention to the church’s cemetery, which is full of leafless trees, and crooked headstones that poke from the iced earth. My grandparents are buried beneath that earth somewhere, in their graves that neither Mum nor I have visited. I asked her why once, years ago, when I was a teenager, and she got really defensive.
‘We’ve got them with us here,’ she said, pressing her hand to her heart. ‘That’s all that matters.’
She’s right about that, I know. But I do also think that she, who’s lectured me …howmany times? … on the importance of facing up to my grief, is too afraid to come back here andface up to hers. I’m pretty sure that’s part of why she’s been so worried aboutmecoming back. It’s made this place too real to her again. Too close.
Now I am here, though, it feels really wrong that we’ve never come.
With my hand still in Nick’s, I feel tears, always so ready, rise up inside of me, threatening to break free.
Hastily, I wipe them away with the back of my free hand, and resolve to return and visit this cemetery, just as soon as I can.
I’ll bring Nan and Grandad some flowers, at last.
It doesn’t take us long after that to reach Bramble Rise, no matter how slowly we walk, all as reluctant as each other to get there. I’m braced, even before we do, for what it looks like, and the fact that Robbie’s old home is the only part of it that remains from before the war.
Just as with Heaton’s old school, its redevelopment has meant that we can’t use it for any outdoor filming. For the most part, the screenplay has avoided having any, but there is a montage of Iris and Robbie in the lane as children – with different aged actors showing them growing up, step by step – for which everyone involved will once again have to relocate, this time to a bucolic laneway near Thornton-Le-Dale, which is apparently a perfect match for the rugged one that Imogen paints in her novel.
I’ve never imagined it as particularly rugged myself; more soft, peaceful, andbramble-lined,with a stile leading to fields of grazing livestock, and the scent of woodsmoke in the air. But, I’ve seen Nick’s photos, and all the others that Bomber Boy enthusiasts have posted online, so really am aware that, whatever Bramble Rise used to be, it’s now a tarmacked strip of road, with Heaton’s replacement primary school at its head(built in 1952, to cater for the influx of residents who moved into Heaton’s post-war housing), The Heaton Arms at its end, and rows of identical, red-bricked terraces in between. Iris’s cottage is long gone. Any stile that might once have existed is, too.
Iknowthat.
It still jars though when we reach the lane, and, by the gates of Heaton Primary, I take in everything that’s before me: all neat, and ordered, and double-glazed. It doesn’t feel right. The road’s tarmac is too smooth. The houses are too modern.
Just like my reflection in Iris’s mirror, none of it seems to fit.
And, unlike in Heaton just now, nothing feels remotely familiar to me, even though my grandparents’ estate is really close by. Much closer than I felt inclined to share with Blake earlier, who was wired enough as it was. Close enough, in fact, that it’s called Bramble Edge, and, when I look up, I can see its chimneys poking above the school’s buildings.
I feel no pull to it. No temptation to set off in search of Nan and Grandad’s front door. The last thing I want to do, actually, is that. Because Mum’s right, they’re not there, they haven’t been in almost thirty years, and it belongs to someone else now.
Not that I imagine that they – whoever they are – are currently home.
I don’t think there can be many people left on the estate at all.
I doubt there are any children inside the school’s classrooms, either.
And I know now why the village was as empty as it was.
