‘And you?’
‘They were delighted when I said I wanted to train as a teacher, a teacher being a good solid respectable job and all that, less so when they found out I wanted to teach art. I mean, art of all things. Not something useful like maths or chemistry.’
‘How did you find out you wanted to be involved in art?’ He was listening intently.
‘Good question when you come from a background as sterile and joyless as I did.’ Callie concentrated on her teacup, turning it round and round. She had no idea why she was telling him all this but wanted to –neededto let him know who she was. ‘I made a very good friend at primary school. Began spending as much time as I could at her house. I’m still friends with her now. We go to a rock choir together. Donna. Think she saved my life in some ways. My parents approved as Donna’s dad was a bank manager and thoroughly “suitable”. They weren’t suspicious about the amount of time I spent over at her house. In fact, I think they preferred it when I wasn’t there trying to interrupt their routine.’
Callie chewed her lip, remembering. ‘Donna had a dog, a daft black spaniel called Coco. She’d give the best cuddles but I had to examine every inch of clothing before I went home.’
‘Why?’
‘My mother thinks dogs are dangerous and infested with germs. If she thought I’d allowed one to jump all over me, she would have banned me from ever going to Donna’s again. And I was there all the time. I often stayed for tea, think Mum was only too glad to foist the cost of feeding an ever-hungry teenager onto someone. We ate chicken korma, and fajitas with guacamole and sour cream. Donna’s mother made gateaux with real fruit and fresh cream. We watchedFriendsandThe Vicar of Dibleyand toasted marshmallows on the fire. No hysterics if we accidentally made a mark on the carpet. Best of all, Donna’s mum was a stationery sales rep so there was an endless supply of notepads, paper, pens. I couldn’t take them home, so I had a special drawer there to keep stuff in. I’d spend hours just doodling cartoon figures.’
Callie was lost in the moment, picturing herself and Donna with orange Fanta, complete with red and white striped paper straws, and Club Biscuits as they sat at the dining room table, surrounded by sheets of scribbled on paper.
This time it was Johnny’s turn to comfort Callie. He reached for her hand and held it. It brought her back to the present. To the vivid blue sky and the keening gulls, the excited squeals of children as they skidded past on the slippery sandy concrete. Her parents had never taken them to the beach. At the time she accepted their reason that it was too far away but now she knew they’d consider a trip to the seaside as impossibly frivolous. What purpose would a day by the sea have other than pleasure? And pleasure was something so deeply alien to them as to be incomprehensible. She lifted her face to the sun, risking yet more freckles and not caring. ‘I mean, I wasn’t neglected,’she went on. ‘I was fed, had a bed and a roof over my head. No love though. No cuddles or affection. It was a very dull, rigid existence. Dreary. Going to Donna’s was like going from black and white to pure bright technicolour.’
She glanced at him. ‘I discovered what life could really be like and, as soon as I was able, made the decision to get away. I also decided, if I were ever to have children, I wouldn’t bring them up as they had me. I’ve tried my best with Frida but accept I’ve probably spoiled her as a result.’ She flicked him a humorous glance. ‘Your family suffers from an excess of everything; mine,’ she shrugged, ‘from an excess of nothing.’
Johnny squeezed her hand. ‘I remember you saying you’re no longer in touch.’
Callie shook her head. ‘No, although I hear from my brother occasionally. Apparently, Mum and Dad still don’t have a TV or central heating, don’t take any holidays, despise and ignore their neighbours because they have Pakistani heritage. Are happy to live as if it’s still 1947. Sam lets them get on with it, plays the dutiful son while he’s there and then goes home to his wife and children. They’re worth a fortune, my parents, but they scrimp and save like misers.’
She tried to make sense of it. ‘I mean, what’s the point?’ She sucked in a breath, appalled. ‘I’m so sorry. I had no intention of letting all that out. I haven’t thought about them for a long time, so it all spilled out. I’m having a good life, making the most of any opportunity,’ she added, determinedly. ‘I made sure they didn’t stop me.’
Johnny was silent for a long time; she could sense him thinking. He held her hand tightly and she could see his mouth working.
‘I don’t know what to say, Calliope, except to admire how you’ve got on with life and shaken their influence off.’
‘There’s really not a lot to say. I’m sorry I blurted it all out.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Once I’d started talking, I couldn’t stop. Quite cathartic actually.’
He blew out a breath. ‘Yours make mine seem harmless by comparison. Don’t know what I’ve got to complain about. Families, eh?’ He straightened. ‘They manage to mess you up one way or another.’
‘Yup. Maybe it’s our destiny to fight against them?’ She laughed again, feeling lighter somehow. Everyone in her life already knew her history and it was no longer an issue. She rarely shared it with anyone new, didn’t see the point.
Her life was so busy she seldom gave any thought to her strange upbringing – and it had been strange, she hadn’t realised just how odd until moving out of their sphere of influence. She’d come to terms with being non-contact with her parents and low contact with her brother and didn’t feel she missed out on much. She’d determinedly filled her life with her found family.
‘You know what we need?’ Johnny squared his shoulders, suddenly decisive.
‘I couldn’t manage any more tea. I am completely and utterly rehydrated.’
‘Do you fancy doing something completely daft and stupid? Will your hangover allow?’
Callie turned over his hand and caressed the fleshy part at the base of his thumb. ‘What hangover?’
Thirteen
Michael Ancher 1849–1927
Member of the Danish Skagen Group. Realist painter of beach scenes. Examine cloud formations and depiction of light.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Having waved goodbye to Tracey, Johnny took Callie’s hand and led her along the promenade and down the concrete slope to the beach. She tried not to dwell on how natural it felt to hold hands with him. After being resolutely man-less for most of her adult life she couldn’t believe how easy it was being with him.
As they picked their way through the family groups on the beach, she asked, ‘Where are we going?’
He grinned, impassive behind his sunglasses. ‘You’ll see.’
