‘Not any more.’
Despite the good day we’ve had, something feels off. Like when I can’t get the image in my head to transfer through the pencil and on to the paper. I clear my throat and look away, draining the rest of my drink quickly. ‘Right. Better be off.’ I shift, placing my hand on the floor. Her hand covers mine, and I still. ‘Thanks for today, Mike. You’ve made me feel like I’ve got this, you know?’
Words get stuck in my throat. But my head nods as I make my way to the front door. The warmth of the summer air hits us. Kate puts a hand on my arm. ‘Mike?’ Her eyes are bright, her incisor pulling at her bottom lip. ‘If she does turn up… don’t let her go. When you find someone you feel that kind of connection with… well, it’s rare, is all.’
I look down at my feet, finding it hard to meet her eyes. ‘I’ll see you Sunday.’
‘Yep. Be seeing you, Mike.’
I start walking away but stop and turn. She’s leaning against the doorframe, head lifted towards the sun.
Something presses inside my chest. Urgent. Insistent. I open my mouth to speak. To say what, I don’t know. Nowt comes out.
The moment is gone.
She’s already closed the door.
26
ALICE
St Martins turned out to be a dead end. We haven’t been able to find any details of a Michael Jones ever having gone there. I feel the weight of that, heavy inside. I could tell how much it meant to him and how crushed he would have been if he didn’t get in.
I pull my suitcase beside me, slide the key in the lock of my front door, the base brushing the post back. I dump my case and bend to pick up the mail, heart already speeding up as I flip through. Mike’s handwriting quickens my pulse.
The envelope is bigger, sturdier. It feels like there is something inside, about the size of a Post-it pad. I bring the envelope closer to my ear, giving it a little shake. I try to work out what’s inside, the same way I do on birthdays and Christmas. It used to drive Ryan mad. He was always impatient. Spence always joined in, feeling around the shape, a v forming between his eyebrows as he tried to guess before me.
I’m itching to open it.
Instead, I decide to enjoy this for a little longer. I open the blinds, crack open the curtains and make myself a coffee. I feel around the edges of the envelope, carefully pushing against the outline of what’s inside; there is something else, a rectangle thatbends slightly. Cardboard? I chew my bottom lip, moving the Post-it shape around a little. Unable to resist it any further, I tear away the seal.
I pull out the large rectangle which is from the back of a cereal packet. Sugar Puffs. My fingers outline the honey monster calling out:Tell them about the honey, Mummy!I smile. No hint of bubble wrap to protect the package or mention of vitamins or vegan-friendly encouragements to be seen. I reach in, my fingers catching the edge of something plastic. I look down at the clear rectangle in my hands. It’s a cassette tape. I turn it over. Slotted inside is a list of songs. It’s a mixtape. Finally, I pull out the letter.
Dear Alice,
I hope you’re good and surviving the weather. It’s like a bleedin’ furnace around here! Still, it’s almost summer solstice and we’ll be complaining about the rain before long. Never happy with the weather, us Brits.
When I was in secondary, we went on a trip to Whitby Abbey. None of us took it seriously, messing about on the back seat of the bus. It always smelt of ham, cheese and Marathon bars. Anyway, when we were walking around, half-listening to the tour guide, me and my mates decided we’d go back. It was a bit of a lark, something we never thought we’d do, but Kenny was always one to hang on to our mad plans and conned his dad into taking us. It became this kind of tradition.
(There is a point to this, and I know I need to just get to it, but before I do, I just need to get a few things off my chest.)
I know you’re not getting these letters, and if by some miracle you are, you’re not writing back. I think I’ve known that all along, really. I wanted to thank you, though – that night opened something up, like meeting you was the kickup the arse that I needed to make a change. I’ve sent in my drawings, so my future is in the hands of the powers that be. Drawing you led me to seeing things in a new light, and now my hometown doesn’t feel like a prison, I had the key to those invisible shackles all along. Get me. Sounded like bloody Wordsworth then. Maybe I will fit in with all them arty folks?
Anyway, the point I’m getting at is there are no hard feelings from this end. I’m wishing you well and hope that you found what you were looking for in your new place.
On the longest day of the year, you can always find me at Whitby Abbey. So if you ever need a friend, or someone to talk to if life gives you shit, that’s where you’ll find me.
As is also tradition, I’ve put together a mixtape for the journey and made you a copy. A good road trip needs good music. It’s a kind of road map for where the year has taken me so far, and where I hope it will go on to.
Hope it helps you find your way.
Good luck, Alice. And thanks.
Wishing you well,
Mike.
I blink a few times, his words blurring as tears start to fall down my cheeks.
