Drawing with Light (3 page)

My eyes adjust and I freeze. Someone is here after all, with their back to me, crouched at the foot of the scaffolding. For a moment my eyes can't quite take in what – who – exactly I am seeing.

Seb turns. He looks startled too. He's holding some sort of building trowel in one hand. He scrambles up to face me. He's wearing blue overalls, like painters and decorators wear, except he's covered in stone dust.

‘Hello,' he says.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Repointing the stone.'

‘I mean, why? Are you supposed to be doing that?'

‘It's OK. Just helping my dad out. He's gone to get more sand. He'll be back in a minute.'

We stare at each other. Without Kat here, everything's completely different.

‘I've got to take all the old mortar out. Very carefully, by hand. It takes ages,' Seb says. He starts work again, raking out the loose stuff between two stones, ready for the new mortar which will stick it all back together properly, to make the wall sound and strong. He's only done about one millionth of the wall so far.

‘That'll keep you busy for about a year, then,' I say.

‘You
can
speak. That's four whole sentences.'

I glare at him. The cheek!

‘Your sister did all the talking, when we met before,' Seb says. He does that half-smile, sort of teasing.

‘Well. She likes to talk.'

‘You don't?'

‘Not as much as Kat. Only when I've something to say.'

‘Has she gone, now? To her
university
?' The way he says it makes it sound as if he is mocking Kat. As if going to university is not something he would ever do.

‘Yes. She's in York,' I say. ‘Not back till December. Sorry.'

‘Why sorry?'

I don't answer. I suppose I'm expecting him to be disappointed that it's me here, and not Kat. People usually like Kat more than me. Boys do, anyway.

‘Have you come to take photos of the house?' Seb asks.

My hand automatically touches the camera, still round my neck. ‘No.'

‘What, then?'

‘You are very nosy,' I say. ‘I came to see how the house . . . what was different.'

‘And the camera?'

‘It's what I do. Photograph things.'

‘A hobby or a passion?'

He's taking the piss, presumably.

‘A passion. And it's for work.'

He looks a bit impressed. ‘Really?'

‘Yes, A-level work.'

‘Oh. That.'

‘Yes.' I'm half waiting for him to make some sarky comment about school. I imagine he hasn't been for ages. But he doesn't.

We study each other. Between us, something sizzles. A kind of energy.

I'm thinking: he's so beautiful. Pity he's sarcastic. It spoils him.

He's thinking: I haven't a clue what he's thinking.

I'm slightly dizzy – from the cycling, or the sun, or being so close to Seb, I don't really know why. I might tip forward any second . . .

A large bird flies up through the gap in the roof. The flap of its wings makes us both jump back. Its mewing cry echoes round the stone shell of the house. It's an eerie, wild sound.

‘A buzzard? In here?' Seb says.

‘I suppose it's the perfect place. For a nest or whatever.'

‘They don't nest in the autumn!' Seb says.

‘Sorry to be so stupid,' I say.

‘I didn't mean that . . . it's unusual, to see a buzzard in a building, that's all.'

‘When will they mend the roof?' I ask.

Seb shrugs. ‘More stonemasons are coming next week. That'll speed things up. It's been a bit slow so far. Just Dad and me. I should get on, really.' He turns back to raking and scratching at the stone.

I watch him.

It's very strange to think of Seb working in our house, getting to know it close-up, stone by stone.

‘Can I take a photo?' I say.

‘It's your house. You can do what you like.'

‘No, I mean with you in it, working at the stone.'

He shrugs. ‘If you want.'

But there's not enough light. I need the tripod, for a long exposure.

‘Nice camera,' Seb says, stopping work again.

‘Thanks.'

‘Expensive.'

I flush. ‘It was a birthday present.'

‘When was your birthday?'

‘Summer. June.'

We both step back when we hear the van engine slowing down at the gate, as if we've been standing too close and don't want anyone else to see.

I walk back to the open doorway to see who's arrived. A white van is drawing up outside the gate. A thick-set man with messy dark hair and olive skin like Seb gets out. I watch him lift my bike away from the gate, open it and drive through. He parks the van, goes round to open the back doors, starts pulling at something in there.

‘Seb?' the man calls up.

I stand to one side to let Seb go through the doorway, down to help his dad.

I push the heavy wooden door closed and walk back into the middle of the house. Even with the gaps and spaces, the stone walls seem slightly warm, as if they've soaked up the day's sun and are now slowly releasing it. I keep my hand against the stone. Something in me gives, as if I've been holding on to my breath and now at last can let it go, alone in the house just for a minute or two.

I can hardly take it in, that I'm actually going to be living here. My room will be at the top, with the view over the river and the fields beyond, and all the space I could ever want. It will be worth waiting for. Six months, Dad says. Six months is bearable. Perhaps this really will be the house where Dad settles at last, and we won't ever have to move on again. We will be properly
home
. I think it's all I've ever really wanted, to feel that.

I hear footsteps on the stone steps. I turn as the front door swings wide open, spilling golden evening light over the earth floor.

‘Hello there!' Seb's dad wipes his hand on his T-shirt and holds it out to shake mine. ‘Rob's daughter? Pleased to meet you. I'm Nick.'

‘Emily,' I say. It's funny shaking hands. His hand is warm and dry, sort of dusty. I glimpse Seb in the doorway: that half-mocking smile.

His father is big and muscly and old. But once, he would have been good-looking. He's got the same colour skin, and the dark stubble, and deep brown eyes, like Seb.

‘We're just about packing up for the day,' Nick says. ‘We've a bag of sand to bring in, and then we'll be off home.' He moves towards the bit of wall where Seb was working, frowns slightly, and rubs at the stone with his hand.

Seb's face tightens.

‘Not bad,' Nick says. ‘But you need to work faster than that if you're expecting to get paid.'

Seb's about to say something, then stops himself. He looks furious.

‘I'm going now too,' I say cheerfully, to break the tension between them.

Nick smiles at me. ‘She's a grand house, isn't she? She's going to be, anyways. When she's had a bit of TLC. Give us a hand with the sand, then, Seb. We need to get it under cover.'

I can hear their voices rising and falling – well, Nick's, anyway – as I walk over the grass. It's damp with dew already. I push my bike to the lane. When I look back, Seb's standing at the top of the steps, watching me. I wave at him. It's a test. My challenge to him: what will he do?

He waves. Not so cool and ironic, then, that he won't do that.

I think about him as I cycle home. That sarcastic, mocking tone in his voice. It's like he's defending himself from something. It's just a mask, really. He's learned to do that. It's not the
real
Seb.

Kat will be dead jealous that I've met him again. Or maybe not, now she's in York with all her new friends. Perhaps I won't mention it. It's not as if anything's actually happened. A bit of conversation, a
feeling
of something important, that's all.

Cassy's lying with her feet up on the sofa when I get back. ‘Where've you been?' she says, in a sleepy voice that shows she doesn't really care.

‘I went to see the house.'

Cassy sits up a bit. ‘And?'

‘That's it. Then I cycled back.'

‘How is it coming along? Have they done much?'

‘Hardly anything. Still that big hole in the roof, and the tree growing out of the top. There was a bird in there. A buzzard.'

Cassy sighs. She looks totally wiped out.

‘Shall I make you tea?' I say.

‘Would you? Thanks, Em.' She closes her eyes again. ‘Are you going out, later?'

‘Yes. Said I'd see Rachel. I'll need a lift, though.'

‘Your dad can take you. When he's back.'

‘I'll stay over. You and Dad can have the place to yourselves for a bit.'

Cassy doesn't seem to hear. I fill the kettle and switch on my laptop while I wait for the water to boil.

Kat's on MSN.

–
How's things?
she types to me.

– OK. Missing you. How's uni?

–
Awesome. Having a really good time.

– I saw your photos on Facebook.

–
Yeah – people from my flat. I really like them.

Anna, Ell, Maddie. Plus Simon.

– Simon?

–
He's in my biology seminar. Got to go now – making supper xxx

She's signed off before I've a chance to say anything at all about me. Or Seb.

5

‘Soon as you're seventeen we'll teach you to drive,' Dad says.

He lets me change gear on the ride over to Rachel's. I've been doing it since I was about ten. Cassy gets cross and says it isn't safe, but according to Dad I'm learning about cars that way. I had a go at actually driving, when we first came to the caravan field. I laughed so much I went round in a big circle and almost into a hedge.

‘Now!' Dad says, just before the bridge.

I do a smooth gear shift down to second. ‘We'll need a second car, if I'm driving too,' I say. ‘And there's the lessons. I'll have to get a job.'

Dad frowns. ‘Not with A levels coming up. There's nothing more important than your education, Emily. It's the passport to your future . . .'

Yes, Dad. Like you haven't said that about one million times already.

Rachel's mum's standing at the open front door when Dad pulls up outside their house. She's got a bit of a thing for Dad: she was probably waiting at the window, ready to leap up the minute she saw the car. She comes down the steps to speak to him.

‘Hi, Amanda,' I say as I climb out. ‘You look nice.'

She flushes. ‘Thanks, Emily.'

She's wearing new jeans and a rather nice blue wrap top. I think of Cassy, slumped on the sofa in her woolly jumper and sloppy old trousers. Dad probably doesn't even notice.

Dad winds down the window to speak to Amanda. ‘Thanks for having our Em. One day we'll return the favour. We'll have a big party, when the house is done.'

Rachel bounds down the steps and gives me a hug. She looks at her mum, leaning over talking to Dad, and rolls her eyes. ‘Come on.'

We leave them to it.

‘So?' Rachel lolls back on the purple-and-silver sequinned bed quilt. ‘How are you?'

‘OK. Glad to be here.' I sit with my back against the radiator. It's the warmest I've been for about three weeks. ‘The caravan is freezing. It's totally mad, us living there in the winter.'

‘You could always live here for a bit,' Rachel says. ‘Mum loves it when you stay over. You can share my room.'

I'm not sure how, exactly. It's a bit difficult to see how the spare mattress is going to fit, even for one night. The floor is covered in so much junk you can't see the carpet: paper, photos, files, books, shoes and bits of clothing. The desk is the same, with Rachel's computer and speakers perched on top of the piles of stuff.

Rachel sighs. ‘I've got masses of coursework to finish. Have you done yours?'

‘'Course not,' I say. ‘Anyway, it's Friday. There's loads of time.' I pick up her photography journal. There's not much in it; a few good photos of a fairground, and some we took together, at a railway station in London.

‘Mr Ives said something really odd to me,' I say.

‘What?' Rachel's only half listening; she's checking text messages at the same time.

‘He said my photos were like Francesca's.'

Rachel looks blank.

‘You know, Francesca, who is my real mother?'

‘Yes, I know. But how come he does? That is weird. What else did he say?'

‘Nothing else. He just moved on to the next person.'

‘And you didn't ask him? Honestly, Em!'

‘I was too shocked. I mean, it was so out of the blue. I only started thinking about it afterwards.'

Rachel shakes her head at me. ‘You're crazy, Em. You should have just asked Ivesy what he was going on about. I've never understood it, why you aren't more curious about your real mum.'

‘'Cos it was all so long ago, I suppose, that she left. And she's never bothered about us. Never once. So why should we care about her?'

‘Except it doesn't work like that, does it?'

I don't say anything.

‘Perhaps Ivesy used to know her. Like, when they were young. At art college or something. He must be at least forty. How old is Francesca?'

‘'Bout the same, I suppose.' My back's too hot. I wriggle forward and stuff a pink cushion between me and the radiator.

The truth is, I never think about Francesca being any age. It's hard enough to think of her being real at all. Like, a normal person, living her life somewhere.

Rachel's staring down at me from the bed, a funny expression on her face. ‘Well, if she's some famous photographer we can just look her up, can't we?'

‘She's not. Not famous,' I say quickly. I'm wishing I'd never mentioned it all now. Stupid.