The Shadow Year (6 page)

Kat pulls another daisy from the grass and pinches its stem between her fingernails. ‘I like writing,’ she says and then colours when she realises she’s said it out loud. ‘I mean, I always wanted to be a writer. That’s what I wanted to be when I was a little girl.’

She’s expecting laughter but Simon just nods. ‘Exactly. Writing. You don’t need money or a degree or a fancy house or car to write. Just a pen and a piece of paper. And you, Ben?’

‘I like smoking weed,’ he says, making them all laugh. ‘And my guitar. I’d be happy if I could just hang out and smoke and make up daft tunes all day.’

‘So no change then?’ asks Kat.

Simon ignores her jibe. ‘See, you both love doing things that don’t require anything other than time and space. And yet that’s the very thing you’ll lose when you enter the workforce. Let’s face it, all the past three years at university have really done is steer us towards joining a society based on commerce and greed, like lambs to the slaughter. I’ll join a legal firm.’ He nods at Ben. ‘You’ll get a job at your dad’s engineering company, and you’ll start on the bottom rung at a newspaper or magazine,’ he says, turning to Kat. ‘Mac here will get a little hippy job working with the environment and Carla here might pop out a few mini-Bens . . .’

‘Hey,’ exclaims Carla, ‘I was planning on being a social worker first.’

‘I know, I know,’ smiles Simon holding up his hands, ‘I’m just teasing . . . but a little further down the track we’ll probably all sign ourselves up for mortgages and car loans and kids and then before you know it we’ll have lost sight of the things that are most important to us, the dreams and ambitions we feel most strongly about. We’ll be trapped in jobs we don’t want to pay for lives we never really desired in the first place.’

‘That’s quite a speech.’ Kat studies Simon carefully. She’s seen him like this before, when he really begins to warm to an argument. She understands what he’s saying; she can see the fundamental truth behind his words, but then it’s easy to wax lyrical when you come from a position of money and privilege. They aren’t all so fortunate.

‘You’re forgetting one crucial point: we all need money . . . an income,’ says Carla quietly, mirroring Kat’s own thoughts. ‘We’re all skint as it is.’

‘Only because of the way the system works. It’s a trap: live to work. Is that what you want?’

‘So what would
you
have us do?’ Kat asks. ‘Live off the dole? Stay at university for the rest of our lives?’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not as if I want to leave next week . . .’

‘It’s simple. We just have to find a way to live our lives without relinquishing our freedom and our ideals for a few lousy pound notes. It’s about making choices and taking control.’

‘I think that’s called Communism,’ says Ben, letting out another quiet belch. ‘Didn’t work out so well for Stalin.’

Carla thinks for a moment. ‘I do understand what you’re saying but how do you take a stand when the rest of the world
is
the system? We don’t all have filthy rich parents,’ she adds pointedly, throwing Ben and Simon a reproachful glance.

Simon doesn’t seem to notice her dig, or if he does he ignores it. Instead, he looks out over the lake, his eyes catching the sun and flashing amber. ‘What if the answer is staring us in the face?’ He turns and leans in towards them, lowering his voice. ‘Look around you. This place is falling into ruin but someone could really make something of it.
We
could make something of it.’

Ben laughs. ‘Sure, let’s just move up here, drop out, stuff the future.’

‘But that’s my point,’ says Simon, ‘
this
could be the future. This could be
our
future.’

‘You mean we’d be squatters? Here?’ asks Carla, the slightest hint of distaste in her voice.

‘Ignore him,’ says Kat, stretching out on the grass. ‘It’s the sunshine and the beer . . . they’ve gone to his head.’

‘But why not?’ continues Simon, unruffled. ‘It’s obvious no one else is using this place. Whoever owns this land, if indeed anybody does, is probably long dead. Why should these strawberries go uneaten or the lake untouched on a summer’s day? Why should this cottage be left to fall into ruin? Why shouldn’t we enjoy it . . . make something of the place?’

‘I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, Simon, but what about money? What would we live on?’ asks Ben. ‘We’ll need more than a few strawberries to see us through even a week up here.’

‘You’re not looking properly,’ says Simon. ‘Everything we need is right here: shelter, fresh water, produce from the land. There are fish in the lake, pheasants in the woods, enough firewood to keep us warm for the rest of our days. We could resurrect the vegetable patch behind the cottage and I bet there are ducks . . . and deer. We could live like kings. We could be self-sufficient, reliant on nobody but ourselves, free to choose our own pursuits.’

‘Wow,’ says Ben with jokey admiration, ‘I never took you for the clogs and corduroy type, Simon.’

‘I’m not talking about clogs and corduroy. I’m talking about control. I’m talking about escaping the treadmill and establishing our own rules. This isn’t free-love-hippy-shit. This is the eighties – a whole new decade. We can submit to the system, or we can choose to live life our way – on our own terms. Think about it: up here Kat could write. Ben could make music, hell, he could smoke himself into a coma if he likes.’

Ben raises his beer bottle at the group. ‘Cheers to that.’

Kat rolls over and props herself up on one elbow. She watches as Simon runs his hands through his hair. Soft shadows and sunlight dance across his face. There is the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw and a smattering of boyish freckles emerging on the bridge of his nose. The sight of him fills her heart with that familiar, bittersweet ache.

‘Look at it this way,’ he says, ‘maybe the most radical thing we can do right now is to remove ourselves from a society that demands we sacrifice our desires for a salary. Here we can rely purely on what we can grow, make or forage. We could focus on the things we truly enjoy – the things that
really
matter. We could make a difference.’

‘So we just leave the real world behind?’ Kat asks.

Simon throws his arms wide. ‘What if
this
is the real world?’

Kat feels the beginnings of a smile pull at the corners of her mouth.

‘And what if some farmer or park ranger takes offence at us squatting here and turfs us out?’ asks Carla. ‘What if some little old lady appears out of the blue and asks for her cottage back?’

Simon shrugs. ‘What have we lost? You’ve still got the rest of your lives to conform.’ He sits up straight and eyes each of them in turn. ‘We could try it for twelve months and see what happens? Think of it like an experiment. One year. I think we could manage that.’

Kat glances around at the others and sees them all staring at Simon with rapt attention. She knows how dangerously persuasive he can be when he gets in this mood and wonders where it comes from – this confidence, this swagger. Perhaps it’s something innate, something in his genetic make-up; or perhaps it’s taught at those expensive public schools? Maybe that’s why wealthy families fork out astronomical fees each term – for classes in how to dazzle and persuade, how to unswervingly believe in yourself? Where it comes from she’s not sure, but what she is sure of is that when Simon fixes you in his sights with a plan or an argument, he can be both formidable and almost impossible to resist.

‘What do you say?’ he continues. ‘Twelve months out of an entire lifetime . . . it’s nothing; and at least we’d have had fun trying.’ He sits back on his heels and looks at them all, his eyes glowing black again in the faltering light, the faintest stain of strawberry juice on his lips. She swallows and drags her gaze away.

Finally, when no one says anything, he sighs and turns towards the still waters of the lake. ‘Oh forget it. You’re probably all right. I’m being an idiot. Of course it’s time for us to move on. We can’t stay together like this for ever.’

Silence falls over them. Kat thinks about what he’s suggesting; the five of them living in close quarters in a remote, tumbledown cottage, creating something from nothing, making a home together right here in the fresh air and the sunshine, beside this beautiful, shimmering lake. She thinks about having the time to read books and write – the time to think – the time to enjoy her friends’ company; and then she thinks about the alternative.

Things aren’t as straightforward for her as the rest of them. She has no parents to fall back on, no job assurances or promises of help in the family firm. The only person she has in the whole world is her sister, and Freya is busy now with her own life. But this place – this idea – would change everything. Compared to any of her other ideas for the future this place feels strangely solid and real and it comes with one shining promise she hasn’t dared to imagine up until now: Simon, for another twelve months.

As she considers his argument she feels excitement spark like a warm ember in her belly. She takes a breath. ‘I know I’ll probably regret this . . .’ she sighs, ‘but I’ll do it.’ She says it so quietly she’s not sure anyone will hear – but Simon is already spinning towards her, a smile breaking over his face.

‘Kat,’ he says. It’s just one word, but the approval in his voice makes the smouldering ember flare to a white-hot flame. ‘I knew
you’d
get it.’

She nods and tries to hide her smile.

‘Anyone else?’ he asks, looking around at the group.

Ben groans. ‘Oh you . . . with your persuasive tongue and your honeyed words. You know my dad will kill me, don’t you?’

Simon just shrugs.

‘And there’s not even any electricity. I mean, I don’t think I’ll survive without my record player and my vinyl. I might waste away.’

Simon just continues to stare at him.

‘But I suppose the job could wait a while, while we explore this hare-brained scheme of yours.’ He looks up at Carla and she tilts her head slightly. ‘Twelve months, you say?’

Simon nods.

‘Oh go on then,’ says Ben, ‘you’ve twisted my arm. I’m in.’

‘Me too,’ says Carla.

Kat smirks. They all know that when it comes to Ben and Carla, where one goes, the other follows.

‘Great. So that just leaves you, Mac . . . you’ve been very quiet over there. What do you think?’

They wait. Mac sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring down at his dusty trainers.

‘Come on, Mac, we wouldn’t be able to do it without our
country boy
,’ cajoles Ben, putting on a terrible northern accent.

‘Yes, come on, Mac,’ says Kat, ‘you’re the one who brought us here. It wouldn’t feel right staying on without you.’

Mac looks at each of them in turn, peering at them through the shaggy curtain of his hair. He slaps at a midge on his arm then runs his hand across the pink stubble rash on his chin. ‘You’re all drunk,’ he says.

The rest of them just stare at him, fixing him in their gaze.

‘And it will be bloody hard work,’ he adds.

Still no one says anything. A wood pigeon calls from high up in the trees.

‘Christ,’ he says at last, breaking into a crooked smile, ‘it’s not as if I can leave you lot by yourselves, can I? You wouldn’t last five minutes alone out here.’ He gives a small nod. ‘I’m in.’

‘Good man,’ says Simon, reaching over and slapping him on the shoulder.

They seal the pact by clinking their beer bottles and drinking a toast and then, as the sun slowly begins to dip below the hills, they turn their thoughts towards the journey home, shaking out the rug and their towels and packing away the cool bag. Mac leads the way towards the dark copse of trees, the rest of them trailing at a distance, but Kat hangs back for a moment, standing at the water’s edge, reluctant to tear herself away. The light is almost gone now, the lake a deep pool of ink in the murky twilight. They’ve agreed to return in a week, when they have packed up their house, secured a few essentials and waved goodbye to their student home, but now that the time has come to return to the city she finds she can’t bear to go.

She hears the crunch of footsteps behind her, but she doesn’t turn, not even when a second shadow joins hers at the edge of the lake, merging and stretching out over the dark mass of water, not even as a warm arm snakes around her shoulders. Hazy with sunshine and beer, she allows herself the luxury of leaning into the solid curve of Simon’s body, resting her head on his shoulder.

‘Don’t want to leave, huh?’

‘No,’ she admits.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll be back in a few days.’ She nods and wonders if she is imagining the light, dancing motion of his fingertips on her bare skin. ‘Twelve months,’ he murmurs. ‘No bullshit . . . just honest, hard work and the rewards that will come with it.’

For some reason, Simon’s words remind her of the plant growing around the abandoned cottage, those green, papery discs shimmering in the faintest summer breeze. ‘We must be mad,’ she murmurs, but she feels it too; there is the promise of something good and real here, a life of simplicity and solitude. A life with Simon and her friends, removed from the distractions of the outside world. A life of honesty.

Simon stifles a yawn. ‘Come on,’ he says, spinning her round by the shoulders to face the grassy slope ahead, ‘the others will be waiting.’

She nods and allows him to lead her by the hand through the lengthening shadows, all the way back to the car.

3

LILA