Home > Ghosted (The Man Who Didn't Call)

Ghosted (The Man Who Didn't Call)
Author: Rosie Walsh

PART I

Chapter One

Dear You,

It’s exactly nineteen years since that luminous morning when we smiled and said goodbye. That we would see each other again was never in doubt, was it? It was a question of when, not if. In fact, it wasn’t even a question. The future might have seemed as insubstantial as the curled edge of a dream, but it unequivocally contained us both. Together.

And yet it didn’t. Even after all these years I find myself stunned by that.

Nineteen years since that day. Nineteen whole years! And I’m still looking for you. I will never stop looking for you.

Often you appear when I expect it least. Earlier today I was trapped in some pointless dark thought or other, my body clenched like a metal fist. Then suddenly you were there: a bright autumn leaf cartwheeling over a dull pewter lawn. I uncurled and smelled life, felt dew on my feet, saw shades of green. I tried to grab hold of you, that vivid leaf, cavorting and wriggling and giggling. I tried to take your hand, look straight at you, but like an optical black spot you slid silently sideways, just out of reach.

I will never stop looking for you.

Chapter Two

DAY SEVEN: When We Both Knew

The grass had become damp. Damp and dark and full of industry. Stretching away towards the blackened ridge of the woods, it quivered with battalions of ants and ponderous snails and tiny, gossamer-spinning spiders. Underneath us, the earth drew to itself a last residue of warmth.

Eddie, lying next to me, was humming the Star Wars theme tune. His thumb stroked mine. Slowly, gently, like the clouds moving across the fine clip of moon above us. ‘Let’s search for aliens,’ he’d said earlier, as the violet sky had thickened to purple. We were still there.

I heard the distant sigh of the last train disappearing into the tunnel further up the hill and I smiled, remembering when Hannah and I used to camp out here as children. In a small field in this same small valley, hidden from what still felt like a small world.

At the first sign of summer Hannah would beg our parents to put up the tent.

‘Sure,’ they said. ‘As long as you camp in the garden.’

The garden was flat. It was at the front of our house, overlooked by almost every window. But it was never enough for Hannah, whose spirit of adventure – even though she was five years my junior – had always exceeded mine. She wanted the field. The field straggled up the steep hill behind our house, flattening just enough at the top to fit a tent. It was overlooked by nothing other than the sky. It was speckled with hard frisbees of cowpat and was so high up you could almost look down our chimney.

Our parents were not so keen on the field.

‘But I’ll be perfectly safe,’ Hannah would insist, in that bossy little voice. (How I missed that voice.)

‘I’ll have Alex with me.’ Hannah’s best friend spent most of her time at our house. ‘And Sarah. She can protect us if any murderers come.’

As if I were a well-built man with a reliable right hook.

‘And you won’t have to make our dinner if we go camping. Or our breakfast . . .’

Hannah was like a tiny bulldozer – she never ran out of counter-arguments – and our parents inevitably gave in. At first they camped in the field with us, but eventually, as I fought on through the knotted jungle of adolescence, they allowed Hannah and Alex to sleep up there alone, with me as bodyguard.

We would lie in Dad’s old festival tent – a lumbering thing made of orange canvas, like a small bungalow – and listen to the symphony of sounds in the grass outside. Often, I’d stay awake long after my little sister and her friend had slackened into sleep, wondering what kind of protection I’d actually be able to offer were someone to burst in. The necessity of protecting Hannah – not just as she slept in this tent, but always – felt like molten rock in my stomach, a volcano barely contained. And yet what would I actually do? Karate-chop them with my teenage wrist? Stab them with a marshmallow-toasting stick?

Often hesitant, not entirely certain of herself , was how my form tutor had described me on a report .

‘Well, that’s really bloody useful,’ Mum had said, in the voice she normally reserved for telling off our father. ‘Ignore her, Sarah. Be as uncertain as you like! That’s what your teenage years are for!’

Exhausted, eventually, by the competing forces of protectiveness and powerlessness, I’d fall asleep, waking early to assemble whatever disgusting combination of things Hannah and Alex had packed for their infamous ‘breakfast sandwich’.

I laid a hand on my chest; dimmed the lights on the memory. It wasn’t an evening for sadness; it was an evening for now. For Eddie and me, and the great, still-growing thing between us.

I concentrated on the sounds of a woodland clearing at night. Invertebrate rustle, mammalian shuffle. The green whisper of moving leaves, the untroubled rise and fall of Eddie’s breath. I listened to his heart, beating evenly through his jumper, and marvelled at his steadiness. ‘More will be revealed,’ my father always liked to say about people. ‘You have to watch and wait, Sarah.’ But I’d been watching this man for a week and I hadn’t sensed any disquiet. In many ways he reminded me of the me I’d trained myself to be at work: solid, rational, untroubled by the shifting tides of the non-profit sector – but I was someone who’d spent years practising, whereas Eddie seemed, simply, to be that way.

I wondered if he could hear the excitement careening around in my chest. A matter of days ago I’d been separated, approaching divorce, approaching forty. Then this. Him.

‘Oh! A badger!’ I said, as a low shape shuffled across the darkened edge of my vision. ‘I wonder if it’s Cedric.’

‘Cedric?’

‘Yes. Although I suppose it probably isn’t him. How long do badgers live? ’

‘I think about ten years.’ Eddie was smiling: I could hear it.

‘Well, then it’s definitely not Cedric. But it could be his son. Or maybe grandson.’ I paused. ‘We loved Cedric.’

A vibration of laughter traced through his body, into mine. ‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and my little sister. We used to camp quite near here.’

He rolled over onto his side, his face close to mine, and I could see it in his eyes.

‘Cedric the badger. I . . . you,’ he said quietly. He traced a finger along my hairline. ‘I like you. I like you and me. In fact, I like you and me very much.’

I smiled. Right into those kind, sincere eyes. At those laughter lines, at the heavy angle of his chin. I took his hand and kissed his fingertips, rough and mottled with splinters after two decades of woodworking. Already it felt like I’d known him for years. For a lifetime. It felt like someone had matched us, maybe at birth, and nudged and aligned and planned and schemed until we finally met, six days ago.

‘I just had some very mushy thoughts,’ I said, after a long pause.

‘Me too.’ He sighed. ‘It feels like the last week’s been set to a score of sweeping violins.’

I laughed, and he kissed my nose, and I wondered how it was that you could spend weeks, months – years , even – just chugging on, nothing really changing, and then, in the space of a few hours, the script of your life could be completely rewritten. Had I gone out later that day, I would have got straight on the bus and never met him, and this new feeling of certainty would be no more than an unheard whisper of missed opportunities and bad timing.

‘Tell me even more about you,’ he said. ‘I still don’t know enough. I want to know everything. The complete and unabridged life story of Sarah Evelyn Mackey, including the bad bits.’

I held my breath.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t known this would happen at some stage, more that I still hadn’t decided what I’d do when it did. The complete and unabridged life story of Sarah Evelyn Mackey, including the bad bits. He could take it, probably. There was an armour on this man, a quiet strength that made me think of an old seawall, an oak tree, maybe.

He was running a hand along the curve between my hip and ribcage. ‘I love this curve,’ he said.

A man so comfortable in his own skin you could probably sink any secret, any truth into him, and he’d be able to hold it without sustaining structural damage.

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