[MATURE]
seventeen years ago noora and william met, parted and never said goodbye. and soon they're going to have to ask themselves: could it be that they actually found what they've both been looking for, back in the mid-eighties, in a holiday park...
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"shit," said noora, dashing back into the caravan and fanning her face with her magazine, "shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."
she slammed the door closed behind her and leaned against it breathlessly, taking a moment to catch her breath before heading for the mirror.
"shit," she said again, examining her pasty face with disgust and wiping away kohl smears from under her eyes with the back of her index finger. she lifted her arms and stared in horror at the dark hairs growing obliviously from her armpits. she lowered her head and took a little sniff. gross. she hoped he hadn't noticed. she'd kept her arms glued to her side throughout the whole painful encounter, acutely aware of the fact that she hadn't bothered to put on any deodorant this morning.
she thought back to their awkward conversation and felt a slug-like trail dread slithter down her spine.
"shit," she hissed to herself. "shit." that bloke. william. god. gorgeous. just gorgeous. just the best-looking bloke she'd ever seen in her life. tall and cool and handsome. handsome in an old-fashioned way - strong jaw, mellow eyes, beat-up-looking. and those scars. noora loved scars. smouldering, that's what he was.
noora had blown it, hadn't been able to think of anything to say. apart from that stupid question about why his stepfather was his stepfather. he must have thought she was a cretin.
she moved from the bathroom to the living area at the front of the caravan and peered gingerly between the lurid orange curtains that smelled of dust and other people. the mother was locking up her little green mini. noora watched her with interest. trim and petite in tight cotton trousers, a white blouse and plimsolls, she looked about twenty-five years old. her hair was a dyed ash brown, cut into a neat helmet around her fine-featured face. noora had never before seen a mother as girlish and unbroken as her. she looked light-hearted and carefree. she didn't look capable of having borne a child as tall and broodingly masculine as her son. she didn't look capable of having borne any child. Her hips were too narrow; her step too light.
the door of the next-door caravan opened and the stepfather emerged. he looked like B. A. robertson without the chin. his hair was dark and shiny, curling around his collar and over his ears, with a small fringe swept across his forehead. he wore a chambray shirt tucked into tight jeans only a shade or two darker than the shirt, and a heavy-buckled belt. noora saw a hint of tattoo on his dark-haired arms and a rough stubble chin that looked as if you could strike matches off it. he was tall and broad and macho. lots of women probably fancied him, she pondered, thought he was a real hunk. not noora'a type, though. too hairy, too obvious, too old.
she watched the mother and the stepfather interacting with interest. they were still new to each other - you could tell that from the way they touched each other and circled each other. they were in love. it explained the mother's girlish gait.
noora was fascinated by other people's families, always has been, ever since she was a child. she'd loved watching the other kids meeting their parents at the school gates at the end of the day, wanted to see what other people's mothers were wearing, what cars they drove, how they greeted their children. she compared hairstyles and nail polish and heel size. even now she didn't really feel like she knew someone until she'd met their parents. even now, at nearly eighteen years old, she still compared other people's parents to her own.
she looked up again as the front door opposite opened and William emerged. she studied him minutely now that she wasn't being taken unawares. he looked as if he slept with french girls and smoked american cigarettes, as if he could win a fight and write a poem all in the same afternoon.
noora ran a fingertip down the bare underside of her arm and felt goosebumps erupt across her flesh like a field of detonating mines. then she heard the familiar rumble of her fathers car as it bounced its way over the pockmarked gravel and mountainous speed bumps towards their caravan. she sighed and let the curtain fall.
"hello, love." noora could hear her mother wheezing lugubriously from the other end of the caravan.
"hi, mum."
"and what time did you eventually emerge?" her father said, following spryly behind.
emerge, thought noora, with annoyance. she hated the way her father said that. emerge.
she shrugged at him and fiddled with her crucifix.
"people next door," he said, resting some musty-smelling packages in the dining table and indicating the next-door caravan with a jerk of his silvery head.
"yes," said her mother, leaning against the kitchen counter while she drew some breath, a light but insistent sweat trickling from her hairline and disappearing into her heavy brows. "have you seen? can't quite work out what they are though - a family or what."
"ugly bunch," said her father, and her mother nodding from the other side of the caravan.
her father was unfurling a parcel of old newspaper and string, and pulling out something made of brass that looked like yet another coal scuttle. "you missed an excellent morning's antiquing," he held the brass thing to the light and smiled at it with satisfaction. "lots of super little shops up at burnham market. and we had a marvellous pub lunch."
"have you eaten, love?" said her mum, finally having regained enough puff to make it to the other end of the caravan and collapse in a lump on the seat opposite noora.
"yes" noora said.
"so, what are your plans for the afternoon?" said her father.
noora sighed. plans. there it was - another of his special words designed purely to irritate her. what plans did he possibly think she might have stranded here in a dingy caravan on the outskirts of hunstanton? she shurggered, and scratched her upper arm.
she had no idea where they'd found this godforsaken, manky old sardine can. even in comparison to some of the other eyesores on this site this one was shockingly ugly. the interior was brown and unappealing, with knobbly nylon stretch covers on everything, and why her parents had even thought for a second that bringing her to north norfolk coast to spend two weeks cocooned away with a pair of twittering geriatric parents was going to help heal the still-raw wounds of the past few months was a mystery to her. in all honesty, she suspected it was a mystery to them, too. but they were still sensitive, still desperate to remain 'upbeat' no matter what. they would, she knew, enjoy this holiday by hook or by crook, however uncomfortable or unappealing they found their surroundings. there would be no negativity in this family, no moaning, no complaining. and she'd comply because it was all her fault, because after everything she'd put her parents through the least she could do was smile and pretend to be having a good time.
and as she peeled back the orange curtain again and saw the shadowy moements of the intriguing family next door she thought to herself that with any luck she might not even have to pretend.
