Les Noyades

6: Christabel

The remainder of the journey passed largely without incident. Rumi gripped tenaciously to his dwindling innocence and his father switched halfway along to allow Yves some time to sleep, meaning there was no longer the necessity of hearing Yves talk in his quick, iridescent manner.

As they clambered out having pulled into the verge of a large field somewhere beyond the Scottish border to let Declan drive, they paused for a leg stretch, and this was the one final event of the journey. Although nothing happened that Rumi could have repeated with specific description, he noticed all the while that Yves was passing him the most curious looks– as if he were figuring something or other out, or had already made the assumption but was struggling to put it aptly in place. Rumi returned to the van without asking.

Rumi could not for the life of him conceive of what might have prompted this sudden interest of Yves' when aside from meeting at Culshawe's they had not particularly said a word of intention to each other. He could not persuade himself that Yves was unaware of why he had been at Culshawe's that evening, or why he had been reading Forster, or why he had asked that question. That was hardly cause for the looks now if Yves had realised it then. Was there any possibility that he knew what Rumi had done in the pub? Of course not. Yves had been sat at the bar with Declan, that much at least was certain.

§§§

They had decided already to sleep in the van– hence the cushions and blankets swamped into the back– and by the time they arrived a half hour or so from their destination town, Linlithgow, it was late evening. They none of them had eaten and were feeling the effects in a general malaise of irritation.

Yves offered to walk into the nearest town to where they had parked up and bring back some food; this was met by both of the Barretts with equal delight. Declan decreed (much to Rumi's horror) that his son ought to go along to help carry everything back and Yves was strangely acquiescent to the idea considering there was clearly no need for help.

Rumi did as he was told and the two ended up meandering together along tight roads of bending curves and steep slopes that hurt his knees to attempt. Not a word passed between them but for the generals of discussing directions and one or the other needing a few moments' pause for their breath.

The town itself– Kirkemast, the sign declared– was shabby and barely worth the title of 'town' at all. A good half of the shops were boarded up and they must have strolled briskly, for it was no longer sweetly warm by that hour and lack of light, along six or seven ugly streets before falling with relief upon a small fish and chip shop.

Yves naturally took charge of ordering the food and, indeed, paying, for which Rumi was thankful as he doubted his father had brought even the pennies out the old trip jar. He would at least have liked to pay for his own share, but it was out of the question when he had never had his own money before.

They sat on the sticky red plastic chairs to wait. Rumi started to swing his feet like a primary school child.

"How long have you known Culshawe?" Yves asked. The question felt loaded to Rumi. Or perhaps he was paranoid.

"Since I was very young," he replied with an attempted lightness that became leaded and obvious. "He helps my father sometimes. And I read his books."

"So I remember."

Further silence, just for a little while; Yves was watching how Rumi's feet scuffed at the grey linoleum floor.

"Have you finished Maurice yet?" was his next question. Harmless enough.

Rumi nodded squarely.

"Then what are you reading now?"

"Nothing. Culshawe hasn't told me what to read next."

"Then I will. The Charioteer."

"Will he have it?"

"Yes."

"Is it like– like the rest?"

Yves looked up to the counter before replying that yes, it was like the rest of Culshawe's books. This was all the same as saying that he was like the rest of Culshawe's books, which Rumi might sensibly have expected already given the circumstance of their meeting in the library, and the conversation which had been conducted meanwhile. Instead he felt lightly surprised. So preoccupied had he been with his own truth that to learn of Yves' had been beyond his abilities on that evening.

It was now Rumi's turn to brush over Yves the curious looks he had received before. He knew that young men in need of money would often visit Culshawe in the evenings, although for what specific favours he did not like to think he knew, and that Culshawe already knew Yves by the time Rumi had mentioned him suggested a familiarity of some sort. He had only a numbered amount of times initiated a conversation, but he held it necessary to somehow calculate what Yves might be relying upon for the money he used for the food they were awaiting. It was easy; he would repeat the exact question Yves had asked him.

"Easy does it," he muttered to himself in irritation as he felt the faltering begin.

"Don't feel you have to say anything," Yves quickly said, clearly having seen Rumi choking on his slow tongue. "I understand if you're shy."

"No, I do want it. I do want to talk, that is, I meant."

"I'd guess living with your father doesn't give you lots of talking room. Don't you go to school?"

"No."

"Didn't you like it?"

"It was alright. But I worry about my dad."

"Normally it's the other way around. That's just what it's like if your father's a genius, then."

"Maybe." Rumi began to feel unnerved by Yves' talk of his father. He wanted to talk about Culshawe and what Yves was doing knowing him, yet here they were discussing school and his father, two things he could not connect to his time at Errol House.

He did not get the chance to make his question out; their order was called, and Yves stood to retrieve it. The girl behind the counter made polite conversation with him as she checked his order and slid all the neat paper parcels into a bag for him. Rumi grew in envy of her calm ability to talk to an intimidating foreigner she had never met (but then what did his being foreign have to do with it?) and prompt even a wide smile from him.

"Tha's all of it," she said after she had run through the whole order. "Ha' a nice day, the both a yes."

Yves thanked her, took the bag, and waited for Rumi by the door.

"If you're wondering," Yves said as they walked out, "I know Culshawe because he pays a lot of money to undress me and hear me read poems."