Page 52 of A Summer of Castles
‘Good, because I want to tell you something when we’re there.’ My heartbeats accelerated; had I just committed myself?
With his back to the dusky sky, a shadow framed his face, and he seemed to disappear into a tunnel of darkness. What I couldn’t see, I heard in his voice.
‘If it’s important—’
‘No, no. Nothing bad… I’m waiting for the right moment.’
He turned and the low sun lit up his face. ‘I understand,’ he said, with such feeling, almost relief.
Something had to happen and not while visiting Pickering Castle, which was just a ring of stone on a hill, but later. Perhaps the ruins of an abbey on a cliff would give us the motivation to finally tell each other what bound us to the same path.
We said goodbye. We didn’t kiss again, neither did we hug; we’d not planted roots to a romantic relationship, only the hope of one.
?
By the morning, after a night of dreamless tossing and turning, I was on edge, and also optimistic. I tracked down my host. He was laying the dining room table.
‘Could I use your computer to access my email account? I promise I’ll be quick.’ The question was met with a swift glance over the shoulder to the noisy kitchen where his wife was cooking breakfast.
‘Well, you see, a friend of mine manages the website. We don’t have a computer. My wife thinks the electromagnetic waves will kill us all. Please remember to keep your mobile switched off.’ He blushed and hurried away.
Glancing out the bay window, the evidence of rebellion was suddenly obvious in the regimented rows of an organic vegetable garden, and in the next room, there was the ancient television that was probably never switched on and next door, in the kitchen where there was the gallery of crayon pictures pinned on the walls, extolling the importance of protecting the planet from lethal bombardments of the unknown kind. They were a lovely family, but the precautions were ridiculous.
I walked down the road until I was out of sight of the house, and then checked my mobile. Nothing from Yvette or David. In fact, I realised something more worrying. Mum and I hadn’t texted each other in two days. I hadn’t even noticed. If that proved anything, it was that I was focused on other things. Was that so bad?
Twenty-Eight
Whitby
Iopted to stay with the cosy family in Pickering rather than move to the touristy bedlam of Scarborough. By ignoring their bizarre beliefs, I accepted the family were, in their own way, happy. They were wonderfully energetic with their noisy banter and homespun activities and the kids were polite with their curiosity. Only ever home-schooled, which was seemingly limited to the boundaries of their house, they spotted the equipment I had unpacked on the bed and asked questions. I showed them the difference between the digital and film camera until the mother heard the word computer, then she encouraged them to leave me alone. The grandfather shifted from lucid to confused in a twinkle of his grey eyes. He had plenty of random memories to tell, and was tolerated by his son and daughter-in-law with tired patience. Over breakfast he chuntered away merrily.
Pickering Castle came and went in a blink without any visionary incidents. Perhaps that was due to my levels of concentration, and fear that any strange behaviour on my part would be witnessed. How swiftly I had gone from uncaring to self-conscious with regard to my daydreaming. Joseph and I worked separately, but not independently. When I wasn’t playing with my tilt lens, I ambled over to him and admired his progress. I wished I was Mary Poppins and could jump right into his wonderful landscapes.
Because Joseph thankfully hadn’t embarrassed me by mentioning our abridged kiss, I had set my heart on revealing to him the real nature of my “seizures” at Whitby. At least if he backed off after that, I would know destiny had other plans for us.
Fate played a lot on my mind. I doubted the architects and builders of castles ever envisaged them lying in such ruins, so I had to be equally optimistic that Joseph was here for a long-lasting purpose. Whatever Medici had intended with his parallel projects, I had decided it was no longer going to be photography that motivated me to finish mine. I was too reluctant to test the waters to find out if Joseph felt the same way about his project.
?
Having agreed he would drive to Whitby, he picked me up the next morning, an already cauldron hot day. The children, their names impressively old-fashioned – Mungo, Fred and Elsie – waved from the attic windows.
‘They look like prisoners,’ Joseph said scathingly, while reversing out of the drive.
‘Oh, don’t. They’re really sweet and happy.’ I waved back.
‘Looks are deceiving,’ he said, grimly.
I brushed aside the dark commentary, the hints to the even darker places in his mind. I decided if I came clean, then he had no excuse not to open up. But not during a car journey.
I navigated with a road map, but he didn’t seem to need the instructions.
‘I came a few years ago,’ he said. ‘On the way to Hadrian’s wall, I took a detour.’
The reference to years left me wondering; I had no clue to his exact age. He could be anywhere between twenty-five and thirty-five.
The journey took half an hour, sufficiently long to engage in a meaningful conversation that didn’t stray into uncomfortable topics. We compared, in a neutral fashion, the art of photography versus painting. By the time we reached the outskirts of Whitby town, we’d agreed that the crafts were different, but the outcome was the same; a picture that captured a moment in time whether it was the scene itself or the occasion when it was painted. We never mentioned the exact destination in Whitby, as he rightly assumed it would be the ruins of the monastic abbey on the cliff top. It certainly was my preference. The popular abbey was the famed windswept location of Bram Stoker’sDracula. However, with skies clear of foreboding cloud and the sun already creating swirling mirages on the road surface, we weren’t visiting the misty set of a horror movie.
The abbey car park was heaving. We spent time finding a space. Joseph had left most of his painting stuff behind at the campsite. But my idea of taking a break didn’t mean I wasn’t going to use the camera. I had dispensed with the digital one, which was back at the bed and breakfast, and stuck to my faithful film one. I had stocked up on reels of film. Joseph carried the tripod, casually resting it against his shoulder; it was much lighter than his easel. I bought a guidebook. Joseph read the placards dotted around the site. Side by side, we walked from one end to the other, through the skeletal remains of the abbey church.