‘I’ve never touched the stuff,’ I say sharply. ‘Someone—’ the words are staccato through my gritted teeth ‘—said something about my sister that I didn’t take too kindly to at the BAFTAs. I was about to punch him and then I had some sort of medical episode. I thought it was a heart attack at the time but now I don’t know what happened.’ Beatrice’s face softens in the overcast stream of light through the window. ‘Nothing exciting, nothing more than my dad thinks I have nothing going for me, and thought New York would give me a bit of purpose. Show me the “real world” I guess.’
‘Is it working?’ Beatrice can’t help herself from asking.
‘I suppose so. It’s shown me that my calling in life is probably not farming.’
‘I could have told you that before you even came,’ she quips before turning serious again. ‘So, what is your calling?’
I’ve never thought about it, not properly at least. I’ve never been asked that question in the curious sort of way that Beatrice asks it now. Where the farm girl and the barber watch me so intensely, like children patiently awaiting the end of a story that has yet to be written. That question has only ever been put to me out of anger, or frustration, so it’s only now that I truly and honestly sit to deliberate it.
Looking at myself, seeing that vulnerable young boy staring back, I see the child that Lizzie cared for like a mother all those years ago, when she should have been enjoying her youth, not realising how little time she had left. I see Jimmy, his pleading embarrassed gaze in the BigApple toilets, not sure whether he can ask for help, or if he wants to admit he needs it. I see my father in my own face, in my widow’s peak, and my dimpled cheek. I see that man who left Jimmy behind, left my grandmother behind, and I know that my calling here is to right his wrongs. To be a better man than him, to all of the people he forgot about. And to prove to my sister that her sacrifice wasn’t a waste. It has never been to follow in the footsteps of his fame, but to retrace all of the steps that he left covered in the snow nearly thirty years ago.
‘I’ve always wished I could do something for my sister. You know, give something back to her, for all of the years she gave to me. Remind the world that she’s still here, still brilliant and remind her, and everyone else, that she doesn’t have to be ashamed about her condition. Or maybe spread awareness, or help find some better treatments. I’m not sure. I suppose meeting Jimmy has solidified that. I just don’t know what sort of skills I’d have to do any of that.’ I meet my own eyes in the mirror. I see my pale face on full display and I feel weak, helpless. I can’t admit my thoughts in full, at least not yet. But now I’ve put my mind to them, they swim through my head so fiercely that it’s all I can think about.
The sound of the chair legs grinding against the tile startles me as Bruce clambers to his feet and outstretches his hand for me to shake. Taking it hesitantly, he shakes it with vigour. ‘No charge. Good to meet you, lad. You come and see me anytime you need a trim, eh?’
I run a hand across my freshly buzzed hair. The sharp strands scratch at my palm and I nod with an uncertainsmile. ‘Thank you.’ And just like that Beatrice and I are walking back to her truck in silence, my head bursting with the events and news of the last hour, and I’m sure Bea isn’t much different.
The drive home is just as silent, and though her eyes remain fixed on the road, it’s clear that Beatrice’s mind is running a hundred miles a second. Watching her from her side, I wish I could see right into her brain, have all of her thoughts projected to me like an old film. Running my hand back and forth across my hair, the prickling sensation soon turns numb and finally Beatrice speaks again. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tidy it up for you when we get home.’
Her smile is soft, genuine.Home.I’m sure it’s just muscle memory, just force of habit, but there’s comfort in her words. Home hasn’t been a place that I could recognise for so many years, but I feel I know exactly what Beatrice is talking about.
‘Have you got any experience cutting hair?’
‘Does shearing sheep count?’
‘Probably not. But you’d still be more qualified than Bruce.’
She shakes her head with a breathy chuckle. ‘I’m sorry about your hair. I thought meeting Bruce could give you a few answers to the things you’re searching for. Better than me, at least.’
‘But I’m not searching for anything,’ I say, brows slanted, tracking each motion of her face as she speaks.
‘Perhaps the most important answers are those to questions that we never knew to ask.’ She shrugs as though it’s simply a casual comment but I sink back intomy seat and watch the flat lands of Lincolnshire slide past the window.
Why would my father never tell me about New York? Why would he just leave Jimmy behind? There must be something else. There must be something I’m missing.
‘My shift starts in the pub in half an hour. Do you want me to drop you back off at the farm first, or … ?’ Beatrice’s voice cuts through my spiralling thoughts.
‘I thought you were going to help tidy up this mess.’ I slide my hand over my tufty hair again and she stifles a laugh.
‘Pub it is then.’
Chapter 17
Beatrice
‘Christ on a bike,’ Tracy exclaims when she sees us pass through the door. ‘Did you get in a fight with the combine harvester or did you piss Bea off that much that she did that to you in your sleep?’
Arthur blushes in the doorway. ‘We’ve been to see the Butcher this afternoon.’ I laugh and take a closer inspection of Bruce’s handiwork. Running my hand across Arthur’s exposed scalp, I tug gently at the tufts left behind and he blushes even deeper.
Tracy nods with an understanding ‘ah’ and places a pint on the bar in front of the victim without another word.
‘Mind if I steal your scissors?’ I ask, heading for the stairs to Tracy’s flat.
‘Fire away.’ She laughs again. ‘As hilarious as it would be to make Mr Hollywood sit around with that haircut for a few days, it would be too cruel.’
Returning to the bar with the old hairdressing scissors in hand, I gesture for Arthur to follow me. ‘You can bring your pint,’ I add as he quickly tries to down it before he moves from the bar stool.
The rain continues to pummel the county as spring begins to come into sight. I offer Arthur a seat under an umbrella in the beer garden, and he slides a leg over the bench without protest. Raindrops caught in the easterly wind splash one side of our faces but he doesn’t seem to mind, and neither do I.
