Page 63 of Somewhere Only We Know

Australia

Harry’s uncle lived in a small house surrounded by forest. From the inside, it was like sitting high up in a treehouse. It was charming and rustic and owned by someone who cared more about the outdoors than interiors. The backyard consisted of a patch of ground populated by random buckets, pots and even an old bathtub stuffed with herbs and vegetable plants. The area was enclosed by some of the largest ferns I’d ever seen, and it felt as if it wouldn’t take much for nature to smother the house entirely, like the castle in Sleeping Beauty.

‘I was a ten-pound pom.’ Pete sprinkled his bottle of beer liberally over the barbecue coals and hooted with glee at the sizzle. ‘Best ten quid I ever spent in my life. Left Liverpool when I was eighteen, never looked back.’

Pete was divorced, retired and living his best life. I don’t think I’d ever met someone so content with his lot than this bushy-bearded, cuddly man. He reminded me of a koala bear, complete with the hairy ears.

‘That must have been quite an adventure for someone so young,’ I said, sipping my own beer. I’d stopped off at a shop and bought a couple of bottles of wine for my host. He’d accepted them graciously before popping the top off an Australian lager and shoving it into my hand.

‘And one long adventure ever since,’ Harry said, adding, ‘if you believe all his stories, that is.’

‘Oi, cheeky.’ Pete flipped some prawns over on the barbecue. One fell onto the ground. He picked it up, brushed the grass off and replaced it on the grill.

‘You won’t look back either.’ He waved his tongs at me. ‘I can tell when a woman’s happy; I’m an expert. There’s a flush to your cheeks. You love it here – don’t deny it.’

I surreptitiously touched my beer bottle to my face to cool them down and wondered upon what basis he’d decided he was an expert.

‘Maybe if I was young, like Harry,’ I said. Or like Brontë would have been if she’d come here instead of me. ‘But I have a job to go back to – so as much as I love it, I’ll have to go home eventually.’

‘Ah, work.’ Pete threw his arms in the air. ‘Ruins all the bloody fun, doesn’t it?’

‘Only if you’re in the wrong job.’ Harry held a platter out while his uncle piled on griddled tuna, prawns and vegetable kebabs.

Pete laughed. ‘Very true, mate, very true.’

‘Not that I know exactly what work is,’ Harry added.

Pete wiped his hands on his apron and mussed up his nephew’s hair. ‘You take as long as you need. You’ve been through the mill.’ He met my eye. ‘You both have. Come on. Let’s eat.’

We ate at a solid wooden table on stools that Pete had made from logs. It wasn’t quite sunset but the sun had sunk below the trees and the light had taken on a soft golden glow, making our al fresco setting feel very romantic. The food was delicious. Vegetables bursting with flavour, the fish and seafood fresh and the salad Harry had made with an Asian dressing set my tastebuds alight.

‘Actually, I have sort of got a job,’ Harry said, once we’d finished eating. ‘I’m an accidental influencer.’

‘Instagram?’ I asked, remembering the encounter with the bookshop owner this morning.

He nodded sheepishly. ‘I started posting about four months ago. I’ve got about thirty thousand followers.’

‘Fiddling about on your phone is a job, is it?’ his uncle teased.

‘Not on your phone, maybe,’ Harry shot back. ‘Uncle Pete’s phone will be in the Imperial War Museum one day, as part of the early communication devices exhibit.’

‘It makes calls, which is all I ask of it,’ replied Pete, getting to his feet. ‘And talking of which, nature’s calling, so excuse me. I’m off to point Percy at the porcelain.’

‘Sorry about Uncle Pete.’ Harry winced. ‘He’s great but he doesn’t have a filter. I think he’s lived on his own too long.’

I laughed. ‘I’d better take note, or that will happen to me. He’s a lot of fun, which is probably what you need.’

Harry nodded. ‘I do. He’s got me laughing again, that’s for sure. But I also need to learn to express my feelings better too. You can’t keep them locked up inside your head forever. It’s toxic.’

‘That was the mistake I made,’ I told him. ‘When I came back to work after taking compassionate leave, I asked my boss to ensure that no one mentioned Brontë. I didn’t want to talk about her at work. But it must have looked weird seeing me acting as if nothing had happened, and it meant that they weren’t able to show me any sympathy, which probably made them feel awkward. And as for my friends, I cut myself off entirely.’

I could see now how unhealthy it was. All it would have taken was for me to have one conversation about Brontë with each of them, and then we could have all moved forward with Brontë’s death being part of my narrative instead of a taboo subject.

‘Me too.’ Harry took a swig of beer. ‘For the first three months after the funeral, I told myself that I needed to accept she’d gone and get on with my life. You know, be a man, get over it.’

‘Oh Harry.’ I sighed. ‘I’m so sad that I wasn’t there for you. I should have helped you more. And grieving doesn’t make you less of a man, it makes you more of a human. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to say that to you.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied. ‘I’m learning that now, but back then I wasn’t thinking straight. I saw a girl in London once with hair like hers. I don’t know what happened, but for a second, I was totally convinced it was her. I ran after her, shouting her name. I grabbed her arm and then the guy she was with shoved me. Then it all came pouring out of me. I cried for days. That’s how my Instagram started. Stuff about how I felt. All the other people on Instagram talking about loss were older than me. So, I decided to say the words I needed to hear. Turns out there are loads of young people like me dealing with grief.’