The Unmaking of Ellie Rook Episode 26

Iturn to speak. “This is where I come to sort out my head.” “Your head is not sorted?” “No. I had a row with my brother this morning.” “His head is not sorted also.”

It’s not a question. We are near the pond, and I come to a halt so abruptly that Piotr nearly crashes into me.

“What do you mean by that? Have... have you seen something? Have you seen him lose it?”

“Lose what?”

“His temper! Try and think.”

My own voice has gone up a notch. Piotr shakes his head. “He is very quiet around your father. Respectful.”

“Because he’s scared of him. Have you seen him with my mother?”

Piotr shakes his head and I swing back to the pond.

“River loved it here, sailing boats, playing at pirates.”

I sigh, gazing at the water. It reflects nothing back but broken jigsaw pieces of daylight.

Reflected

The pond has always had a tendency to flood, breaking out in patches throughout the woods like a sky-coloured rash.

Trees are reflected in brackish pools; the bits that look solid are not. It’s almost like the Everglades.

I used to tell River that alligators lurked here, making him deliciously afraid, until he grew too big to be fooled and told me to get lost.

“I’ve been away too long. I’m not sure I know my brother any more.

“It’s like I see him in my head as this little kid, and now... I kind of don’t recognise him.”

I pull some seed pods from the nearest twig. They’re prickly and hard to shred.

I’m aware of how intently Piotr is listening to me, and it’s a strange sensation. No one ever listens to me in this place. “You left him.”

The words are so quiet I think I’ve misheard, but he says it again. “You left him here.”

His words are a punch in the stomach.

“I didn’t abandon him. It wasn’t like that!”

Piotr is looking at me in a new way, like he knows too much. I’m having a hard time breathing.

“It’s so difficult being back. When I went away, my mother said it would be the making of me, but now I feel like I’m being unmade, like I’m a stranger and everything’s different.

“Does that make sense? Or maybe it’s me that’s different.”

Piotr makes a sympathetic face. “The same is true for me, when I go home. Nothing is as we remember.”

I try to imagine him on his own turf, with his family. His blue eyes have gone as dark as the water.

He has a wee scar down low, near his chin. Hidden depths.

I realise I’m staring at him and switch my gaze back to the pond. Nothing moves.

Silence

The steel nose of a shopping trolley pokes upwards like the prow of a sinking boat, and the only thing to break the silence is the creaking call of a bird.

“This place feels a bit...” Piotr searches for the right word.

“Forlorn? I always think it feels forlorn.” I have a sudden unwelcome image of the little goat being fished out of the water by Offshore Dave, its white fur the colour of rust.

Funny how you can block out your worst childhood memories, only for them to bloat and pop up to the surface when you’re least expecting it.

His gaze falls away from mine. “Sometimes you have to leave a place behind to see what’s really going on.”

We plough on in silence. Piotr’s words really dig themselves in.

I know what’s been going on; I just can’t admit it. I had reasons for leaving home, reasons I’ve never admitted, not even to myself.

And now, like River, those home truths have grown up and become unpredictable. I don’t want to confront them.

We come to the car cemetery. We always called it that as kids.

No one can remember how this drunken line-up of abandoned cars came to be here in the middle of the woods.

All I know is that they feature frequently in my nightmares, nestling in the bracken like broken eggs.

Soft things ooze from the brittle shells: ribbons of leather, padding, chewed seat belts, organic and sinuous, knitted with ivy and bramble.

Piotr slows as he catches sight of the long line of abandoned vehicles, but I march on.

I chant my way down the line, like a child reciting lessons: Austin, Ford Cortina, Spitfire, Jaguar, Mini, Morris Minor, that Triumph Herald.

I can’t look at the Triumph Herald any more. I think of grit, mouse droppings, chips of glass, leaves.

And what happened afterwards.

It’s starting to rain: a fine mist. I lift my face up to the sky.

“When I was a teenager, I kissed Liam Duthie on the drive,” I tell Piotr.

“My Dad caught us at it and bellowed… ‘GET OFF MY PROPERTY!’ Like that, at the top of his voice.

“I always liked to think he was referring to the land. But the truth is, he was talking about me.”

Fractured

I’m aware of how intently Piotr is listening to me... it’s a strange sensation. No one ever listens to me in this place

Piotr winces. I can tell he’s wondering where I’m going with this.

“He has a garage behind the yard,” I continue.

“I’ve seen it,” Piotr says quickly, as if he wants to steer me in a more palatable direction.

“He has a Mercedes in there, and an old Morris.”

“A Morris Minor. Oh yes.” I stop for a second.

My heart is fluttering like a bird’s wing. So delicate. So easily fractured.

“My mother and I – we’re his property. Like vintage cars. Lovingly cared for until we step out of line.”

I’ve said too much. Such thoughts are not for speaking aloud.

I’m still staring at the Triumph. I try out a faint laugh. “If only cars could talk.”

More tomorrow.