‘I will but I binned my mobile phone – it's snail-mail or landline only.’
‘How frightfully quaint,’ Tamsin murmured in a BBC accent.
‘Quaint is quite a good word for Saltburn, actually,’ Tess told her, ‘though it's gritty too, but that's what I like about it – it's real. I saw the most incredible sunset the other day. Then the next afternoon, I came across some young scamp glue-sniffing.’
‘You can see that down here,’ Tamsin said.
‘I know what you're saying. And I know why you're saying it. But there is something about this place – at this time – for me.’
‘OK, I hear you. Just stay in touch – please.’
‘I will. But I'd better go – the dog and child need feeding. Bye.’
‘You're loved!’ Tamsin interjected and with such urgency that Tess couldn't reply.
She stood looking at the replaced handset for a while, then wondered what to do about paying for the call. So she went and found one of the clean, empty jam jars she'd stored away and put a fifty-pence piece in it. Then she fed Em and Wolf, after which she bathed the former and turfed the latter out into the garden for his ablutions. She spent her evening designing a label for the jar, complete with a narrative of doodles and fancy lettering.
Telephone Tab.
Every now and then she'd say, oh shh! when the house creaked or the pipes groaned or a door squeaked open all by itself. But it didn't unnerve her. She quite liked it, now she'd grown used to it. The house – its sounds and smells and quirks – was now familiar. The place had such personality. It was as if the house had been a welcoming stranger at first, but Tess now felt she was living with a friend.
If she picks up the phone, I'll be phoning to say I'm coming back tomorrow. If she doesn't, bugger leaving another message – perhaps I'll squeeze in another weekend in London, see Rachel, head to Belgium on Monday. Or maybe I'll stay put, here in France. I don't know yet, until Tess answers.
Odd, though, that out of all the scenarios I'd probably forego rampant no-strings sex to spend time instead with her – to return to the North, to that faded old town, to that hulking old house and to that slightly odd single mum who is rearranging my home.
Tess could hear the phone ringing but she was not going to disrupt her luxuriating in such a decadently full bath. Whoever it was could leave a message. And if they didn't leave a message, then it wasn't her they wanted anyway.
The house was filled, during daylight, with the gibberish chatter of the toddler and the huffing and occasional yowls of the oversize dog. In the evenings, the pipes took over with their cacophony of gurgles and groans while elsewhere the house creaked and rattled sporadically. Recently, such sounds had faded benignly into the background and Tess began to notice instead the quiet that seeped its way through her once her baby was asleep and the dog was dead to the world. Initially, she wasn't sure if she liked it; it felt intrusive and confrontational because the only thing she could listen to was herself. She tried to trivialize it by thinking, well, it's a damn sight better than London where by now Upstairs Bloke would be crashing around, Over the Hallway would be having their flaming row and Ocado, Tesco and Sainsbury vans would be leaving their engines running, making their deliveries. How she used to exclaim, shut up, everyone, you'll wake the baby! Shut up everyone, I can't hear myself think! Thinking back, Tess realized how those warring sounds of London were easy to listen to because they had nothing to do with her. Hearing nothing, here in this old house, was far more confrontational.
Now, she could think. A bit too much, some days. Some evenings the quiet would wrap itself around her like a soft blanket and lull her into gentle fantasies of the life she intended to make for herself and Em. At other times, however, it could goad her relentlessly. See! No one here but you! You're on your own, hiding out here, slave to your secrets, stupid idiot girl!
On such occasions, the silence was like a clock that had stopped, trapping Tess in the present – a situation caused by her past and which tarnished the future. Those evenings, she felt frightened and though she rarely reached for the phone or turned to the TV, nor did she face her fears. Instead, on that initial surge of adrenalin and at the first prick of tears, she'd lunge for a book and immerse herself in the lives of others instead. She had to start off by reading out loud, until she felt settled enough to have the silence surround her again.
For the first time in her life, she read voraciously. Anything that was on Joe's bookshelves she considered to have a worthy seal of approval. She tried authors she'd never heard of and authors she'd always meant to read. Every now and then she read passages twice, three times even, enjoying the wordcraft, the drama – but imagining that Joe had liked that book and wondering when he might be back and if there would be dinners they could share to discuss books they'd both read. His collection was vast and varied, from sumptuous coffee-table tomes to dense books about engineering, from the classics to modern masters and cutting-edge contemporary fiction. Tess was well aware it was escapism but what a way to pass another evening on her own. And anyway, wasn't that a function of fiction – a magical place that could transport you a world away? It wasn't as if she could solve anything just sitting there letting thoughts and memories and doom descend like a dark, damp veil. She'd done enough of that on evenings in London. Anyway, didn't Joe do just this when he was here, home alone – settle down with a good book until bedtime?
Sometimes, on a nondescript evening when her thoughts left her alone, Tess would tinker instead. This was different to the committed spring clean and reorganization she continued to devote much of her days to. Tinkering meant moving vases or clocks or the odd photo frame from here to there or from room to room; swapping the cushions in the TV room for those in the den, setting out the chessboard on the occasional table in the drawing room because, occasionally, it was good for such a table to have a purpose. Tinkering was finding a place for the phone books away from the lovely maps and atlases whose shelf they had shared. And it was when Tess was tinkering in the drawers of the hall console – let's put the pens here and the pads there, have the address book here, the takeaway leaflets in that folder there – that the phone rang. The suddenness of it was shrill and intrusive, having not been heard since that night in the bath that evening last week. Her hands were full of pens that she'd been systematically testing out on a scrap of paper rejecting any which were faint or which smudged. It had been a satisfying job that allowed for inventive doodling, which she was enjoying, but she ought to answer the phone. Putting the pens to one side, she picked up the receiver.
‘The Resolution – good evening?’
She makes the place sound like a hotel.
He waited a moment.
‘I'd like to book a room for tomorrow night, please,’ he said, ‘for a week.’
Tess thought, he sounds a bit like Joe. But then she thought, why would he phone to book a room?
‘I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number,’ she said. ‘This is a private residence.’
She sounded so affronted that Joe had to laugh. ‘Tess – it's me, Joe.’
She cringed but hid it behind a defensive tone. ‘I know that. I knew all along.’
‘You have
