PopCo (47 page)

I smile another smile, even more diluted than the first one.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ben asks.

I can’t help it. I start to cry.

‘Alice?’

‘I miss my grandfather,’ I say. ‘And my grandmother.’

I talk incoherently while he fetches me tissues. I doubt that what I am saying is making any sense. I’m talking about how I don’t think they’d be proud of me doing this and I don’t know who I am or where my life is going and how this is the third time I have let them down. I think this might have something to do with not smoking, or the remedy, or even a touch of PMT. But it’s what I really feel, and it’s coming out because I don’t have my barriers in place properly.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, stroking my arm. ‘It’s all right.’

When I stop crying, we lie down on the bed together, both staring at the ceiling.

‘I’m leaving PopCo,’ I say, eventually.

Ben pauses for a minute, then props himself up on an elbow and frowns.

‘Why?’

‘I just don’t believe in it any more,’ I say, seriously.

He starts laughing. ‘Alice … bloody hell. No one believes in it. You don’t have to leave.’

‘No. I do have to leave.’

‘But …’

I won’t listen to any arguments. My mind is made up.

Ben disappears shortly afterwards to take the trays back and I am on my own again. He is gone for longer than I expect, and soon I fall asleep, dreaming of the moon.

We are going to Totnes in Esther’s car. That’s the plan. Other people are getting taxis. Some people are going to Newton Abbot instead, or Plymouth, or Exeter. I like the sound of Totnes.

Standing in my clothes in the bathroom feels very odd, a bit like those mornings when you find yourself robotically getting into the car at 3 a.m., washed and dressed, having set your alarm wrong, or having simply been woken by a brain that will not rest. I’ve been lying in bed in my pyjamas for days. That’s why this now feels so
odd. I do feel a lot better, though, today. For some reason, things feel different. Not just emotionally, but literally, too. It took me ages to get out of bed once I had noticed how soft my sheets actually are. Then, while I was getting dressed, I had to stop and consider every fabric I touched. The worn-out cotton of my knickers, the soft downy feeling of my vest, the thin, tissue-paper feel of my cotton top and the warm woollen texture of my blue cardigan. My skirt moves in ways I hadn’t ever noticed. When it brushes against my knees, the sensation is like being licked by a cat. And thinking of cats: Atari, I will see you soon.

The plan, the plan. Do I have a plan? Well, yes. For something that arrived in such an unexpected way, spontaneous and emotional, my future feels rather well planned, actually. I will spend tomorrow sailing with the others and then on Sunday I will go home. I will say that I am sick and Georges advised me to take myself off the project. Then I will write a letter of resignation. My old editor is still a good friend, so I will see if I can’t get my old crossword slot back – or maybe even some sort of Child of Mind Mangle column, although that sounds a bit like a horror film. I will clean the house and brush my cat and not be too tired to have Rachel round for dinner. I will help at the zoo again. I will cash in my PopCo shares and go travelling – there’s somewhere I have wanted to go for a while. I will unlock the dusty old chest in my bedroom and get out the Voynich Manuscript. I can report back to my grandfather when we meet in my own personal heaven. Will I have much to report to my mother? Maybe not. I wonder if my father is up there somewhere, or whether he is still here on Earth. It probably doesn’t matter, and I probably don’t care. You’re supposed to pine and ache for missing fathers but I didn’t spend much time on all that. He left me when I was nine years old for some vague idea of treasure. I was over him by the time I was ten. If I did see him again, maybe I would ask him why but I doubt that his answer would make too much difference to me.

Even my hair feels different today, like child’s hair, soft and delicate.
Come on, Alice, Ben will be here in a minute
. I put in my contact lenses and even the sensation of things snapping into place feels new, as if I don’t have that sensation every single day.
New
eyes
, I think. Perhaps today I really do have new eyes. I splash Orange Flower Water on my face and then apply a touch of tinted
moisturiser, some lip balm and a tiny bit of rose-scented mascara. The hand cream that came with my remedies is smooth and cool and I rub some of it into my hands just for the feel and the smell of it. I am looking forward to some fresh air; to seeing something beyond PopCo Towers.

There’s a knock at the door a couple of minutes later. When I open it, Ben’s standing there with a small white package, sealed with Sellotape. It’s about the size of a book.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘This was by your door. It’s for you.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it quickly. My correspondent at last? It must be. I slip it in my canvas bag, where it sits awkwardly on the pack of nicotine gum, my tobacco (which I crave more than I can describe), my purse, my remedies, a little notebook, a pencil, a pen and my survival kit. This last gives me a pang. I won’t ever present those roughs in a meeting, now. I won’t ever be able to teach thousands of kids how to go out and survive in the wilderness. Then again, I could write a proper book about survival if I wanted. In fact, if I was going to write a book it could be about anything at all. Perhaps I will make the survival research into a free website for kids.

‘Are you sure you’re OK to come out today?’ Ben asks me.

‘What? Oh, yes. Of course I am. I just won’t do too much walking around, probably.’

He smiles. ‘I’m so glad you’re feeling better.’

I smile back. ‘Me too. Of course, you know what this means?’

‘What?’

‘Prepare to be jumped on later. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Jumped on? Sounds nice.’

‘Will be.’ I grin at him as he pushes me against the door and kisses me hard. Even this sensation is more intense than usual. What will sex be like in this state? I almost want to ditch the excursion and stay here all day with Ben finding out. Then again, I’ve actually spent enough time in bed this week. Later, though. If I anticipate it all day, maybe it will be even better.

He’s suddenly holding on to me like I am about to get on a train and go to war or something.

‘Ben?’ I say, pulling back to look at him. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. I’m going to … Nothing. I’ll just … miss you. That’s all.’ He frowns. ‘And I wanted …’

‘What?’

He looks away from me. ‘
This
. I wanted this to go on for longer.’

‘This …?’

‘For God’s sake, Alice. Me and you.’

‘Well, why can’t it?’ I say.

‘Do you want that? Even after you leave this all behind?’

‘The first weekend you get out of here, I will expect you at my place. How about that? I’ll even cook.’

His eyes are sparkling now. ‘How about this?’ he says. ‘Next weekend I’m going to fuck this place off, get on a train and come to see you regardless. That sound OK?’

‘That sounds lovely,’ I say.

‘Good.’

Esther’s driving is bizarre. It’s like she is on a constant safari. She doesn’t drive at more than about thirty-five miles an hour, which is a good thing because she doesn’t ever seem to look at the road.

‘Bunny rabbit,’ she says, as we drive across the moors. ‘Oh, look – fluffy cow! Spooky forest. Witch’s house …’

Soon I’m doing it too. ‘Little steam train line,’ I say, as if we’re ticking off items on a list. ‘Oh – more cows. These ones don’t look very happy, though …’

As soon as we get near Totnes, Ben says, ‘Esther, earthlings!’

‘Shut up, Ben,’ she says.

As we enter the town, I briefly see the castle, round and grey, before we turn off to drive into a half-empty car park. I have an urge to see what it looks like from the air. Maybe I will find a postcard while I am here.

Esther is explaining the layout of Totnes.

‘It’s basically one long road on a hill,’ she says. ‘Top of town has more interesting shops, but the best health shop is at the bottom. Um …’

‘Is there a museum?’ I ask. This is a curious habit I have. If ever I visit a new place, I have to go to the museum.

‘Yeah,’ Esther says. ‘Top of town. Well, about three-quarters of the way up the hill.’

We park and get out of the car.

‘So …’ Ben says. ‘I’m going down the hill to that amazing health-food shop and then I’m on a mission to find some vegan deck shoes. Alice?’

‘I’m not sure I want to walk all the way down a big hill and then back up again,’ I say. ‘I’m going to wander around up here a bit and maybe go to the musuem. Shall we split up and meet later for lunch?’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Shall I text you when I’ve finished?’

‘I don’t have a mobile,’ I say.

‘How can you not have a mobile?’ Esther says.

I shrug. ‘I don’t like them.’

‘What are you doing, Esther?’ Ben says.

‘I’m meeting Chloë at the bottom of town,’ she says with a slight frown. ‘We’re having lunch.’

‘Shall I just meet you somewhere up here?’ I say to Ben.

‘Yeah, OK,’ he says. ‘Shall we say … outside the museum at one?’

‘Great,’ I say.

I walk up towards the main street, passing two pubs and a fish and chip shop. After crossing a road, I feel like I have crossed over into another dimension. This is a place from books. The street is tiny, with old-looking buildings crowded on either side of it. I pass a shop selling Indian clothing and wind chimes, a health-food shop, an organic cotton shop (with an amazing soft-looking brown blanket in the window), an Oxfam, a Fairtrade clothes shop and a secondhand music and book shop. I stop by the music and book shop and go inside. I need to ask directions to the museum, and I just can’t resist shops like this. With a sharp pang, I remember how my grandfather would always stop in places like this, looking for old herbals or occult books, always hoping to see a replication of a picture or a fragment from the Voynich Manuscript. The shop itself is large and airy, although almost everything in it is brown and dusty. Old cassette tapes, drums, tambourines, records, comics, books, dream-catchers, maracas. An Asian-looking woman is in an intense conversation with a dark-haired girl who is playing a haunting tune on a red acoustic guitar. The woman laughs and then the girl does too. I wander around looking at old books, remembering the time I picked up a three-volume Synthetic Repertory in a shop like this. They only wanted a fiver for it but I made them accept
£
20. They were connected to a charity and I couldn’t rip them off too much. The set was worth over a hundred pounds.

After asking directions to the museum (around the corner and down the hill), I leave. The package in my bag is knocking around.
Open me. Open me
. But I can’t open it until I am sitting down somewhere relatively private. Perhaps a quiet coffee shop? I walk on. A normal-looking hiking shop and photographic shop are huddled in amongst an ethical shoe shop, a small organic supermarket and a big, swollen coffee-shop, whose frontage takes up the whole of the large corner. I don’t fancy this place but there is a sign pointing down a tiny side street. An arrow and one word: Café.

I almost miss the door. It’s tiny. Inside, there is a wooden floor and a few tables, some pretty plants and a piano in the far right-hand corner. It’s almost empty so I pick a table at the back and sit down. What am I going to order? I have been eating vegan food for the last few days and I do feel a compulsion to continue the experiment. Will it get boring? Will I waste away? Only time will tell. I order a black coffee and some wholemeal toast with marmalade and no butter. Then I get the package out of my bag.

It’s a white padded envelope, wrapped with clear Sellotape. My name is written in inky blue capitals. Whoever sent this has cleverly or accidentally Sellotaped over my name. When I remove the Sellotape, the blue writing disappears, ripped off in a second. At least I know this hasn’t been tampered with since it was sealed. Once I have eased open the flap, I reach in my hand and pull out the contents. It’s a small book that I would recognise anywhere. I drop it on the table, my hand shaking. It’s a 1979 Women’s Press edition of
Woman on the Edge of Time
. The same copy I have at home, the one my mother left me all those years ago. Of course it’s not my copy: there’s no writing inside. But there is a sheet of paper, neatly folded in two.

Someone comes to the table, looking for somewhere to put down my coffee and toast. I move my bag, and the book, and mumble some sort of thanks. My hands are still shaking. Can I risk a cigarette? Maybe half of one. Maybe in a minute.

‘Can I smoke in here?’ I ask the guy just as he wanders off.

‘Yeah, sure. I’ll bring you an ashtray.’

I’m not hungry any more, but I eat the toast quickly anyway, not wanting to waste it. The coffee is strong and rough in my mouth and I take three more shaky sips before I wipe my hands on a paper napkin and reach for the book. A small, handmade ashtray appears
on the table. I roll a thin cigarette, light up and cough experimentally. It feels OK – well, except for my head being almost blown off by the sudden rush of chemicals and nicotine. The room blurs and comes back into focus again. The book. I open it and take out the sheet of paper.

Here, at least, I find what I expect. A list of numbers:

263, 18; 343, 9; 363, 97; 363, 98; 325, 27; 106, 120; 300, 52; 20, 7; 71, 40; 92, 18; 151, 60; 258, 6; 71, 40; 58, 38; 104, 5; 34, 143; 342, 18; 342, 19; 342, 20.

I take out my notepad and pencil and turn to page 263 of the book. Word 18 is
don’t
. Don’t what? I am just turning to page 343 when the little door clatters and a bunch of PopCo people come in: Grace, Kieran, Frank, James and Violet. Shit. I quickly stick the book and the sheet of paper back in my bag before they see me. Then I make a little doodle in my notebook, as if this is what I was doing all along.

‘Well, this is a nice little place,’ Kieran’s saying, in his loud drawl. ‘Oh, look. There’s what’s-her-name.’

‘Alice,’ says Violet.

Sitting in a café on your own is always great until a group of people you know walks in. Now they’ve said my name, I have to look up.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘How’s it hanging?’ Kieran says. ‘Are you digging this medieval town thing as much as we are?’

‘Yeah, it’s nice,’ I say.

‘We’d join you, except …’

‘No, no. I’m just going anyway,’ I say.

I gulp down the rest of my coffee and put out the cigarette. I pay at the counter and leave quickly. Where can I go to decode this message in private? I join the main street again and turn left down the hill. I walk through a tiny covered parade of shops in medieval-looking houses on one side of the street, while a busy market hisses and hums on the other side of the road. I see Boots in the distance, with no animal liberation stands outside it, nothing at all. I walk past a boring-looking bookshop with shiny, corporate bestsellers in the window, and a world music shop. There must be somewhere I can go to do this. Then I come to the small museum.
Of course
.
Feeling rather paranoid, I check I haven’t been followed and then duck inside. The burble of market traders, cars, children and swishing carrier bags stops as if someone has thrown a switch. I am in a cool, silent room with a polished wooden floor and a desk on the far side. I walk over, past racks of T-shirts with pictures of the castle and the museum on them, local history books and historically inspired toys: finger puppets, cut-out dolls, the sort of things PopCo stopped making in the 80s.