My Name Is Echo Read online

  It didn’t register. ‘Coffee? I’m about to make some,’ he said. He seemed distracted. No doubt thinking of his night of passion.

  ‘Okay.’ I acted nonchalant. We walked into the kitchen.

  He put out two mugs. ‘Seen anything you like among them?’

  I glanced at him, the image of them dancing came into my mind. I hoped he couldn’t mind-read because if he could, he’d know I was imagining him having sex with her. I went red again and decided to be upfront.

  ‘Yeah, I did. That poet called John Donne, he tells it, like, well, you know, how it is. I would imagine. Anyway, I wouldn’t know, not personally, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh, Donne, yes, he’s great. One of the most famous and respected Renaissance poets until that is, he converted. ‘He was only half-listening. ‘But what did you say…something about, not knowing? Perhaps I can help.’

  He was looking through the cupboard, his back to me.

  I did a double take and I thought, you bet your life you can. Now was my chance.

  ‘Sex, about sex. It’s that. What he writes about, like he’s very interested in it, don’t you think?’’

  I wondered how he’d respond. Gareth paused, looked straight at me, decided not to say what he was going to say, and turned away to pour out the coffee. He said over his shoulder, ‘Why don’t you speak to your mum?’

  ‘She doesn’t know what to say, she’s taken a vow of silence. She spent some time in a convent and never recovered. It affected her.’

  This time I had his attention. He stopped what he was doing. He looked at me disapprovingly and said, ‘Be serious, Echo. Tell me what you want to know.’

  ‘Okay, sorry, what I meant to say was that…’ I was blagging it now, saying whatever came into my head, ‘she can’t talk, especially about difficult stuff, or if she does she won’t say, so I’m left wondering how she came to have me; sometimes I wonder if she did have me, or if really I have another mother who gave me up for adoption. Maybe my real mother is Russian and my father is Welsh.’

  He didn’t seem fazed by what I was saying and I could see I’d got his total attention because he was looking at me intently. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because I don’t seem to belong. Haven’t you noticed? She doesn’t like me.’

  He looked sympathetic. ‘Your mum? I’m sure that’s not true, but what about your father, Echo? Where’s he?’

  I sighed, ‘And that’s another thing, I don’t like my name. It’s stupid, and as well as that my second name is different from hers.’

  ‘Well, change it.’

  I was stunned when he said that and looked at him in amazement. ‘Change it? Could I?’

  ‘Why not? You can’t change your second but you can your first. I have a pseudonym for my writing.’ I must have looked puzzled. ‘Pseudonym, a name that conceals my identity.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My pseudonym? You’ll have to find out.’ He smiled, then said, ‘No, I’ll tell you, it’s Llywellyn ap Dafydd. My book is in Welsh but with an English translation.’

  ‘Oh, that’s very Welsh. I like it. It’s a good idea choosing my own name. But I can only do that when I know who I want to be. Echo, it’s rubbish. Echo, an echo to what, my mum, she wants me to be an echo, that’s why I’m called that, but I don’t want to be her echo. I refuse. I want to be me. Not like her. She’s uptight. Got an attitude problem.’

  I looked at him expectantly. He said, ‘You still haven’t said anything about your father.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything because I don’t know. That’s something else she won’t talk about.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Would you like to know more?’

  ‘Yeah. I would. Sometimes I wonder if my father abused her so she escaped and took me with her. Maybe her name is a pseudonym too. Phoebe. What a name. Horrible. Then I think, did she have a one-night stand and have me? Who knows? I hate not knowing. Everyone has a father except me. My mate Maddy has a father, and he’s great. He’s a percussionist. I wish he was my dad.’

  ‘You know that’s not true, Echo. Not everyone has a father.’ He paused and then said, ‘Look, I’m going to North Wales at the end of the week just for the day, to see a friend. Would you like to come?’

  I don’t know why he asked me but I didn’t care. I said straightaway, ‘Yes,’ and just stopped myself from blurting out, and is your friend the girl in the flowered dress? Instead, I asked who his friend was.

  He said it was his publisher, so then I asked how long he’d be, and he said I had a choice. Either I could stay with him, and he’d be about three hours or he’d drop me off at a nearby slate quarry to have a look round. I chose the slate quarry. I’d never been to a slate quarry before.

  Gareth’s invite cheered me up enough to cycle to the estuary. I left my bike in the usual place and walked down the track to take the tin of biscuits to Ifan’s den. Every time I visited I could see there were more brambles and more creeping plants and it was getting harder to find. I stood for a long time thinking about Ifan and the good times we’d had but I had to accept I’d never see him again.

  I walked back to the clearing. The enchantment of the wood and the estuary and the excitement of seeing Gareth with his lover had become tainted with losing Ifan. I said to myself, he’s dead and you’ll never see him again but then I was so overcome with that thought, I lay down on the grass and cried. I felt utterly alone in the world. But when I looked up and saw I was surrounded by tall green trees, I thought of them as my guardian angels, crowding round to protect me. In my mind the clearing had become my sanctuary and gradually I began feeling better and I realised I did have things to look forward to even if Ifan wasn’t here. It wasn’t the end of the world. But I’d keep Wales, Ifan and the estuary as beautiful memories and I’d never forget him.

  I’d looked forward to the trip to North Wales with Gareth. He didn’t talk much, but that was alright with me. It gave me time to daydream and look at the passing scenery. The journey seemed to take forever because there’s no motorway to North Wales from Chepstow and we had to drive right through mid-Wales.

  He told me about his book of poetry. It was coming out soon and they’d prepared a ‘mock-up’ of the cover. When I heard that, it sounded so interesting, I almost changed my mind about going to the slate quarry. But I’d never been to a slate quarry and I wanted to see what it was like.

  I asked him the title of his new book. He said, ‘It’s called

  “The Girl in the Flowered Dress”.’ That stunned me. A wave of anger passed through me. He was shameless. I sat in silence wondering how to react and what Philomena would have said if she knew. She’d be stupid if she didn’t put two and two together. But it was obvious he didn’t know that I’d been in the forest that night. I stared at him sideways on as he drove, the image of them together dancing floating across my mind’s eye.

  I said, ‘Who is she?’

  Gareth said, ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘The girl in the flowered dress.’

  ‘She’s an imagined girl.’

  ‘Why write about someone imagined?’ I asked.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I can create her according to my fantasies.’

  He was talking bullshit and I knew he was lying. I felt betrayed. I truly had believed in Gareth and wanted him so much to be honest. Either he was lying, or I was mad and what I’d seen in the clearing was all imagined. It was what Gaby had said when she was talking to Philomena, that I’d dreamt up Ifan. They were all at it. Mind games.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘The girl?’ I nodded.

  ‘Amy.’

  ‘So what’s the poetry about?’

  ‘A love affair.’

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew then with total certainty I had seen him d
ance with her. He was lying like my mother did about my father, as if I was stupid or just a child and he could say anything because I knew no better. I screwed up my hands into a fist as if I was going to punch him one and stared silently out of the window to gather my thoughts.

  A mile or two passed but he hadn’t noticed how pissed off I was, so I looked at him and I said, ‘And how does Philomena feel about Amy?’

  ‘Echo, she’s not real. She’s imagined.’

  ‘Don’t call me Echo, you know I don’t like it.’

  ‘Sorry, what shall I call you then?’

  ‘Nothing. Call me nothing. How much further to the slate quarry?’ I was seething by now.

  ‘Another five miles. Shall we stop for a coffee?’

  ‘You can. I’ll stay here.’

  Gareth turned to look at me. ‘What’s with the anger?’ I glowered at him. ‘Fuck off.’

  He suddenly braked and pulled off the road. I was scared then. I’d never seen him angry. I wouldn’t have thought he was capable of anger. He didn’t look at me but stared straight ahead drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. We sat like that, and with each minute that passed I became more apprehensive. Finally he looked at me. His anger seemed to have gone.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me what’s going on. I don’t like to see you upset.’ He was looking straight at me and looked so caring I thought I’d burst into tears. I just wasn’t used to it but I couldn’t tell him. I looked down at my hands and mumbled I didn’t want to talk.

  He said, ‘Echo, and I’m going to call you that till you’ve chosen your new name, I’m not moving from here until you tell me.’

  ‘You’ll miss your appointment then.’

  ‘So be it,’ he answered. ‘Why’s it so hard to tell me?’

  I took a deep breath and said, ‘Because I know you’re lying.’ He didn’t answer. ‘Why lie? I hate lies. Don’t you know I have to know the truth?’

  Gareth said, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ but when he said that, I went wild. I gave it to him, no holds barred.

  ‘She’s not imagined as you say she is. She’s real. I saw you. The other night. Screwing her, you were screwing her, in the forest in the middle of the night, I saw you, so don’t give me that crap, all that bullshit, about love and poetry. You have the hots for her, you were fucking her, end of story.’ That shut him up. I had his full and undivided attention.

  I was about to get out of the car and run before he murdered me, but he retorted. ‘So what’s it to you? You should have been in bed not roaming through the woods.’ I didn’t answer. He continued, ‘Has it occurred to you that I might love her and I wasn’t screwing her as you so delicately put it.’

  ‘Delicate. Don’t make me laugh. There was nothing delicate about it.’

  We sat glaring at each other.

  ‘Maybe not, but you need to know something, Echo. Love isn’t all romance and prettiness, it’s about passion, desire, and really wanting someone, to possess them, to be as one with them. Real life. Get it. Are you on message?’

  I looked at him as if I wanted to kill him, which actually

  I felt like doing. I said nothing. But he hadn’t finished.

  ‘Why’s it so disturbing? Why so upset? You live in London. Aren’t you supposed to be cool? Know what life’s about. It all happens there. What’s the problem? Eh? What’s so shocking? A man and woman having sex?’

  ‘You lied to me, and that’s what pisses me off. And what about Philomena? Have you thought about her? How upset she’ll be?’

  ‘Philomena and I are good. We know each other.’

  ‘Well, if it’s so good, why are you still fucking married to her, when you’re screwing someone else? Jeez, I can’t do with the hypocrisy. You’re a bastard, like all men.’

  ‘Leave her out of it. What am I supposed to do? Tell her

  I love someone else?’

  ‘Why not, it’d be more honest.’

  ‘Life’s just a little more complicated. Has it occurred to you saying that would be hurtful?’

  I shouted at him then, ‘She’s hurt already, haven’t you noticed? Fuck-wit.’

  He was breathing heavily. He looked at me as if he wanted to shoot me. He started the engine and pulled away, but he was so angry he didn’t look and pulled in front of a car. The driver had to brake hard to avoid him and honked his horn enough to wake the dead. I smiled. I’d got right under his skin. Serve him right, I thought. Neither of us spoke. He drove fast. Once he looked at me as if I was a piece of shit, but that didn’t trouble me. The fact he was so worked up made me feel powerful. I’d begun experiencing the fruits of sweet revenge.

  I knew I was right. I was on the side of Philomena and I hated to see her hurt and I hated him bullshitting and I didn’t believe all that stuff about being in love and writing poetry. He was like that poet, John Donne. I couldn’t stop myself then. I became a verbal assassin. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

  ‘John Donne. Role model. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Like an epitaph on your gravestone. ‘He couldn’t keep his trousers on or his hands to himself.’ Yes, the spirit of John Donne Esquire passes down through the centuries. A prototype for the many who followed. Read, listen, learn, you too can become just like him.’

  In that moment I loathed all men and in particular Gareth. I didn’t resist saying what came next. ‘Having sex with her, Amy. Whatever she’s called. It must give you inspiration. Your next poetry book. A sequel? The subject? Betrayal. What do you think?’

  He didn’t answer. I wondered if he’d heard or if he’d hit me when we stopped. I’d run if he did. He was slowing down, indicating right and turned into a side road, then he stopped.

  ‘Here’s where you get out. Follow the track up into the hills and you’ll get to the slate quarry. I’ll pick you up here. In three hours. You’ve got my mobile number. Do you have money?’

  He wasn’t looking at me, he sounded normal if cold, but it might have been an act. ‘Yes. See you then.’ I got out.

  He didn’t reply and noisily accelerated off. I didn’t need to be a genius to see how angry he was, but I didn’t care. It crossed my mind he might not come back and pretend his car had broken down, but that would be a dumb thing to do and also childish. In any case I had money on me and somehow I’d find my way back to the farmhouse.

  I began looking round me. I hadn’t any expectations about what a slate quarry might look like, but I didn’t like what I saw. I’d been dumped in the middle of a remote mountain range with sheep as company. The landscape was bleak with a biting cold wind, the grey sky lying low and heavy over the bare, flat moorland cluttered with huge piles of discarded slate. I had no idea what to do next and wondered if this was Gareth’s revenge; it felt a bit like being sent to Siberia for speaking out; that’s what they did with mouthy people in Russia. But I didn’t care. He was full of bullshit like all adults. I had liked him, but now I didn’t.

  I began walking up a path and the further away from the road I got, the better I felt. I didn’t care about the bitter wind. I was wearing the right clothes. I’d been coming to Wales long enough to know all about the weather, especially in the mountains where, even in the summer, someone told me, the temperature can change in a second from scorching sun to so cold you were at risk of hypothermia.

  I picked my way over rough grassland. I passed a pile of slate and picked a piece up. I loved its colour. It was dark-blue-grey and when I banged a flat piece with a stone, it made a satisfying ‘tinging’ noise. My mum had a posh friend in Islington with slate tiles on her kitchen floor and I’d always admired them. The tiles were classy, a muted matt blue, and they’d been cut and laid in both oblong and square shapes and arranged in a geometric pattern. Now I come to think about it, Patricia (her name) told me they’d come from Wales and that Welsh slate was the best in the world. I’d asked my mum if we coul
d have them on our kitchen floor. She said they were too expensive. Typical.

  All around were scattered heaps of slate, which set me wondering how they came to be here. I looked around. The path continued up and round the side of the hill so I decided to follow it and see where it took me. Looking down the mountainside, the road looked tiny with toy cars moving along it.

  I walked for almost an hour. The path meandered up and past more piles of slate. Looking up to the skyline, there were actual outcrops of slate rock far ahead, and a row of very rough, single-storey dwellings. It looked as if someone might have lived in them but now they’d been abandoned to the elements. I decided to walk to them, then stop and have some of the chocolate I’d brought with me, but I discovered then I’d forgotten to bring any water.

  I was about five hundred metres off when I saw a man in an orange Gore-Tex jacket coming out of one of the buildings. I hesitated and wondered whether to continue. After all it was a lonely spot, a long way from the road, and he might have been a weirdo but then I saw he had camera equipment and was very preoccupied with taking photos so I thought I’d take a risk. I carried on walking until I reached the buildings. I wanted to see what they were.

  He was crouching down taking a photo of a chimney opening in one of the rooms when I came up behind him.

  ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’

  He jumped. He turned round, saw me and stood up. I could see he was young. He looked totally normal but serious. He said, ‘I didn’t see you or hear you, where did you come from?’

  I gestured down the mountain and said, ‘From the road. Is there another way?’

  He didn’t smile. ‘No.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m a research student. I’m doing a PhD on the Welsh slate industries.’

  I said, ‘Oh. A student. From where?’

  ‘Post-grad. London.’

  ‘That’s where I live. London.’

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ He was as direct as me.

  ‘I’m on holiday.’

  ‘But why are you here?

  ‘In this slate quarry?’