I enthusiastically sing her praises to reassure him (it doesn’t – he’s understandably suspicious). He wavers, trying to decide whether any guest can be worth my absence. I sense his indecision, so dramatically turn up the charm. I promise I’ll give it two days and travel back overnight on Tuesday in time for Wednesday’s filming. In the meantime, I reassure, he can reach me on my mobile.
When we arrive at Darlington station Darren’s brother, Richard, is waiting for us. Richard is younger than Darren by three years, but he’s beefier (that will be the fish and chips and Yorkshire pudding) and so looks a bit older. Darren’s filled me in with details of his family. There is Sarah, who is thirty-seven, married with three kids. Darren who is thirty-three, like me. Richard, thirty, he’s engaged to Shelly and finally Linda, who was a bit of a surprise to Mr and Mrs Smith. She’s seventeen now. Darren is the only one who has moved away from home. I must ask why. Richard and Shelly are buying a house a few streets away from her parents. Sarah and her family live in a nearby village. I commit all these details to memory in an effort to flatter him and ingratiate myself with his family.
The two men slap each other on the back and this action instantly makes them appear boyish, but in the very best sense. Whilst not obviously showing affection by embracing, it’s clear that they are delighted to see each other.
‘Richard, this is Cas.’ Darren hesitates and then adds, ‘A friend.’ I’m strangely gratified to be described as such and therefore treat Richard to my most winning smile. Naturally he’s enchanted and falls over himself to help me with my luggage. I catch Darren’s eye; I want to know if he’s noticed that I’ve impressed Richard. I can’t be sure; he’s laughing to himself.
I am keen to leave Darlington station behind. Not that there is anything particularly wrong with the station – it has everything one expects; small WH Smith, cookie-cut cafe and smelly loos – but it is a station and I try to avoid public transport whenever possible. However, I’m not thrilled when Richard indicates which is his car.
The Escort?’ I ask, hoping there’s been a mistake.
‘Yes. The one with the red door,’ says Richard.
‘And the blue body,’ adds Darren in case the situation demanded any more clarity. I try not to show how disgruntled I am, but quietly climb into the back seat, which I share with furry dice (honestly) and an entire forestworth of sweet wrappers.
I don’t say much in the car journey from Darlington to Whitby. Instead I let Darren and Richard catch up with each other’s news. As an only child I’m always fascinated to see siblings’ reactions to one another. Richard is obviously delighted that Darren has paid this surprise visit. I can’t imagine that my arrival anywhere would be awash with such excitement. Except perhaps for Harvey Nics – my personal shopper is always blissed out when she sees me. When Richard asks Darren how he came to have unplanned holiday, I’m unaccountably relieved that Darren fudges the answer. I’m also mollified when Darren comments vaguely that we ‘met at an interview’. Richard obviously feels bad that I’m not part of the conversation and tries to include me by sharing details of the route.
‘We’re on the A66, heading east. We could’ve come across the new road. They both join at A171 to Whitby.’
I’m not sure what response is required of me. This fascination with routes, alternative routes and ‘the road we could have taken’ is definitely a boy thing. I nod, not committing, and turn to gaze out of the window.
I’m in a foreign land. Not least because of Richard’s accent but also because of the strangeness of the landscape. It’s an eclectic mix of the very modern (brand-new and impressive football stadiums, architecturally complex bridges), quaint, old-fashioned poverty (bingo halls and boarded-up shops) and stunning countryside (sheep). I notice that the women standing at the bus stops, in each village, look alike. They are fat and tired – don’t they ever work out? Richard’s Escort pauses at a red light for a couple of minutes and I look more closely. A woman is waiting at the bus stop; another shouts to her from a fifty-yard distance. The first one makes the bus wait whilst the other heaves her excessive weight and carrier bags to the stop. The driver of the bus becomes animated and jovial and doesn’t seem to be too irritated by the delay. As the woman hoists herself on to the bus all the other travellers shout and wave to her. Am I missing something? Is she famous? I don’t recognize her. But she must be because why else would they be so nice to her? The warmth they so obviously feel for one another momentarily sends a freak glow through me.
Which is a bloody miracle, considering that the temperatures I’m enduring are arctic.
As in a wartime era, the men on the streets are either very young or very old. They are malnourished. On the young men, this looks chippy and sexy; on the old men, it looks pathetic. I try to remember some facts from my geography A-level and the news in the eighties. North Yorkshire wasn’t a community annihilated by the closing of the mines, was it? No, definitely not. It was a community ravaged by the collapse of the ship-building industry. I wonder where the men of working age are. Have they got on their bikes? Or are they at the Cargo Fleet Social Club doing their best to support the Bass dynasty?
I sigh, bored, losing interest in my own line of thought. A new level of tedium. It must be this place. I light a cigarette. Richard stares at me through the driving mirror. So as not to be rude I wind the window down an inch, which I think is very considerate of me in these sub-zero climes.
‘Would you mind not smoking?’ asks Richard.
I shift uncomfortably and for a second I’m tempted to say that yes, I would mind very much. I have a thirty- a-day habit to feed. I have a metabolism to send into frenzy. Instead I smile, falsely, and throw the cigarette out of the window. Richard doesn’t congratulate me or thank me but simply nods curtly. I’m surprised. I thought he fancied me. The lust men normally experience when meeting me is, if not a licence to print money, at least a certificate which exonerates me from obeying the no-smoking signs. What is it with these Smith blokes? Don’t they have hormones?
The towns disappear and soon even the villages are spasmodic. The bleak warehouses and graffitied bus stops detailing that, despite the odds, ‘JEZ LUVS BREND 4EVER’, vanish and are replaced by wide open fields of mud, splashed with snow, ice and the odd farmhouse. The sky is still lavender but is now streaked with silver layers of light.
‘I can see the sea,’ shout Richard and Darren at once. Then they both laugh. ‘It’s sort of a family tradition,’ explains Darren. ‘Not a very unique one at that. I’m sure you know the thing.’ I don’t, but I follow their gaze anyway.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I sigh, despite myself. And I immediately regret saying so. My city platitude hardly captures the breath-taking splendour of the scene and I do try to make it a rule not to say anything unless it is original or cutting, yet I’m at a loss for words that are grandiose enough. I catch sight of Darren’s face in the wing mirror. He smiles at me as though he finds my lacklustre comment adequate.
‘You don’t think you’ll be too bored, then?’ he asks. Does he have a tent at a funfair to practise this mind- reading thing?
‘No, I think I’ll find enough to amuse me,’ I answer honestly, with only a smidgen of flirtation.
Richard wiggles uncomfortably.
Whitby is higgledy-piggledy. Built on an undulating coastline, the houses and teashops (closed) look precariously stacked. We steer through narrow streets and climb steep slopes. I’m suddenly in a period drama. Eventually we draw up in front of a row of terraced street houses. I am sure they are going to fall into the sea if anyone coughs too loudly. Darren assures me that the houses are tougher than they look. As they’ve been in place for over a hundred years. I concede he’s probably right; even so I make a mental note not to move too suddenly once inside. From the outside the house looks minute and I wonder how the Smiths managed to bring up four kids in something so small. Isn’t property cheaper in the north? I consider passing this comment as a way of making conversation but decide against it. We don’t go in the front door but slip up an alley-cum-path, which leads to the back door.
‘Alleyways are called ghauts around here,’ explains Darren, doing his psychic party trick again. I wish he’d stop that, it’s freaky.
I realize that the house is in fact deceptively large as it stretches back in a seemingly endless row of rooms. Mrs Smith and Linda are waiting on the back step to greet us. Mrs Smith keeps yelling to ‘Father’ that Darren and his friend are here. Father turns out to be Mr Smith, her husband. He doesn’t get up from his chair in the sitting room but waves cheerfully from where he’s sitting. This is understandable; he’s watching a repeat of
