Runaway

By Grace Pilkington

I was ten years old and unstoppable. I was seeking it all - attention, thrills, near-death experiences. Whatever it was, I wanted it. I’ve always been thirsty and hungry. Scouring life for thrills in the same way I scoured the food cupboard for snacks. For fifteen years this scouring usually ended in one place; drunk in the pub. Now the thrills I seek are different. As a mother to a one-year-old, the idea of sitting in a bar all night terrifies me. I’d have to wake up and chase around a maniac with a penchant for sticking every single thing in his mouth, and for 13 hours straight. Shudder! I could get away with hangovers at my office desk, but motherhood is a hell of a lot harder than my job. I’m still hungry, but for other things now, like 12 hours of undisturbed sleep and a morning reading in bed with a cup of sugary tea.

Anyway, I was ten years old and in the place that all my happy childhood memories gather. A place that is entirely romanticised in my mind. If there’s ever a memory of being cold, feeling sad or being consumed by loneliness, it is never there. There’s no space for bad memories there, with the golden sand stretching for miles, the mountainous dunes, the towering trees swaying in the sea's breeze and the pine cone littered grounds. Fittingly for a hungry girl, the place was called Meal house and it sat on the edge of a wood, which sat on the edge of a long, deserted, sandy beach. My grandparents rented it for peppercorn rent (I’ve always loved this phrase…Imagine someone exchanging a house for a peppercorn in 2020 - laughable! ) Essentially they occupied the house and kept it alive for the owners. It had no electricity: no TV, no telephone, no lights. We used gas lamps and heated the bath with stove boiled saucepans of water, which splashed out the sides as we carried them up the stairs. I was obsessed with Dodie Smith and this was our very own I capture the castle, but without the castle. The days were filled with shrimping, bike rides, ice cream eating, samphire picking and in the black of the night, we’d fish and swim naked with the phosphorescence.

On holidays and some weekends, the whole family would spill into the house. There was a dormitory on the ground floor where my cousins, sisters and I all slept. Unmade camp beds and mattresses lay across the room and we’d hop between them imagining any floor space to be scorching hot lava. Two years later, I’d jump on the same bed, putting an incense stick to my mouth as if I was smoking (cool!), listening to MMMbop by Hanson and feeling overwhelmed by longing and hormones. I’d dangle my incense cigarettes from the large window which led into the garden.

But on this occasion, at the age of ten, I decided to use the window as an escape route. As the eldest of the cousins, I considered myself queen of the coop and ordered my sisters and younger cousins around. My favourite game was running through the woods and trying to ‘get lost’ We’d take a bag, which we’d place in one spot so that could become another drama. ‘Oh no, we know where we are, but where’s the bag?’ I’d cry. And if I spotted the bag before I wished to, I’d herd the others in a different direction. My cousin J was my sidekick. He was eager to join every adventure whereas my sister would often decline for want of a quieter life. She used to keep her sweets for later, whereas mine were always gone within seconds. My cousin J was a fellow sweet devourer and as he was five years younger, he was willing to follow my every move.

So when I woke him at the crack of dawn one morning and said ‘Let’s go on a secret trip to the arcade’ he quickly put on his clothes and followed me out the window. We didn’t tell anyone where we were going. I remember thinking about writing a note, but for some reason I didn’t and before long we were walking the two miles to the arcade. We must’ve looked like a strange pair: a five-year-old and a ten-year-old out at dawn, picking berries and munching club bars I’d stolen from the kitchen. We arrived at the arcade and ran around the bleeping, buzzing, clinking machines spending my pocket money. We hopped on the miniature steam train, presenting slightly less than the fare and laughed about the idea of everyone waking to our empty beds. I don’t know what else we did that day, but time flew in the way it rarely does when you’re little and I quickly realised we’d have to start heading home soon or it would be dark.

As we began our journey along the footpath, I remember feeling an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. The route had been signposted on our way to the arcade as there were signs to the town, but there wouldn’t be any signs to the house. ’I’m tired’ J said and quite rightly too. His five-year-old legs had been out all day, walking for miles. It was no surprise he was beginning to flag. We came to a turning and I picked an option without being certain it would lead us home. That’s when it dawned on me - we might actually be lost this time. Really lost.

The darkness began to descend through the trees and across the reservoirs that stretched across both sides of the footpath.

‘How far are we?’ J asked and I lied ‘not long now’ as I tried to focus my eyes so I could work out if we were passing the same bramble bush we’d munched berries from hours before.

The noises around us were changing: birds started singing their goodnights and crickets chirped their hellos. I could feel J’s fear as he speeded up so he could walk close by my side.

‘Do you think they’re looking for us?’ He asked.

‘I hope not’

I could tell from J’s silence he hoped they were.

The nighttime has always bought with it anxieties that haven’t concerned me during the day and I felt them rattle inside me then.

‘I hope they’re not angry’

With every tree or turn in the path I thought I recognised, one would follow which felt completely alien and new. I had no idea whether we were going the right way, but I knew turning back would be a disaster. There had to be something at the end of the path. Something that would help us find our way.

In the distance, I could see blue coming towards us. As we paced towards it, it became clear it was a couple in anoraks with a Jack Russell by their side.

’Oh! You're the ten year old and the five year old!’

‘Yes! Yes we are!’

“The police are looking for you’

I felt my heart thud. The police! I was going to be in serious trouble. Long before the days of mobiles, there was no way of stopping the search. The only thing we could do was check we were going in the right direction.

‘Is this the right way to the house by the beach? do you know it?’

“Yes! We know it. It is!’

I was overcome by relief and fear of what was in store.

‘Thank you!’ I turned to my cousin ‘J, we’ve got to run. They’re worried’

And so we did, his tiny legs aching as he followed behind. Shortly the house came into view and my auntie, J’s mum, pacing up and down outside and wearing a face of worry. I hung back. I was aware that the reception that J and I were to receive would be quite different. I was the influencer and he the influenced.

‘We’re here, we’re here!’ He shouted.

She opened her arms and J ran into them. She closed her eyes and inhaled him.

I often think about my auntie and her face when I returned her five year old son to her. She is gone now. She left us too early. She never got to meet my son. But he looks at her picture each morning and says ‘Jodo.’ I don’t know what that means, but I know it means something. Now I understand the terror she must’ve felt that day. And I’d love to turn to her and say ‘I’m so sorry for kidnapping your son. I’m sorry I made him runaway.’