by Sue Teddern
Next morning, I put away two of Jonny’s sourdough rolls with fat pats of butter and Adrian’s amazing raspberry conserve. Kate has a black coffee. We sit in the garden room, looking out on to a stunning garden: manicured, but not precious, cottagey but not chocolate-boxy.
It’s easier to talk to Adrian about his Japanese acer and artfully random raised beds than it is to talk to my sister, whose face says: Don’t go there. I mean it, Annie.
So I don’t.
Chapter Fourteen
Dover
I’ve yet to make plans for the next leg of my journey with Dad. But Kate’s ready to go home and assess how much shit has hit the fan, possibly thrown by Charlie. I could return the hire car and catch a train to London with her, then another one back down to the next sea area . . . Dover. But she’s reverted to closed-up Kate again and I’d be unfeasibly dense not to pick up that she wants to be alone.
En route to Benfleet station, where I collected her only yesterday, I spot a little wool shop; I have yet to buy a ball in Thames. I tell Kate to keep an eye out for any parking wardens, dash into the shop, hastily select some salmon-pink yarn and slam a handful of coins on the counter.
‘Why?’ asks Kate, when I try to explain my project to her, starting with my encounter with the knitting club in Cromarty. She gazes out of the window as I tell her about it and the beautiful wool I bought in Edinburgh and the corner-to-corner knitting lesson from the woman on the train. She’s not remotely interested.
I wait with her on the platform at Benfleet station for the imminent Fenchurch Street train. I’ve bought her a bag of humbugs, ‘sucky sweets’ for the journey. As kids, we never set off on any long drive without them; Dad indulged us, Mum worried that too many sweets would rot our teeth. I want my nostalgic gesture to make her smile and it does, but it’s a sad smile and it makes me sad too.
‘It’ll be fine, Kate,’ I say, giving her arm a squeeze.
‘And you know that for certain because . . .?’
‘Because you always bob up smelling of roses. I’m the fuck-up around here, the Stanley sister who digs herself a dirty great hole and jumps right in. You’ll be fine.’
She nods to herself, as if she’s been weighing up options all night. ‘If Charlie’s said anything to Ros and Ross, it’s too late. If she hasn’t, there’s still time to tell her not to.’
‘Why would she?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Even if she does, who cares? Listen, Katkin. You love your job and they love you. You know they do. It’s 2019, not 1919. Who cares who people sleep with any more? Nobody, that’s who. You can be whoever you want to be. It’s totally up to you.’
The train approaches. The few post-commute passengers on the platform gather their bags, look up from their phones and position themselves by opening doors.
‘Meaning?’ Kate glares at me.
I’m not sure what I mean. I’m just trying to find some reassuring words to send her on her way. I’ve enjoyed being the Wise One and it’s gone to my head.
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian,’ I say. Because there isn’t.
Kate throws her big pouchy leather bag over her shoulder and gets on the train. She doesn’t even hug me goodbye, not that she was ever one of life’s huggers.
As the doors close, she shouts: ‘I am not a lesbian.’
It’s a grand exit but perhaps not the one she had in mind. As the train pulls away, I see her trying to decide which fellow passengers heard her and who not to sit near.
I really was trying to help, to be the big sister who finds just the right words to reassure, comfort, to take away the worry. But I failed. I took something bad – in Kate’s eyes anyway – and made it even worse.
Big mouth strikes again.
Sea area Dover stretches from the tip of Kent, just north of Broadstairs, to Beachy Head in East Sussex. That means I need to drive from Essex to Kent, then on to Sussex for my next sea area stopover. Dungeness? Duncan and I spent a weekend there when we first got together at university. Or Pevensey Bay Nature Reserve where I took a bunch of kids on a field trip? Eastbourne, maybe, or Hastings? I’m fairly sure an old colleague of mine, who walked out of her City job, moved to Hastings. Last I heard, she’d retrained as a psychotherapist. I bet I could find her on Facebook. Hastings is as good as anywhere – a bit faded, a bit funky. I think Dad would like it.
But right now, I’m feeling raw and stupid after screwing up my time with Kate. I don’t need a psychotherapist to analyse my exposed nerve endings and give me a brutal diagnosis. I got that with knobs on from Duncan. I dismissed it at the time but now I can’t shake it out of my head. Making bad things even worse must be my default setting, from Kim onwards. It’s what I do. And yep, I’ve only gone and done it again.
I head for the Dartford Crossing, with Woman’s Hour for company on the car radio. I learn about child mortality in Mozambique and how to make kale pesto. Honestly, why would anyone do that? I attempt to follow episode six of a serial featuring a feisty woman cop who has missed out on promotion to her abusive ex. And he’s rubbing her nose in it. I have no idea what’s going on. I stop for a loo break, leg-stretch and coffee fix at Thurrock services.
Kate’s phone goes straight to voicemail when I attempt to check in with her. Mum used to tell Dad off for ‘bambling’, which was a cross between rambling and burbling. I leave her a bambling message, hoping she’s okay, hoping work will be okay, hoping that she really is okay. I end with ‘love you, Katkin’ and hang up before I can hope she’s okay again.
There’s a text from Rob: ‘Call me asap.’ And another: ‘Annie, where are you?’ And a third: ‘I rang Kate. She told me what you’re doing. Please call me.’
I call him. He picks up on the second ring. ‘Annie? For fuck’s sake, what’s with the disappearing act?’
‘I haven’t disappeared. I’m right here. I’m just not in St Albans, that’s all.’
‘Where’s here?’
‘Thurrock services. Where are you?’
‘Berkhamsted. Installing a bespoke kitchen for a pair of sarky, stingy whingers. I nearly walked off the job yesterday.’
‘But you didn’t. Well done you.’
‘Yeah, well. It is what it is.’ He sucks air through his teeth, a habit that used to drive me mad. But right now, I warm to the familiarity of it.
‘Are you okay, Annie? Kate says you are, but she was in a rush, couldn’t talk for long.’
‘I’m fine, Rob. I really am.’
I hear him put his hand over the receiver and shout. ‘Ooh, lovely. Two sugars, please, Gill, and a splash of milk.’ Then, softly, to me: ‘Wouldn’t put it past her to spit in it. We had words this morning about repositioning the island unit.’
‘Spit or maybe washing-up liquid. So that she can pretend she hasn’t rinsed your cup properly. That’s what I’d do.’
Rob laughs. ‘You bloody would and all. So. You stole your dad’s urn from Bev and made off to— where did you make off to?’
‘Cromarty, north of Inverness. And now you’re going to tell me I’ve behaved appallingly and I should be ashamed of myself and I must return Dad’s ashes to Bev asap before I make a bad thing worse.’
He laughs. ‘Oh, you’re way past “worse”, Annie Lummox. You can’t even see “worse” from where you are. At Thurrop services.’
‘Thurrock. Well, go on then. Give me a bollocking. I’m all ready for it.’
‘I won’t. Want to know why?’
‘Go on then.’
I hear clickety-clackety footsteps. Rob puts his hand over the receiver again. ‘Cheers, Gill. Ooh, and a KitKat. Spoilt or what.’ He waits till she click-clacks away.
‘I won’t give you a bollocking because I think it’s bloody brilliant.’
‘You do?’
‘A hundred per cent. Bev’s a nice woman and everything. She made your dad happy and she’s lost without him. Well, we all are, obviously. But this feels right. When Kate told me, I saw my face in my r
ear-view mirror and I was grinning from here to here.’
‘Ear to ear, you prat. You grinned, Rob? Really?’ I feel my chin quivering.
‘He was your dad and you want to do right by him. Which you did at the funeral when they played ‘Sailing By’. God, that was emotional. And now this. This is so—so perfect, Annie. I’m dead impressed. Honestly.’
I can’t find the words to respond. Rob totally gets it, just like he totally ‘got’ Dad.
And then he spits in my teacup. ‘Fi thinks it’s brilliant too. Obviously she never met Peter but she wanted me to tell you well done and she can’t wait to meet you.’
‘Fi. Terrific. Tell her thank you.’
‘I will.’
There’s a long pause as my bubble slowly deflates. Fi says well done and can’t wait to meet me. Don’t hold your breath, love.
‘I’d better get back to work,’ Rob sighs, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll probably be invoiced for the biscuit as it is. You take care, Annie. Ring me any time. Let me know how things are in Fisher and Faeroes or wherever you’re heading.’
I don’t bother telling him that Dad and I aren’t visiting those sea areas. ‘Bye then, Rob. Thanks for worrying about me.’
‘Laters, Lummox.’ He hangs up.
I sip the now cold Americano and take a bite out of my impulse-buy flapjack. I see myself sitting here, all alone in Thurrock services, and I want to cry.
My phone rings. It’s Rob again. ‘Annie, I’ve got a huge favour to ask. You can say no and I’ll totally understand.’
‘What? Tell me what it is first.’
‘You know my godmother? Hilary. She moved into supported housing in Bexhill in March. Wanted to spend her final years by the sea. So she gave away her precious piano and most of her furniture, upped sticks and left Leighton Buzzard. We were gobsmacked.’
I remember Hilary. Retired headmistress. Wire-framed specs. Severe grey bob. In fact, that was my nickname for her, for Rob’s ears only. Scary as fuck.
‘I promised I’d visit her next week but this job’s running me ragged and they’ll sack me if I take time off. If you’re passing, would you pop in on her for me? Just so’s I know she’s settled in all right. It would really take a weight off my mind.’
So now I have a destination. I never warmed to Hilary because she never warmed to me. She probably preferred Rob’s ex-wife, Maggie. I will swing by Bexhill, though, and make the house call because I said I would. I can’t not do it just because he suddenly started going on about Fi. Why shouldn’t he? She’s his girlfriend. Me not visiting Hilary just to get at Fi would be childish, daft and pointless. I need to be better than that. Then again, I could always give Bexhill a detour and tell Rob that Hilary was out when I rang her doorbell.
Once in Kent, and then Sussex, the signposts on the A21 keep tempting me to head for Hastings. But I ignore them. I will do this. I will go to Bexhill. I will take a bad thing – Rob and Fi – and make it better by checking in on Hilary.
While I drive the last leg, passing the vineyards at Lamberhurst and the abbey at Battle, I try to work through my resentment towards Fi, who I expect is a perfectly pleasant woman. I ended it with Rob because I knew I was sinking and I didn’t want to drag him down with me. And not just that . . .
When we first met, I still hadn’t given up on motherhood. But he had Josh and he didn’t feel the same urge. We never really talked about it because I sensed from the start how he felt about having more kids. We should have talked. Why didn’t we? After we parted, I knew it was unlikely that I’d meet someone who was keen to start a family but I needed that time apart from Rob to think it through, so stupidly certain that he’d be there, waiting for me, when I was ready to go back to him.
I desperately missed him but I didn’t want him to love me out of obligation or pity. My only plan was to let him know when I was back in the real world and did he fancy meeting for a drink some time?
But while I was hibernating on my sofa, watching daytime telly or taking myself off to senior screenings at the cinema, while I was living in stained T-shirt and leggings, mainlining Tunnock’s teacakes, he met someone he could see a proper future with.
It’s hardly Fi’s fault. But, for the time being, I’ll settle on resenting her.
Hilary’s supported housing development is called Beach View Point, which feels like one word too many . . . It looks purpose-built and very new; a gardener is still laying turf in one of the manicured lawns beside the car park. It smells new too . . . fresh paint and pristine lino in the communal corridors and a huge flower arrangement by the lifts which looks fake but isn’t.
The father of one of my teacher pals moved into sheltered housing and it wasn’t cheap. Lots of hidden extras that he didn’t realize he’d signed up to, poor guy. I don’t see anyone fleecing Hilary. They wouldn’t dare.
All the front doors are the same colour – an uncontroversial magnolia – but residents have made an effort to personalize their own. A pair of china wellies packed with geraniums outside Flat 4 . . . a distressed wooden ‘Life’s a Beach’ sign on twine, hanging from the door knob of Flat 6.
Hilary lives in Flat 8, at the end of the corridor. No cutesy knick-knacks or massed ranks of plant pots for her. Just a sisal doormat printed with the words: Paz, Paix, Shalom, Pace, Siochain, Vrede, Pau, Peace. Yes, this’ll be her place. She’s a great one for faded CND tote bags, feminist mugs and political posters.
As a clumsy teen, Josh broke the handle off her favourite Cambridge folk festival mug. He thought she’d be furious but she told him it was silly to become attached to things because they’re just . . . things. ‘Don’t be a mug about a mug!’ she chortled. Josh and Rob always quoted her every time something got broken after that.
I ring the doorbell long and hard. The last time I saw Hilary, she was refusing to wear her new hearing aid. I give it twenty seconds, then knock on the door with my knuckles. Still no reply. Even though I ought to be relieved that she’s not here and now I don’t have to lie to Rob, a small part of me is slightly disappointed. I’m curious now. How did she end up here? It couldn’t be more un-Hilary-ish. What on earth was she thinking?
There’s no point in slipping a note under her door. Better she doesn’t know I was here than finds out she missed me. I head back down the corridor, wondering where I’ll go now. Back to Plan A. Hastings then. I might even look up my old work friend, see if she’s got a sofa bed. I really can’t face another hotel or B&B, even though Dad and I are barely halfway through our grand tour. I’m trying to stick to a budget, but every day on the road costs money, not least a bed for the night.
As I pass Flat 6 – ‘Life’s a Beach’ – the front door opens and a woman peers out. Her hair is peroxide blonde and beehived into a rock-hard pompom. Her face has the colour and texture of a gingernut. She’s dressed in a jungle-print kaftan and glittery platform flip-flops.
‘Can I help?’ she asks.
‘I was looking for Hilary in Flat 8. She’s my – her godson used to be my – I’m an old friend from Leighton Buzzard.’
‘Oh, she does have friends then? I was beginning to wonder.’
‘I was just passing through Bexhill, hoped to say hello. Maybe next time, eh? Anyway, sorry to disturb you.’ I head for the exit.
‘It would be a shame if you missed her. You see, she’s taking a while to settle in.’
I reach the end of the corridor but I can feel her awaiting a response. Rob would expect me to respond. I turn and return.
‘I’m Toni, by the way,’ she tells me and holds out a hand to be shaken.
‘Annie. Pleased to meet you.’
‘I’d invite you in only I’m making nibbles for our bridge club. I say “making”. M&S did the donkey work.’
‘Best not then. Especially if you’ve got those mini Yorkshire puds with horseradish. I’d scoff the lot.’
Toni titters, not sure if I’m joking. ‘I expect you’ll find Hilary at the De La Warr. I often seen her there when I’m passin
g.’
My face says ‘huh?’
‘On the seafront. Big building. You can’t miss it. Now I’d better get on. They’re due in half an hour.’
She beams lipsticked teeth and closes her front door.
I must have driven past the De La Warr on my way into Bexhill and, despite what Toni said, I really did miss it. It’s a glorious Art Deco pavilion, all curved and sleek, with wide expanses of glass. I park and enter. I’m very hungry and a sign announces a cafe upstairs. But my first priority is to find Hilary.
On the sea side of the building, there are lawns, a watery play area for over-excited kids and dogs, and a strange modern structure that could possibly be a bandstand. It’s a warm day so it’s already busy with Bexhill folk taking the air or going for a run. If I lived by the sea, I’d do that too and get properly fit for the first time in my life.
If I lived by the sea, I might also finally commit to dog ownership, as compensation for not having kids, and take it for a run with me every morning, rain or shine. Unless it was pissing down, obviously. Running seems do-able if you live by the sea. It would never occur to me to put on my fit kit and do a quick circuit of St Albans or run that pretty route to Tyttenhanger, where Rob and I often went for a Saturday amble and sandwich at the pub on the green.
My stomach is now roaring for sustenance, ideally something that comes with a stack of fat chips and no salad garnish. I honestly think I’ve made enough effort to find Hilary. My conscience is clear. And then I spot a hidden deck, below the main outside area, which is less Art Deco and more Greco-Roman. More eating and shopping opportunities. More toddlers, more dogs.
And there, wrapped in a purple fleece and Palestinian scarf, ensconced on a mobility scooter and staring stoically out to sea, is Hilary’s distinctive Prince Valiant hairstyle to hide her hearing aid: I have found Severe Grey Bob.
She hasn’t seen me and isn’t expecting me. For one final moment I think about getting back in my car and heading for Hastings. But she looks so forlorn and vulnerable sitting there, fringe flapping in the wind, chin out, that I can’t walk on by. I approach at a diagonal, beaming a friendly smile. I don’t want to give her a heart attack.