Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  ‘Oh, we’re muddling through, Bev. We came out the other side after Mum died. Mind you, we had Dad then. We know the drill. The good days, the bad days, the bad nights. Well, you know all that too, from losing Keith.’

  ‘I lost Keith a second time when you ran off with him.’ She’s smiling. She doesn’t hate me.

  ‘I’m so sorry about that, Bev. I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘When he was alive, he never got north of Edinburgh. We went there before Pippa was born, to see the Tattoo. So you gave him a bit of an adventure. And now your father’s having one too, thanks to you.’

  Bev’s understanding is making my eyes fill. She’s not meant to be nice. I’d kind of hoped this would be the last time we’d need to be together. This niceness really isn’t helping.

  ‘See those flats over there,’ she says, out of the blue, pointing to a modern development, beside a rather ornate Victorian clock tower. ‘That’s where we thought about moving to. Second floor, the one with the porthole window. Peter was very taken with that window. Such splendid views of the pier and the bay.’

  And now I do start crying because I’m staring at Dad’s dream home in sea area Portland. Who wouldn’t want to spend their final years here? But he stayed in St Albans because he couldn’t trust me to look after myself.

  ‘Hey, hey,’ Bev says gently, putting an arm round me. ‘You’ll start me off in a minute.’

  ‘I’ve behaved like a child. Before he died and afterwards. So selfish. I stopped you and Dad moving here. I’ve gone on this mad trip and now I have to see it through because everyone thinks I should.’

  ‘Only if you want to, love. Do you?’

  ‘Maybe. Yes. Or what about here?’

  Bev doesn’t understand. I’m not sure I do. Yet. I let the words tumble out to see where they take me. ‘If Dad loved Swanage so much, maybe we could scatter him off the pier. Right here. I bet people do it all the time. If this is where he wanted to spend his final years, we could make that happen.’

  ‘Ah, I’m with you now.’

  ‘Kate can join us. If I rang her, she could be here tomorrow. Tonight, even.’

  ‘She’s got a very responsible job, Annie. She can’t just swan off to Swanage.’ Bev beams briefly at her accidental pun.

  Kate definitely wouldn’t want me to tell Bev that there is no job and it looks like both Stanley girls are quitters. So I wing it. ‘I bet she could swan off. And Pippa and Mark and the kids would be here too. What do you think?’

  Bev stares down at the pier planks beneath our feet. I’ve stopped crying but I fear I’ve set her off and she’s too distraught to talk. She’s quiet for a really long time, just looking down, and I don’t know what to say. I’ve upset her. The flats on the shoreline have reminded her of the happy ending that was stolen from her. All I can do is pat her hand. Then she pats mine and I pat that one. We create a little tower of hands and laugh.

  ‘To Rosemary & Bob. Our much-missed holiday pals,’ she says at last, still looking down.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘For Paddy the poodle who loved this pier.’

  ‘Who’s Paddy the poodle? Are you okay, Bev?’

  She points to the planks at our feet. Each one bears a little metal plaque with a short message: Rosemary & Bob; Paddy the poodle; Nana Jean 1949–2009; Ronnie Wright, loved to bits by Suzi. Swanage pier is covered in them and I hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘Peter didn’t like things unfinished,’ she says, now looking at me. ‘Jars of jam, the Sunday papers, Scandi dramas on BBC4. It used to drive me potty.’

  ‘You’re right, he didn’t. Even now, I hardly ever have leftovers. Drummed in by Dad.’

  Bev laughs. ‘He used to get so furious with Cromarty when he didn’t eat all his Go Cat. I want you to finish this, Annie. You’ll be disappointed in yourself if you don’t. We can remember him right here with one of these little brass plaques. He’d get such a kick out of that, don’t you think?’

  Evie makes friends with the guard on our return journey to Norden and he lets her click all the tickets in our carriage. The train-spotting couple are also on this train and the man looks dead jealous. Why wasn’t he asked to do that? He’s always wanted to do that.

  Pippa gets a text from Mark. There’s been a change of plan. Julia’s appointments are running late and she can’t re-install my crown at 5 p.m. after all. Will first thing tomorrow do? That means another night with Bev and the Spencers. And, actually, that’s fine with me.

  Mark and Elliott are back before us and have slathered a couple of giant pizzas with whatever they could find: olives, sweetcorn, pineapple, half a tin of tuna and a shedload of red onion. I’m nervous about biting into the crust, because of my missing crown, so Pippa makes me a special dish of overcooked pasta and pesto. Sweet of her. She didn’t need to. Even so, we’ll never be besties and we know it. Which is fine.

  After supper, we take over the refectory table for a very noisy game of cards that I never quite get the name or the hang of. It’s like musical chairs; if you don’t grab a card when everyone else does, you lose a life. Dad adored this game, apparently, and was a ruthless, devious, win-at-all-costs player. That doesn’t surprise me. Bev is the opposite and is the first to lose all five lives.

  When I’m knocked out too, I head for the kitchen to make tea for the grown-ups. I can hear low-volume talking from the futility room; it’s Mark in muttered tones on his mobile. I can’t make out what he’s saying until the kettle’s finished boiling, then I pick up everything, whether I want to or not.

  ‘No, just listen okay, I can’t talk now. I’ll ring later. Stop making such a thing of it. You know, don’t you, how difficult it is when I’m in Dorset. So please don’t make it worse. Yes. Soon. Promise. Love you. Love you.’

  I knew it. I bloody knew it. Sometimes my imagination isn’t overactive or biased. Sometimes I’m just plain right.

  I try to busy myself with the tea as he hangs up: peppermint for Bev to settle her imminent heartburn from the pizza, soya milk for Pippa, weak for me, strong for Mark. He manages to hide his surprise at finding me within earshot and offers to carry the mugs through. We exchange a look. He knows I know. I know he knows I know. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said.

  For now . . .

  Later, zipped into my sleeping bag, I think this through. Mark doesn’t deserve my silence but I really don’t want to get involved. Should I tell Bev? Pippa? Or keep schtum and save Mark’s skin? Will my collusion make a bad thing worse or better?

  I’ll sleep on it. And I do . . .

  Julia has texted to confirm that she’ll fix my crown if I can get to her Bridport surgery by 8.45 latest. Mark offers to take me, probably so that he can spin me some line that the conversation I overheard last night was with his sick granny.

  ‘That’s really nice of you,’ I reply, the soul of friendliness. ‘But I don’t want to ruin your plans. You take the family to Monkey World. I can easily order a taxi.’

  Mark won’t hear of it and neither will Pippa. He can take me to Bridport, then they’ll go to Monkey World after that. ‘No worries, Annie.’ I’m cornered.

  I retreat to the summer house to pack my few things. Dad has spent his time in sea area Portland, his well-travelled urn relaxing against a faded cushion on the Lloyd Loom chair.

  ‘You nearly got scattered in Swanage,’ I tell him as I wrap him in the Shipping Forecast tea towel. ‘But Bev talked me out of it. She’s okay, your Bev. I should have told you that before but I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Dad.’

  Last night, she and I knitted blanket squares in front of Love Actually, her favourite film ever, bar none. I’m not a fan but was happy to go along with it if I could catch up on my ridiculous project. Thanks to Bev, I now have eight completed squares to represent sea areas Cromarty, Forth, Tyne, Humber, Thames, Dover, Wight and Portland. Some are less lumpy and sweated over than others, but the end result was never going to be a thing of beauty.

  I even taught Evie how to kn
it, like I’m suddenly the expert, and left her the remains of all the yarns so that she can make herself a stripy scarf. She’s promised to send me a photo when it’s finished.

  ‘Where next?’ Pippa asks as Mark loads my case into the people carrier.

  ‘Sea area Plymouth. That’s anywhere between Salcombe and Land’s End.’

  ‘What about Glynis?’ Bev wants to know.

  I have no idea who she’s talking about. Glynis? Glynis? Then I remember Mum’s fictional friend. ‘She’s going down with a cold. She texted to say maybe next time.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Still, her loss our gain.’

  Pippa frowns. ‘I don’t know how you do it, Annie. Heading off into the unknown. No plan, no destination.’

  ‘Got any suggestions?’ I ask. Has to be better than sticking a pin in a tea towel.

  ‘You could stop in Exeter. Lots of options from there.’

  ‘Rightio, Exeter it is.’

  She gives me a hug, an egg sandwich and a banana. ‘Don’t bite into anything crusty until the glue’s dried.’

  I still need to say goodbye to Bev, Evie and Elliott, not that I’ve made much of an impression on him. They come out of the house together to wave me off. More hugs – except from Elliott, who’s way too cool – and more jokey warnings from everyone about taking care of my teeth.

  I’m trying to find the words to thank Bev for being so understanding and Evie for being such a delight, when Bev suddenly suggests she comes on the drive to Bridport too.

  ‘I’m just not ready to say goodbye yet. Is that okay?’

  ‘I’d love that, Bev.’

  ‘Then I’ll come too,’ Evie announces, slipping her hand in mine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Plymouth

  Bev has given me another reason to feel gratitude towards her. And she didn’t even do it on purpose. By inviting herself along on the drive to Bridport, she’s saved me from an excruciating conversation with Mark about what I did or didn’t overhear last night in the kitchen.

  That has to be the only reason he offered me a lift. He’s barely exchanged twenty words with me since I arrived. Why converse with a fuck-up? What’s in it for him? Well, nothing until last night. Now he needs to win me round, keep me sweet, make sure I don’t spill any beans that might splat on him.

  And Evie’s come too because she didn’t want to miss out. I flatter myself that she wanted to enjoy every last bit of my company. Why shouldn’t I think that . . . as long as I don’t let it go to my head.

  ‘When will you get home?’ she asks from the back seat of the Scenic. Bev insisted on putting me up front, alongside Mark, which makes his silent proximity all the more loaded.

  ‘Hard to say. Couple of weeks maybe. A month max. There again, I might take a shine to Lundy or Liverpool and never return.’

  ‘You are joking, Annie?’ I can see Bev’s frown in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Course I am. I might prefer Swansea or Stornoway.’

  Evie invites me for tea when I’ve finished my trip. She will make double-choc cupcakes, her signature bake.

  ‘I love cupcakes,’ I tell her. ‘If you show me how to get them double-chocolatey, I’ll give you my Mum’s secret carrot cake recipe. It’s Delia Smith but with extra added – nope. Can’t say. And if I write it down, you have to eat the piece of paper.’

  Evie giggles. Job done.

  I know I’m talking gibberish, partly because she’s lapping it up and partly to block any openings from Mark. If I engage one word with him, it will feel as if I’m colluding. I still don’t know what to do. What if I misheard the conversation and it’s all perfectly innocent? I can’t accuse him of having an affair; I can only accuse him of sounding furtive.

  If pressed, I would testify that he’s guilty as fuck, your honour. Written all over his wind-tanned, attractive, smug face.

  He does speak eventually, but just to piss on my chips. ‘You do know there are no trains from Bridport to Exeter?’

  I didn’t. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘So how are you going to get there?’ Evie wants to know. ‘Can we take her, Dad?’

  ‘And be the reason you miss Monkey World? I’d never forgive myself.’

  ‘What about a bus?’ Bev suggests. ‘Or maybe we could drop you in Crewkerne. That’s the nearest station, I think.’

  I haven’t thought any of this through but they don’t need to know that. ‘I’ll hire a car in Bridport. That way I can drive on to Lundy, once I’ve knocked off sea area Plymouth.’

  Pippa was right to be impressed. I am bloody intrepid. I’ll drive to Exeter and beyond. I am so on it.

  Julia is brisk and businesslike, probably because she has a packed day of fillings and extractions after me. My cavity is cleaned out and my crown stuck back in. It takes all of ten minutes and she doesn’t charge me. Bev wanted to wait, to see if there were any problems, but I made them drive back to Lulworth. Those monkeys won’t visit themselves.

  I stand in the street, enjoying the feeling of a full set of teeth. No more wind whistling past exposed nerves, no more avoiding ice cream. I am complete again, ready to continue my journey. And, thanks to Bev, I can walk past a bin of random balls of wool outside a craft shop without having to buy one. Like my mouth, my yarn-based project is up to date and I don’t need to knit another square until I’m past Salcombe.

  Onward and upward. Or rather, westward. Yay me!

  After a quick phone search, I find that I’m just around the corner from the car-hire firm I used in Scarborough. They’ll do just fine.

  This time I’m driving a silver-grey Hyundai i10. ‘Stacy’ tells me it’s a popular choice and I’ll love how it drives. I nod. It’s a car. As long as there’s a wheel in each corner and the radio isn’t stuck on easy listening, I’m ready to hit the road. Stacy is satisfied that I’m satisfied.

  Just as I’m signing the paperwork, my phone rings. I suddenly panic. Oh God, did I leave Dad in the summer house? Course not. He’s safe, sound and snug in my Star Wars suitcase.

  It’s Josh, my nearly stepson. He’s Fi’s nearly stepson now. I can’t help it. I resent her. Josh was the closest I got to parenthood and I blew it.

  ‘Hey there, Miss Stanley,’ he says, shouting to drown out a muffled PA.

  ‘Hey there, yourself, Master Dwyer.’

  ‘I’m on a train and my signal keeps fading. D’you mind if I cut to the chase?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  He launches straight in. ‘So what it is is . . . Bev rang Dad and Dad rang me to say you’d just left Dorset and are heading for Exeter.’

  ‘I am. Or I will be as soon as I’ve uploaded my route.’

  ‘Fancy some company? I’ve got a thing to do in Exeter, then I’m meeting a mate in Cornwall.’

  ‘And your dad’s okay with this?’

  ‘Annie, he suggested it. Go on, I’m an awesome navigator.’

  ‘I’d love it.’

  ‘Result! So I’m just pulling out of Reading, due into Exeter St David’s at 13.03. The thing is, Anni—’

  He’s gone. I never know the etiquette for who phones who back in such situations. My phone vibrates and we pick up where we left off.

  ‘That sounds good, Josh. See you in the car park. I’m driving a silver-grey Hyundai iPad or something. Do you know what they look like?’

  ‘Not a clue. I have a small favour. Dad said you’re too busy with your trip and not to ask. But I’m like, Annie won’t mind.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘So what it is is—’ And he’s gone again. There’s no point trying to find out now. It’ll have to wait until 13.03.

  My drive to Exeter is smooth – thanks to the Hyundai Wotsit – and jam-free, apart from some roadworks outside Honiton. I opt for the fast A35 and A30, rather than the scenic route closer to the coast, because I now have a place to go, a person to meet and a time to be there. I have to say, having Josh along for the ride to wherever is really appealing.

  Initially it was awkw
ard when he found out that his dad was dating Miss Stanley, albeit fairly innocently in those early days. I was really careful not to get involved with Rob until it was perfectly clear that he and Maggie were history. Until that point, our contact with each other was purely a business arrangement. He made me a kitchen cabinet. I paid him the going rate and hoped he’d never finish it.

  We bumped into each other once, in WHSmith, and chatted in that polite, how-are-you style, although it was now pretty apparent that we majorly fancied each other. We even went for a coffee afterwards in Starbucks and he was super-keen to explain that his separation from Maggie was, by mutual consent, about to become permanent.

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ I said, not meaning it. Rob nodded. By now, we knew we were a matter of weeks from getting together and it was unbearably agonizing and erotic.

  Josh gradually accepted that his dad and a teacher at his school were now a ‘thing’. Even so, Rob and I were careful to keep our relationship under wraps for the first few months, in case any of my colleagues thought I was out of line, not that I was teaching him geography any more. When we finally went public, at a school fundraiser, nobody looked shocked or horrified.

  Josh was going through a rough patch with Maggie, so all I had to do was be laidback, low-key and endlessly supportive. We had – we still have – the same sense of humour so we liked hanging out together, making each other laugh. Rob got a kick out of that too and it took the pressure off what could have been a difficult time.

  I’m ensconced in the car park at Exeter St David’s with ten minutes to spare. I nip to a mini-supermarket for some bottled water, humbugs and biscuits and then can’t find my car. It’s an excellent vehicle and has served me well so far but, to a non-petrolhead, it has no distinguishing features. Eventually I recognize it by my jean jacket on the back seat.

  I’m just thinking about taking a photo of the car and registration plate so that I don’t lose it again when Josh appears, in cut-off jeans, T-shirt and work boots, wearing a backpack the size of Cornwall. He looked pretty bloody grown-up at Dad’s funeral but he’s even more adult now. He towers above me and practically pulls me off my feet when we hug.