by Sue Teddern
We pass a wool shop and my ‘yarn alert’ activates. Josh is checking his phone to see if Rhys has reached Fowey yet. I yank him into the shop to select my sea area Plymouth wool. Until now, I’ve been choosing colours that complement each other: maroon, red and dark pink; khaki, camel and honey tones. Josh selects a lurid lime green because it matches the logo on his T-shirt. As good a reason as any.
‘What’s it for?’ he asks, not really that interested.
‘I started squares knitting in Cromarty. For a blanket to represent all the sea – oh, never mind. How about this cafe?’
It’s practically empty. The woman behind the counter is sealing tubs of egg mayonnaise and coronation chicken before packing up for the day. Why is Britain so unprepared for the late luncher? But she’s still serving coffee and offers to warm us up a couple of half-price home-made pasties, because ‘they won’t keep’. She serves them with a little leafy garnish which Josh instantly sidelines. We barely exchange a word until our plates are empty.
I think we’ve re-bonded sufficiently to ask him the question that’s been in my head ever since Exeter. ‘So. Fi. What’s she like then?’
Josh is unwrapping an Eccles cake and doesn’t look up. ‘Yeah. She’s okay. Nice smile. Want some of this?’
I shake my head. No, I don’t want a bite of his cake and no, that really won’t do as an answer.
‘Smiles are meant to be nice, Josh. That’s what they’re for. I need more than that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to know Rob’s happy. That he’s made a good choice.’
‘You want to know if she’s as great as you?’
‘Well, obviously.’
He looks uncomfortable, puts his cake down and over-stirs the last dregs of coffee. ‘This isn’t fair, Annie. I don’t like being piggy in the middle.’
‘I’m curious, that’s all.’
‘Mum did this. She wanted to know all about you when you first started seeing Dad.’
Of course she did. I would have done, if I’d been her. ‘I’m sorry. Must be weird for you.’
‘I’m not a kid, Annie. I wasn’t a kid when Dad met you, was I? He can do what he likes, date who he likes. It’s none of my business.’
‘So, what did you say? When your mum asked about me?’
Josh glares at me. If I haven’t already crossed the line, I’m just millimetres from it. ‘That was different.’
‘How? How was it different?’ And there I go. Line crossed. Too late now.
He takes a big bite of his Eccles cake and doesn’t reply until he’s ready. ‘Well, for one thing Mum and Dad were so over when you came along. She was horrible to him. Bullying, doing him down all the time. I was like: Stop it, leave him alone. But she wouldn’t. Which is why I was pleased when you two got together, even though you’d been my teacher and all my mates took the piss.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘So, yeah. They’re much happier apart. Mum met Karl and Dad met you and they remembered how to be nice to each other again.’
‘Thank you for accepting me. I didn’t appreciate it at the time.’
‘No problem,’ he says shyly from under his ridiculously long lashes. ‘You and Dad went well together. Anyone could see that. We laughed a lot, didn’t we? All three of us.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘That meal for his birthday. Remember? When the restaurant was so shit.’
‘God, yes. Big rows in the kitchen because the chef was splitting up with his wife.’
‘And the waiter spilled wine everywhere and blamed you.’
‘It was my fault actually but I wasn’t going to tell him that. They didn’t charge us in the end. And then I ruined everything by breaking up with him.’
‘You really did, Annie. For no good reason, as far as I can see. But now he’s getting over – he’s got over it. You. With Fi. Maybe you need to leave them be.’
‘I am.’
‘You’re a good-looking woman, for your age. There must be loads of guys out there who’d be like: She’s hot.’
‘For my age.’
‘So what’s stopping you?’
‘Nothing.’
I think about Simon, who’s been sending me regular texts from Brighton to see how I am. Simon is a lovely man. Simon will take me on unconditionally, just as soon as I give him the nod. Rob has moved on. Now it’s my turn. With Simon.
Josh finishes his coffee and wipes pastry flakes off his T-shirt. From the serious expression on his face I can tell that this will be his final word on the subject. ‘So. Fi. You want to know about Fi. Right . . . choppy blonde hair, sort of long and short at the same time. Nice smile. Skinny but not too skinny. Tiny feet. I mean, seriously tiny. She’s a good cook. Vegetarian, but her van’s vegan. She’s got a snack van, takes it to festivals. She said I could work for her this summer but I’d rather hang out with my mates.’
Shit. She sounds perfect. ‘How old?’
‘I dunno, early thirties? Doesn’t ever want kids. When she told me that, I was like: Whoa, too much information, lady.’
That would suit Rob. He’s done the dad thing. So that’s every box ticked. Fi sounds perfect.
‘There’s just one thing,’ Josh says, lowering his voice as if the cafe owner might grass him up. ‘Maybe it’s not important. Maybe, after you, Dad reckoned it wasn’t a deal-breaker.’
‘What? What one thing, Josh?’
‘So what it is is, she’s got a sense of humour. But it’s just a bit, I don’t know . . . vanilla. She doesn’t do sarcasm or irony like you do or make me laugh till my lungs literally burst. She can watch a whole episode of The Big Bang Theory without even cracking a smile. I feel bad saying it out loud. I mean, she can’t help it, can she?’
‘Your dad doesn’t seem to mind.’
Josh looks thoughtful, weighing up whether or not to say more. But I know how to stare him out and he relents. ‘To be honest, I think Dad does mind sometimes. He’s always quoting you, things you’ve said, little in-jokes, stuff that makes him smile to himself when he doesn’t know I’m looking. Fi’s great and everything but she doesn’t fit the space you left.’
As we walk back to the car, Josh rings Rhys, who has arrived at his aunt’s pub in Fowey, to see if she has a spare room for me tonight. She does. So we can head straight there, without worrying about where I’ll sleep. Even with a passenger to keep me awake, it’s been a long drive and I’m knackered.
Launceston to Fowey takes less than an hour. We cross Bodmin Moor, passing Jamaica Inn. I tell Josh it was one of my favourite books when I was his age but he’s never heard of it.
‘Are you sure it’s not a Bob Marley album?’ he asks, a bit too pleased with himself.
We listen to Dr Feelgood, via Josh’s Bluetooth, for the last leg from Lostwithiel. He really likes it, which I find amazing, so I tell him about Dad’s love of them and meeting a fellow fan, with a dog called Olga, on Canvey Island.
‘He was a dude, your dad,’ Josh says with a sigh. ‘Well, apart from whenever he wore those walking trousers with the zip-off legs. I won’t lie, Annie, they were bad.’
We get to Fowey in good time and find the pub. We’re feeling pretty chilled after the drive, ready for a pint or three of local cider and a hot meal. And then everything changes.
The suitcase. The wheelie Star Wars suitcase, which has been with me since sea area Forth, which contains Dad’s ashes . . . it isn’t in the boot. At first I freeze. Then I frantically pull everything out and dump it on the ground – Josh’s backpack, the beer, the mineral water – as if the suitcase will suddenly, magically, reappear.
Josh has been in the pub, letting Rhys know we’ve arrived. He finds me rooted to the spot, staring at an empty space where the suitcase should be.
I point. ‘Suitcase. Not there. Gone.’
‘Are you sure?’ Josh asks, trying to sound calm and grown-up.
‘Look, it’s so not there. Oh God, someone’s nicked it. With Dad’s ashes in it.
Oh God, oh God.’
And then I remember the flap I was in, trying to load the already over-stuffed car boot at Waitrose while talking to Bev on the phone and getting hassled by Grubby Land Rover Woman. I must have put the suitcase on the ground and, in the ensuing chaos, accelerated off without it. No wonder she wouldn’t stop hooting.
I launch into loud wails that scare me and horrify poor Josh. He tries to hug me but I won’t be hugged. No one should be nice to me after I let this happen. How can I break it to Bev? What will Kate call me when she hears what I’ve done? I’ve taken a bad thing – this ridiculous trip – and made it a hundred and fifty per cent worse by my sheer incompetence and thoughtlessness.
‘You’re not though, Annie,’ Josh tells me. ‘Incompetent or thoughtless. This is just a case of shit happening and today it happened in – where was it?’
‘Okehampton. Should I tell her yet?
‘Tell who?’
‘Bev. Should I tell her I’ve lost Dad?’
‘You haven’t lost him. He’s been mislaid. I’ll ring Waitrose now. Your suitcase will be put away safely in the manager’s office, all ready to collect tomorrow.’
‘I don’t care about my clothes, my shoes, that daft fucking suitcase. I just want Dad back. God, I’m such a twat.’
‘You need to stop saying that because it’s not true, okay.’
‘Okay.’ (I am.)
Julie, who is calm and reassuring, makes me a cup of tea and shows me to my room, while I await news from Josh. It’s up in the eaves, with an amazing view of the estuary. But I can’t relax until Josh returns to tell me panic over, what are you like?
He knocks tentatively on my door and the lightness of his knuckles says it all. No ‘panic over, what are you like?’ No suitcase. No Dad. No end to my self-flagellation.
‘I spoke to the deputy manager, the manager and the guy who collects trolleys. No one handed in a suitcase. Doesn’t mean they won’t, though. Whoever found it might have been in a hurry to get somewhere and they’ll rock up with it tomorrow.’
Bless him, he knows that’s bollocks but he can’t bear to see me in such a state.
‘Julie’s putting together toothpaste, toothbrush, a little bottle of detergent. And you’re to tell her if you need any, you know, women-type things. I can lend you spare clothes until you get your case back. And your dad. Tomorrow. You will, Annie. Get him back. People always hand stuff in. People are good, mostly.’
I can’t eat a thing. I can’t relax. Kate rings and I let her go to voicemail. How can I tell her what’s happened? But I can’t lie either. I feel the start of a headache.
I remember when my purse was stolen in a bar in St Albans a couple of years ago. I didn’t care about the cash or the credit cards, which were easily stopped anyway. I didn’t care about the sodding store cards or the card that would gain me a free coffee if I got every square rubber-stamped. There was a photo in the little plastic window of me, Mum and Kate, when she treated us to a mini break at a health spa. The purse was found and handed in, minus cash and cards, obviously. The photo was intact.
In it, we’re all wearing thick-pile, white towelling dressing gowns, wet hair scraped back, faces free of make-up, bunched together on a lounger for one. We look happy but I remember it as a difficult day. Those cheesy smiles were just for the camera.
My stupid purse didn’t matter but the photo did. My stupid suitcase doesn’t matter. I just want my dad back.
Soon after eight, and when I’ve refused food three times, Julie gives me a couple of naproxen and a cup of cocoa. ‘You need to sleep off that headache. I get them too so I know how you’re feeling. It’ll all be sorted by morning, love. Promise you it will.’
I sleep fitfully. Whenever I’m awake, I’m loading the car boot again and again, ensuring each time that the suitcase is safely stowed away. When I sleep, I dream about Simon. He’s taking Dad and me out on his boat. He’s a brilliant sailor: knowledgeable, confident, keen. He has long hair and is the Simon of our student days. I’m fifteen years older. Dad is just Dad.
When all this is over, I need to see Simon. I need to know how I feel about him. The dream has created a kind of intimacy, but it’s just a dream. When all this is over . . .
Even up here in the eaves, I can smell frying bacon, toasting bread, strong coffee. My headache is gone, my appetite returned, my pants clean and dry on the shower rail.
Breakfast is served by Josh, looking semi-smart in black trousers and a polo shirt. He gets a bit fumbly taking down my order of poached eggs and has to come back to check if I’d asked for tea or coffee. Rhys is helping out in the kitchen; he worked here last summer and apparently does a mean scramble.
I polish off my eggs, two slices of toast and jam, plus a yoghurt. My stomach is full, my head is clear and I’ve stopped beating myself up. Now I’m ready to turn my anger on whoever took my suitcase. I shall return to the scene of the crime, stand outside the supermarket and interrogate every shopper. I’ll report the theft – because that’s what it bloody well is – to Okehampton police. I’m ready to kick ass and get my dad back.
I’m just relaying my plans to Josh when Julie runs in from the kitchen, talking on her mobile. ‘She’s here now. You’re a star, Melanie. Just let me tell her, okay.’
Julie holds the phone out to me. ‘Melanie. Daughter of a neighbour. She works for SWitch Community Radio. She reckons she can get you on air right now to put out an appeal for your suitcase. They’re always doing shout-outs for missing cats and lost wedding rings. Well, go on.’
I take the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Annie? Hi. Julie’s told you, right. Look, I can’t promise anything.’ Melanie lowers her voice. ‘Himself’s just finishing the breakfast show and he’s in a stinking mood. I’ll put you on hold for a mo while I see if we can squeeze you in before nine.’
I wait. Julie waits. Josh serves a couple kippers, then waits too.
Julie uses the hiatus to explain. ‘I told Melanie about your father’s ashes and she really felt for you. SWitch covers all the South-West so you never know. Fingers crossed, eh?’
Melanie is back. I hear her sad little sigh before she speaks. ‘He’s got his jacket on. He’ll be out the door and off for breakfast in ten seconds. I told him your story but he said it’s not local because you’re not. I’m so sorry. He’s such a bastard. Got to go. Sorry.’
I pass the phone back to Julie and shake my head. ‘Not happening. Never mind.’
Josh wants to comfort me but the kipper couple require more coffee. Julie bundles me into the kitchen, wipes her hands on her apron and grips mine.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I should have checked with Melanie before bringing you into it. I shouldn’t have raised your hopes.’
‘I’m not local.’
‘Your story is, though. And it’s a bloody sight more newsworthy than a school fete or a guinea pig that looks like James Corden. Actually that one was quite good, as it happens.’
‘I’ll call Waitrose again, then go back to Okehampton, see if anyone saw anything.’
‘Want me to come with you? I’m more than happy to.’
‘I’m fine, Julie. Honestly.’
She’s about to insist when ‘La Bamba’ erupts from her jeans pocket. She answers her mobile, listens earnestly, then gives me an exuberant thumbs-up. ‘Oh, that’s brilliant, Melanie. She will. I’m sure she will. Leave it with me. You’re a star. No, you are. Thanks, love.’
What it is is . . . Melanie told my story to Shell, who does the afternoon phone-in show. Can I come in and talk about my journey and Dad’s ashes? ‘Shell’s a lovely presenter. Not like that morning chap. I’ve told her yes but you just say if you don’t want to do it.’
I drive to a trading estate on the outer fringes of Plymouth. SWitch Community Radio shares an industrial unit with an upholsterer’s and an importer of Chinese noodles. Who said showbiz isn’t glamorous? The radio station is a tiny operation: a scruffy open-plan office, a goldfish-bowl studio and a ‘g
reen room’ which doubles as a dumping ground for dead rubber plants, redundant ring binders and four white plastic garden chairs.
I should have listened to SWitch in the car, to learn what I’m letting myself in for. I hear it now, piped around the green room. Shell introduces ‘Top of the World’ by the Carpenters and flags up the phone-in to follow. She’s playing the Carpenters under faux duress and takes the mickey, with gentle affection, of the listener who requested it. She has a rich, fruity West Country accent and a throaty giggle. I like her already.
Shell’s producer, barely older than Josh, finds me and thrusts a mug of tea at me. ‘Annie? I’m Milo. Thanks for coming in. I could jot down some bullet points for Shell but you’re on in five so I’ll let her get the full story, okay?’ He bustles me into the studio.
Shell is about 50, with long, purple, crinkly hair, crammed under headphones. I bet she keeps chickens, has a pierced navel and never misses Glastonbury. She waves me to sit opposite her and put on headphones. ‘Top of the World’ fades to a close.
‘There you go, Iris. Because I promised. But I’m warning you, no more Carpenters requests for a fortnight or you’re banned.’ Another throaty chuckle. ‘Take care, my lover. Catch you later. More music dreckly but, before that, let’s get to know our guest.’
She means me. I smile, which does not make great radio.
‘Annie Stanley, welcome to SWitch, Community Radio for the South West. So tell us why you’re here and how we can help.’
‘My suitcase. It’s gone missing. With my dad in it. Someone took it. I don’t know why. I was in a flap and I put it down and someone took it. It’s all my fault.’
‘Deep breath, and start again.’
I rewind to the beginning: Dad’s death; the Shipping Forecast; our journey from sea areas Cromarty to Plymouth. Because Shell is such a good listener, I even tell her about my eight knitted squares. If I sound unhinged, I can’t do anything about that now.
‘And you’re sure nobody handed your suitcase in to the supermarket?’ Shell asks when I finally putter to a halt.
‘Positive. Someone took it. It’s not as if they picked up the wrong Bag for Life by mistake; it’s a Star Wars wheelie suitcase. Containing a bunch of creased clothes and my dad’s ashes in a cardboard travel urn. The case is worth more than the contents, but even that can be bought for £15 on any high street.’