by Heidi Swain
I wanted to point out that her retail habit was most likely born out of boredom and all the hours she spent alone, but I didn’t. I had been hoping Dad might have felt able to express his grief once we started going through everything, but watching him move perfunctorily from one packing box to another, I wasn’t sure he felt any. Watching him move swiftly along the rails without a single lingering look made me feel incredibly sad.
‘No sign of the yellow sundress,’ I sighed in the hope that harking further back might evoke an emotional response.
‘The what?’
‘The dress Mum always used to wear to the beach when we holidayed in Wynmouth, remember?’
Dad straightened up. He looked wistful for a moment but then frowned.
‘Your mother was a different woman back then,’ he said stiffly.
‘And you were a different man,’ I muttered under my breath.
I knew my parents’ marriage hadn’t always been as perfect as the one they projected to the outside world but Dad’s apparent indifference was hard to take.
‘She probably parted with that dress the day she charged her first designer handbag, Tess.’
I nodded, but didn’t say anything further.
Looking at the packed rails of clothes brought a lump to my throat and made me realize I hadn’t spent anywhere near the amount of time with Mum as I had in the office with Dad. I hoped she hadn’t thought I had in some way ‘sided with him’ because I worked for him. I had always assumed that there would be plenty of time for us to catch up, but her fragile heart had other plans.
‘Well, I have to say,’ sighed Joan, as she appeared with a tray bearing cups of tea and a plate of biscuits just in time to stop me getting too maudlin, ‘it doesn’t look as if you’ve made much headway.’
‘We haven’t,’ I said, looking around. ‘I thought we’d be finished in here today, but we’ve barely scratched the surface.’
‘This is going to take far longer than just one day,’ said Dad, piling jewellery boxes and a small trunk next to the door. ‘Surely you realized that?’
I shrugged. It was beginning to feel like he’d done nothing but find fault with everything I’d said since the moment I’d arrived.
‘You look all in,’ he went on. ‘Why don’t you take this lot and go through it at yours?’
The lure of a long hot bath and a bedtime before midnight was very appealing and I was grateful that he had noticed I was flagging, even if he did make it sound like yet another flaw.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll need to be rested and raring to go Monday morning, won’t you?’
*
I tossed and turned that night and ended up dozing in bed for the larger part of Sunday morning. When I did eventually get up, I flicked through the TV channels to drown out the persistent buzzing in my head, finally settling on a show about couples looking to escape the rat race and settle in the country.
After coffee, I turned my attention to the small trunk Dad had packed into my car along with Mum’s jewellery collection. I was surprised to discover it was full of what looked like mementos – notebooks, letters, paintings I had presented her with as a child – not the sentimental sort of things I had associated with her at all in recent years and I felt the hot prickle of tears begin to gather behind my eyes. A photograph album caught my attention and I pulled it out and settled back on the sofa.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ I sniffed, as I scanned through the snaps.
There were dozens of Mum, Dad and me on holiday in the very place I had been dreaming of escaping to ever since my stress levels had started to get the better of me. Wynmouth on the Norfolk coast might not have been the dream holiday destination for most, but to me when I was growing up, it was utter perfection. Not just the little place itself, but the feeling of heady happiness it always instilled within me.
It had been a very long time since I had felt that kind of uncomplicated contentment. These days my pleasure levels were derived from beating someone else to the punch or muscling in on a project a rival firm had been hoping for. There was nothing straightforward or wholesome about my happiness now.
I had been a teenager the last time we visited Wynmouth and Mum and Dad were amazed that I could still be amused with a stroll along the beach and a forage among the alien rockpool worlds. There were no arcades, no fast food outlets, no noisy fairground rides, but there had been something, the sudden fluttering in my chest reminded me, to hold my teenage attention. I carried on flicking through the pages until I found one photo in particular.
‘I wonder,’ I mused, setting the album aside and reaching for my laptop.
It didn’t take long to find what I was searching for. Crow’s Nest Cottage in the heart of the sleepy village had always looked like the perfect holiday rental to me, hence my insistence that I was photographed standing in front of it.
Built next to the pub and just a stone’s throw from the dip down to the beach, it was a higgledy-piggledy little place, but full of charm. We had never stayed there. The limited holiday fund my parents had then was just enough to secure us one of the few static caravans on the clifftops outside the village, but I had always promised myself that I would stay at the cottage one day and here it was, still listed as holiday accommodation.
My fingers lingered over opening the availability enquiry form. Was there even a slim chance that I would be able to convince my father that now was a sensible time for me to take a break, and if I somehow did, would Wynmouth be the same? Would it be capable of filling me with that same sense of calm? Because that was what I was desperate for. That was what I was craving every bit as much as the invigorating sea air. Throwing myself into my work hadn’t helped me get over losing Mum, but perhaps Wynmouth would.
Then I remembered the hasty departure surrounding our last holiday. Dad had insisted on packing up and leaving early, saying an unmissable work opportunity had come up and it was imperative that we left straightaway.
‘It’s the opening of a lifetime,’ he had said, urging us to pack. ‘A chance to really put Tyler PR on the map.’
Whatever the opportunity was – I was too heartbroken to care – it must have succeeded because by the following year the business was flying and we had spread our holiday wings far further than Norfolk. We had never returned to Wynmouth and yet it was still the place I dreamed of, the very spot my moments of mindful meditation always led me back to.
My phone began to ring and I reached for it.
‘Have you seen the Sunday papers?’ Dad barked, the second I answered.
‘No,’ I swallowed. ‘What is it?’
‘Your man’s been on another bender and his wife’s thrown him out.’
I took a moment to take a deep breath. It was in no way soothing.
‘I’ve got my laptop right here,’ I said with an urgency I didn’t feel as I opened a new tab next to the Crow’s Nest Cottage page, ‘if you send me the address, I’ll email Vicky Price’s agent and the advertiser straightaway.’
Chapter 2
Even before I ended the call from Dad, I knew that it would be impossible to take off anytime soon, but I still submitted the cottage availability form. It was my misguided attempt to fool myself into thinking that I was putting some sort of self-care practice into action.
Vicky Price, her agent and the advertiser were thrilled with the prospect of us all working together, but the other guy, now back in rehab, and his increasingly belligerent agent, were less than impressed by the turn of events. It was beyond belief that either of them could really think that he was still right for the job, but they did, and their grumbling had rapidly turned into threats of legal action. We had a watertight contract in place to ensure that couldn’t possibly happen, but the mere mention of bad press for Tyler PR had sent my father marching along the warpath and given me a migraine to end all others.
‘Are you going home?’ Lucy asked me, late on Tuesday afternoon. ‘I really think you should,
you look absolutely dreadful.’
Not only was I battling a sledgehammer attacking my fragile skull, but I was feeling increasingly nauseous too and the office lights were hurting my eyes. My brain felt far too swollen to fit my head and no number of painkiller combinations had helped.
‘Lucy’s right,’ said Sonya, eyeing me with a frown. ‘You should go, Tess. We can manage until tomorrow.’
If Sonya was telling me to go home, then I must have looked really bad. The last thing I wanted was to desert my post, but I had no choice. I had exhausted every avenue of trying to cope with the pain and nothing had helped.
‘All right,’ I caved. ‘I’ll go, but if anything happens, you ring me, okay? I’ll keep my phone turned on and I’ll be in even earlier tomorrow.’
When I arrived home, I checked my emails. There was one from someone called Sam about the cottage.
Thank you for your enquiry regarding the possibility of staying in Crow’s Nest Cottage.
The cottage has already been booked for the two weeks you specified. Apologies for any disappointment this may cause.
Given everything else I had to worry about, I felt far more disappointed than I probably should have and even though I knew it was pointless I sent a reply anyway.
Hi Sam. Thank you for letting me know. Is it available any time during June or July?
*
I had hoped to find myself back on top form the following morning, but what I discovered when I opened my eyes was that the world had shifted on its axis and my head was spinning.
‘Don’t you think you should call the doctor?’ asked Lucy, when I eventually managed to find a position that stopped the dizziness long enough for me to dial her home number.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s just a bit of vertigo. I’ve had it before.’
‘I can drive you to the surgery,’ she carried on regardless. ‘It’s no bother.’
‘Honestly, Lucy, there’s no need.’
‘But you had a migraine yesterday,’ she pointed out, as if I needed reminding. ‘I really think you should get checked out.’
‘I promise you, it’s not a problem,’ I said soothingly. ‘It’s an inconvenience more than anything,’ I added, thinking of the rotten timing, ‘and purely stress-related. It’ll pass the second we’re back to business as normal.’
‘Well, if you’re sure—’
‘I am,’ I interrupted, ‘but there is one thing you could do for me, Luce.’
‘Name it.’
‘Come and pick me up and drive me in.’
‘What?’
‘Drive me into work,’ I pleaded. ‘I can’t get behind the wheel. I wouldn’t be safe, but if you could get me to my desk and I sit relatively still I’ll be fine to carry on. I need to carry on.’
There followed a sentence containing more than a few words that I would never have had down as being in mild-mannered Lucy’s vocabulary.
‘So that’s a definite no then?’ I sighed, when she eventually ran out of steam.
Neither Chris or Sonya were up for it either so I spent a miserable morning trying not to move or worry too much about what was happening in my absence. I couldn’t help thinking that Chris was going to be in his element. As second in command he would no doubt be savouring the chance to make an impression.
Early afternoon I heard a key turn in the lock.
‘It’s only me,’ Joan called out. ‘Stay where you are.’
‘What are you doing here, Joan?’ I asked, from my propped-up position on the sofa. ‘Not that it isn’t lovely to see you.’
‘Chris phoned and told your dad you were sick,’ she explained as she bustled in carrying a basket. ‘I know you’re like your father and you don’t do ill, so I wanted to check you were being sensible. I nabbed your dad’s key. I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course,’ I said, remembering not to nod just in time. ‘But I’m annoyed with Chris for dobbing me in.’
I’d had no intention of telling Dad I wasn’t well. I knew he was working from home, so my absence from the office for a few hours could have gone completely unnoticed, had it not been for my deputy’s meddling.
‘I don’t think he rang to cause trouble,’ said Joan, who always strove to see the best in everyone. ‘Apparently, he had some query about an urgent contract that needs signing off and didn’t want to disturb you. Ring any bells?’
‘Oh yes,’ I groaned. ‘A whole belfry full.’
Chris was behaving exactly as I suspected he would. He was using my loss of balance to his advantage and had grabbed the opportunity to write himself into Dad’s good books. As the person who had taken him on and trained him up, I supposed I should have been proud of his ambition. Had I been in his position, I would have done exactly the same thing.
‘I thought I’d bring you some lunch,’ Joan kindly carried on. ‘Are you well enough to eat it?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, knowing it would be pointless to say no.
Still reeling from the second bout of vertigo I’d had in the last three months I really didn’t fancy the chicken soup she had taken the trouble to make; however, after the first few sips my stomach began to unclench and it was gone in minutes.
‘Thank you,’ I said gratefully, as she cleared up after me. ‘That was delicious.’
‘I thought it would be just the thing,’ she smiled, ‘and that it would be easier in a cup.’
She was right, as usual.
‘So, what did Dad say about me being off work?’ I bravely asked.
‘Not much. When I told him I’d come here and check up on you, he said he’d call in at the office.’
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.
‘He was muttering something about letting Chris oversee the contract as it needs to be dealt with quickly. The lad sounds like a very willing member of the team to me.’
‘Oh, yes, he’s that all right,’ I agreed, my mood deflating further.
‘Well, don’t you worry about it,’ said Joan.
‘I’m not worried,’ I shrugged. ‘Why would I be worried?’
‘There’s more to life than work you know,’ she carried on, squeezing my hand. ‘Not that I would ever let your father hear me say that of course.’
We exchanged a conspiratorial smile and she began to gather her things together.
‘I’ll pop back again tomorrow,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘You make you sure you get plenty of rest. It sounds to me like everything’s under control.’
Worryingly, it sounded like that to me too.
*
Having finally slept, after managing some more of the wonderful soup Joan had left, I was feeling much better the next morning. Not quite well enough to drive myself to work, but certainly less inclined to fall over whenever I stood up. However, rather than push my luck and book a taxi and risk a relapse I uncharacteristically decided to have another day at home. Joan’s words, coupled with my stirred-up memories of what my life used to be like, along with what had happened to Mum, had got me thinking, and I had surprised myself by coming to the hasty conclusion that, no matter what anyone said, I was definitely going to take a proper break.
I didn’t want to let Dad or the business down, but this latest dose of dizziness had forced my hand somewhat and I had finally realized that if I didn’t want either my mental or physical health to suffer further then I was going to have to properly rethink my priorities and strike a better work/ life balance. I couldn’t just keep thinking about it, conning myself into believing that would be enough, I needed to get on and make it happen. But not in Crow’s Nest Cottage . . .
Thank you for your further enquiry. Crow’s Nest Cottage will not be available from the end of May as it is being withdrawn from the holiday rental market. Should you still wish to stay in the area, do let me know and I will recommend other accommodation, further along the coast.
As sad as it was, that was the end of that, because if I couldn’t stay in the cottage, I would rather not revisit Wynmouth
at all. Determined not to have my resolve to take a break thwarted, however, I decided I would jet off to somewhere far-flung and exotic instead.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Joan, when she arrived with yet more edible treats and a bunch of yellow roses cut fresh from the garden.
‘Better,’ I said, ‘almost one hundred per cent.’
She didn’t look convinced, but I meant it, even if I did still look a bit peaky. Even just making the decision to get away had done me no end of good.
‘There now,’ she said, once she had finished stocking the fridge. ‘That looks more like it.’
I had to admit the shelves had been a bit Old Mother Hubbard prior to her arrival. Wilting watercress and almost-out-of-date skimmed milk weren’t exactly set to contribute much to aiding my recovery.
‘Any news from the frontline?’ I asked, while she artfully arranged the roses in a vase before lifting Mum’s trunk on to the sofa so I could properly sort through it without having to bend down.
‘Your dad seems very taken with Chris,’ she told me.
This came as no surprise and, if I played my cards right, might now end up working in my favour.
‘He says he’s a credit to you, Tess,’ she smiled. ‘That you’ve done an excellent job training him up.’
That was a surprise and I was delighted to hear it, although it would have been even better coming from Dad.
‘Well,’ I smiled back. ‘At least I’ve done something right.’
‘You do everything right,’ Joan said firmly. ‘The way this chap has stepped up is proof enough of that.’
And how fortuitous had that turned out to be? Chris had wasted no time in nailing his colours to the mast and, given my decision to pull my feet out of the ‘live to work’ mire and plant them in the ‘work to live’ meadow, that was to be applauded rather than resented. My accomplished deputy had presented his ambitious streak at just the right time.
*
Later that afternoon, I delved deeper into Mum’s trunk. Right at the very bottom and hidden under what looked like a sheet of lining paper, I discovered some A4 envelopes containing pages and pages of what looked like diary entries printed from a computer.