by Rosie Green
The Isla I knew would have been shrieking down the phone to me, announcing she was engaged even before the first glass of celebratory champagne had been drunk. She’d never miss the opportunity to let me know she’d be walking down the aisle before me!
Maybe tomorrow, when she’s feeling brighter, she’ll be bouncing all over the place with the joy of being newly-engaged.
I have a sudden pang of sadness, thinking about my own broken engagement. But the sorrow is just fleeting. Ollie’s a lovely guy but we both realised we weren’t right for each other and it was an amicable parting. We were just friends, really, at the end. And the fact that I’ve been living like a nun for the past year is not a good reason to start thinking sentimental thoughts about my ex!
‘I just wish you’d let me know you were coming,’ I murmur. ‘I could have collected you at the airport.’
‘Didn’t have time.’
I stare at her closed eyes with their once perfectly-applied mascara that’s now streaked like a Hallowe’en fright night mask. Even if it was all last-minute, she could surely have made a quick call to me or Mum? Although considering how sparse our phone contact has been over the past year, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised we’re not high on her list of priorities.
I feel a pang of sadness. We were once so close. A happy unit of four, doing all the normal family things; Isla and I laughing and squabbling in equal measure, especially when we were small, but always secure in the knowledge that whatever happened, we were there for each other. Isla was my big sister and even though we weren’t always the best of friends, I knew she had my back and would fight tooth and nail – quite literally, if necessary – to protect her little sis.
I suppose we were your normal, average family, whatever that is.
But then, one day, when I was twelve and Isla was fourteen, Mum packed a suitcase and moved out. And our secure, cosy existence was gone forever . . .
Sighing, I try again. ‘I don’t suppose you phoned Mum to tell her you’re engaged? Or to let her know you were coming over?’
‘No.’ She opens her eyes. ‘But if I had, she’d have let you know, wouldn’t she?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe.’ Hazelcroft, the village where Mum lives with Martin, is just a couple of miles from Lower Luckworth, but we don’t exactly live in each other’s pockets, Mum and I. She moved in with Martin soon after she left Moondance Cottage, the home she set up with Dad after they were married. Our family home.
Martin’s perfectly pleasant. He seems a little colourless to me, but that’s only because I can’t help but compare him to Dad. He seems to care about Mum, though, which is the main thing. It’s just I find it hard seeing them together, even after all these years of Mum and Dad being separated.
It was hard for all of us when she walked out. But it must have been really tough for Dad when she started seeing Martin, especially at first, when it was all so raw. It was only when Dad met Janice a year later that he started living life to the full again . . .
Isla opens one eye. ‘Don’t you see Mum?’
I shrug. ‘We . . . meet for coffee.’ But only when the guilt of not being in touch starts getting to me.
‘Jess, you’re not still blaming her for everything, are you?’
‘What, Mum? No, of course not!’
I gnaw on my lip, wishing it were true.
But the fact is, she left a huge hole in our lives when she left. Looking back at my hurt and vulnerable twelve-year-old self, I can see now that I put up a barrier to shield myself from the pain. Even now, when I see Mum, I find it impossible to physically reach out and hug her. I just can’t. We’re always perfectly pleasant with each other, talking about village gossip and the weather, but it’s as if there’s an invisible wall separating us. She used to try and give me a welcome hug when Dad took us to visit her and Martin, but it felt stiff and awkward. She could obviously sense my resistance because now she gives me my space.
It makes me sad that I don’t have that close mother-daughter relationship. But you can’t manufacture affection, can you? It has to be natural.
Isla groans. ‘God, I feel awful.’
‘All self-inflicted.’ I grin down at her. ‘You’d better get yourself pulled together before Mum sees you.’
‘Is she still painting?’
I shake my head. ‘I honestly don’t think she’s picked up her brush, ever since . . . you know.’
We exchange a look of understanding.
‘You need to forgive her, you know,’ she mutters. ‘It wasn’t her fault. There’s things you don’t know.’
I stare at her. ‘What things? What on earth are you talking about?’
Her reply is a gentle snore.
‘Isla!’
‘Go away, Jess. I just need to sleep.’ She turns over grumpily and I find myself staring at her back.
‘We need to talk about the house, by the way,’ she mumbles.
At once, I’m on high alert.
My feelings about Moondance Cottage, our old family home, are bitter-sweet. There are so many precious memories wrapped up within its walls. But at the same time, the cottage is a sad reminder that things have changed forever.
‘What about the house?’ I ask.
But all I get in reply is another snore, louder this time.
Our conversation, such as it was, is apparently over.
I sit there for a moment, thinking. I need to let Mum know Isla is back and we’ll have to meet up. But my sister is going to have a humungous hang-over tomorrow so she’ll definitely need time to recover.
I grab the hotel pen and notepaper and scribble a note.
Will collect you 7pm tomorrow night and we can go over to Mum’s. Hope your head’s not too sore in the morning! XX
I take a last look at Sleeping Beauty. She’s half under the cover, her left hand with the stunning engagement ring resting on the pillow.
That rock truly is enormous!
I pull the cover gently over her and make for the door.
And what the hell did she mean when she said none of it was Mum’s fault? Maybe she was just trying to persuade me to feel more kindly towards Mum.
But this doesn’t really ring true.
So now I’m wondering . . . was it just the alcohol talking? Or does my sister know something I don’t?
CHAPTER THREE
Leaving the hotel and a conked-out Isla, I head into the late afternoon, my nose twitching in the direction of a distant bonfire.
Breathing in the smoky scent, memories start flooding in. I love October, when autumn has well and truly arrived; the vibrant colours and the clear blue frosty mornings that make the pavements and hedgerows glitter.
Dad loved this time of year, too . . .
Suddenly, I have a longing to see the old family home. I moved out of Moondance Cottage eighteen months ago and the place has been lying empty ever since.
Rattling around in the spacious, three-bedroom cottage all by myself - assaulted by memories, both good and bad – finally became too much to bear, and I haven’t been back there, even though the house sits just a mile or so from the village centre. I tell myself I’m too busy with work and that I’ll get around to thinking about what to do with the place once I have the time. I hired a gardener to keep it tidy during the summer months so that I didn’t have to go over there myself. It was a luxury I could ill-afford on my self-employed earnings, but the way I was feeling, it seemed like money well-spent.
But I know I can’t avoid the problem of Moondance Cottage forever. And it’s clearly on Isla’s mind, too.
I linger a moment outside The Treasure Box gift shop on the high street, looking up at the tiny, one-bed flat I’m renting above it, courtesy of Jonathan, who owns the shop. I could drive along to the cottage in my old Fiesta, which is parked round the back.
But it’s a lovely afternoon – crisp and clear-skied – so I decide to save petrol and walk. And as I go, thoughts of Dad drift in.
I was always closer to Dad, right
from being a little girl.
Of course I loved Mum, but my relationship with Dad was special. I could talk to him about things and know that he’d understand.
Dad was an art teacher, although when we were small, he was a stay-at-home Dad for a while. Mum worked at an advertising agency in London, as a graphics artist, and she earned more than he did. So it made sense that she should be the main bread-winner while we were at primary school.
In those days, Mum – at five feet nothing - was a ball of energy with dark red hair and a quick temper. Her anger would flare one moment and vanish the next – and she had rules for everything, especially when Isla and I were growing up.
Isla, with her confident manner, strawberry blonde hair and no-nonsense approach to life, took after Mum.
Dad was tall with dark hair and a hint of an Irish lilt. He’d held onto the accent, despite having moved from Ireland to London with his family when he was twenty-one. He wore glasses that gave him a studious air, but he could be wickedly funny. He played pranks on us girls that made us giggle uncontrollably. We loved being deliberately spooked, especially at Hallowe’en, and Dad had a range of horrible masks that he’d wear to scare us and any trick or treaters that came to the door. He also ate flies, which we found unimaginably gross, until we realised he was hiding a raisin in a napkin and only pretending to swat a bug, catch it and eat it.
Dad was more relaxed and laid-back about life than Mum, and his warm, gentle smile could light up a room. He leaned more towards the introvert end of the scale and he loved books. Just like me.
I remember once Mum got really incensed with me. I’d been practising hand-stands against her new wallpaper in the living room, and she shouted that when he got home from work, she’d tell Dad and he’d give me a good telling off. She stormed out, nearly taking the door off the hinges.
I sulked in the living room, mutinously watching TV, dreading Dad’s arrival. I didn’t mind so much getting told off, but I hated the thought that I’d have disappointed him.
In the end, the promised row didn’t happen. Dad came in and commented that the house probably wasn’t the best place to practise my hand-stands. But how about I join the gymnastics club in the village? (Later, I did - with my best friend, Amy - and I loved it.)
Mum wasn’t pleased, I could tell. She wanted Dad to back her up and he didn’t - not in the way she wanted, anyway. Now, I can look back and totally understand her resentment, but I still don’t blame Dad for not supporting her. They were different people being true to what they believed. And their differences, far from being detrimental to their relationship, only seemed to make them closer as a couple. Opposites really did attract. Looking back, I can see that they loved each other with a passion for a long time.
Until everything changed . . .
A crow caws in a tree overhead and a few leaves, the colour of burnished copper, drift down in front of me. Rounding a bend in the road, Pepperpot Lane comes into view, up ahead on my right, with its row of four detached cottages. I turn in and walk down the pot-holed lane until I reach the last house in the row, which is ours.
Moondance Cottage.
I stare at the name plaque by the front door.
It had been called plain East View Cottage when Mum and Dad, newly married, moved in all those years ago. But they renamed it Moondance Cottage.
They must have told us kids the story a thousand times.
They first met when Mum was a young art college student, exhibiting some of her watercolours in a small gallery near King’s Cross. Dad had recently moved over from Ireland to London with his family, and the evening of Mum’s exhibition, he’d lost his door key and was passing time exploring the streets around King’s Cross, waiting for his mum – a nurse – to get home from her shift. The only reason he went into the gallery that night was because it had started raining heavily and he wanted some shelter. But he met Mum and it was love at first sight for both of them. The music being played was Van Morrison’s ‘Moondance’ and ever afterwards, that was ‘their’ song.
Sometimes, on their wedding anniversary, they’d have some wine and go into the back garden and dance to the song in the moonlight. At the time, Isla and I thought it was a bit soppy and embarrassing, but looking back, it was really rather romantic.
There’s a van parked right outside our gate. Probably a workman doing a job for our neighbour, Mrs Bevan. The front garden looks neat and tidy. Ted, Dad’s old friend who I’m paying to keep the gardens in check, has done a good job at the front. But what about the back garden, which was Dad’s pride and joy?
Aware that I’m putting off going inside the house, I walk through the side gate that leads to the large lawn, the two apple trees and the old garden shed. But it’s Dad’s art studio, a small brick building that he built himself in the far corner of the garden, that draws my eye. I haven’t been in there for a long time.
Digging my keys out of my pocket, I walk across the grass and unlock the studio door. Walking in, it smells musty but so familiar.
My heart jags.
Dad is standing at the workbench, holding up a Christmas bauble in his hand to check the quality. The colours – scarlet and cobalt blue – wink like gemstones in the autumn light that slants through the window.
He turns, pulling his glasses down from where they’re perched on his head. ‘Jess. What do you think, my love?’
‘It’s beautiful.’
We smile at each other and my heart expands with love. The bond between Dad and me was always strong, but after Mum left when I was twelve, it was sealed tight. Unbreakable.
‘Jonathan will be asking for baubles any day now to put on his tree,’ he says.
My eyes fill with happy tears. ‘Then we’d better get busy, Dad.’
A noise behind me makes me jump. I turn and a deep voice says, ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Confused, I stare up into the startlingly blue eyes of the man I was wedged against in the revolving door. He frowns, clearly having recognised me, too.
‘I didn’t realise that was you back there,’ he says, somewhat confusingly. ‘I suppose we’ve only spoken on the phone, though, so . . .’ He shrugs.
I gaze up at him, wondering what on earth he’s talking about. I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered that deep, gravelly voice if I’d heard it before. He’s looking at me as if I’m a few Christmas baubles short of a complete set. But then, I suppose I am staring gormlessly up at him, so it’s hardly surprising. I snap my mouth shut.
He thrusts his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘I’ve knocked through the wall between the kitchen and the dining room. I saw you come in here, so I thought I’d better warn you.’
I stare at him, confused.
‘Yeah, I know.’ He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. ‘I said I was going to do that next week, but I’m actually ahead of schedule.’ His lip lifts apologetically at one side. ‘It’s a bit of a mess in there right now. So be careful if you go in the house.’
His towering presence seems to fill the entire doorway, and I’m finding it hard to process what he’s telling me. ‘Wall? What are you talking about?’
‘Exactly what we discussed on the phone last night?’ he says, his eyebrows lowering in confusion as a distant warning bell rings in my head. He glances around the studio. ‘Who were you talking to?’
I swallow and look down. Glancing up, I shake my head, the words sticking in my throat. He shrugs and leaves without another word.
I breathe in and out very slowly. Then I turn and look over at Dad.
But of course, the shed is empty.
Feeling dazed, I sink down into Dad’s favourite chair and the dust rises up, making me cough. I brush at the arms with my hands. The chair is old and squashy but I’d never, ever part with it.
Dad taught me the art of glass-blowing after Mum left. Working together in the studio helped us both through the pain of losing her.
Dad’s been gone three Christmases now - the approaching f
estive season will be the fourth – and I haven’t set foot in his studio in all that time. Not since he sailed away on The Escape with Janice . . .
The sound of a door slamming jolts me back to the present. I sit up straight, and a memory of something flits into my mind.
I’ve knocked through the wall between the kitchen and the dining room.
My heart beating fast, I leave the studio and hurry back along the garden path. The stranger is getting into his van.
‘Er . . . excuse me?’ Swallowing down a rising feeling of nausea, I fling open the garden gate and march down the path.
He stops, frowning at me over the van roof.
I clear my throat. ‘What did you say about the wall?’
‘Knocked it down. It’s gone.’ His voice is a deep rumble. ‘Just like you asked.’
Panic turns to anger. Everything is starting to make sense and a feeling of dread settles within me.
This must be Isla’s doing. Sending in a stranger to smash up our family home. Erasing precious memories with a sweep of his axe.
I shake my head. ‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I’m not Isla.’
He stares at me for a moment.
Then he heaves a sigh, walks round the van and leans against the passenger door, facing me, scraping his hand over his five o’clock shadow.
‘So you are?’ He folds his arms, his big shoulder muscles straining against the fabric of his denim shirt.
‘Jess. Jess Rigby. Isla’s younger sister.’
He nods slowly, never taking his eyes off my face. The eyes in question really are an astonishing shade of blue; it’s like staring up at a glint of summer sky.
‘You didn’t want the wall to come down?’ he asks in his gravelly tone.
‘No. Absolutely not. I don’t want anything done to this house.’ My voice is trembling slightly. ‘You need to stop . . . immediately. I need to talk to Isla.’