The Missing Pieces of Us

by Eva Glyn

  Postcards. That’s how I see my journey now – black and white postcards. Towering cliffs beyond Dawlish I now know to be red. Rain-lashed palm trees at Torquay. Christmas lights slung across the harbour at Looe. At any other time they would have looked like a stunning array of jewels. But not to me. Not then.

  Endless stretches of grey moorland. The forbidding granite of Bodmin and its jail. The coldest wind in the universe cutting through me. And then, from nowhere, a softness in the air. Daffodils edging the track to Constantine Bay. Yellow daffodils. White horses riding a promise of blue. An end to hibernation.

  The stretch of coast between Padstow and Newquay is one of the most beautiful in the world. Cliffs dip into sandy bays lapped by the azure grandeur of the ocean. All around me the early Cornish spring was coming to life with a slow sloughing-off of winter that seeped into me too. I positively dawdled and the weather was kind. And now I began to think – just a little bit – about the immediate future.

  My funds in the Post Office had run out some time before and a visit to the cashpoint in Padstow had shown me I was dangerously short of money in the bank so I decided Newquay would be a good place to find seasonal work. I’d been there surfing a few times so knew it was crammed with hotels, shops, and cafés, which would all need extra pairs of hands over the summer. It was still a little early to be looking for a job so my first priority would be to find a place to live.

  I thought if I saw the right flat in an estate agent’s window it would be easier to pluck up the courage to go inside and ask. But the reality was that there were very few places to let and all the little cards bore the terrifying words ‘month’s rent in advance – deposit required’. I didn’t have that sort of money left.

  The tiny bit of confidence I’d mustered was trickling away, not helped by the way the woman in the bakery looked at me as she sold me a pasty for my lunch. But it was good and hot and as I ate it, sheltering in the doorway of an empty shop, the sun appeared from behind a bank of cloud. I decided to take a walk while I figured out what to do.

  I turned my back on the town but had only gone a few paces when I was drawn to a display of longboards in the window of a surf store. I remembered my own board, wedged, along with my bicycle, into the tiny shed at the back of the house. I steeled myself against the stab of pain that inevitably accompanied these memories but it didn’t come. Maybe I was winning; maybe it wasn’t just the scent of spring making me feel more positive.

  The discovery made me a bit lightheaded so I steadied myself by reading the notices in the window and amongst them was one that simply read, ‘rooms to let – enquire within’. The coincidence was enough of a boost to propel me into the shop.

  Behind the cash desk was a woman of about forty with long red hair and a healthy outdoor glow about her skin. She looked up and started to say, “Can I help you?” but stopped.

  I stopped too, my hand still on the door. On the wall opposite was a mirror and as I caught sight of my reflection I could see why she seemed so horrified. I couldn’t look at her. “I’m sorry. I came about the room,” I muttered.

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been… camping… for a while. But now… I need somewhere to stay.” I indicated the rucksack on my back with a jerk of my head.

  “Do you then?” was all she said, her voice a Cornish lilt.

  Silence.

  “Look,” I ventured, “I’m not as rough as I seem and I’ve got the money to pay for it. As long as it’s not too expensive,” I added as an afterthought.

  “It’s thirty pounds a week, plus a quarter of the bills. There’s two rooms at the top of the house sharing a kitchen and bathroom.”

  She was telling me about it. She hadn’t thrown me out. I pushed my advantage.

  “Sounds good. When can I see it?”

  “I’m not sure you can. The rooms are in my house.”

  I was about to argue when I caught sight of my reflection again: ragged beard, grimy anorak, and hair so filthy it clung to my scalp in great clumps. She was right. Of course.

  “Oh, I see. Well, you can’t be too careful, I guess. Sorry I troubled you.”

  I was sorry I’d seen that mirror too.

  But before I had quite closed the door she spoke. “Give me time to think about it. If you don’t find anything come back just before I close at five o’clock.”

  I didn’t look anywhere else. I’d noticed a launderette while I was wandering around the town so I washed and dried everything except what I was wearing. Then I braved a public toilet near the deserted beach and although the water was ice cold I washed as thoroughly as I could and changed into clean clothes. There was no way I could shave or do anything about my greasy hair but I trimmed my beard with the scissors on my Swiss army knife and spent ages trying to get a wet comb through my rats’ tails. The effect was negligible so I bought a cheap bandana, hoping the impression would be more surfer than beggar. By that time it was half past four and I went to the cashpoint to withdraw £60 then made my way back to the surf shop.

  I was relieved when the woman smiled. “That’s something of a transformation,” she said.

  I indicated the glass on the wall. “I hadn’t looked in a mirror for a while. I was a bit shocked when I did.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the notes. “And I’ve got two weeks’ rent up front – just in case we can come to an arrangement.”

  “Well I’ll cash up then we can go. My name’s Megan Tregea, by the way.”

  I held out my hand. “Robin Vail.” She didn’t shrink away.

  I wandered around the shop as I waited, my footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. Megan had some seriously good kit: boards of all sizes, an impressive array of wetsuits and accessories, as well as a few rails of surf-fashion clothing. The place had a slightly rundown air but the chipped paintwork oozed cool. I knew she’d make a mint in the summer.

  Megan’s house was in the jumble of roads between the harbour and the golf course. It was halfway along a terrace and had three storeys: a basement and ground floor where Megan lived and the letting rooms upstairs. As she had told me, there were two good sized bedrooms with a windowless bathroom and a kitchen sandwiched between them. I asked about the other tenant.

  “There isn’t anyone yet. I only put the notice up yesterday. If you like it then you can have the pick of the rooms.”

  “You’re sure I’ll do? You feel comfortable?”

  “The very fact you’re asking means it’s OK.” She smiled properly this time and I realised that although she was much older than me she was really quite pretty.

  I paid my rent, chose the room at the back and set about unpacking my few belongings. Megan had told me there was an open-all-hours a few streets away so I was able to buy some basic supplies – bread, milk, cereal, and some battered fish portions that would do for supper. It was a long time since I’d had a kitchen and I vowed to cook properly tomorrow, but for the moment I wolfed them down then had a long, lazy bath and washed my hair.

  In the bedroom I didn’t bother to turn on the light. I sank onto the duvet and ran the flat of my hand over the coolness of the pillows. Music drifted up from Megan’s part of the house. I hesitated, savouring the moment. I knew as soon as I put my head down I would be asleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  The thin Cornish wind was finding its way through both my jumpers, so reluctantly I turned inland towards the town. The beach was dotted with dog walkers making the most of the sunshine and I had enjoyed leaning on the rail watching them roam the ever-lengthening expanse of sand as the tide dropped.

  The road was lined with Victorian villas, most of them boasting B&B signs in their small front gardens. Halfway along, on the sunny side of the street, a man was cleaning windows. I thought to myself, I could do that. I’d just need a ladder, and a bucket, and maybe a bicycle. And, of course, the courage to knock on people’s doors.

  I paused to look in the window of the baker’s shop. I was hungry, but there was perfectly
good bread and cheese in the fridge at home… I wavered. The woman behind the counter looked at me and I wanted to shrink away, but to my amazement she smiled. The only difference today was that I was clean. She probably didn’t even recognise me.

  A few paces on at the top of the hill I turned left towards Megan’s shop. I wavered again. On the one hand, it would be nice to pop in and say hello, but on the other I didn’t want to seem needy. In the end I decided to ask her if she minded me putting up a picture or two in my bedroom – it was a good excuse, anyway.

  As it happened, the shop was busy so I slunk away to where the surfboards were lined up along the back wall. A boy of about nine or ten was trying to persuade his mother to buy a full-size adult longboard; it could be a costly mistake and I found myself asking the lad how much surfing he’d done.

  “None, as yet,” his mother answered. “I’ve booked some lessons for the Easter holidays but he’s adamant he wants his own board.”

  I looked at the boy. “Wow, you sure, dude? Never surfed and you pick the toughest board going? You’ll still be dragging it down the beach when the other guys are catching their first waves.”

  His mouth set into a hard line. “I don’t want a baby’s board.”

  “I’m not saying that, but a longboard? Jeez. I’d think twice before handling one of those; they’re just too much hard work to be fun.”

  His mother pounced. “What board do you have?”

  My eyes flicked over Megan’s stock. “A really light one. Much more manoeuvrable. I mean, mine’s a bit old now but… something like this?”

  It was lucky I’d been a bit of a gear freak when I was a student surfer. We went through a few boards and the lad finally chose one and I also managed to persuade him into some neoprene gloves – his hands would have frozen otherwise. I felt a bit sheepish taking them to the till and offloading them to Megan to take the money, but she played along with the idea that I worked for her and I drifted off to tidy a pile of sweatshirts.

  There was one more customer and then the shop was empty. I turned to Megan. “Sorry if I interfered…”

  “It’s fine. I had half an eye on you and you seemed to know what you were doing. It’s been manic this morning – any chance you can help me out for the rest of the day? I’ll pay you a tenner.”

  I had nothing else to do so I agreed, which was how I ended up with a part-time job in Megan’s shop. She asked me while she drove us home if I’d work Fridays and Saturdays, just until I found something else, and then she asked me to supper the next night. She was nice, I was lonely, and I ended up saying yes to both.

  It never entered my head that she was being anything other than kind. I spent some of my ten pound note on a bottle of wine and we drank more than half of it before she got around to serving up the fish pie she’d cooked. She told me she’d not long inherited the house and was letting the rooms because it was too big for one person. We talked about Newquay in the summer. We talked about surfing and about the sea. We opened a second bottle of wine but didn’t finish it because one thing led to another and we ended up in bed.

  I’d got out of the habit of drinking so I don’t remember much about our first night together, but I will never forget waking the next morning: the sound of a milk float and a car door slamming in the street; opening my eyes and for a moment or two not knowing where I was; looking across at Megan’s hair spread across the pillow and wanting Izzie with a pain so intense that bile filled my throat.

  I rolled over with my back to Megan and curled into a ball. What the hell had I done?

  I didn’t have too long to think about it before the room was filled with Madonna mingling with the seven o’clock pips. Megan reached over me to turn the volume down.

  “Good morning, Robin.”

  “I’m so sorry, I…”

  Her eyes were above mine, deep-lined and almost black. “Regrets, then?” Her voice was light, but underpinned by a slight shake.

  “Not at all,” I lied. “Just a blinding hangover.”

  And then she was smiling. “I have to say, I’ve felt better myself. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  Thankfully she disappeared and a while later I heard the shower. I should have got up and dressed but I felt too leaden to move so I rolled over and closed my eyes. She put my coffee on the bedside table then rustled quietly around the room, getting ready for work. Finally she touched my shoulder.

  “Stay here to sleep it off. Just pull the door behind you when you go.”

  “Thanks, Megan,” I mumbled. But once I was sure she had driven away I grabbed my clothes and raced for my own room just as fast as I could. I pulled the duvet over my head. My own stupid, drunken, testosterone-fuelled nightmare had punched a hole so large in my defences it was impossible to stem the raging tide of Izzie, engulfing me from all sides.

  It was late afternoon before I was able to crawl out of bed. Even then my hands were shaking as I filled the kettle to make a cup of tea. No sugar, so I helped myself to a chocolate digestive instead. A crumb lodged in the back of my throat and I coughed so much it was all I could do to stop myself retching.

  I took my mug back to bed and sat, propped on the pillows, gazing out over the grey-tiled roof of the terrace behind. Where was Izzie now? A Monday afternoon, in early spring. I pictured her, clipping down the pavement in her kitten heels, navy mac billowing in the breeze, right shoulder dragged down by the weight of her briefcase. Going home later to what? To Paul? I sincerely hoped she hadn’t burned her boats on my account.

  For the very first time I thought about what had happened from her point of view. When she came back from her holiday, I would have simply disappeared, leaving no trace. And I’d promised her, promised her I’d wait. She’d probably decided to stay with Paul anyway and I’d let her off the hook. The idea salved my conscience, but not my heartache. All through the hours of darkness, an Izzie-less emptiness stretched before me. If this was how sex with another woman made me feel, I was determined to become a monk.

  Of course daylight brought a sense of proportion and even with the dull ache behind my eyes and lodged in my chest I knew I had to make the best of the bed I had made for myself. I went for a walk, out to Towan Head and the length of Fistral Beach. Meandering back along the edge of the golf course I found a bank covered in early primroses. On impulse I picked some for Megan and left them in a milk bottle by the door to her flat with a note thanking her for dinner on Sunday.

  And that’s how we slid into a relationship. She came upstairs for a chat that evening and we sat in the little kitchen drinking tea. We woke up together the next morning and I went into the shop with her to tidy the stockroom. I started going into the shop most days, and she stopped taking rent from me and bunged me the odd tenner so I could buy a round when we went out with her friends. After a few weeks, Ed, who ran the surf school, offered to rent both rooms for his summer staff so I moved downstairs.

  It was when we were turning out a cupboard to make room for my stuff that I found out just exactly how old Megan was. It was a passport application and it had her date of birth on it: 7th of June 1945. A year to the day younger than my mother and eighteen years older than me. I piled the papers together and shoved them into a box ready to carry up to the attic.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was surprisingly easy to forget the age difference. Almost every evening Megan and I would surf on Towan Beach with her friends, the low sunshine silhouetting her slim figure against the waves. There was beer, and laughter, and seagulls, and Wet Wet Wet on the radio. And what’s more, Megan was a superb surfer – a real natural. Her body was built for it and seeing her in a wetsuit it was easy to want her.

  So it was fine – until her birthday. My mother’s birthday. I never realised – it never even occurred to me – the pain an anniversary can bring. It suffocated every spark of life out of me and the closer we got to the day itself the feebler my attempts to conquer it became.

  Even pretending became too much so I told Megan I was co
ming down with something so I’d be better sleeping in the spare room. She wouldn’t let me. That night I heard every car door slam in the street, every dog bark. In the smallest of hours Megan woke and tried to hold me – an ungrateful, rigid, lump in her arms. I wanted to say sorry, but no words came.

  I watched the greyness of dawn creep around the colourless curtains. Then there was the alarm and Megan speaking from a distance. I pointed to my throat and she nodded and kissed my forehead. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the crack from one end of the bay window to the other. And after she’d gone to work I cried, like the baby I’d damned myself to be, for hours and hours.

  Something, though, released, and when I felt strong enough I went to have a shower. Mum, Izzie, Megan all crowded in on me as the water thrummed onto my skull. I needed to push myself into the practicalities of the day.

  Megan was serving a customer when I arrived at the shop and there was someone else waiting so I dived straight in, taking their money and popping their sweatshirt into a bag with the best smile I could manage. Megan was having a tough time of it with a lippy teenager who wanted to return something and when the shop was finally empty she turned on me.

  “You look a right prick wearing those shades in here. Take them off.”

  “I look worse without them,” I muttered.

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Take them off.”

  I did as I was told.

  There was a sharp intake of breath. “What the fuck have you been doing to your eyes?”

  “Nothing. It must be an allergy of some sort – probably why I was feeling so rough.”

  She swore again and pulled a fiver out of the till. “Well, do what any sensible person would do and get yourself off to Boots and take something for it. Or were you waiting for me to give you the money?”