The Missing Pieces of Us

by Eva Glyn

We troop in and Ed flings open the shutters. The room is bigger than I expected, with racks of wetsuits on one side and surfboards stacked on the other. In the middle is an old wooden desk and behind it an enormous longboard is fixed diagonally across the wall. I know whose it is before I even read the inscription – ‘Megan Tregea 1945 – 2006’ – and then a list of surf competition honours spanning the 60s and 70s.

  Robin shakes his head. “She never told me.”

  “She never told anyone anything very much. She liked to be a bit of an enigma. Come on, young Rob, you know that.”

  “Yeah… I guess I do.”

  Robin’s voice falters and he suddenly sounds very much like ‘young Rob’, as Ed called him. It takes me back somewhere, to a moment, but although I search my mind for it I can’t connect.

  Claire is walking along the rows of wetsuits, fingering them. “Are these the sorts of suits the guys out there now will be wearing?”

  She is so transparent.

  Ed laughs. “You’d like to have a go, wouldn’t you?”

  “Robin’s promised to teach me but he says we don’t have the right gear for this time of year.”

  “We don’t have any gear, Claire,” Robin corrects her.

  “Well, there’s plenty here. Winter weight too, if you fancy taking her in. There’s a nice little wave at the moment, I have to say.”

  “Oh, please, Robin, can we?” She’s a child again, asking Connor for an ice cream because she knows I’ll say no.

  Robin looks at me, across what seems like miles of wooden floor, asking the question. I put on my best smile. “Well if Ed doesn’t mind and those wetsuits really are that thick, then I don’t see the harm.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” Claire rushes across and hugs me. Already she smells vaguely of rubber.

  “We can watch them from the shoreline, Izzie.”

  I shake my head. “It’s a bit cold for me. I’ll wait here.”

  “Why don’t you take Megsy up to the café?” Ed suggests. “You’ll have a great view of the beach and they make a mean hot chocolate. No brandy though,” he adds with a wink.

  I can’t look at Claire. I pick up Megsy’s lead and with a quick “have fun” over my shoulder I’m gone.

  I climb the concrete slope. Ed’s shack is dwarfed by the aquarium, its sloping glass roofs dominating the beach. I wonder what was there before, when Robin first came here. Was it where Meg had her shop? Meg who won so many trophies, Meg who was an enigma, Meg who was so alluring that Robin leapt into bed with her so very few weeks after leaving me.

  From a table by the window I watch them emerge and troop down the beach while Megsy licks my fingers for traces of shortbread. Claire and Robin are dragging boards across the sand and Ed has changed into a pair of fisherman’s waders. They pause as he points to something out at sea but I can tell Claire is impatient to be in the water.

  She has a long wait. They put their boards down and lie on them, then make swimming actions with their arms while Ed instructs. Robin is much too long for his board, his legs hanging off the end. He looks ridiculous.

  All these years I believed he left me a broken man. A shadow cast over my life. That note he left saying he wasn’t worthy of me, it was a lie. He just wanted to move on. Released from caring for his mother, he didn’t want to be tied down by me. He wanted sunshine and freedom and a casual fling with a woman like Meg. He lied to her too, when he left her; he told her he’d be back.

  Robin has abandoned his board on the beach and is helping Claire point hers out to sea and lift it over the surf. He holds it steady as she climbs on, clinging to it for dear life, and when she’s ready he looks behind him, waiting for the right wave. Then she’s paddling with all her might; he lets go and she is whooshing towards the shore, skewing to a halt in the shallows next to Ed’s feet. She leaps up and already Robin is almost beside her, ready to start the process again.

  I stir my hot chocolate round and round in a figure of eight. The past can’t hurt you. Wipe it from your brain. I frown. The words sound familiar – a mantra, almost – but I cannot place them. The more I stir, the harder it becomes.

  Chapter Forty

  Half-hidden behind the living room curtain, I watch as Robin carries our cases to the car. A thick fisherman’s jumper guards him against the chill of the morning. I bought it for him yesterday and he seems to like it. He puts the bags down on the tarmac and stretches. His fingers almost touch the sky.

  I didn’t want to go to bed last night so I finished the bottle of red on my own. I heard the timer on the heating click off and afterwards just the waves, pounding the beach. I closed my eyes and listened until a car came past and then I picked up the wine and filled my glass with the dregs. There was no point hunting in the cupboard for more.

  Robin’s hands were gentle on my shoulders. “Come on, Izzie, it’s late and we’ve got a long journey tomorrow.”

  In the bathroom there was toothpaste freshly squeezed onto my brush and I wanted to weep. Slowly I scrubbed, right into the corners of my mouth. I scrubbed again, and spat, and rinsed. I had no energy to wash my face so I shrugged off my clothes and climbed in next to Robin, squeezing onto the side nearest the door.

  He didn’t ask why. Perhaps he knew about the demons in the corner next to the dressing table in the same way he knew how I was feeling at the hostel. He wrapped his arms around me, his body a solid wall of comfort. In just a few moments, before I could think anymore, I was asleep.

  “One last walk on the beach?” Claire makes me jump.

  “Last? It won’t be the last, Claire.”

  “Then I can come back in July? You’ve decided?” Her voice is breathless.

  I turn to face her. “Darling, I’m terrified of letting you go but in truth I have no reason not to.”

  She hugs me so tight. “I’ll be fine, Mum, really I will. I’ll be sensible and Ed’ll look after me. I won’t let you down.”

  “You never have, Claire.” I kiss the top of her head and her hair smells like a woman’s, sickly sweet with styling mousse.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The white van is parked so close to my driveway that I have to angle my car in extra slowly. The wing mirror misses the gatepost by no more than a layer of paint. That’s all I need. What the hell’s it doing outside my house anyway?

  I pull my briefcase and a carrier bag full of workbooks off the back seat. The hall light is on. Robin must be home, but why wouldn’t he be? I ignore his greeting and haul my evening’s work up to the study and drop it on the floor. The handles of the carrier have cut into my fingers and as I flex them I notice they are shaking.

  “Izzie?” Robin’s voice drifts from the bottom of the stairs.

  “I’ll be down once I’ve changed.”

  But I don’t know if I can be bothered. I want to wrap myself in my dressing gown and watch trash TV – or even better, take a huge glass of red into the bath and lock the door.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and massage my toes, looking around me: the photo of Claire as a baby on the wall; Rive Gauche and Angel bottles on the dressing table; Robin’s watch on the pillow, claiming it as his own. The black leather strap is soft with wear, and the glass scratched across the middle.

  Downstairs, its owner is sitting at the kitchen table and to my absolute astonishment there is a shiny new Blackberry in his hand. He puts it down to hug me, kissing me on the cheek.

  “How was your day?”

  “I see you’ve been spending some money.” I wriggle free and sit down.

  “You noticed the van, then?”

  “It’s yours?”

  He nods.

  “I couldn’t help but notice it, could I? It’s parked halfway across the drive.”

  “Oh, Izzie, it isn’t. It—”

  “Well it’s completely blocking my view for getting out tomorrow morning.”

  He puts his hand on my arm. “Well if I don’t go first I’ll see you out. But I don’t really know where else to leave it. I mean, once
I’ve loaded up my tools I’ll want to be able to keep an eye on it.”

  I fold my arms. “I don’t want some bloody great white van parked outside my house all the time.”

  “But you said I should use some of Jennifer’s money to get a van and so I have. Where did you think I was going to keep it?”

  “That’s not all you’ve been buying, is it?” I flash.

  “No, and I’m beginning to regret the Blackberry.” He tries to smile. “A normal phone would have been much simpler and I’m not sure how many of my customers are going to email me anyway.” He puts it down. “Come on, let’s eat.”

  I shake my head from side to side, trying to shift the dull ache starting behind my eyes. As Robin opens the oven door, mince and tomato and cheese and all homely things rush out.

  “I thought I’d make a cottage pie so it’s easy to warm Claire’s when she comes in. Comfort food. She sounded a bit nervous about this evening, I thought.”

  “Nervous? I thought she’d gone swimming.”

  He shakes his head. “Not about that. About Sasha’s mum bringing her home so you can talk about Cornwall.”

  “Well I’ve said she can go. What’s to be nervous about? Does she think I’ll go back on my word?”

  From the look on Robin’s face I can tell she does. “Why doesn’t she talk to me?” I burst out. “She’s my daughter.”

  Robin puts down his fork. “I think it’s because she’s worried about you. In Cornwall, sometimes, it was almost like you weren’t with us and she thought you were drinking quite a lot.”

  “That old chestnut. I was on holiday. I wanted to unwind. What’s wrong with the odd glass of wine?”

  “Claire doesn’t see it like that. She’s—”

  I push my plate away and gravy slops onto the table. “If my daughter has something to tell me she can say it to my face and not – I repeat not – through you.”

  Robin spins his knife slowly around on the table. It reminds me… of something. His face is pale, contrasting with his eyes which seem to have disappeared back into his head. I expect an outburst but all he says is, “You put me in a difficult position, Izzie. Am I to live here and not listen to Claire? Or listen to her and not tell you about it?” He looks down. “Or do you want me not to be living here? Have you changed your mind?”

  “Hah! The get-out clause. Make it my fault when you disappear again. Because it’s a habit, isn’t it? It wasn’t just me, it was Meg as well – and goodness knows who else I don’t know about, because you hopped out of my bed and into hers pretty quickly.”

  A muscle under his beard twitches. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “It’s no good coming Mr Innocent with me. Ed spilt the beans. He told me about Meg. He said she died not knowing what had happened to you. Just like I could have done. Just like I wish I’d done right at this moment. No wonder I was drinking on holiday, with Claire manking on about surfing all the time and your past coming back to slap me in the face. No wonder—”

  But I don’t have an audience anymore because Robin grabs his keys and slams the kitchen door behind him. His knife spins towards the edge of the table.

  I think he would have slammed the front door too but I hear voices outside. Robin’s, gruff and deep, drifts over our abandoned meals. “I’m off to B&Q before it closes… need something for a job tomorrow… yes… Izzie’s just finishing her tea.” I stare at the wooden pepper grinder, gazing right into its grain. I know I have to move; one, two, three… I put my palms on the edge of the table and lever myself up, brush imaginary crumbs from my jeans and waltz into the lounge, shutting the kitchen door behind me.

  “Angie, lovely to see you. Glass of wine?”

  She gives me a tiny hug and air kisses my cheek. “Great idea. I’ve got the L-plates on the car – Sasha can drive me home.”

  The evening has started all over again.

  Two long glasses later they leave. Claire rushes into the kitchen, claiming she’s starving, so I put the shepherd’s pie into the microwave to warm for her. I look at my own plate, orange-coloured fat congealing around the edges.

  “I’ll heat mine too… Finish it off.”

  She picks up Robin’s knife from the floor. “Why didn’t—”

  “So are you pleased now the whole Cornwall thing’s settled? Perhaps you could invite everyone who’s going to supper one Saturday, then I could meet them all. I wouldn’t embarrass you, I promise.”

  She gives me a hug. “Oh, Mum, you never do.”

  I take another glass of wine to the study with me. I check the clock on my phone. B&Q will have closed ages ago. Every time I hear an engine in the road I prick up my ears, wondering if it could be Robin’s van.

  In the end there are footsteps, echoing down the pavement. A long stride, but a slow one. There’s the click of the latch on the gate and a key in the door. I didn’t know I had been holding my breath. I put the cap back on my pen and I’m waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He looks at me, silent, uncertain.

  I take his hand and lead him into the bedroom.

  We sit down on the bed together. “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “To B&Q.”

  “That’s what you told Angie.”

  “Yes. It’s where I went.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “It was open. I looked at power tools until they closed. I picked up some leaflets, read them over a pint in the pub. I’m going to need a new hedge trimmer.”

  “Where’s the van?”

  “Outside the pub.”

  “Because you’ve had a pint?”

  “Because you don’t want it here.”

  Tears spring into my eyes. “Oh, Robin, I’m so sorry. I just feel so… so…”

  He pulls me to him, rocking me back and forth. “That’s it, Izzie, have a good cry. You’ll be better for it, I’m sure.”

  Will I? Will the tears wash away the terrifying momentary blankness of memory which means I don’t know which classroom to go to? Will they soothe the rising panic that lurks in unexpected corners, waiting to catch me out? Can I even tell Robin these things when it’s fear of losing him again that’s causing them?

  But here I am, my face squashed against his jumper, in a grip so vice-like it seems he will never let me go.

  “Robin, promise me. Promise me you won’t just disappear again.”

  “I won’t,” he murmurs. “Last time… last time I was ill. For years really, after I lost Mum. I wanted to contact you but I just couldn’t do it, and then, when I did try, they told me you’d moved on. I couldn’t stay with Megan either – not when I still loved you. And there was no one else, Izzie. Not ever.”

  And I cry some more. Because I so, so, want to believe him.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Robin

  The earth turned beneath my spade, releasing its loamy scent as my namesake bird hopped next to me, looking for worms. Under the trees the daffodils I had planted – what, five, six, years ago? – shone yellow in the pale sunlight. The freshness of it all, the sense of beginnings, stirred my spirit and my mood was improved even further when Maria, the major’s Cypriot wife, came out with a mug of coffee and a plate of her homemade biscuits.

  I knew it would be ten past eleven exactly and it was my cue to put down my spade. The major – I always thought of him as that, although he insisted I call him George – would have taken his at eleven o’clock then Maria would bring me mine. But today she was not alone; the old man limped down the garden after her, coffee mug in one hand, the other grasping his stick.

  “Beautiful morning, Robin,” he called.

  I nodded. “It really feels like spring. Even the blackbirds think so.” I indicated the hedge. “I’ll have to give it a good trim later before they start nesting.”

  “You’re nesting too, I hear,” said Maria, her black eyes sparkling behind her glasses.

  “Don’t be so nosey,” her husband scolded, but I knew that wouldn’t stop her.

  I smiled. �
��If you mean I have a lady friend, well you’re right.”

  “I’m so pleased for you, Robin,” she said. “After all those years looking after dear Jennifer you deserve some life.”

  “I was very happy with Jennifer, you know. She was like a mother to me after I lost my own.”

  The major snorted. “You were more than a son to her. Look at our boys: here we are, old and decrepit, and we never see them.”

  “Oh, George, you know that’s not true.” Maria leapt to the defence of her beloved sons.

  It was an argument I had witnessed several times before. I sipped my coffee, nibbled my biscuit, and let my shoulders relax in the sunshine.

  “Well, Robin, what do you think?”

  I jumped. “I’m so sorry, I was miles away, I—”

  Maria laughed heartily. “Thinking thoughts of your lady, no doubt. She is beautiful, Robin?”

  “Yes, very. I… I knew Izzie years ago and we met again just before Christmas. She’s a widow now so…”

  “Ah, that is so romantic, Robin. She is lucky lady.”

  “Well I don’t know about that, but I do my best.” I picked up my spade.

  “Before you get going again, Robin, we wanted to plant something new to remember Jennifer and we wondered if you had any ideas as to what would be best,” asked the major.

  “She loved her roses. Perhaps if I took a cutting from one of them? It’s time I gave them a short back and sides anyway.”

  “Take a few cuttings, my boy. They’re notoriously fickle plants to get going.”

  “Do you know, it would be lovely to think of them growing somewhere else. It sounds silly, but I do worry about her plants. If Stephen decides to sell the house, whoever buys it might dig them all up.”

  “You should take some for yourself, too.”

  “I will, when I have somewhere permanent to plant them.”

  Maria stepped forward and gave me a hug. “One day, with your lady…”

  “I hope so.” But last night I had realised just how fragile my happiness was.