I Do Not Sleep

by Judy Finnigan

  Adam spoke with his back to me, still watching the front yard. His voice was gruff. I knew what he was about to say was difficult for him. ‘Does this mean that you won’t be moving out to that place in Polperro?’ he asked, then swiftly downed another swallow of brandy.

  I hesitated. I thought of the feeling I’d had that afternoon in Talland church’s graveyard. Not the strange enveloping comfort of the–dream?–I’d just had, but the way I’d felt in broad daylight before I left the church. I’d felt I’d been sent a message that my instinct to find out what had happened to Joey was right. I’d also left with the absolute conviction that I was on the right track. And what track was I on? What had I done this morning? I’d rented a cottage by the sea in Polperro. And I’d been told, by some mystic messenger, that it was the right thing to do. I knew what Adam wanted me to say, but I couldn’t do it. I took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Adam,’ I said for the second time. ‘I’m afraid I have to go through with it. I can’t explain. I only know I must. Please believe me. This is because of Joey, because I think if I concentrate on him, speak to Ben, find out exactly what happened that day, I might be able to find him.’

  Adam had stiffened. ‘Speak to Ben? So that’s what you’re up to. I thought I’d forbidden you to talk to him again.’

  ‘Forbidden me? Do you really think you have the right to do that?’

  I looked at him, then got up and walked to the coffee table before the fire. I picked up the bottle of brandy and poured a generous amount into my glass. I paused, and sloshed in another hefty slug for good measure. ‘Adam,’ I said, ‘this is impossible. I would have liked you to humour me by letting me go, knowing as you do how close to a breakdown I’ve been for so long. It’ll only be for a couple of weeks. I’ve already promised Jamie Torrance I’ll see a therapist after that, if… if I don’t feel better. I want your support with this. I’m going to bed.’

  I left him in the sitting room, and went upstairs. I pulled the curtains, undressed and brushed my teeth in the en suite bathroom. Wearing a scruffy old T-shirt, I got into bed, listening tensely, waiting for Adam to come up. At last his footsteps sounded on the landing; I stiffened, dreading another confrontation, and then I heard him open and close the spare-room door. With a sigh of relief, I glugged down the enormous brandy I’d brought up with me, and almost instantly fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I felt terrible the next morning. I never drank brandy, except at Christmas lunch when I poured it onto the pudding so I could light it and triumphantly bear it, flaming festively, into the darkened dining room. Edie, at six months, had been too little to pay attention last Christmas, but I knew how excited she’d be this year as a real little toddler, utterly enchanted by fairy lights, glittering Christmas trees and gaudily wrapped gifts. But here I was, midsummer, no festive excuses, floored by a hangover of mega-dimensions, crippled by the worst headache I could remember. I dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom, wondering if I was going to be sick. I turned on the shower and stepped into it, swiftly switching the tap onto cold. I stood under the icy flow, gasping at first but then grateful for the power of the freezing needles sluicing down my back. I could feel my head, then my neck, relaxing as my nerves responded to the arctic onslaught.

  Numb with cold, I staggered out of the shower, wrapped myself in towels, and brushed my teeth. In five minutes I was heading downstairs, toasty again in my dressing gown, headache much better but definitely in need of food.

  In the kitchen, I realised the house was empty. On the table was a note from Danny.

  Hi, Mum. Popped my head in to see you and realised you were dead to the world, so didn’t want to wake you. We’ve gone to St. Michael’s Mount; Lola’s always wanted to see it. It’s a bit of a way, so I guess we won’t be back ’til late afternoon. Dad wanted to come with us. He’s left the Volvo in case you need to shop or anything.

  See you later, love Danny.

  His note was an unpleasant surprise. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t abrupt, just practical, but it hurt that they’d gone to St Michael’s Mount without me; to the spectacular, awe-inspiring place where our two boys had spent so much time exploring the castle and steep hillsides. Where they’d been scared by the enormous silver spoon that was said to belong to the evil giant who lived there and terrorised the local people, until Jack the Giant-Killer climbed up the castle walls and managed to trick the fiend into throwing himself out of the window. Many hundreds of feet below, a huge grassy mound supposedly marked the spot where the giant had fallen to his death, slain by the doughty Jack. Danny and Joey had loved the legend. I would have given a lot to revisit the Mount with my son and his family, showing Edie the super-sized silver spoon that had so intrigued her daddy and uncle.

  Still, they were gone and I couldn’t have it both ways. I was the one who’d opted out of this family holiday, the one who’d hurt them by deliberately setting myself apart. I couldn’t complain like a cross child when I missed a special treat. My festering head throbbed and thumped. There was nothing to be done except try to cure it with a large fry-up.

  Ten minutes later I was sitting down to scrambled eggs, bacon, a pile of toast and a big pot of tea. I looked at my watch. It was nearly midday. That would teach me to neck large brandies gone midnight; now I faced a wasted morning. I swallowed two panadol with my third mug of tea, took my plates to the sink and washed up.

  Still wearing my dressing gown, I carried my tea out to the front porch and sat on the wooden bench beside the door. The white roses cascaded down the soft grey wall, their smell delicate and nostalgic. All those years visiting Coombe with the boys, and always that sweet scent welcoming us back home from the beach.

  What should I do? I asked myself. I couldn’t sit there all day, waiting for Adam to get back, waiting to have another row. I leaned back against the wall; yet again it was sunny, the sky blue, and the call of the coast irresistible. On impulse, I decided to go and have a look at my little yellow cottage in Polperro. I was moving in tomorrow–I didn’t have the keys yet, but maybe a cleaner or odd-job man was around preparing for my arrival. Perhaps I could persuade them to let me have another quick look round. My impression of the interior of Hope Cottage had been delightful, but vague. I was so bowled over by its prettiness that I hadn’t retained much detail. For example, would I need to bring towels, sheets? I didn’t think so, but I needed to know before I arrived, carless, the next day. Taxis would have to do me while I was there.

  I felt excited at the thought of a sneak preview of my new home, and rushed upstairs to get dressed. Soon I was in the Volvo, and twenty minutes later I was driving into Polperro car park. I wound my way down the main street, following the rushing stream as it tumbled down the hill. Before long I was in the Warren, walking past the quaint old cottages. I paused outside the little whitewashed dwelling I’d seen just yesterday with the letting agent, which I’d found so dark and hostile. Today, my earlier reaction seemed inexplicable. The small house looked charmingly warm and welcoming. I peered through the window and saw the sun slanting across the wooden floor, brightening the interior and illuminating the attractive cream-upholstered furniture and the pretty seaside paintings on the walls. I couldn’t imagine why I’d found the place so alarming. Even the scaffolding-clad cottage across the way looked in better condition than I’d previously thought, with bright new tiles now laid across the roof, and a gleaming coat of sky-blue paint on the walls, contrasting with the white trim of the door and windows.

  I shook my head and walked on. The mind plays strange tricks; for some reason I was not meant to live in that very sweet-looking house. For some reason I’d been prevented from seeing it in its true, non-threatening colours. How would I feel when I saw my yellow cottage again? Disappointed? Unable to fathom why only yesterday I had found it so enchanting? My stomach, still queasy from the midnight brandy, heaved a little. Please, I prayed, let it still be perfect. Let it be the place I’ve been guided to.

 
And then I was on the coastal path. The sea swung out to my right, huge and breathtakingly blue. And suddenly, there was Hope Cottage. And the front door was open. I felt ridiculously excited.

  A woman came out of the house, carrying a large basket of cleaning materials. When she saw me at the gate, she put the basket down on the porch and gave me a brilliant smile. ‘Mrs Gabriel?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘But please call me Molly.’

  ‘Molly. Yes, I thought it was you when the letting agent phoned. You used to come here every year with your family, didn’t you? I was working as a chef at the hotel next to the Land of Legend, and I remember you were always there with your two gorgeous little boys. They must be enormous now!’

  I gulped. She obviously didn’t know about Joey, and I didn’t feel like explaining. I returned her smile in what I hoped was a winning way. ‘I thought you looked familiar. Yes, that’s right, my boys are huge,’ I said lamely.

  ‘I’m Josie Sutherland. I own this cottage—oops!’ she laughed. ‘Hope would kill me if she heard me say that. Have you come to check inside? Don’t worry, you won’t need to bring anything like bedding or towels, it’s fully equipped. I’m so glad you’re renting it; it’s always nice to have someone you know–not that I really know you, of course, but at least I remember you and that makes me feel happy for the house. Sorry, I’m babbling. Always did talk too much. Anyway, come on up. I’ve just washed the floor inside and it’s wet through but let’s sit down here on the porch and have a chat. Which reminds me.’ She paused and walked over to a wicker picnic basket sitting on a bright green wooden table at one side of the porch, fumbled inside and triumphantly produced two scalloped wine glasses and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. She winked at me. ‘Can’t get through a day’s dreary cleaning without a drop of this. It’s still nice and cold.’ And she unscrewed the lid, and began pouring. I somehow felt it would be rude to make an excuse and leave, despite my unwillingness to talk about my sons. After all, I was renting her cottage; I would have to be courteous. I took a breath, and decided to wing it.

  The porch was another reason I’d loved this little gem of a house as soon as I saw it. It was wide and stretched the width of the front, bordered with a low wooden fence. Like the clapboard outside walls, the porch reminded me of Cape Cod or the Hamptons; a pocket American Dream, obviously carefully and lovingly designed by someone who knew exactly what she wanted. She? Oh, yes, I was sure it was a she. Only a woman could create such a perfect childhood fantasy, straight out of a fairytale.

  I sat down on one of the comfortable cushioned porch-chairs: four classic American Adirondack rockers painted blue, yellow, deep pink and green. Josie settled next to me and handed me a brimming glass that miraculously felt almost icy to the touch. I hesitated before I drank, the memory of last night’s slide into the brandy bottle making me wonder if drinking again this lunchtime was a good idea. Oh well, hair of the dog, I thought, and I did have a huge breakfast. I sipped the wine cautiously; it was absolutely delicious. ‘Are you a witch?’ I asked my hostess. She looked at me quizzically. ‘It’s so lovely and cold,’ I explained, ‘and it’s a hot day.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve got a plethora of miracle cool boxes. We run a B&B, you see, and the guests love nothing better than a gourmet picnic lunch with lots and lots of properly chilled bubbly.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘Gourmet picnic lunches with champagne? It must be a very upmarket B&B, then?’

  Josie looked embarrassed. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘Tony–my husband–and I thought there was a gap in the market here in Polperro. Cheap and cheerful’s all very well, and in fact very popular, of course, but we wanted to try something different. We opened it four years ago, and it’s going better than we could ever have hoped. Word of mouth, and we’re in some posh guide. For discerning people, you know.’ And she burst into peals of laughter. I decided I liked Josie. ‘We’ve only got eight rooms to let,’ she said, ‘but that’s good because we can give it all our attention without being dead on our feet. And amazingly they’re all full, not just in the summer but autumn and spring too. Older people like it here when the holiday families have gone. Of course, ’cause it’s a farm and we’ve got animals–lambs, goats, chickens, pigs, horses–kids love it. But when the babes are back at school, couples enjoy being here, all quiet and sophisticated. Not only the oldies either; we get a lot of dirty weekenders.’ Her eyes gleamed with naughty enjoyment. ‘And we try to make it special. You should see us at Christmas–I don’t think the Ritz could look more festive.’

  She was laughing, mocking herself for her grandiose claims. She looked at me, slightly apologetic. ‘The thing is, I know it’s all a bit pretentious, this luxury B&B stuff, but it works. People really want to feel special, part of a privileged club. And I can cook and do all of that stuff really well, so why not, if we can make a profit? And we’re not really just a B&B. We do evening meals too–in fact we’ve started opening the restaurant to the public; we’re in yet another foodie guide for that. I like to cook good, honest food with fresh local ingredients. Anyway, that’s what everyone who comes here seems to want, so we’re quids in–so far,’ she finished, holding her hands up and crossing her fingers.

  I smiled. ‘And do you?’ I asked. ‘Make a profit, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, we do, astonishingly,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s amazing. The old farmhouse has belonged to Tony’s family for ever; a couple of hundred years. And he’s always wanted to live here; he would never leave Cornwall. At first we lived in a cottage near the harbour, but after his mum and dad died we took the farm on and tried to make ourselves self-sufficient. You know, a smallholding, goats, hens, pigs. And there I was, me, believing I was Mrs Beeton manqué, wringing chicken’s necks for the pot and growing all our own veg. But it didn’t work. Tony had to drive a taxi to make ends meet. So then I had this idea to run the farm as a B&B. I love cooking and all that stuff. Looking after people. Making them love the place, want to come back the next year. And it was hard work, but we did it. Had to take out a bank loan to convert the old place into eight en suites, but we’re paying it back, and still making money.’ Josie stopped. She looked down, and smiled at me. ‘God, I’m going on. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all this good-life stuff. I don’t normally talk to new guests like this. I guess you’ve got a really sympathetic face.’

  I smiled back. ‘So what about this cottage, then? You rent that out, as well as taking B&B guests?’

  ‘Well, actually no, not usually. I mean, the cottage is Hope’s, and she doesn’t like strangers staying in it when she’s not here.’

  I left the question hanging in the air. Josie went on sturdily. ‘She’s in hospital. Derriford, actually. She does have to spend quite a lot of time in there.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I hope it’s nothing too serious.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Josie heartily. ‘It’s just routine; part of her condition. She’ll be back in a couple of days.’

  I took a sip of wine. I wanted to ask the obvious question: who’s Hope, and what’s wrong with her? But I sensed the moment wasn’t right. I’m good at reading between the lines; very good at knowing when someone, however verbose, is using words as a smokescreen. God knows I’ve done it often enough myself.

  Josie went very quiet then, as if she’d read my mind.

  ‘I mean it’s no secret, Hope going in and out of Derriford. Everyone knows what’s up with her. It’s just I tend not to talk about it much when she’s away–I get anxious, and I don’t want to let on. What I really want is everyone to think I’m fine. You know, good old Josie, always so on top of things, nothing fazes her. When in fact sometimes my knees are knocking with fear. God, I’ve never told anyone that before, except Tony.’ She looked up at me, slightly defensive, and gave a small laugh. ‘I said you’d got a sympathetic face; I don’t know why I’m burdening you with all this when I hardly know you.’

  ‘Perhaps because you recognise a fellow traveller on the road of parental fear?
’ I asked, keeping my voice light.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Josie’s voice was guarded, but I sensed she hadn’t completely shut me out.

  ‘Is Hope your daughter?’ I asked. Her head shot up, taken by surprise.

  ‘Hope? My God, yes of course she is. I thought I’d told you.’ I shook my head. ‘Stupid me,’ she sighed. ‘Somehow I thought you knew. I forgot I’ve only just met you.’ She tried to blink away the tears in her eyes. ‘It’s only… in my everyday life here in Polperro, with a business to run, I can’t afford to let anyone feel sorry for me. So when I’m worried, I mostly talk to the nurses and the other mums at the hospital–and I’ve got a lot of people I can talk to online, you know, when things get bad. I’m lucky really…’ Her voice trailed off.

  I leaned over my chair, brushed her hand. ‘Josie, what’s wrong with Hope?’ I heard Josie draw breath, saw her straighten up.

  ‘She has Down’s Syndrome. I mean, it’s not too bad, not really. I see plenty of other kids at the hospital far worse.’ Obviously trying to change the subject, she stood up briskly, turned away and walked over to the picnic basket. She reached inside and brought out a Tupperware box. ‘Are you hungry?’ Her voice was thick. ‘Smoked salmon sandwiches OK?’ she offered. Here was the other Josie climbing back into the saddle, asserting control, trying to keep calm and carry on. How well I knew about all that, and I admired her; deep inside I congratulated her. Well done, Josie, I thought silently. Ten out of ten for effort. For now, I thought, I’d play along, let her feel she was back on top, that she was manipulating the conversation.

  ‘Yes, please. I’m starving,’ I said. We paused for a minute as she found napkins and charming little china plates painted with tiny blue and yellow dolphins that matched the cottage. Another totally unexpected lunchtime treat. I ate, glad of the nourishment–breakfast felt far, far away, and the Pinot Grigio was making my head swim. As I swallowed, my stomach settled and I thought about what to say next. The moment was delicate: two mothers standing on either side of a whirlpool black with sad emotions. Could there be a bridge across? Josie wanted to talk about Hope, and yet she felt she shouldn’t, in case she lost her strength and became just another wounded mother, the world on her shoulders. And I, on the opposite side of that frail bridge, didn’t want to talk about Joey; didn’t want to share the grief I’d felt for so long. But I did feel a need, strong enough almost to be irresistible, to confide in this pretty woman, with her long dark curls and fierce green eyes.