by Beth Moran
Scarlett took his hand and walked him the short distance to the truck. “I love you, Drew. You take care now. Give my love to your beautiful family.”
“I love you, sis. God bless you. I’ll call you when I’m home.”
Drew climbed in and shut the door. Samuel started the engine, and they slowly pulled away, Drew waving out of the window. “You look after yourself now. See you soon!”
“See you soon.”
I walked Scarlett back to the blue van, her steps shaky, her sobs wrenching at my heart. Scarlett was weak and often confused, and time had lost all meaning, but this she did know: she would not be seeing her brother soon.
How do you say goodbye when you know it is for the last time?
Spring and all its hope came to the forest while we weren’t looking. The air smelled of sunshine, and the breeze, warmer each day, brought hints of long, lazy days and mild, mellow evenings.
My morning run took me through carpets of tiny flowers now. I tried to dodge trampling on them, at the same time ducking to avoid the boughs of trees, growing longer and greener every time I passed by. Everywhere the air hummed with clusters of insects: midges and butterflies and fat, furry bees. In the vegetable patch beside my caravan, I discovered feathery carrot tops and tomato shoots where I had planted seeds hardly any time ago. Onion and garlic stalks pushed straight up toward the strengthening sun, and the creeping beanstalks sent out curling, brightly verdant shoots to wrap round the canes I had pushed into the bare soil.
Enchanted by the miracle of life blooming in front of me, I wiped down my picnic chairs and table, dragging them around to the other side of the mobile home, facing the vegetables. Enraptured by the forest behind me, I moved one chair back, so when evening came I could watch the woods. Life. Irrepressible, unconcerned with the comedy and tragedy of the humanity existing alongside it. I fell in love with it all over again.
We had decided to hold our first Fire Night of the year on the Sunday of the May Day public holiday weekend. Although the campsite was jam-packed with guests, all the preparations were running smoothly and so far there had been no hitches or last-minute disasters, so I took the morning off and cycled to church. I had been back a few times since Christmas Eve, though I wasn’t entirely sure why. Initially I hoped to find peace there, a chance to reflect and soak up some quiet; but I discovered that was not likely to happen at Hatherstone Church. The Christmas Eve service had been a one-off, by no means an accurate reflection of what usually went on inside the chapel walls on a Sunday morning.
The pointy-booted minister (whom people called Lara, with no dignifying title) seemed to believe church should resemble a large family gathering rather than a religious occasion. Everybody mucked in, whether it was serving coffee, calling out some crazy, joyous prayer of thanks, or grabbing the microphone and telling us all how God had stepped in and performed an administrative miracle at the Post Office that week. The sermons were often more like wedding speeches – energetic, conversational, passionate, frequently funny, always moving. People actually heckled whoever was preaching each week – calling out jokes, or a question, or whooping. (Whooping! I think Father Francis might have appreciated a whoop.) The songs were in the style of amateur pub-band, accompanied by a gaggle of small children banging percussion instruments and dancing up and down the centre aisle.
In Ballydown, I’d grown up with the commonly held belief that Protestants were stuck-up, dry and brittle like dead leaves, with tightly clenched bottoms. The only clenching done in this chapel was to prevent laughter-induced incontinence. Somehow, this congregation had swapped ritual and religion for what smelled suspiciously like freedom. Everybody left their masks of politeness, social expectation and superficiality at the door. Unless – maybe – they never wore such masks; had held a big ceremony where they burned them all, deciding they weren’t going to just pretend to be themselves but actually do it. I saw a man cry as he shared his pride and joy when his daughter graduated as a teacher after conquering her cocaine addiction, thanks to the love and support of the church. A wizened old lady twisted creaking hips to the rhythm of a slightly out-of-tune bass guitar. A teenage girl announced she had dumped her controlling boyfriend after hearing a sermon about how every person is valuable and precious to God.
It had become my glass of cool water in the scorching desert of cancer, sinking campsites, and dune after dune of unresolved issues. I was welcomed but not pressured; accepted yet still challenged; loved and prayed for, and always sent home with meals for Scarlett, invitations to visit various homes, and a growing conviction I might like to be a part of it.
All this, yes; but I had a nagging, growing, squirming, guilty feeling there was another reason I got up early on a Sunday, styled my hair and dressed up in my growing new wardrobe (growing in the number of items, still shrinking in the size of said items) to go to church. That reason usually sat two rows in front of me. He wasn’t a whooper and didn’t shout out prayers, but one week Reuben had stood at the front to remind the men to let him know if they were coming to the Hatherstone bloke’s survival weekend on the Yorkshire moors. He had caught my eye across the rows of people and winked. A warm glow spread up from somewhere in the pit of my stomach that I suspected had nothing to do with the Holy Spirit or the May sunshine beaming through the stained-glass windows.
This Sunday I hadn’t hung around after the end of the service but hurried back to relieve Jake and Valerie, who had been working since eight. I found them both in reception, breaking into a carton of ice-creams.
“Hi, Marion. Ice-cream was invented around 200 BC by the Chinese.”
“I hope those aren’t from the original batch. How’s it going?”
“Fine. Everything’s done. We sold a lot of firelighters, so I added it to the stock list.”
“Great. Do you want to go for your lunch?”
Valerie nodded, too busy licking her cone to reply. She left me with Jake.
“What time are you due to finish?”
He shrugged. “I’m down until six, but I can stay longer if anything comes up. I was going to do some clearing up around the site, and I’ll do the toilet block in a bit if you want to stay on reception.”
“I’ll just grab something to eat first, if you don’t mind waiting half an hour.”
“Of course. Don’t rush.” Jake threw his wrapper in the bin and unfolded a newspaper.
Mr and Mrs Polite, carefully dancing around each other, trying not to step on any toes. Because I had taken on sorting out a lot of the business of the campsite while Jake still worked for Samuel, I had somehow morphed into an interim manager, and theoretically Jake’s boss. Of course, Jake had worked at the Peace and Pigs three years longer than me, and while I had more administrative experience, Jake knew how to handle anything that happened beyond the office walls with his hands tied behind his back.
I hesitated at the door. “Is this working?”
“I fixed the door last week.”
“No. Us. The campsite. Without anyone in charge.”
He grinned. “I thought you were in charge.”
“I don’t know. Scarlett hasn’t said anything. I’ve just done the rotas and tried to get on with it. Do you think we should talk to her? What if something big goes wrong? Or something small. If anything goes wrong, I won’t know how to deal with it. I can’t tell people what to do, or make decisions. And the rent: how are we covering that?”
“You’ll be fine. It’s working. We’re a team.”
I wished I had Jake’s confidence. I wasn’t authorized, qualified or capable of running a business. I still wasn’t convinced I could manage my own life. I went to see the real owner of the Peace and Pigs.
“Hi, Scarlett.” I had learned, early on, that one of the worst questions a visitor can ask a terminally ill person is “How are you?” They are dying – that is how they are. There is not much you can say about dying that will start a friendly visit off well. Even if the well-meaning visitor is not shocked, or saddened, or
silenced to hear the honest answer, it usually does the ill person no favours to have to spell it out. And the alternative is to start things off with a dishonest reply, however polite. If they want to talk about it, they will, but I have learned not to ask. A grey complexion, trembling hands and a soup-stained blouse told me how Scarlett was that Sunday. Valerie and Grace went to their rooms to give us space.
“Can we talk about the campsite? Do you feel up to it?”
A delay of several seconds followed as the words sneaked their way through Scarlett’s brain tentacles to her processing neurons, then fought their way out. “Yes. What’s the problem?”
“I need to know who you want to run things while you aren’t feeling up to it. What if we need to hire somebody new, or a visitor makes a complaint and asks to see the manager? Or one of us needs a telling-off? At the moment, things are fine and we’re working really well together, but you ought to decide who’s in charge before anything happens that causes an issue.”
Or, I didn’t add, before she was too ill and confused to be able to.
Scarlett sat back and closed her eyes. She had lost weight; her cheekbones stood out sharp underneath her skin. I waited while she considered.
“You’re right. I thought after the summer Grace might do it, but she’ll be in London. I don’t think Jake can just now; he ain’t strong enough.” She turned her head in my direction, eyes still closed. “I don’t wanna put pressure on you to stay, Marion. Maybe the best thing is to let Fisher have his land back, and Valerie and I’ll move in with Samuel. He still seems to want me now I’m sick.”
“Samuel loves you. Next time he asks you to marry him, you should say yes.”
“Now why would I do that? I’m in no mood for sex and I can’t be bothered to change my name. With this skin tone I’d look like I was already dead if I put on a white dress. The photos would be shockin’. And what’re we gonna vow? In sickness and in sickness?”
“You’d do it because it would make Samuel happy. And give Grace somewhere to call home and someone she can go to unconditionally. And we could have a party. Stop you whining about how your boobs look like deflated balloons.”
Scarlett smiled.
I said, “I’m staying. As long as the campsite is here, I’ll do my best. I’ll take care of Valerie, keep an eye on Grace and I’ll figure out a way to cover the rent rise. As long as I don’t have to go near the chickens.”
“You can slaughter them and eat Southern fried chicken at my funeral.”
“How about at your wedding?”
“How about at your wedding?” Scarlett patted my hand, slowly. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you your first lesson in runnin’ things.”
Before I even reached the caravan door she had fallen asleep. I descended the steps, my bones clacking together with fear. Run the campsite? Take care of Valerie? Cover the rent rise? What on earth was I thinking?
I could hear my mother’s voice, braying about my incompetence as a human being, my ability to reach whole new levels of uselessness. I was a failure, a laughing stock, an embarrassment. Walking back to the reception after grabbing a sandwich I tried to shut out the memory of her taunts, replaying the endless loop of my childhood. Pathetic. Freak. Spineless.
Then I stopped just behind the trees lining the rim of the car park, the sandwich in my hand forgotten. This wasn’t a hideous flashback.
I could hear my mother’s voice.
Either I had finally snapped from the stress, or my mother was actually present here, at the Peace and Pigs. In my campsite.
I would have turned and run, but that would have been akin to leaving an escaped crocodile loose in my home. Craning my neck, I peered through a gap in the branches. Could there have been anything worse than the sight of my mother, wearing her best brown coat, standing in the Peace and Pigs car park?
How about watching her shuffle back to allow a burly taxi driver to haul not one, but two giant suitcases out of the boot of his car? Help.
My spine dissolved. I felt as though I had been karate-kicked in my solar plexus. Jake stepped out of the reception to offer some assistance. This propelled me around the treeline. I felt urgently that my mother must not meet Jake. If I could get her to leave without speaking to anyone, meeting anyone, maybe it wouldn’t really have happened. She wouldn’t have actually been here.
I stopped, panting, a few feet away. Jake was holding out one hand to introduce himself, no doubt explaining that we were fully booked for the bank holiday. I saw her glance across, and then look away again before she realized it was me, and turn back. I tried to lift my chin, fighting the urge to take a submissive stance, grateful I had worn my good clothes while at the same time vividly aware that I had a spot on the side of my nose.
The cogs whirred in Jake’s head as we stood there, nobody making the first move.
“Do you two know each other? Shall I leave you to it?” He reversed back into the reception.
Silence like an ocean of treacle lapped between us. I heard the chaffinches calling in the woods to the right of me and the faint cry of Sunny and Katarina’s children building a dam in the stream running across the bottom field. At the edges of my visual field I saw the movement of green shadows as the wind rippled through the branches of the oak trees, and the flash of orange and blue where the first row of tents were pitched. Anger uncurled in my chest like an electric eel. This was my home, my haven. I knew if I had opened my mouth then, I would have let out a scream, a howl of protest. My security had been breached, my sanctuary violated.
My mother spoke. “Hello, Marion. It’s good to see you.”
Is it? Last time we talked you were not happy with me.
“What are you doing here?” I grew even more enraged at the way my voice trembled.
She rolled her shoulders, giving the impression that her coat was too tight. “I came to see how you were getting on.”
“I sent a card.”
“I wanted to see you, Marion. Is that so hard to believe? That a mother would want to see her daughter after nine months?”
I said nothing. Ma walked around her suitcase, carefully, and took four precise steps toward me, until we were eye to eye. She waited for a long time. She looked different, and wanted me to see it.
“What’s going on, Ma? What are you doing here?”
She kept looking at me. This was a message. She had never looked at me.
“I had no other way to contact you. Harriet wouldn’t give me your telephone number.”
“That’s because I didn’t want you to contact me.”
“So what if something had happened? What if somebody got sick, or died? You can’t just disappear without any means of getting in touch.”
“Harriet would have told me.”
My mother smiled, hesitant. “Would you mind if we found somewhere to sit down? Maybe get a cup of tea?”
“Has it?”
“Has what?”
“Has something happened?”
She shook her head. “No. Not really.”
“Then you don’t need to stay. You’ve seen me. I’m fine. If you need somewhere to spend tonight then I can give you directions to a hotel. I have nothing to say to you and I don’t want to hear anything you might want to say to me.”
“Ah, now, Marion. I’ve come all this way. Will you not even give me a cup of tea?”
With nowhere else to go, I reluctantly led her to my caravan after asking Jake to cover for me. I made tea, and tried to hide the trembling in my hands as I sliced cheese for sandwiches and buttered bread.
“How have you been?”
“Good, Ma. I’ve been great.” Living without your continual putdowns and cruelty has been absolute heaven.
“So you work here?”
“Yes.” There was an awkward pause. I didn’t want to fill it. This was not my doing. I spoke anyway: “How did you find me?”
“Your postcard was sent from Nottingham. And I found the photograph was missing. I knew you would have foll
owed him here.”
“You knew he lived here?”
“Yes. It’s where we met.”
Who was this woman in Ma’s brown coat who spoke about my father? I stared at her. I was waiting for the sarcasm, the bitter cackle, the jabbing finger.
“What on earth is going on? Last time I mentioned Da you threw spaghetti at me.”
“I have been ill since you left.”
I waited.
“Worse than before. I was away for five months. The doctors there managed to sort out my medication. And I’ve had a lot of time to think, and talk to people. It helped me to see. I want you to come home.”
I squeezed my hands over my eyes, determined to keep a grip on myself. To remember who I was now. “This is my home.”
The rest of the day stretched out into a cringe-filled eternity. We circled each other with rigid small talk and, in my case, anger simmering just below the surface. I waited for an apology. I didn’t want one – I wouldn’t know how to deal with it. I feared I might explode if confronted with one. But how long could this false politeness continue with so much left unsaid? Was this it now? Did I just pretend twenty years of abuse never happened? Had my mother decided to love me? Did she accept responsibility for destroying my childhood? For the damage she caused that I still lived with every day?
I went to Fire Night, introduced my mother, found a spot on a bench next to Scarlett and ate a very large amount of chicken.
Valerie squinted at my mother. “Marion’s mum! Wow. Marion, your mum came to visit – how cool is that? There are two billion mums in the world, and look, here’s yours! Come and have a drink. Did you come all the way from Ireland? Did you come on a plane or a boat? Nearly twice as many people die every year from boats as from planes, but the plane is faster. Did you have a security search? Did a dog sniff your bag for explosives? Do you need a passport to come from Northern Ireland to England?”
My mother held up her hand. “Stop.”
Valerie stopped.
“Yes. A plane. Yes. No. No.”