So this is Christmas.
So removed from the dark versions I’ve endured year on year, Mam and Dad passing out in front of the obligatory soaps, following something resembling lunch. Not that this was unusual, they passed out most days, reeking of alcohol. But Christmas was special, the drinking began much earlier in the morning. The meal, even worse than usual, more dry and unpalatable, the hum of a microwave, plastic dressed roast dinner. Ping, it’s Christmas! When I was younger, there were gifts too, colouring pads with used crayons, second hand books, drawn on, with crucial pages ripped out. Pages stuck together with God knows what. Snot probably or worse. All stolen from our local doctor’s reception, I’m sure of it. Bubble bath more analogous with washing up liquid. I hadn’t used to mind then. Without the context of how it could be any better, why would I? It was ignorantly normal.
We all survived pretty much the same on our street. Even the standard street brawls were not spared at Christmas. With the dead skin grey and nicotine yellow stained net curtain twitching, we couldn’t so much as pick our nose without someone having an opinion. Dad used to say, it was their lifeblood, to gossip, to bicker, to mock and accuse. But then, Mam was as bad, in fact she usually started it. Now look at me. I’ve worked damn hard to get to this, watched my step, filtered my tongue, swallowed a dictionary, consumed a thesaurus. Learned so much. I can be who I want to be, no one need ever believe any different. No one knows me here; I am who I choose to be. Who should I be?
I unfreeze as I spot them over the opposite side of the room, hugging a circular table between them and there she is, Andi, on cue, waving, beckoning me to their table. What a perfect coincidence. I look away. I’ve picked well, it was worth my while eavesdropping on her phone call yesterday in the student union. Look at her, positively oozing class. So tangible I can touch it from here, sniff her out a mile off. She also happens to be lovely, how lucky am I? And it would seem she likes me and why not, I’m a nice person. Perhaps she feels sorry for me, but that doesn’t matter, I would too, if I was her, or would I? Yesterday, finally, I managed to bag some time with her, followed her as she made her way through the campus to the student union café. I could tell it’s in her nature, being kind. Nice. The word Samaritan scribed across her forehead.
I’d scuffled in behind her all flustered, running hands through my hair and with pink cheeks from my harried rubbing. ‘Hi,’ I said, ‘sorry, this is a bit of an odd one, but could you possibly call my mobile for me, if I give you my number, I mean?’ She opened her mouth to reply, I dropped the handle of my heavy suitcase, lumped my laden rucksack off my shoulder, sighing. ‘Thing is, I’m hoping and praying it’s in one of my bags, that I haven’t left it behind on the blinking bus.’ She looked perplexed but not in a bad way, the gap between her lips wondering. I glanced over at the other students, embarrassed. ‘I don’t fancy emptying my dirty laundry in here, if you see what I mean.’ I stretched my lips to indicate my dilemma. ‘So, as long as I hear it ring, it’s good, I know it’s there somewhere, then I needn’t empty out my stuff looking for it.’ I grin at her, ‘Is that okay? Do you mind?’
She threw me a warm smile. ‘Got you,’ she said. ‘Sure, no problem at all, what’s your number?’
That was it, as easy as that. I had her number. Of course, I texted her to thank her later in the evening, I didn’t want to appear rude. Then, I explained my situation, why I probably seemed – a tad troubled. What with my landlord letting me down, then the fact that I may be forced to drop out of my course, what with no accommodation. I was so upset and befuddled, I mislaid my mobile, et cetera. To be fair, it wasn’t far from the truth. I am kind of homeless and was kicked out from my last digs. Couldn’t keep up with my share of the rent, so they insisted on finding an alternative lodger. The university couldn’t help either, or wouldn’t, something about my track record not helping my case. But the fact is, I’ve spent my allowance reserved for rental, which means I’m heading back to the dump, to Mam and Dad’s, it’s not a home. I wasn’t frivolous with the rent money either, the new wardrobe, the matching accessories, the odd initiating drink, were all essential for my new life. I tend to view this recent expenditure more as investment. Either way, I’m homeless, but then – I always have been.
My eyes roam back towards the table where Andi is now standing, waving more vigorously in case I didn’t notice her the first time, which of course, I didn’t. It’s that thing – when you see someone out of context, you don’t recognise people, do you. The girls she’s sitting with, follow her line of eye to me, they need to like me too, they could make or break my plans. I sense her friend’s opinions are important to her. People like Andi, need to be liked. We both do, we all do, don’t we? Just for different reasons, different gains. Like my clothes, people for me are investments, a passport to my future. Here we go, shaking off my self-reliant cloak, I give a little wave then begin to meander through the crowds surrounding the arched bar. Adding a flinch or two, as oblivious bar huggers bump in to me.
Look at you, Camilla Stewart, you’re going to be just fine.
3
Falmouth 2017
Andi
I abandon the car some distance from the school gates, the coastal air will hopefully clear my wire-wool head, scratching at my eyes each time I blink. God, I so didn’t want to leave my bed this morning, I actually considered allowing the children a day off school. Anything to have pulled fresh cotton sheets over my head and escape to a world of temporary oblivion. Feels like I haven’t slept for weeks, months even. Feeling each step echoing through my head I push on with a parched throat and furry tongue, did I finish the entire bottle last night? Or was it bottles? As I try to think back there’s a persistent tugging on my left arm, slowly I lower my head.
‘Mummy?’
I hope this isn’t complicated. ‘Yessss,’ I answer.
‘Did you put my swimming thingies in?’
A sticky-up haired, blonde mass gazes up at me despite my knot attacking brushing before we jumped from the car. I smooth it down with a clammy hand. As a pang of guilt hits me, my stomach rolls, did I put them in? Followed by relief as I remember doing it, bouncing off the walls and furniture, not wanting to turn on the light to wake the children. Or was it because of the drink? What do you think? I squeeze the plump hand attached to a delicate frame, ‘have I ever forgotten the swimming thingies? Ever?’
But how long before I do? It’s becoming increasingly difficult to be organised. I’ve noticed the lonely PE bags hanging off pegs, damp, unwashed in the school cloakroom. Socks, odd and discoloured, bound around inside-out faded regulation PE shorts. Always the same offenders. Do these children realise, they’re different to the others because of this, no fault of their own? Are they invited for play dates? Jelly infused parties, party bags packed with, let’s face it – crap, to end up stuffed down the side of car seats, cake stuck to gauchely coloured napkins only to be binned the same day? Is this what will happen to my children if I continue as I am? I forgot their pump bags last weekend, I didn’t find time to do Dotty’s reading last night.
‘No, Mummy, you haven’t!’ Dotty begins to skip, yanking at my tender arm. You’d think I’d spent the last week in the gym, I haven’t. I should have, yet something else to add to my list of reasons to feel guilt-ridden. The thought of the gym makes me to want to curl up in a ball and surrender. But then the self-reproach for not going, extortionate monthly fees rolling down the drain, hurts even more. All those mirrors, those animated mothers, carefree singletons – I simply can’t face it.
‘Can we go to the beach after school, have a picnic. With Daddy too?’ she asks.
I picture Kyle’s face returning from a week in London, torn between fatherly commitments and being completely shattered. ‘Not sure about Daddy, he won’t be back in time anyway. Don’t think his train arrives in Truro until 19.15. Be far too late for him to join us, won’t it.’ Somewhere deep inside, resentment is bubbling, he only has the weekends to consider, the other days, he’s
only himself to think about. I never used to feel like this. ‘How about Daddy does bedtime stories instead? You’ve a new book remember; he hasn’t seen it yet. He can read it to you instead of me.’ To be relieved of bedtime duties feels like such a breather. Just lately, I’m bouncing from one time restraint to another before eventually crashing ragged into bed at the end of each day.
I’m considering this as my other arm is tugged. ‘Can we still go, though? Please Mummy, even if Daddy can’t come. Can we still go to the beach? It’s Friday. We can do what we want on a Friday.’ I raise my eyebrows at my olive skinned boy, dark brown eyes pleading with me, every day growing more like Kyle. ‘You said so,’ Trey insists.
I smile at them from side to side, ‘Did I? I don’t remember that. You two make things up as you see fit.’ I laugh.
‘Yes, you always say it – wait ’til Friday, not tonight, it’s a school night.’ Dotty mimics me as we reach the iron school gates, my shoulders physically lowering in response, dodging through the usual parental crowds guarding the walk through barrier. My school run smile fixed at no one in particular, ushering the children as quickly as possible without pushing them through. Don’t make eye contact. I’m not in the mood for small talk, I haven’t been for a while. That constant horrible jittery feeling.
We draw to a halt in the middle of the playground, so vast and open, I give Trey his freshly washed pump bag before smoothing down Dotty’s hair again. ‘Can we, Mummy; can we go to the beach? You haven’t answered our question,’ she says.
‘Go on then,’ perhaps it will help. ‘It’s so sunny and warm we’ll make the most of it. The beach it is.’ I say.
They both stretch up as I bend for them to kiss either side of my cheeks, ‘Yay! Can you bring—’
‘Boards, balls, wetsuits and loads of food?’ A final squeeze of my children then they’re off, they don’t look back any more. Did they decide one day to no longer look back? If only I could do the same. Escape the sadistic voice, goading me – do you remember this? I linger for a moment, watching them seamlessly snuggle into appropriate groups of boys only, and girls only. Scouring the playground as I head for the gate, still dodging eye contact, my stomach begins to dance with the prospect of returning home. Luckily, I spot Carol escaping over the far side and quicken my step to catch her. She’s a family friend or more – an old friend of Kyle’s, who’s always up for coffee.
Twenty minutes later we reconvene overlooking Falmouth’s harbour with its perpetual maritime comings and goings. It’s already warming up, so we opt for a table on the balcony overlooking the estuary. I lower myself into the metal chair, feeling some twenty years my senior, closing my eyes while Carol finishes her phone call. Moments later, I’m startled away from my thoughts as a cool shadow creeps over me, goose-bumps trailing my arms but it’s only coffee arriving. Recovering myself quickly, I thank the Australian sounding lad and pay. I’ve a couple of looming work deadlines, one coffee and I’ll need to be on my way. Procrastination has surreptitiously become a close friend, as my life as a whole becomes increasingly painful in every conceivable way.
Carol plonks her mobile on the table as I sip at my coffee. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, ‘I ask him to do one thing. One thing. You’d think he’d be able to remember. Can you imagine only having one thing on your to-do list.’ She doesn’t wait for me to respond but continues to empty her opinions bucket about family life. It’s somewhat of a relief, there’s no real need for me to speak as long as I give the occasional nod, blissfully distracting. Her voice becomes louder, more animated, venting her rising irritation, I glance over to what I assume to be a table of tourists eavesdropping on our conversation. Not really fair to say eavesdropping, they’ve little choice but to listen.
‘I mean, when you come to think of it, all Allan has to do is get himself to work and what the hell,’ she waves her hand over the harbour, ‘look where he works for Christ sake. It’s not really work at all, is it? He’s on a permanent bloody jolly!’
I can’t help giggling into my mug, her exasperated frown lines, deepening further with my reaction, reminding me of a small, hard-done-to child. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, but to be fair, it’s a responsible job being the harbour master. Especially somewhere like Falmouth, it’s pretty full on, always busy. Lots of protracted hours, I’m sure it’s not quite the doddle you paint it to be.’ I try.
She waves her hand at me as if swatting at a fly. ‘Exactly, that’s something else isn’t it, all the bloody long hours, he’s gone before the children are up, returns just as they’re cleaning their teeth, all ready for bed. All happy and smiley, no idea of what little buggers they’ve been. Doesn’t believe me if I dare suggest it. All – can’t believe that, Daddy’s little girl wouldn’t behave like that would you, sweetheart?’
I nod. ‘It’s a proper long day for you, what with working, too. Look, don’t drag me in on this one, I was only trying to say, being the harbour master possibly isn’t as glamorous as it appears. How about when the weather’s bad? Cold and miserable. Days like today aren’t exactly the norm, are they? We live in Cornwall, not the Mediterranean.’
‘Huh, he paddles around on his chugging boat all day, happy as bloody Larry. Don’t make excuses, he has a great time and you know it. Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for him for God’s sake. I need you on my side.’
I don’t think Carol means this, she definitely wears the trousers in her home. She’s always been a force to be reckoned with, Kyle says. ‘Okay.’ I say, smiling.
‘Take your Kyle,’ she continues, rubbing her sunglasses on her sundress, I try not to roll my eyes. ‘Commuting to London and back each week.’ Carol has such an obvious soft spot for my husband, they’ve known each other since school days, both with genuine Cornish roots, both attended a local state school in Truro. Sometimes I feel like the outsider. It’s occurred to me more recently, maybe this is because – I am the outsider? They have an inner, intuitive understanding of each other.
‘Sure,’ I say, ‘I guess at least Allan’s local. But he still has enormous responsibilities, Carol,’ I hold up my hands, ‘that’s all I’m saying. You can’t really compare Allan’s work to Kyle’s.’
‘Right.’ She replaces her sunglasses then slaps at her ankle. ‘Ant’s, bloody everywhere aren’t they, I hate ants.’ I nod, thinking of last night’s gigantic trail of them next to the outdoor shower attacking a half-eaten caramel bar. ‘Then there’s the buggers that fly.’ I find myself scratching a psychosomatic itch. ‘Anyway, sorry to be such a bore, only it grates, you know, his work, it’s what he lives for I’m sure.’ I attempt to disagree but Carol beats me to it, ‘Waddling off at the crack of dawn. I work and have to run a home, look after the kids. I mean, he’s a great dad but he doesn’t do the underground stuff, does he.’ She nods at me. ‘You know what I’m referring to. The stuff that keeps everything ticking.’
I smile, I do understand, ‘The bits that keep the cogs turning, food on the table et cetera.’ I’m having to work extra hard to keep on top of these tasks at the moment.
‘Exactly. Serious multi-tasking, not ever being able to focus entirely on the task in hand, proper does my head in sometimes. Still mustn’t grumble. Life’s pretty good I guess, in comparison to some. It could be worse, he could be like my father.’ She sighs heavily. ‘God, how self-indulgent of me, sorry, Andi,’ she grabs my arm across the table making me start. ‘What?’ I say, looking round, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Crikey, jumpy aren’t you.’ She laughs. ‘I meant, sorry for being tactless. You’re in the same boat, aren’t you? Have to do it all alone. Don’t know how you cope. I wasn’t thinking, love, sorry. Thoughtless fool, I am sometimes. You don’t even know where Kyle is, what he’s up to half the time.’ She laughs. ‘Only kidding you,’ she quickly adds.
I wave off her apology, laughing with her, as a fist twists my stomach further. Was she only kidding? I’ve never not trusted Kyle, does this make me a fool? I used to
love our arrangement, me always grateful for my own space, when did this change? Because of last night? No, this uneasiness, flipping between butterflies and a dark gloom began some time ago. Months? Or has it always been there since I arrived in Cornwall, and I’ve grown to accept it? Waiting for something to happen, for something to catch up with me? Find me out? But Kyle’s loyalty, I’ve never questioned. Before. Carol was laughing but was she trying to tell me something?
Carol slurps from her cup. ‘Don’t you get tired of being on your own with everything?’
I don’t like the way Carol is regarding me, knowingly, as if she understands something about me? ‘I’m used to Kyle working away, I’ve my routines to keep me busy, we’re both fine with it.’ I shrug her question off and turn away, feeling my cheeks begin to blush.
An off-white yacht with oiled teak decks catches my eye, gliding effortlessly by. All hands are on deck preparing to leave the estuary for the English Channel, pulling up fenders, releasing the main sail sheet. Hoping for wind. Hope, is this what’s missing these days? I’m momentarily hypnotised, ignoring Carol’s eyes still on me. ‘Wonder where they’re off to?’ I say. ‘Somewhere nice, I bet. Mediterranean turquoise waters.’ My thoughts float down the estuary with her as she gently sways further out to the horizon. When I first moved to Cornwall I lost hours gazing into the horizon, how small and vulnerable I felt in comparison. Wondering how everything would work out, only hope, independence and ambition propelling me forward. A most difficult time in my life, starting again, alone. The sapping feeling of loss. Regrets. What ifs? So many long, dark, troubled days. But in the end, my dreams, my hopes billowed my sails and I kind of moved on. But now my sails are empty, merely flapping at the mercy of the offshore winds.
Who I Am: A dark psychological thriller with a stunning twist Page 2