The car park is spotted with vehicles spread out as if in the middle of a game of chess. Floodlights create stark shadows of the tree-lined boundary. The lack of people makes me skittish—my eyes flicker toward every piece of litter fluttering across the tarmac, every flash of headlight from the motorway.
I scurry across the car park and into the building, shielding my eyes against the painful fluorescence. But with the welcoming staff behind the counter awaiting my order, I exhale my relief. My hands, balled into tight fists, begin to relax.
At half-past two, there’s only a skeleton service available. The smell of coffee and bacon pervades the café; my stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since Nathan’s lasagna hours ago. The cakes on display are gooey and appealing, but I’m not sure if it’s breakfast or midnight snack time.
I order a chocolate muffin and cappuccino and take the tray to a table beside the window. Lights shine onto the glass, so it becomes a mirror—a hollow-eyed, dazed woman eating cake stares back at me.
This is irrational, pointless even. I have no idea what I’ll say when I see Mum. If I drove back the way I’ve just come, I’d be home before dawn. I could throw away the note I left for Nathan and go to bed, and he’d never realize I was gone.
Yet, I remain where I am and sip the coffee, avoiding my disapproving reflection. I pick at the muffin, munching the tiny chunks of chocolate and letting them melt in my mouth. The chocolate soothes me.
You don’t know what you’ll discover. That’s what Nathan said. What if the memories aren’t all good? He said that too, without explanation, keeping secrets.
I rest my shoulder against the window and tilt my head to the cold glass. It’s still pitch-black; the sun won’t rise for hours. It’ll take four to get to Cornwall—too early to knock on someone’s door and yell, “Surprise!”
My body slackens. My fatigue is so acute it doesn’t matter where I am, I just want to sleep. At a rough guess, I’m approaching twenty-one hours without proper sleep. Just a moment’s snooze and I’ll be ready to drive again. My limbs sag; my mouth gapes open. The ebb and flow of the voices in my head serenade me.
The eerie sound of wind rattling windows and doors and the uncomfortable molded plastic chair make it impossible to drift off for more than a few minutes before I shudder myself awake. I take my sketchpad from my bag instead. I glimpse my worried, ashen reflection, and draw myself. The concentration makes me appear severe and morose; the shading turns me into a ghost.
On the opposite page, I draw my mother. I have her lean across the table, as though she’s sharing gossip about the neighbors with me. I give her a keen, mischievous smile and raise her eyebrows in glee. This never occurred—I left home long before we could sit together as adults, as equals. Our previous, mislaid relationship will be replaced by a brand new version.
When I examine what I’ve drawn, I recall the softness of the towel when she dried me after a bath, the chemical taste of lipstick when she tucked me into bed, the gleam of her freshly washed hair when she drove me to school. I close the pad because I don’t want to think about her anymore.
The caffeine and sugar kicks in, and I’m alert and raring to go. I gobble the rest of the muffin, pack up my bag, and buy a flat white to take with me.
Outside, an icy drizzle threatens to become heavier. I’m struck by the romance of the rain falling in the beam of the floodlights, floating like snow.
And I’m driving again.
The cat’s eyes lighting my path, the road unvaried beneath my wheels. The silhouettes of high banks and trees following me ominously. Like ghosts. A child laughs.
And I’m driving, and driving, and …
Traffic increases as I reach the outskirts of Bristol—early commuters on the move. Road signs count down the miles. Closer and closer. No turning back. By six, I’m at Exeter. Hungry and weary, I stop for breakfast, and it’s a relief to stretch my legs and breathe in the fresh yet fume-filled air. I line up with an increasing number of travelers—young couples on weekend breaks, parents and young kids, friends heading out for early shopping bargains. I belong among these people; I’m no longer an anomaly.
It’ll take another ninety minutes to reach Mum’s house, my childhood home. Soon, I’ll be on the A38, a hilly snaking road; no more motorway. Soon, I’ll open the windows and let the wind blow through my hair. Soon, I’ll be in front of the house, my hand held up to press the doorbell.
Soon.
TWELVE
These are some of the things I do remember, butted together like a badly ordered photo album.
Sitting alone in a pub on my twenty-third birthday. I must have gone with someone, but I don’t remember who. There was a band, and someone—a nameless, faceless creature—asked them to play “Free Falling” because it was my favorite song at the time. They were good, but by ten-thirty the pub was practically deserted, and I was sitting alone in the corner. Whoever I was with had vanished. Or perhaps it’s just where my memory falters.
Enduring a long, cramped, sweaty bus trip to Liverpool. I sat beside an old lady who kept nudging me with her elbows as she knitted and smelled of Werther’s Originals. The sluggish motion and stuffy air made me nauseated for most of the journey. I have no idea what reason I had for traveling north. But I definitely hate traveling by coach.
Standing on a bridge, staring down into a black, slow moving river. I was shaking. I was going to jump. Something terrible had happened. And then something—someone, perhaps—stopped me. The moment passed. I have bristling resentment when I think of it, although I’m happy I survived. At the time, my recovery was slow.
Then there are the smaller things—snippets of conversation during a funeral, dancing to Radiohead at a festival, fidgeting in the dark waiting for a surprise party to begin. My life dribbles into my subconscious and drifts away, like scenes from a film I watched years ago.
When I walk past a bakery, the smell of fresh bread evokes the joy of spending time with my grandmother, but not her appearance. Fresh cut grass makes the soles of my feet tingle as though I’m walking barefoot upon it. The growl of a hurtling motorbike makes my heart beat in my throat. I grasp these moments, longing for the narrative to expand.
I lived on someone’s sofa and woke each morning with a crick in my neck. I worked in Starbucks and Costa and several independent coffee shops—I’ve kept the name tags.
I was engaged.
Buried in a box, tucked away beneath my bed, I have the ring. I can’t give it away, but I pretend it’s not there. I hope I’ll wake one day and recall who gave it to me—someone lost to me, or I to him. Recently, I’ve wondered if it was Spencer, but we’d have been far too young to be thinking of marriage. Any relationship with him would have been fun and flighty, I imagine.
I met Lily.
I met Nathan.
In my head, they’re paired. Lily-and-Nathan. But that’s not right. They’re not friends with each other, the way I am with them—they’re acquaintances. We go for drinks together, but they don’t phone each other for a chat or meet up without me.
At some low point in my life, Nathan offered me his spare room.
I remember him asking about my family once, about my childhood, why I left Cornwall. I said I didn’t know, and he studied me with sadness and pity, as though my life was somehow worse for not knowing. As if I was lacking the fundamentals. We’ve argued about it since, when my frustrations have overwhelmed me and driven me to hysteria.
I know I miss living by the sea, even though the daily details evade me. I dream of waves crashing against rocks on stormy days, of balmy evenings lying in the garden with friends, of seagulls screeching me awake in the mornings. Yet the idea of swimming in the sea terrifies me, and pool swimming is just as daunting.
I know I’m not who I’m supposed to be. How can I be, with so much of myself nestled so deeply within?
***
Past Plymouth and across the Tamar, the dual carriageway converts into a road with three lanes randomly changing pri
ority, and finally filtering down to just two. This is the joy and horror of driving in Cornwall. Roads squeeze through small stone-cottage hamlets and follow the hills and valleys once traversed by farmers and traders. There are no straight roads here, no Roman legacy.
This knowledge is deep-seated, as though I regularly drive this route—an infused awareness.
It’s light, albeit with high, impenetrable clouds. I’m captivated by the space and scale of the countryside—the density of London far behind me. I stretch to catch the splendor of yellow and purple crops on the hillsides and the clumps of villages with spires sprouting into the sky.
The road narrows, sweeping and curling around the woodland-wrapped hill, slicing into it as the slope falls away on the left and banks steeply on the right. When I meet vans and large 4x4s coming the other way, I pull toward the drop to allow them to pass. Parts of the road, eroded after severe storms, crumble and I inch my wheels as close as I dare.
Around the final corner into the village, I gasp as I absorb the sheer magnificence. It’s a flat oasis surrounded by steep hills flecked with houses. A river, parallel to the road I’ve just driven, flows toward the beach. The sea is calm, steel gray, mirroring the sky. Where the sun breaks through, out toward the horizon, the light shimmers and skips on the waves. It’s just before eight o’clock; the beach is dusted with pre-work dog-walkers and a paddleboarder is exiting the water.
My mother’s house clings to the far side of the valley. Just another couple of turns and I’ll be there. My stomach is hollow, groaning with hunger and nerves equally. I can’t do it. I can’t go up there. I can’t knock on her door as though it’s something I do every single day. What was I thinking? If I haven’t been back in so long, will she even want to talk to me?
I park in one of the bays facing the sea and slouch in my seat, my adrenaline dissipating. Does Mum have a dog? Is she striding out along the sand with it? Will she pass me on her way home? My breathing escalates until I’m on the verge of hyperventilating. I take deep breaths, holding each one until my lungs ache, and exhale as slowly as possible. Ten, nine, eight …
A shadow passes over me, and through me, and I’m plunging into the water. It’s cold and I shudder, scrambling to be pulled back out. It’s momentary. I’m in the car again, disorientated and dizzy.
I glance at my watch. I’ve been here for over an hour. A couple of swimmers head back to their pile of clothes, some of the dog-walkers are sitting on the café terrace, a lone surfer paddles, waiting for a wave which probably won’t come for a while. All the normal things. And me, out of place, no longer fitting in.
From this angle, Mum’s house is screened by trees and other houses. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. If I wanted, I could turn around and leave. She’d never know how close I was. Back in London, I could help to market my exhibition, and make a start on the next one. It makes sense to go back.
Yet, I’m still here.
A couple of minutes later, I’m parking in front of her garage. I glance at the scribbled address on the seat beside me, just to be certain. The house is high above the road. Steps rise beside the garage and a path continues through the garden to the 1970s terrace. It must have been an easy climb for an energetic seven-year-old. Now, my legs ache from the exertion, and from my fixed position of the past few hours.
I press the bell.
I have déjà vu. At different times of the day, under various weather conditions, and with different colored fingernails, I reach toward the door and press the bell. It’s not possible; I haven’t come home like this before.
I press again. Perhaps she’s not in. Perhaps she moved. I’ve considered it in jest over the years—as a joke to shock people—but I didn’t really expect she wouldn’t be here anymore. I squint through the frosted glass to check for movement. A black shape looms into view.
Oh God. I rest my hand on the wall to prevent myself running away. Turning and fleeing would be so easy. My stomach churns. Hello. Just say hello. My heart beats frantically. This is a mistake, a stupid mistake. Is it too late to run?
The door opens, and Mum’s right there in front of me.
I say nothing.
She flicks ash from her cigarette outside the door and exhales smoke into the air above me.
Hello. Just say hello.
I’m frozen, blank. As though I’ve woken from a vivid dream into an alternative reality. I thought I’d cry and be filled with happiness, and she’d rush forward to hug me with relief and euphoria.
“Hello,” I say at last, and my voice is tiny.
THIRTEEN
The hall is dark and long, and I’m immediately overwhelmed—not with being here, with something else, something bigger and unspecified. My body is dragging, as though someone is pulling on my arms, preventing me advancing further into the house. An icy chill encircles me.
My legs almost give way beneath me; the voice surges around me. I catch myself on the bannister and pause until the vertigo passes.
I’d assumed there’d be photos on the wall, all of us together—me at different ages, my parents’ wedding photo, a birthday gathering in a pub—hooks for my memories to snag on. But the walls are bare. The chipped pale blue paint needs refreshing; there are scuff marks at shopping-bag level and dark shadows where frames used to hang. I run my finger along the marks.
Mum’s already bustling around in the kitchen at the end of the hall. “Come through,” she calls.
I don’t have memories of living here. It’s not comfortable or relaxing. Surely, in my mother’s house—the house I grew up in—I’d drop my bag in the hall, offer to put the kettle on, grab her stash of dark chocolate Hobnobs. I’d actually know if she liked the dark chocolate ones. I’d call out in easy conversation from room to room or walk into the lounge and collapse onto the sofa to recover from the journey. Possibly, I expected all of it—to walk through the front door and have my life miraculously restored.
But, instead, I hesitate over whether to remove my shoes before I follow her.
To my left is the lounge, and straight ahead is the kitchen. Mum’s gathering things from the dining table and shoving them into cupboards, making space for me. She slams the doors shut and leans against the counter.
I’m ungainly and gangly, crossing my arms then letting them dangle by my side as if I’ve forgotten how to stand. I’m overthinking it.
“Sit down,” she says eventually, taking a seat at the table. “You look tired.”
“I left early.”
She’s austere and reserved, wearing a shapeless brown skirt and fraying beige cardigan with woolly tights. Her hair is brushed back into a taut ponytail, and her hair and skin are both gray. She’s weary and haggard—nothing like my drawings. Where’s her radiance? Where’s the color? She’s older than I thought—sixty, maybe. If I’m thirty-three, that’s about right, I guess.
We haven’t hugged. It’s a gaping omission, leaving me uncertain. I remain on my feet, waiting for something poignant to happen, waiting to be a daughter visiting her mother after so long apart rather than a guest making small talk at a party.
“Did you have a good journey?”
“Yeah, the roads were quiet.” Pause. My turn. “How’ve you been? You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. I’m good.”
The house has a disheveled appearance, nothing obviously new or revamped to comment on. I smile ambiguously. When is it a good time to tell the woman who gave birth to you that you have no recollection of your life together and to all intents and purposes, she’s a stranger? She’s not someone I can confide in—she’s not Nathan or Lily. Spencer was the last person I explained myself to, and he left me no choice because he asked outright.
“So … where’s Dad?” I glance to the door, expecting him to appear from upstairs and call me Sprout or some other childhood nickname.
“Durham,” she says as easily as replying in the garden or just popped to the shop. “Where he lives now.”
My cheeks burn. Shi
t. I’ve given everything away. She’ll detect my deception and throw me out of the house. I slide into the chair, in defeat, awaiting her questions.
“He only moved recently. He was in Aberdeen before then, of course. He tells me where he is in case we need him—one day, I’d love to tell him we don’t.”
“Oh.” My face flushed with duplicity, I take slow breaths to calm myself.
His absence in my memory has always bothered me less than anything else, and perhaps that’s why—because he left a long time ago. A face would be nice, a small memento—at one time, he would have been the most important man in my life. But it’s not him I draw, trying to pin his likeness into my consciousness. It’s not him who brought me here.
“Tea!” Mum claps her hands and stands abruptly so the table wobbles. A statement rather than a question. “I expect you could do with a cuppa.” Another statement.
“Only if you’re making one.”
“I’m always making one. Unless you prefer coffee? I can …” She frowns, her hand resting on the kettle’s switch.
“No, tea’s great. Thank you.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. I just wanted to see you.” Needed to, I needed to see you.
“Well.” She stretches her arms out to the side, presenting herself. “Here I am.”
Yes, here she is. Here we are.
Her arms are assuming the position of inviting a hug—but I can’t. I’m rooted to the chair. I should want to—I think I do—but the wall between us is unfathomable and complicated, blocking our path.
The kettle boils, breaking the deadlock. Mum sets her mug on the counter and hunts for another, opening a couple of overhead cupboards before finding one, as if she doesn’t use a second mug often, as if she has no need to.
I picture her alone, month after month, pacing the house—waiting for something new to happen, for someone to knock on the door like I did today. I imagine the TV switched on just for the noise and companionship—from the morning breakfast programs all the way to the regional news at half-past ten, hitting each makeover and quiz and cookery show in between.
Small Forgotten Moments Page 6