Wyatt dropped them at Terminal One, awkwardly hugging his daughter and grazing his mother’s cheek with a misplaced kiss. They would reunite just before Christmas, after he and Sarah had returned from Bali. Both Bea and Flora were excited at the prospect of flying from the international terminal, even though the flight would take them a whole day; it was nearly ten hours to Hong Kong, then another sixteen via Amsterdam to Edinburgh.
‘Are we going to visit Miss Alex and her many cats when we arrive?’ Flora asked suddenly as they were boarding their plane. She dissolved into giggles, which made Bea smile. ‘Kim sent me a text and told me to ask you that! I don’t even know why it’s funny!’
‘Ha.’ Bea tutted. ‘Tell Miss Kim that maybe we will.’
Despite the seemingly interminable flight, there was something about being cocooned in a warm plane with a blanket wrapped around them and having nowhere to go and nothing to do that lulled them to sleep. Having watched the couple of movies that jumped out at them, they both slept soundly for the best part of eight hours.
After she woke, Bea lay in the dark with her little green silk pillow under her cheek and remembered the last time she’d made that journey, in the opposite direction, all set to start a new life on the other side of the world, surrounded by her family. Her gran had wished them a tearful farewell at the airport and her mum had cried; Bea remembered her dad telling her mum that tears were infectious and that she should try to buck up for her girls’ sake.
At fourteen years old, just a few months older than Flora was now, Bea had imagined her new home in Australia would be very much like the British seaside that she loved: all sunshine, beaches and ice creams, with nothing much to worry about except whether she’d packed enough pairs of flip-flops and if they had an equivalent of the Top Forty. The reality of Byron Bay was a shock. Apart from the church and a few solid structures along the high street, everywhere seemed quite flimsy and temporary – a world away from the solid Surrey suburb where she’d grown up. Her overwhelming memory of her arrival in Byron Bay was the truly nauseating smell, a product of the abattoir and a large dairy factory whose odours were pumped out into the locality. The intense heat was a torment. Midges buzzed relentlessly in the blistering sunshine, flies continually settled on her lips and tongue, and she tried not to think about the crocodiles and sharks as she took refuge in the ocean or under the shade of the eucalypt trees on the beach. The place was nothing like she had imagined – about as far as she could get from the tender embrace of a warm summer’s day at home. And she longed for her favourite foods, wished they’d packed a lifetime’s supply of Bird’s Instant Whip and Ovaltine.
Bea’s thoughts turned to Diane, her sister and friend. It was now more than thirty years since they’d last seen each other and she missed her dearly. Of all the losses, it was Di’s that she still felt most keenly. But she had done as her parents had instructed, had remained true to her word and stayed away without contact. I miss you, Di... She’d never been back to Byron Bay, afraid perhaps of what she might find there. Though by all accounts the town was now unrecognisable: the unappealing outpost had been transformed into a fashionable centre of alternative lifestyles and eco retreats. She wondered if Di was still there, whether she’d turned into a Byron Bay hippy, whether she thought of Bea still. She hoped so.
Flora stepped from the plane first. The ground was covered with a light dusting of frost. She turned to her gran from the top step as she wrapped her arms around her trunk. ‘Oh, Bea! It’s absolutely freezing!’ she shouted against the cold wind that whipped her hair back and froze her nose. It was the coldest she had ever been.
Bea laughed, having quite forgotten just how cold cold could be. This was not a case of reaching for an extra jersey at the end of a day on the beach as the big sun sank into the sea, or popping on a pair of socks to ward off the early-morning chill; this was the kind of cold that shrank your goosepimpled skin against your limbs and chilled your bones until they felt brittle. The kind of cold that hurt your ears and made you want to crawl beneath a big fat duvet and not emerge until the summer showed its face. She had a sudden flashback of walking home from primary school with Diane in the dead of winter and it being already almost dark at three o’clock. She recalled the way her face would feel raw to the touch, how they would race home in their wellies to sit in front of the fire, their fingers and toes numb, and then the unpleasant smell of damp wool as their mum laid their mittens and scarves on the unwieldy metal fire cage to dry out. ‘Is it too late to choose Bali?’ she quipped, laughing at her granddaughter through chattering teeth.
As soon as they’d reclaimed their luggage, Flora pulled her ski jacket from her backpack, along with her woolly beanie and thick angora scarf. Bea wrapped her pashmina twice around her neck and fumbled in her case for her long navy wool coat. As they headed for the car-rental office, her teeth seemed to knock in her gums and the icy air sent a chill right through her body. ‘God, it’s so cold!’ she repeated every few minutes, rubbing her hands together. Flora merely nodded, as though the shock of the temperature had rendered her unable to speak.
Airport hoardings carried posters of the festive food and beribboned gifts that awaited them in the stores and restaurants of Edinburgh. Bea felt a jolt of excitement. It might be cold, but it was proper Christmas weather.
‘Are you feeling okay to drive, Gra— Bea?’ Flora asked.
‘Perfectly! I’m wide awake and raring to go!’ Bea beamed, her shoulder-length grey hair sitting neatly on her shoulders beneath her hat.
The two took possession of their little red Fiat 500, laughing at the novelty of it. They thanked the smiling Andrew from the car-rental company, who spoke so quickly and with such a strong Scottish accent that Bea only caught about every third word. Flora threw one bag on the back seat; the other fitted easily into the surprisingly roomy boot. Bea slammed the lid before jumping into the driver’s seat and punching the coordinates into the satnav, which beeped.
‘I love this car! It’s like driving in a little cherry tomato!’ Flora chuckled as Bea turned the key in the ignition, cranked the heating up to full blast and held up her hands in front of the vent.
‘No, it’s like a Christmas bauble!’ Bea laughed.
‘Whatever it is, I wish it was warmer. I can’t feel my feet!’ Flora stamped her trainers against the rubber mat on the floor.
‘It’ll soon heat up.’ Bea hoped she was right as her hand shook against the steering wheel, rattling her bangles beneath her coat.
They were apparently eight miles from The Balmoral Hotel, their home for the next couple of weeks. Neither had been to Scotland before and, other than what they’d gleaned from pictures on the internet – all high mountains and dense forests – and from watching Highlander and Taggart, they had no idea what to expect.
Bea fastened the seatbelt and pulled at her cream chinos to ensure minimum creasing in transit. She gathered the folds of her coat over her lap to act as a blanket and adjusted her silver bracelets, as was her habit.
‘You haven’t driven me in a long time.’ Flora yawned and tossed her head, shrugging off the tiredness that threatened.
Bea nodded. ‘Nope, but don’t worry, I think I just about remember how.’ She winked. ‘At least they drive on the correct side of the road!’
Flora laughed.
‘Are you excited?’ Bea asked as she revved the engine.
‘I really am!’ Flora squealed.
Bea felt a flicker of unease at the responsibility of driving her granddaughter. It felt like the biggest privilege that Wyatt and Sarah were entrusting their only child into her care on the open road in a foreign country.
‘The sky is quite grey here, isn’t it?’ She bent low in her seat and peered up through the windscreen at the low, thick cloud, which made everything seem very wintry. ‘It adds an air of mystery to the place, don’t you think?’
‘Yes. It reminds me of Harry Potter.’ Flora chuckled.
Bea switched the indicators left then ri
ght and practised turning the lights on, off and to full beam, trying to familiarise herself with the controls of the Fiat. Sitting bolt upright in her seat and concentrating with every fibre of her being, she released the handbrake and pulled into the flow of traffic that was emerging slowly from the car park. She navigated three roundabouts, following signs for Edinburgh city centre. The roads were neat grey asphalt and the mini roundabouts with their high, pale kerbstones were turfed with well-kept grass and dotted with the occasional advertising board staked into the soil.
Two coaches swamped the little Fiat as it continued sedately down the middle lane. ‘Crikey, I feel like a minnow!’
‘A shiny red minnow!’ Flora corrected.
The heavy traffic continued as they tootled along the A8. ‘I think the satnav’s half-hour estimate might be a bit optimistic,’ Bea said. ‘I can’t believe there’s this much traffic! I remember there being hardly any cars when I was growing up, especially round us. Diane and I used to play games on the little roads near our house, if you can believe that – tennis and football, right there in the road. If a car did come along, it would simply beep and we’d get out of the way. But look at this! It’s crazy!’
As they crawled along, slow enough to peek into the cars on either side of them, Bea and Flora smiled inanely at their occupants, ridiculously excited at being in a traffic jam – a Scottish traffic jam, no less! Bea peered at the houses as they passed through Corstorphine, studying the sturdy detached granite homes. Elaborate castellations sat above the top windows, giving the properties an air of grandeur quite unlike the more modern buildings they were used to in Sydney.
‘I am actually here...’ Bea shared her thoughts out loud. ‘I am back in the UK, but I am a grown-up. How did that happen?’
‘I don’t know.’ Flora shrugged. ‘I wish Mum and Dad could see us, driving along in the bauble while it’s so cold outside. Dad would love it here, exploring. He likes adventure, doesn’t he?’
‘He sure does.’ Bea smiled, happy that Flora spoke about her dad with fondness and none of the aggression she had witnessed of late.
‘Do you think they’ll miss me?’ Flora’s voice was small.
‘Miss you? Of course they will! But they’ll be happy that we’re having a good time.’
‘I’ll call them later.’ She stared out of the window.
‘Good idea.’
Flora shook her head. ‘It will be nice for them to have some time on holiday on their own. Without work or anything.’
Bea thought she sounded remarkably grown-up. ‘Are you missing them?’
Flora nodded. ‘A little bit.’
‘Well, that’s a good thing. Just think how lovely it will be when you see them again.’
‘I’m going to buy them presents and maybe something for Marcus.’ Flora continued to gaze fixedly out of the window.
‘Marcus who you hate? Who you punched in the mouth?’
‘Yes.’ Flora sighed. ‘I don’t really hate him. I like him. I might love him.’
‘Oh, darling girl! Well, a little tip for you: if you do like someone or maybe even love them, punching them in the mouth is not necessarily the best way to start a relationship.’
‘I know that.’ Flora looked at her gran. ‘I didn’t like him immediately. Lori said she wanted to go out with him, so I didn’t say anything to anyone. But then about three weeks into term, we were on the bus back from the beach and I saw him walking on Darley Road. He was on his own and my heart kind of fluttered. I knew I wanted to speak to him and get to know him, but I knew that Lori liked him, so I didn’t say anything. I thought about him the whole way home and when I saw him at school I felt the same. But then the whole period thing happened, and then I punched him.’
Bea remembered what it was like to have a teenage heart bursting with love. Undistracted by work or other responsibilities, her young mind had been free to ponder the object of her affection morning, noon and night. ‘Have you spoken to him? Told him how you feel?’
Flora shook her head. ‘No. I was way too shy and Lori would kill me. But I remember what he was wearing when he walked along Darley Road and every time I think about it my tummy gets real flippy.’
Bea focused on the grey sky, a blue button-down shirt, a dark green silk scarf, grey twill slacks, a lick of fringe that dangled in his eyes, the size of his hand, into which hers fitted as if made to measure...
‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ Bea mouthed, quietly. ‘I do.’
Flora straightened her shoulders, sitting upright in the seat. ‘Not that there would be any point in telling him. He hates me.’
‘I bet he doesn’t.’ Bea spoke from the side of her mouth as the line of cars moved forward.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Lori says he’s going to go out with her and that’s that.’
‘Doesn’t he have a choice? Poor bloke! Don’t you think you should tell him how you feel, give him the chance to decide?’ Bea gave her granddaughter the same advice she’d only recently dished out to Kim.
‘Suppose. How do you know when you’ve met the love of your life?’
‘That’s a good question.’ Bea smiled. ‘I suppose the answer is that you just have to trust your little voice of instinct.’
‘I think I love him, but I might have blown it...’
‘What, with the whole punching him thing?’
Flora nodded defeatedly. ‘The zoo!’ she suddenly shouted, changing the topic and the atmosphere as she pointed to a sign on the left-hand side of the road. ‘And they’ve got pandas! Actual pandas! We’ve just got fat dugongs. I hate to think how cold they must be! Can we go see them?’
‘People from Edinburgh would probably love to see the fat dugongs! And yes, we can do whatever you want, but not today – I need a hair wash and a soak in a bubbly bath.’
‘I am so excited!’ Flora yelled.
The car picked up a little speed as the traffic flowed more freely and it was Bea’s turn to shout. ‘Look! Murrayfield! That’s incredible! I saw it on TV when the Wallabies played Scotland last year. We watched it in the café, Tait was going crazy for Lealiifano, who played a blinder! And here I am! That’s just crazy. I have to get photos and send them back.’
Flora laughed, buoyed up by her gran’s excitement and tickled to see her dad’s mum sharing his passion for a sport she herself had only the vaguest interest in.
The two marvelled at the Christmas decorations on the houses that lined the streets. Neon Santas dangled from ladders and hung from window ledges; trees and shrubs glowed and twinkled with fairy lights; and one driveway even sported an illuminated sleigh with four reindeer pulling it. Inflatable snowmen and a variety of green, red and gold displays shone against the grey afternoon sky, lighting up the solid flint walls and drab rendering. Children wearing thick coats, woolly hats and scarves gripped their parents’ hands as they scurried along the damp pavements, clutching carrier bags decorated with Christmas trees and cheerful slogans.
Bea stared at the parades of shops, having quite forgotten that in the UK they didn’t have the heavy canopy roofs they needed in Australia to keep the sun off their rows of shops and cafés. The facades here looked a little flat by comparison, exposed, but also lighter and more accessible. A memory flashed into her head of her six-year-old self clutching a silver sixpence. She was standing with her nose inches from a glass-fronted domed cabinet as she chose sweets from a mouthwatering display to be put into a small paper bag. Having to make the choice between Foaming Yellow Bananas, Pink Shrimps, Rhubarb and Custards, Black Jacks, Liquorice Pipes, Jelly Worms and packets of Parma Violets was excruciating! She would then suffer from post-choice regret when she saw that Diane had gone for Strawberry Laces or another goody that had escaped her own eagle eye. She had forgotten all about those Saturday morning trips to the sweet shop.
Eventually they turned into Princes Street. Bea gasped and her heart jumped; there it was, just as she had imagined it for all those years. Alex w
as right: the city did look absolutely beautiful. It was only early afternoon, but the sky already had a tinge of purple to it. Lights had been strung between the Victorian lamp-posts and under them a throng of shoppers and tourists ambled. To the left, the tall flint and granite buildings were crammed together like sentinels overlooking majestic Edinburgh Castle, and beneath the castle walls Princes Street Gardens swept up to meet the bustle of Princes Street.
Bea felt her pulse race, hearing the words he’d whispered into her ear as they waltzed under a hunter’s moon. ‘She stands like something from a grand painting, framing your view. There is nowhere else in the world you could be but Princes Street. On a rainy day or with the sun glinting off the old red sandstone, the castle is equally beautiful. For me it means home and I guess it always will.’
‘Oh, look, a funfair!’ Flora pointed up ahead.
Bea pulled her gaze from the Christmassy shop windows, her eyes lingering on the frontage of the kiltmaker’s Hector Russell, whose three floor-to-ceiling windows each showed a fantastic array of tartan, complete with mannequins decked out in Santa hats sitting askew on their heads. She wanted to run up the sweeping staircase and explore inside.
‘A big wheel! The view from there will be awesome. We have to go!’ Flora’s excitement spilled from her and Bea was happy to hear it, mindful that, despite all the upset at school, Flora was still just an exuberant young girl. She hoped she would remain that way for a long time yet.
‘We can do whatever you want. Put it on the list.’ Bea smiled.
‘Eat is what I want to do. I’m starving.’ Flora patted her stomach. ‘What’s the time at home?’
With one hand still on the wheel, Bea delved blindly into her rucksack pocket for her phone and switched it on for the first time. It took a minute to find the network before her phone issued all manner of beeps. ‘Ooh, look, I’m on O2!’ She faced the phone screen towards her granddaughter and laughed, as if proof were needed that they were indeed in a foreign country. ‘The time in Sydney is... Gosh!’ Bea squinted at the screen. ‘It’s two in the morning! No wonder we’re a bit out of sorts.’
The Second Chance Café Page 13