The House We Called Home

by Jenny Oliver

  ‘That’s enough, Rosie,’ Amy’s voice cut in on the conversation. She was standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed.

  Rosie jumped and dropped the Ken doll.

  Gus bent down to pick it up, slowly, all the time watching as Amy came forward and yanked Rosie over to the ice cream freezer.

  Then he stood up and slotted the doll back on the shelf, pausing for a second, his hand resting on a Buy One Get One Free sign. ‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath.

  CHAPTER 10

  Stella and Jack were halfway back from the fishing lake when the car broke down. The petrol gauge had been bleeping on empty since they left the house but a trip to the petrol station was in the opposite direction to the lake, and Jack had assured Stella that the Nissan Qashqai can run 43 miles after the needle hits empty on the dashboard. The lake was only ten miles away. Unfortunately, Jack hadn’t factored in a key road on the route being blocked by a lorry pouring concrete for building works and a diversion which then led off into a winding country lane maze outside Stella’s jurisdiction and unnavigable because iMaps wouldn’t load on either of their phones. When they finally got back to countryside she knew, they were out of petrol.

  ‘We should have got the sat nav fixed,’ Jack muttered, slamming the car door.

  ‘Or,’ Stella said, standing in the passing point where they’d managed to crawl to a stop, ‘we should have got some petrol.’

  Jack didn’t reply. Just sucked in his cheeks, visibly fuming.

  Stella scratched her head, looked around to get her bearings. It had been so long since she’d lived around here.

  ‘Which way?’ Jack said, his phone map still just a frustrating grey grid with a blue dot.

  Stella shrugged. ‘Well, the house is that way.’ She pointed slightly to her right. ‘But the quickest route would be straight ahead to the sea and then along the cliff path. So up there.’ She pointed towards the high verge beside them that flanked the road. Jack looked dubious but didn’t argue, clearly still furious with himself about the petrol.

  Heat bore down on them as they climbed. The humidity was reaching its peak. Stella slipped on the grass in her flip-flops. Her long blue skirt and white vest were not meant for trudging walks. Midges buzzed round her head.

  She felt like she was walking through one of the polytunnels she’d watched out of the window of a coach journey once through the arid wasteland of southern Spain. It was years ago, in the early days of having Sonny when she had no clue how much sun the pale new skin of a baby could handle. Sonny had spent the week squeezed like a fat little sausage into an all-in-one sun protection suit and hat with a white baby-sunblock face. She’d watched other children running about naked. She remembered running about naked herself, but the sun was more dangerous now because of global warming – that’s what she’d read on Mumsnet when she’d googled it before they left. But then one of the posts had warned of babies having vitamin D deficiency nowadays because they were overly protected from the sun. She remembered sitting looking perplexed with Jack – both of them, she knew, secretly remembering the holidays when they could lie back for a nap or nip off to the bar for a beer. Jack did actually nip off to the bar for a beer, and alone with the sand-eating sausage baby, Stella had started to write, scribbling in the back of the paperback she had naively taken to read, and Potty-Mouth was born. The first column was called, ‘Holiday? What holiday?’ The first line: ‘I never believed anyone when they said a holiday with kids was “same shit, different place”. I thought they were just miserable bastards. They were. They had kids.’

  She’d actually quite enjoyed the holiday in the end – staying up eating tapas while Sonny snored in the buggy in just his nappy, watching him giggle at the sea and be cooed over by grannies – and the article had gone full circle, ending on a high note but certainly not scrimping on the grizzle. The Sunday broadsheet magazine that she wrote for occasionally had run it, delighted by the angle – their readers loved a shocked snort with their weekend brunch, a nod of retrospective agreement ‘I wish we’d been able to say things like this in my day’ or a pass of the page over the table, ‘read this, it’s like that time it rained in Mallorca every day and the twins got chicken pox’. A flurry of letters arrived in uproarious response – some full-blown thank yous from people just relieved that someone else was finding it all as bad or worse than they were, others who didn’t find her funny at all, she tried her best to ignore those, because Potty-Mouth was hired.

  Over the years her column had lost an inch to advertising space and a new editor had made it clear that the readers wanted the grizzle. The best of the bad bits wrapped up in a witty package that took just over three minutes to read.

  ‘I’m sweating,’ said Jack as he hiked the final few feet up the hill. The verge dotted with spiky gorse bushes and pink heather.

  ‘Me too.’

  Jack wiped his brow with his T-shirt. Dark hair pushed up off his forehead. Face still rigid.

  They stopped side by side at the top. Below them the scene dropped into fields of sheep and crops. Rows of cabbages and corn. A tractor was backing into the farm, then further out past a golf course and caravan park was the sea. Glinting and familiar. Pale as the sky. Stella inhaled through her nose, felt her shoulders drop slightly.

  Jack shook his head. ‘This is madness. We’re miles away.’

  Stella rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not that bad,’ she laughed, his annoyance working to deflate her own.

  ‘It’s pretty bad,’ Jack said, sweeping his arm to take in the endless view.

  Stella shaded her eyes with her hand. ‘Well, look, that’s the Goldstone Caravan Park,’ she said, pointing at the rows of white static vans in the distance. ‘And the leisure centre.’ She squinted, gesturing to the right of the vans, to an ugly grey concrete building. ‘Once we’re there, we’re pretty much almost home.’ It was the distance between them and there that was the worry. ‘We just have to get across all those fields.’ She grinned.

  Jack blew out a breath, wiped the sweat away again. ‘You sure about this? You’ve never had the best sense of direction.’

  Stella mock gasped, ‘I have a sense of direction.’

  Jack looked at her like she was deluded. The tension broke. She smiled. He came over to walk next to her as she tucked her skirt into her knickers to stop it trailing along the ground and started to stride purposefully ahead. Jack matched her pace, bashing her shoulder with his at one point, when she caught his eye he shook his head with a resigned smile.

  They walked on a little in silence. The warm sun slicking their skin. Stella pointed to an overgrown footpath that ran down the side of the sheep field, trees wild and straggly making it dark as a tunnel. Jack held a bramble back so she could pass.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  In the shade Stella could feel the sweat on her arms cool. Jack wiped his forehead again with his shirt.

  Stella pulled a leaf from the side of the path, twirling it in her fingers. ‘So, do you want to do the next thing on the MOT list?’ she asked.

  Jack kicked a stone. ‘What was the first thing?’

  ‘The more sex,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Jack laughed. ‘That went well, didn’t it?’

  Stella glanced around her. ‘We could do it now if you want?’

  ‘What? Have sex?’ Jack looked shocked. ‘I’m not having sex here, someone might walk past.’

  ‘No one’s going to walk past, there’s no one here.’

  ‘Stella, I’m blushing,’ Jack said with a laugh. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’

  The dark silence of the tunnel closed in around them.

  ‘Why not? Come on, let’s live a little.’ Stella wasn’t actually that keen on having sex on a deserted footpath – what would she do about the brambles? And the initial suggestion had only really been to wind him up, but the fact he was so adamant niggled her. She had thought they were the type of couple who would at least have given it a go,
or perhaps she suspected they weren’t which made it seem twice as important.

  Potty-Mouth and her husband would have had sex on a deserted footpath. They’d probably have done it on a busy thoroughfare if challenged.

  Stella didn’t want to go that far, but she wanted to know that she and Jack were game. That they might step out of their comfort zone in order to fulfil what, yes, was a silly magazine challenge, but a challenge nonetheless to prove that they weren’t trapped in middle age. That they weren’t in the rut she feared more and more that they were. She stopped walking. ‘Come on. There’s some trees over there. No one will see.’

  She didn’t want their relationship to have become the type that would never have sex in a field. The idea of it hit her with more sadness than she expected. ‘Come on, Jack,’ she thought. ‘Say yes!’

  Jack looked at her. ‘Stel, I’m hot. We’ve had to leave our car in a layby. And we’re meant to be finding out about your father. Forgive me for not wanting a shag.’

  Stella nudged a broken frond of grass with her foot. She sighed, glanced around her. ‘No,’ she said begrudgingly. ‘You’re probably right.’

  They started to walk on again. It felt cold now in the shade.

  ‘So, go on then, what was the next thing on the list?’ Jack asked, nudging good-humouredly at her silent sulk.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Stella replied.

  ‘Go on, tell me.’

  They came out of the tunnel into a wide expanse of cornfield, poppies and white butterflies like paint splatter against the yellow. Stella put her hands on her hips, staring out at the view. ‘We have to say what we most appreciate about the other.’

  Jack tipped his head like he was accepting a challenge. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I can do that.’

  Stella started to walk on past the waist-high corn.

  Jack followed, catching up quickly. ‘I appreciate how funny you are.’

  Stella did a little shrug.

  Jack grinned. ‘I appreciate how young your skin looks.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ Stella snorted. ‘You don’t have to say “I appreciate” before everything you know.’

  He laughed. ‘I appreciate how much you do for the kids.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘I appreciate how good a mother you are. Although I do think you should talk to Sonny.’

  Stella stopped walking and swung round. ‘And what do I tell him?’ she asked, genuinely perplexed. ‘That it’s OK to call your mum a bitch and spend the whole time killing people on screen all day then fail your exams? That would be good.’

  They stood facing each other.

  ‘No, I don’t think that.’ Jack held his hands out in a gesture of peace. ‘Just we’re here, we’re away from home. Maybe see it as a Time Out,’ he said, head tilted to one side, his expression trying to encourage her to see reason. ‘Talk to him, man to man, so to speak. Get to know him again.’

  Stella looked the other way, out over the corn. Her heart rate slowing as she considered it, knowing he was right. ‘OK, fine,’ she said, starting to walk again along the side of the field, turning to take a few paces backwards as she added, ‘Make a note that one of the things I don’t appreciate about you is the use of the term “Time Out”.’

  Jack grinned.

  ‘Anything else?’ Stella asked.

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘About what you appreciate about me?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s hard to articulate. Like I appreciate how you look – I think you’re really good-looking. But that sounds shallow.’

  ‘No, that’s OK with me,’ Stella said, a quirk of a smile on her lips.

  ‘I appreciate your strength. Not like weight-lifting strength, but strength of character.’

  ‘You think I have strength of character?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Definitely you do.’ Jack nodded.

  They walked side by side in silence.

  Then Jack said, ‘So, what do you appreciate about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Stella said flatly.

  Jack laughed.

  Stella tried not to smile.

  The backs of their knuckles brushed as they walked.

  Stella glanced across at him. Jack tipped his head, unsure whether she was about to say something. Stella swallowed, she wasn’t very good at things like this. Then she said, ‘I appreciate that you—’

  But the comment was cut off by her phone ringing.

  Amy’s name flashed on the screen. ‘Hi, Amy,’ she said. ‘Everything OK? Are the kids OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ Amy said, but after that her voice kept cutting out, the reception terrible.

  ‘Just tell me quick, I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Swimming,’ Amy said.

  ‘Swimming?’ Stella frowned.

  ‘Londis. The woman. Said he’s been swimming.’

  ‘No.’ Stella shook her head. ‘He hasn’t swum since Bobby.’

  ‘At the pool,’ said Amy.

  ‘We’re right by the pool,’ Stella said, raising her voice in a pointless attempt to overcome the bad reception.

  Then Amy cut out.

  ‘He’s been swimming at the pool.’ Stella looked up at Jack, confused.

  ‘So I gathered,’ Jack replied. Both of them glanced over to the ugly grey leisure centre building a field or so away. ‘Would you be all right going to the pool?’ he asked, tentatively checking.

  ‘Me?’ Stella scoffed, slipping on her sunglasses. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  CHAPTER 11

  The leisure centre smelt exactly as Stella remembered. Like chlorine and feet. To call it a leisure centre made it sound much more impressive than it was. Really it was just a pool, a room with a few free weights, and a café area that was staffed only at peak periods, and at all other times drinks and snacks were supplied by whichever one of the three vending machines was in order.

  Standing in the reception, Stella felt almost dizzy. Like she was being attacked by soft air punches of ungraspable, overwhelming recollection. The pattern on the tiles in the foyer was the same – rows of raised beige squares with tiny speckles of black. Two had fallen off the wall, leaving zigzagged lines of yellowing putty. There was the same strip light in the ceiling and the same scuffed swing doors to the changing room.

  The only thing that had changed was the fancy new glass reception desk with automatic barriers for entry and exit into the pool. It was an anomaly in the battered, worn-down building. Stella found herself wanting it gone, and the nineteen-year-old surf dude with the sun-bleached, salt-dreadlocked hair behind the counter gone with it. She had liked it when old Peggy had sat at the entrance desk, her cup of stewed tea going cold next to her, her occasional walk round the pool to chat to the lifeguards leaving the desk unmanned so you could sneak in for a free swim, her knitting, her championing, her little nod of acknowledgement that she’d seen you break your record in training.

  ‘Hi,’ Stella said to the dude.

  He was on Snapchat. Stella did not understand Snapchat – why anyone would want dog ears and a dog nose was beyond her.

  He looked up smiling from something he’d read on his phone. ‘Yep,’ he said, phone down, hands flat on the desk, scooting himself forward on his wheelie chair. ‘Two to swim?’ he said, already keying the price into his computer.

  ‘No.’ Stella shook her head.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked up with a cheeky grin. He was painfully, youthfully good-looking. Stella found herself surreptitiously detangling her hair, pulling her skirt out from where she’d hitched it into her pants, wanting to check her reflection. She imagined herself all sweaty, make-up run in the heat.

  ‘Is Pete here?’ she asked, feeling unexpectedly nervous at the mention of the name. Suddenly psyching herself up for the possible meeting.

  The dude picked up a phone and as he pressed the buttons glanced up and said, ‘What’s your name?’

  She paus
ed. ‘Tell him it’s Stella.’

  She felt Jack place his hand on her back. She half wanted it gone. Wanted to appear strong on her own.

  The tone rang loud as they waited for someone to pick up. Then suddenly recognition dawned on the dude as he looked up at her frowning and said, ‘Stella? As in Stella Whitethorn?’

  ‘Well, I’m Stella French now because’ —she pointed to Jack— ‘but yes, I was Stella Whitethorn then,’ she said, her explanation seeming awkward and rambling.

  The young guy’s mouth spread into a smile. ‘Cool.’ Then the phone was answered and he said, ‘Hey Pete, Stella Whitethorn’s here for you!’

  Two long, fidgety minutes later Pete arrived, the side door swinging open with a bang. His belly leading the way, his arms wide. The only thing he was missing was the cigarette that used to dangle permanently from his lips. Pete was the only person Stella knew who managed to shout and smoke at the same time.

  ‘Well I never. Look what the cat dragged in,’ he said, all open arms and wide toothy smile.

  The dude pressed the button for the snazzy doors so Stella and Jack could walk through into the corridor. He was watching it all with a massive grin.

  ‘Hey Pete,’ Stella said, awkwardly rigid as he pulled her in for an unexpected hug. He smelt the same. Like sweat and coffee. ‘You look exactly the same,’ she said, surprised by how unchanged he was, like a dusty waxwork pulled out from the basement.

  ‘Less hair.’ He patted the wisps on the top of his head. ‘And a bit more here,’ he added, patting what was now an astonishingly large stomach.

  ‘Need to get in the pool again,’ Stella said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Blood to her brain had been redirected to her senses that were currently working in dizzying overdrive.

  ‘So do you, my dear.’ Pete shot back with a lazy drawl, weathered skin creasing as he grinned.

  Stella couldn’t think of anything else but to ignore the comment, and said instead, ‘This is Jack, my husband,’ a little primly.