by Annie Lyons
‘That’s good,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you for a while,’ she ventured.
Her grandfather waved her concerns away. ‘You’ve been busy,’ he said. Lizzie felt sick with guilt. She looked at her grandfather, who was smiling at her. ‘You’re here now.’ She realised that he was forgiving her and that she didn’t need to say anything more. Her grandfather was of a generation who did not navel-gaze or agonise over the past. It was done. Move on.
She smiled, glancing towards the mantelpiece at the photograph of her granny aged twenty-one, her eyes sparkling and full of hope. She rose to her feet and picked up the picture for closer inspection.
‘She was so beautiful,’ she said. ‘Like a Hollywood starlet.’
‘She was the best-looking girl in the village,’ chuckled her grandfather. ‘All the lads wanted to go out with her but she picked me. I think it was because I knew how to do the foxtrot.’
‘Well you look pretty handsome to me,’ laughed Lizzie, gesturing at the picture of a young Ernest grinning out at them from its frame on the other side of the mantelpiece.
‘I still miss her,’ he said in a matter of fact way. ‘It’s been over fifteen years but I still expect her to walk through the door at any moment,’ he added.
‘I’m sorry, Grandpa,’ said Lizzie, sitting next to him and patting his arm.
Ernest shrugged. ‘It’s just the way it is and we were very happy. I wouldn’t change that for a minute but she went before her time, you know, like your dear sister.’ Lizzie nodded, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Ah now, don’t cry. Neither of them would want you to be upset. We have to be grateful for the time we had, don’t we? Come on now,’ said her grandfather, putting an arm around her. But Lizzie couldn’t stop.
She was remembering the exact moment when she had found out that her beloved granny had died. She had been sixteen years old.
‘Sweet sixteen,’ her granny had twinkled when she had seen her that summer. ‘And never been kissed.’ They had walked arm in arm along the pier, eating ice cream and chatting whilst her grandfather strode on ahead, looking out to sea. Bea hadn’t stayed on that occasion. She had already met Joe and they were spending every loved-up minute they could together. Lizzie had been secretly pleased to be on her own with her grandparents, particularly her granny. It gave her a break from her mother too. As teenage hormones clashed with menopausal anxiety, Lizzie’s home life resembled something of a war zone. With Bea at university, both parties had lost a vital ally. Lizzie’s dad knew better than to cross his wife and so invariably Lizzie was left alone and furious. The trip to stay with her grandparents had been her granny’s idea and Lizzie had leapt at the chance. One evening they had been sitting in the living room doing the crossword together whilst Lizzie’s grandfather watched something on the television. A female presenter was issuing forth on the topic of the day. Her grandfather had tutted loudly.
‘She’s a gobby one, that one,’ he remarked. ‘Reminds me of Stella.’
Lizzie remembered her granny putting down her newspaper, removing her glasses and fixing him with a stern look. ‘Ernest! If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all,’ she said.
‘What? I was only joking,’ he protested.
‘I will not have you talk about our daughter in that way.’ It was the only time Lizzie could recall her granny being anything other than even-tempered and she noticed that her grandfather didn’t even try to argue. Granny put up with a lot from her husband but she would not tolerate anyone speaking ill of her family.
She had died just months after Lizzie’s visit. It had been unexpected and heart-breaking. Lizzie’s father had been the one to break the news to her when she came home from school. She was only a week into the start of term and it had been a pleasingly warm September. As she entered the front door, she was surprised to find her father waiting to greet her.
‘Dad? What are you doing home from work?’
‘Lizzie, I need to talk to you.’
‘What is it? Is it Bea? Or Mum?’ Lizzie’s mind raced with panic.
‘Come and sit down.’ She followed her father into the living room, kicking off her shoes and flinging her bag to one side. She searched his face for an answer. He looked pale and drawn as they sat down together on the sofa. ‘It’s Granny Ivy,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that she’s died.’
It was as if Lizzie’s brain couldn’t filter this information correctly because at first she thought this might be a joke before she remembered that people don’t joke about that kind of thing. Nonetheless, it had to be a mistake. She had only seen her two months ago. They had talked and laughed together. Lizzie would know if something like that was going to happen. There would have been a sign. ‘No,’ was the only word she could form.
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ said her father taking her hand. ‘She was a wonderful lady. I know this is going to be hard for you especially. You were very close.’
‘No,’ repeated Lizzie. ‘It’s just not possible.’ Her father squeezed her hand as if trying to take away some of the pain. Lizzie stared at the swirling pattern on the cushion behind him; there were feathers poking through the cover and it was starting to fray at the edges. ‘Does Bea know?’
‘I phoned her earlier. She’s coming over. Your mother is very upset so we need to be extra kind to her, okay?’ Lizzie nodded. ‘She’s upstairs packing ready to go and stay with Grandpa for a few days if you want to go and see her?’
Lizzie didn’t want to but there was something in her father’s tone that suggested she should. ‘Okay.’
Her father squeezed her hand again. ‘Good girl. We all need to look after one another don’t we?’ Lizzie nodded through the tears which had started to fall. ‘Come on, Busy Lizzie, it’s all right,’ he said.
Lizzie smiled and rose to her feet. ‘I’ll go and see Mum then,’ she said.
She walked slowly up the stairs and paused in the doorway of her parents’ bedroom. Her mother was busy packing a bag. She glanced up at her and Lizzie could see that her face was red from crying. She made no move towards her daughter so Lizzie took a step forward.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ she asked.
Stella sighed. ‘No, not really,’ she replied, folding a cardigan and putting it in the bag.
‘I’m very sorry,’ said Lizzie.
Her mother nodded. ‘I know you are.’
Part of Lizzie wanted to reach out to her mother and for her mother to fold her in a consoling embrace but it wasn’t to be. Stella finished her packing and zipped up the bag. As she hauled it from the bed and walked past Lizzie she put out a hand and squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. Then she was gone, down the stairs, getting ready to leave. Lizzie sank down onto her parents’ bed and sobbed.
At that moment, sitting back in Dove Cottage with her grandfather, Lizzie realised the truth of her teenage years and how profound the death of her grandmother had been for her relationship with her mum. It had quite literally pushed them over the edge. She leant against her grandfather and for the first time in a while felt comforted. They sat like this for a few precious moments before Ernest fished a clean handkerchief out of his pocket. Lizzie accepted it gratefully, wiping her eyes.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be,’ said her grandfather.
‘I miss them,’ said Lizzie. ‘I miss them all.’
Ernest patted her hand. ‘So do I, Lizzie. So do I.’
The phone began to ring and Ernest shuffled towards the front of the sofa, launching himself to his feet before grasping his stick and moving forwards to answer it. ‘Ernest Palmer,’ he said. Lizzie watched his face as it dissolved in happy recognition. ‘Lawrence? How are you, old boy?’ he cried. Her grandfather chatted and chuckled in delight at his son’s news.
Lizzie recalled the car journeys after visits to her grandparents and her mother’s irritated comments to her father about how her brother could do no
wrong. Lawrence had moved to the States when Lizzie was a baby and had only been back to visit on the odd occasion but she remembered those occasions as being like the visit of a state dignitary, such was her grandparents’ excitement. His film career had never really taken off but he had become rather successful in the property business and rather wealthy too.
In that moment she recognised that every family with siblings had its rivalries. You were constantly vying for your parents’ attention, longing for them to notice you, seeking their approval. The difference between Stella and Lizzie in this regard had been Bea. Whereas Lizzie had seen how Lawrence would claim all his parents’ favour to the detriment of Stella, Bea had never done this. Bea had been Lizzie’s protector and soul-mate. When Lizzie felt the force of Stella’s wrath, Bea had comforted her. It was all about your role in the family. Her mother had been the disciplinarian, strict and inflexible, whereas Bea had been Lizzie’s angel, pure and simple. When she had discovered that Lizzie had climbed out of the window one night when she was grounded, Bea had covered for her. When she had been caught smoking by Alex Chambers’ mother, Evelyn, Bea had pretended the cigarette was hers and used her charm so that Evelyn promised not to tell her mother. And of course, when Lizzie had found herself pregnant and rejected, Bea had rescued her then too. The truth was Bea had been Stella’s favourite but she had been Lizzie’s too. As she watched her grandfather listen to Lawrence in rapt awe, she felt a pang of sympathy for her mother. She hadn’t considered that this visit would help her to break down some barriers with her mother but Lizzie of all people knew how history shaped a person. This was true for Stella Harris too.
Lizzie decided to leave her grandfather to his chat and go upstairs. As she walked across the landing she heard her grandfather comment, ‘Over for Christmas? Wonderful! I’ll tell Stella there’ll be one more for Christmas dinner.’
She pushed at the door still decorated with the peeling glitter-heart stickers that had once smelt of strawberries. She held her breath as she entered the room. The bed was unmade, a duvet and pillow stacked neatly at one end with the same blue satin quilt perched on top. There was a line of well-loved bears sitting on the dressing table by the window and the same red and blue striped curtains hung either side. The books were all there too, lined up on the shelf to the right of the window like old friends. A photograph of Lizzie and Bea sat in front of them in a pewter frame. It had been taken during one of their summer visits here. They were standing in their swimming costumes in front of the sea, arms around one another holding up a gigantic clump of sea-weed. Tears formed in Lizzie‘s eyes as she picked up the photograph and peered at it. She must have been seven and Bea ten. It pained her how happy and unaffected by life they looked. She clutched the frame to her chest and sat down on the edge of the bed, sobbing for lost lives. She heard a gentle tapping at the door and turned to see her grandfather’s worried face.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d got lost.’ He noticed the photo and her red eyes. ‘How about a walk by the sea? Blow the old cobwebs away.’
Lizzie gave him a grateful smile and nodded.
It was a bright, clear day with the sun doing its best to leak through the gaps in the cloud. The sea was soupy but calm and they saw only a handful of dog walkers and elderly couples as they made their way along the seafront. They reached the end of the promenade where the beach grew wide and the sand was yellow and soft. Lizzie could remember sunny afternoons spent here as a child. Her granny would pack a picnic of Famous Five standards: boiled eggs, ham sandwiches, crunchy delicate pink and green apples from the tree in the garden and bottles of lemon barley water as sweet as a spoonful of sugar. She would spread a brown-and-white-check car blanket out for them whilst her grandfather would sit on the deckchair he had brought, his head buried in the newspaper. Bea and Lizzie would dart into the sea like a couple of excited spaniels, splashing and running in and out of the waves, paddling with their adoring granny and building forts and islands with streams running down to the water. Occasionally their grandfather would venture down to the water’s edge if encouraged by his wife and declare their sand architecture to be ‘wonderful’.
When they were a bit older, she and Bea were allowed to ride their bikes along the old abandoned railway track, overgrown with gigantic brambles and nodding ferns. They would make their way down to the river which led to the harbour and the sea. If Lizzie closed her eyes these days, even if she was somewhere in the middle of London, she could recall the shush-shush-shushing of the reeds as they sped by, the tinny clang of the ships’ masts and the nattering of the reed warblers. Lizzie looked towards the harbour now. She would have liked to have gone back there today as part of her tour around the past but she could see that her grandfather had walked far enough. She took him by the arm.
‘Shall we head for home?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ he said. She could hear the breathless relief in his voice.
She had hugged her grandfather before she left with the promise, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ He had patted her on the arm.
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he said.
On the train journey home, Lizzie’s head buzzed with ghosts and memories. She had underestimated the effect this trip would have on her. Part of her had naively assumed that it would be a pleasant trip, a quick visit to the past and a slice of nostalgia which she could file away again like a photograph in an album. She hadn’t realised how she would feel as soon as she was confronted with the place where she had last been truly happy. She also hadn’t been prepared for what it would show her about her mother. She was starting to understand a little of what had made her into the person she was. Mostly, it was a renewed sense of longing that was now giving her fresh hope. She longed, in vain, to see the people she’d lost but she was starting to realise the value of those who were still around and the need to reconnect with them properly. Above all else, she longed to be happy again and she realised that this meant no longer being alone. She needed someone to share it with and, more than that, she wanted someone to share it with too.
Chapter Ten
Early December
The Christmas Shopping evening had been Susie’s idea and Lizzie and Mrs Nussbaum agreed that it was a good one. The book group was going from strength to strength so it made sense to build on this with an event which brought people to browse and shop in both businesses in the run-up to Christmas.
‘We could even do hampers for coffee lovers, tea-drinkers –’ suggested Susie, when she put the idea to them both.
‘Or fans of cheesecake?’ grinned Lizzie, glancing over at a smiling Mrs Nussbaum.
‘Absolutely!’ cried Susie. ‘We can make it really festive, hang fairy lights, we’ll bake some panetonne, give everyone a glass of Prosecco, I’ll get Ben to make a few canapés, maybe invite an author in for a book signing?’
‘Sounds like a fantastische Idee,’ agreed Mrs Nussbaum. ‘Why don’t you youngsters sort out the details, ja?’
Susie leapt in. ‘Will do, Mrs N.’ She turned to Lizzie. ‘How about meeting this Thursday around eight at the pub to sort it all out?’
‘Okay. Sounds good.’
Of course, Lizzie wasn’t to know what her friend was up to. Even when she arrived at the pub to find Ben sitting alone nursing a pint and a packet of dry roasted peanuts, she didn’t twig straight away.
‘Hi, Ben,’ she said, approaching his table. ‘Is Susie joining us?’
‘Oh hi, Lizzie. No, she can’t make it. She goes to Pilates on a Thursday.’
‘Oh I see.’ Lizzie did see. Her newest friend had set her up. This was meant to be a date. No wonder Susie had been so specific with the date and time. At first, she felt cross with her friend, until she realised that this was just the sort of thing that Bea would have done and then she felt touched. Since visiting her grandfather and realising that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone, Lizzie had been wondering how on earth you went about meeting suitable, non-axe-murdering boyf
riends these days. It had been a long time since she had even entertained the idea. She was terrified of anything like internet dating, having barely progressed beyond texting, and would rather become a nun than try anything as excruciating as speed-dating. She had mentioned it in passing to Susie and thought she’d been discreet.
‘So what was the last date you went on?’ she had asked casually on one of their nights out.
Susie had sighed. ‘Well there was Gavin, an estate agent who was lovely but cried after sex. Sometimes during too. Then there was Tom. He was gorgeous - a yoga instructor. Very flexible but he said he was moving to Australia and then I bumped into him on the high street last week. Commitment issues I think. Seb was a solicitor but luckily Ben found out that he was married so I saved myself some bother there. Then there was Ed. He was a Primary school teacher. Very sweet but too young. And finally Jim, who was a journalist. Wrote an article about me saying I was high maintenance so he had to go.’
‘Wow, Susie, and that was over how long?’
‘Oh just the past year. I tell you it’s a big commitment trying to find Mr Perfect. If you want Mr Not Quite Perfect, there are plenty of candidates, mind. Why? Have you got a date then?’ smiled Susie, leaning in, ready for gossip.
‘No, no! Oh heavens no. Far from it. Couldn’t be further from the truth.’ Susie had stared at Lizzie, with one raised eyebrow and Lizzie realised she protesteth too much. ‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘So that’s a no then,’ teased Susie. Lizzie had done her best to change the subject but she had obviously planted a seed in her friend’s brain and now, here she was, in a pub on her own with Susie’s single brother. She knew that the Lizzie of old would have made an excuse and scuttled back to her flat like a frightened rabbit but this Lizzie didn’t want to do that. This Lizzie wanted to see what might happen if she stayed. Ben obviously didn’t know it was a potential date. Surely that was the perfect way to go on a date? The ultimate in try before you buy.