by Ali Harris
We arrive at Baga beach just as the sun is setting. Loni drags me straight over to a shack with tables right on the beach and orders two beers and a selection of traditional Goan dishes that she promises me I’ll love. Then she pulls her chair next to mine and nods over to the ocean.
We sit in silence as the sun that hangs like a gold pendant in the sky slowly dips down into the water and sets the sky alight, sending a flame of colour across the horizon and making the sea glow ultraviolet. I feel humbled by the sight and so grateful to be here with Loni that tears prickle my eyes and make my throat ache. Even if I don’t meet Dad I know that I’ll never regret coming here. As I look around, I’m trying to get to know him already, to see this place through his eyes. This is where he decided to put down roots after all: it’s his chosen garden, so different from Norfolk. Just as the city I chose to move to was so different from Norfolk too. I feel like I already have so much in common with my long-lost dad; I’m just not sure how much of it is good. Aside from both of us being prone to depression, we have both tried to make new lives for ourselves because we couldn’t cope with – or didn’t think we deserved – the one we had.
‘Are you OK?’ Loni asks gently. ‘What are you thinking about?’
I take a sip of beer. ‘Adam. I miss him so much, Loni.’
She nods and touches my hand. ‘I know, darling.’
We watch a family of four on the beach, just by the shore, cast in black silhouette. They all hold hands as the sun slips away, the tip of it glowing gold like a doubloon before disappearing behind the horizon. I know that both Loni and I are placing ourselves in that picture as if in a snapshot of the family we could have been.
‘Do you ever regret marrying Dad?’
Loni leans forward and cups my face with her hands. ‘How could I? Bea, you have to know that my life has been such a joy because he gave me you and Cal. I’ve always felt like I could cope with anything as long as you two were OK.’ Her eyes mist over. ‘That’s why I found that summer so hard, when you were with Kieran. I could feel you drifting away from me – and then, that night I got the call from the police and I was driving to the pier to collect you, I was scared to death that something had happened to you and I swore if you were OK, I’d never let you out of my sight again. When Kieran left I was so relieved, even though I knew how heartbroken you were. I knew he wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t good for you either. But instead of helping you to brush yourself off and start again, like I should have done, I smothered you. I took you to the doctor’s, he prescribed antidepressants and I was relieved, Bea, I was so relieved. Even though I have never thought they were the answer, even though I could see they were stripping you of your confidence, your ability to make decisions, your desire to get up and try again, I was so grateful to still have you that I welcomed the dull calm that came over you. I didn’t care that you had dropped out of university, that you weren’t going out and that your life had been reduced to lying in bed or on the sofa, watching old films with me. I didn’t care because I still had you. I could look after you. I could keep you safe with me.’ Tears are streaming down her face now and she doesn’t even bother wiping them away. It’s like the floodgates have been opened at last. She doesn’t have to pretend to be strong any more.
‘It’s OK, Loni, I understand.’
I’ve seen her in a whole new light since I discovered the truth about Dad. A whole new life. One where she is a woman who had her heart broken but who couldn’t fall apart because of her two kids and so came up with a way to manage her heartbreak in a positive, inspiring way. She did everything she could to bring us all out of a terrible situation and give Cal and me the best chance of happiness. She protected us, yes, but she protected Dad too. She knew enough about being a parent to realise that being there meant taking the good and the bad from us and knowing that both would be calibrated by her unconditional love. I’m in awe of her. With her books and appearances and retreats she’s been a role model to thousands of people: finally I’ve realised she’s my role model too.
And I’ve also realised that the reason Cal and I began calling her Loni wasn’t because we didn’t love her like a mum. It was because ‘Mum’ just wasn’t a big enough word for what she was to us. What she is. She hasn’t ever just been a mother, she’s been a father, a teacher, a counsellor, a sister, a saviour. My saviour.
‘You really loved him, didn’t you?’ I observe now.
‘Oh so much,’ she says vehemently. ‘I remember sitting here in almost the same spot watching that sunset for the first time with your father and thinking that I couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be anywhere – or with anyone – else.’
‘So why did you leave here?’ I ask. ‘If you both loved it so much? Do you think if you hadn’t made him come back to England you might have been happy here together?’ I’m clinging on to long-lost possibilities like they’re life-rafts. What could have stopped Dad from leaving? What was their alternative ending?
Loni takes a sip of beer and shakes her head. ‘I’ve realised that I couldn’t have saved him. Our relationship wasn’t enough.’
‘Like me and Kieran’s.’ She rests her head against mine. ‘What do you think Dad’s going to say, when he sees us?’ I ask quietly. I realise that I’m scared.
‘I don’t know, darling, but no matter what, we’re in this together, every step of the way.’
I look at Loni and nod. ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way.’
Chapter 65
The next morning I’m sitting on my balcony, staring down at the dusty road, when Loni knocks on my door, resplendent in a bright pink kaftan and sandals. Her hair is pulled up to the top of her head and she has wrapped an aqua scarf around it.
‘Morning, darling, are you ready then? Have you eaten? Shall we go? We should probably go early, don’t you think?’ She’s anxious, restless, she can’t keep still. ‘Come on, darling, what are you waiting for?’
I drag myself inside reluctantly. I’m tired and sluggish after barely sleeping last night. Not that I’m not used to feeling it. I’m accustomed to long, dark nights spent alone with my thoughts. I’ve suffered from insomnia throughout my life. When I was eleven and had just started secondary school I went through a phase when I couldn’t sleep because I was worrying about my GCSEs. My insomnia increased in my teens until I was lucky if I slept at all. I’d just lie there all night, heart racing and fears swirling round in my head like sea monsters.
Last night, like back then, my mind was whirring like ticker-tape, one thought after another. I kept going back and forth, rewinding and fast-forwarding through every memory I had of my dad and then playing out every possible scenario of what might happen when I saw him today.
Today.
‘Are you ready?’ Loni asks.
My face is scratchy with heat, my hair limp and my shorts and vest top already damp with sweat. I have spent the last hour getting ready but I couldn’t feel less ready if I tried. Frankly, I just want to run away. But that’s always my default setting. And today I’m going to meet the person who made me this way. I take her hand and we walk down the simple white-washed corridor through the small reception area and then out into the dry heat of the morning.
‘What’s that?’ I say, pointing at the moped parked outside.
‘Our wheels for the day!’ she exclaims. Then she hitches up her kaftan and throws her leg across the moped as if it is some kind of Harley-Davidson. She looks so funny, her generous frame swamped by swathes of pink material which almost hide the moped entirely. She starts the ignition and revs the tinny engine and winks wickedly at me. ‘Come on, my girl, are you ready to burn some rubber with your mama?’
I fold my arms and shake my head. ‘I’m not getting on that thing with you. No way.’
‘I’ll take it slow, I promise,’ Loni says. ‘It’ll be an adventure! And remember, I used to ride one of these here all the time so I’m not exactly a novice. Let’s live a little, Bea, or should I say Thelma,’ she drawls in a Texan accent.
It was one of the films we watched over and over again the year after Kieran left. It was Loni’s very unsubtle way of wanting to empower me with stories of women going it alone. I’m not sure she’d thought through the driving off the cliff climax though, bless her.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ I sigh as I go and sit behind her. I cling on to her waist tightly and squeeze my eyes shut as she revs the engine and then we both squeal as we jerk forward with three little jolts. Loni presses her foot down really hard and we set off . . . at about 10 mph.
I burst out laughing as we pootle along the dusty road. ‘Wohoooo, this is craaazy, Loni!’ I yell. ‘You’re so WILD I can’t deal with the speed!’
We jump and jolt along the road with me laughing hysterically as Loni desperately tries to control the moped.
‘I can get some speed in this thing, just you watch!’ She revs the engine and then promptly stalls our moped in the middle of the road.
I burst into fresh peals of laughter. I lean my head on her back, crying now with laughter as she tries the ignition again. I turn my head just as a cow pauses next to us, watching us as if we are a little passing road show.
‘Mooo!’ it says encouragingly which makes Loni jump. The engine starts again suddenly and we skid around in a circle as the cow scampers out of the way with another, more indignant, moo.
We set off again, the moped spluttering and phut-phutting its way along the road, red dust flying up alongside us as Loni whoops and punches the air. I yell words of encouragement as we reach speeds of at least 15 mph.
‘Are you sure we should be driving like this?’ I shout in my best Geena Davis impersonation. ‘I mean in broad daylight and everything.’
‘No we shouldn’t but I want to put some distance between us and the scene of our last GODDAMN CRIME!’ Loni stands up as she shouts Louise’s line, she whips her scarf off her head and hands it to me and I hold it aloft as she pushes her foot down and we drive down the road, screaming and laughing our way to Anjuna.
I’m not sure if I can ever remember a time when I was happier.
Chapter 66
Anjuna market is in full swing when we arrive half an hour later and I’m fervently wishing that I hadn’t encouraged Loni to try and get here faster. I wish we were back on that moped, going in the opposite direction. As if sensing this, Loni links my arm as we enter the market on the beach and I feel that familiar sensation of being pulled forward and back. I need to see my dad but right now I just want to run away. Again.
The Goan sun is beating a relentlessly intense heat down on our backs as we find the relative shade provided by the canopies of the market stalls. But the heat, coupled with the smell of incense and spices, the noise of drums and music and chatter is still utterly overwhelming. There are rugs spread out over the sand with palm trees as shelter, their sellers sitting cross-legged in front of their wealth of goods: rows upon rows of necklaces, beads, opaque stones, plaited bracelets, trays of silver and gold jewellery. I have never seen such colour, so much merchandise, so much life in one place. Women in bright billowing saris, displays of traditional Indian puppets, canvas bowls of colourful spices, row upon row of moccasins, T-shirts, rugs, lanterns, vases and hand-crafted statues. There’s a moment when I stop and close my eyes for a second and apart from the heat, with the hustle and bustle and delicious smells and noise, I feel like I could be in Greenwich market.
Loni and I weave our way through the market for a while, browsing the stalls and pretending to be having some sort of leisurely mother–daughter experience, buying beads and a beautiful shawl each, when we are just trying to delay the moment as long as possible. And the stall-holders are so excited by what seems to be our obvious Western riches that we feel guilty not buying something before enquiring if they know Len Bishop.
We draw a blank from the first few we ask. They just gaze at us and shrug. I’m not sure if it’s because they don’t speak English, they don’t know Len – or they just don’t want to tell us where he is.
It’s nearly lunchtime and I’m feeling faint with heat, tiredness, disappointment and dehydration. Loni points to the shade of a palm tree, just beyond the market, and we buy some water and some fruit and head towards it.
‘It was a bit of a long shot, I suppose,’ Loni says as we walk sipping periodically from our water bottles. ‘I mean, I guess he could be anywhere. We could try again tomorrow . . .’
‘Or we could just give up,’ I say wearily, leaning my head back against the tree and closing my eyes. ‘I’m beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I mean, I’m pretty sure he won’t want to be found. We could just spend the rest of the week relaxing, spending time together – right, Loni?’
I open my eyes and see that Loni is now standing in front of me. One hand is resting on her hips and the other is resting on the top of the straw hat she bought from a stall. ‘Loni?’ I repeat. ‘Did you hear me? I said it doesn’t matter . . .’
She doesn’t reply at first. Then she points into the distance. ‘He’s over there,’ she says softly. ‘Len is over there . . .’
I scramble to my feet and stand next to her. I lift onto my tiptoes and shield my eyes from the sun to see if I can see what she is looking at. I feel like a kid who has lost her dad at the beach but as my eyes search desperately for him I realise I don’t really know what I’m looking for. It’s been almost twenty-five years. He could have changed beyond recognition.
Loni grabs my hand and starts walking quickly towards him. I have no choice but to go with her. I’m hopping over the burning hot sand, pausing to try to put my flip-flops back on. She weaves through some market stalls then stops suddenly so I almost bump into her. When I follow her gaze I see a man: correction – an old man sitting in front of some paintings. It’s a shock, even though I have always worked out exactly what age he would be as every year of my own life passed. He is a seventy-one-year-old man now and he looks it. His face is thinner and longer than I remember, like it has been stretched with sadness over time. He has a deep nutty tan and long pigeon-grey hair that’s parted in the middle and pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a linen shirt open halfway down his chest. I can see that despite his age, he has strong athletic calves just like me. He has expressive hands too – artist’s hands. He is talking to someone, laughing and gesturing. I feel I can understand what he is saying without hearing a word.
It’s my dad. My dad. I stare at him, studying him like I might study myself in a mirror. Do I look like him? We have the same hands, and his eyes are dark like mine. I look more like him than Loni and Cal, I note.
I am more like him than Loni or Cal.
‘It’s him.’ These words are in my head and come out like a sigh, so softly that for a moment I think I uttered them. Then I realise it was Loni.
She grasps my hand suddenly as if we’re standing on the edge of a cliff and she’s scared of letting go; not because I might fall, this time. But because she might.
‘I can’t believe it,’ she murmurs. I let her make the first move. Suddenly this feels as much her moment as mine. She walks towards him. With every step we are going back . . .
‘Len?’ She stands in front of the stall like a bright sunset. I can see her hands are shaking. He freezes, then turns slowly and looks directly at her. Instinctively I step back and then dip to the side of the stand so I can observe.
‘Loni?’ he replies. His voice is an echo of my lost memories.
I stare at him, looking not just at him, but this life he is living. The life he chose over us. I notice he is sitting at an easel and a half-painted landscape picture is on it. There is a photograph clipped to the top of the easel; his subject, I presume. Loni always said Dad was very creative. He taught History of Art, he painted, he enjoyed sculpture, gardening. ‘Anything that involved his hands and his heart,’ she once said. His stall is full of canvases, paintings of the English countryside and coast. My eye settles on one in particular, a painting of a horseshoe-shap
ed garden. A soft golden autumn sunlight is filtering through the willow tree. Under the tree, there is a figure, kneeling, her hands in the earth, her face looking up to the sky. It looks familiar, like the drawing in the front of my diary.
I put my hand over my mouth as I recognise the figure; the little girl is me.
Loni and Len are still standing opposite each other. It’s like there is an invisible line between them that neither dares cross.
Len speaks first. ‘You found me.’
‘I didn’t,’ Loni replies. A flash of confusion flickers over his face and I suddenly see myself in his distant expression and uncertain gaze. ‘Bea did. She has been waiting for you to come back for years. She was the one who decided it was time.’
‘Bea.’ He moves his head quickly, his eyes combing the market for me. ‘She’s here?’ He looks back at Loni and I can’t tell if it’s hope or fear in his eyes.
I step forward slowly out of the shadows, one foot in front of the other towards him.
Everyone and everything has melted away and it’s just me, on my path, walking towards my dad. I feel like I’m walking a line, a tightrope between the past and the present. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, the last one being my wedding day. I had pictured him reaching out to me as I ran into his arms, but also him seeing me and then just walking away. One moment: two equally possible outcomes.
He’s squinting at me now as if he’s struggling to make me out. Then I see him gasp and put his hand in front of his mouth.
Finally I’m standing before him but I don’t run into his arms like I always thought I would. Instead I take Loni’s hand and stare directly into my dad’s eyes. I can see myself reflected in his irises, not just my silhouette but my soul. It’s like we are one. There’s a sadness, a loneliness deeper than any garden well in them and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to see it in him because I know it’s in me too.