Rosie looked at him. He had the most unusual way of speaking, as if he were reading aloud. ‘I shall remember that: “warm crumbs that the weather gods found in their pockets...”’
‘This is my first time here but hopefully not the last. I’m quite taken with the cliff walks, the wild sea. It’s unexpected. But as I say, I leave later today.’
‘Are you going back to America?’ she asked, always interested to hear about lives very different from hers.
‘Yup, eventually, but I have a few more months of travelling the British Isles first, and then it’s back to Portland, Oregon.’ He ran his hand over his neat, short hair.
Rosie extended her finger and looked into the distance, as if picturing a map.
‘So that’s on the opposite side of the country from New York, almost a straight line across, but up a bit, towards Canada, to the south of Seattle.’ She drew a right angle in the air, raising an eyebrow at him, pleased to be able to demonstrate the geography that lurked in her brain, only usually useful for pub quizzes and Pointless.
‘Well, I am impressed, there aren’t many people I’ve met around here who could pinpoint my home city on a map!’
She smiled, chuffed. ‘What are you doing here? Are you on holiday?’
‘More of a working holiday. I’m a writer.’
‘Oh. What do you write?’ She had never met a writer before.
‘I write for the American market: travel books, guides, walks, cuisine.’ He raised his hand and slapped his leg, as if trying to summarise what he did was a tough call.
‘And you’re writing about here?’
‘An article, yes. I must confess to coming up here just before daybreak most mornings. It’s the one joy of jetlag – I get to explore while the rest of the country sleeps. Have you ever been up here at dawn?’
‘I don’t think I have.’ She shook her head.
‘There’s something about it. It’s like the planet is sharing a glorious secret with you: the still, the quiet, even the air is different, as if it’s yet to be stirred. The slow creep of sunlight into a world of hushed expectation. It’s like a blank page and who knows how it’s going to be written? I find that very exciting, the most exciting thing. I think if it were my last day on earth, I would be happy to go if I got to see the dawn.’
‘You really are a writer, aren’t you?’
‘Yup, really, really.’ He smiled at her; he had neat, even teeth.
‘I’m trying to imagine Americans coming all the way over here just to sit on this bench. I guess it’s hard to see the draw of a place I know so well when there are so many other places in the world to visit. I mean, I get why people in the UK would come here, it’s one of the best places in the country and not too far if you’re in the southwest, but to come all the way from America, when you could go anywhere...?’
‘Where would you suggest they went instead?’
‘Oh, I don’t know – the Seychelles, Bali, Norway.’
‘Interesting combination. Which do you prefer?’
‘Oh, I’ve never been to any of them. I’ve never been abroad. But I really want to. They’re on my list to visit one day. I’ve always loved the idea of travelling, looking at maps, planning trips, trekking through jungles or building an igloo. I spent a lot of my childhood imagining just that. It was a dream of mine to open a travel agent’s actually...’ Rosie shook her head, remembered who she was talking to and straightened. ‘Anyway, I better be getting off, and sorry for scalding you earlier.’
‘Don’t mention it. It’s been nice to chat, and skin heals, right?’ He laughed.
‘Oh, don’t! I feel bad enough as it is. I best be going.’
‘Sure.’ He raised his hand.
She heard the catch of lament in his voice. ‘Are you here on your own?’ she asked.
‘Yes, recently divorced. Well, actually, not that recently. It’s been eighteen months and I’m only just coming up for air, learning how to breathe again.’ He swallowed, as if this was a rare admission.
Rosie stood up and put her jacket back on. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
He sighed. ‘It’s just part of life, I guess, and I’m still settling into the new me. It’s been scary, exciting, horrible all at the same time, but I’m coming out the other side.’
She shoved her hands in her pockets. ‘I really had better go. Kids and husband have been to soft play and they’ll be wanting their tea when they get back. Well, good luck.’
‘Thank you. You too.’ He smiled.
Rosie took a few steps, skirting the path that headed back along the Esplanade.
‘I’m Clark, by the way,’ he shouted after her.
‘As in Kent?’ She smiled, turning her head.
‘Yes, but without the superpower or the glasses, worse luck.’
‘I’m sure you could get glasses if you really wanted them...’
Clark chuckled. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘I’m Rosie, Rosie Tipcott.’
‘Now there’s a name.’
She waved. ‘Safe travels back to Portland.’
‘Eventually.’ He reminded her.
‘Yes, eventually.’ She smiled.
*
As she made her way back to Arlington Road, Rosie couldn’t stop her mind wandering to her childhood bedroom and the vast travel-themed montage that she’d created on its walls. The rest of the house had been non-descript and full of mismatched furniture donated by well-meaning neighbours, but her bedroom was special. She spent hours ripping pictures from magazines and brochures and gluing them to the wall. The images that gripped her were of tropical oceans, deserted beaches, skyscrapers in unfamiliar cities, bowls of street food eaten with chopsticks and of course the planes, trains and ships that carried people back and forth on their adventures. She added to her collage over the years and eventually her dad glossed over it with a light varnish, leaving a wall of travel-related decoupage for her to escape to before she fell asleep at night.
*
In her dreams, she would walk hand in hand with her mum as they stepped from gangways onto foreign soil. Once ashore, they would eat ice cream and nod at the locals as they strolled and chatted, with all the time in the world...
*
Rosie had laid the table and was stirring the pot of chilli on the hob as the front door banged open. ‘Mummy!’ Naomi yelled, then came crashings and bashings in the hallway. Trainers were discarded, coats dumped and a knackered husband threw his car keys on the windowsill.
The girls ran into the kitchen.
‘Mummy, I did a massive jump into the ball pit and landed on this boy’s head and his dad said to Daddy that I was a maniac and Dad said he should watch his mouth and I watched his mouth but nothing happened, and the boy was sick and we had to get out of the ball pit and the man said it was my fault, but I don’t think jumping on someone’s head can make them sick, do you?’
‘Naomi Jo Tipcott, do you ever take a breath? Goodness me, I’m gasping just listening to you!’ Rosie swooped forward and kissed her daughter. ‘Go to the loo before tea and wash your hands, there’s a good girl.’ She tutted and patted her daughter off to the cloakroom.
‘Suppose you’ve heard about our little adventure?’ Phil leant against the work surface and folded his arms. ‘I tell you what, Rosie, that girl is a human wrecking ball! She creates chaos everywhere she goes. There’s me nearly scrapping with a bloke near the ball pit. It was a bloody nightmare – never again! I was half tempted to leave them there and escape to the pub.’ He shook his head.
‘I know, Phil. I look after them every day.’ She walked past and kissed him too. ‘And where’s my baby?’
‘I’m here, Mum!’ Leona called from the hallway. ‘I’m trying to get my tattoos straight.’
Rosie watched as her daughter peeled the backing plastic from the images and rubbed the transfers of a skull and crossbones and a large cutlass onto her dainty forearm. ‘You’re still being a pirate, I see?’
‘Aye ay
e, Captain.’ Leona winked. Her eye patch was firmly anchored to the centre of her forehead.
‘Well, shipmate, when that scoundrel Naomi comes out of the cloakroom, can you please use the loo and wash your hands and then I’ll dish up supper.’
‘Are we ’avin’ grog?’
Rosie looked at her slight, pretty five-year-old as she stood on wobbly legs and grabbed the bannister. ‘I reckon you might have already had some!’
There was a rare moment of silence in the Tipcott household as the four tucked into the chilli and rice. ‘This is lush, Rosie. I’m starving.’ Phil scooped a large forkful towards his mouth.
‘I met an interesting man today. A writer,’ she began.
‘What do you mean, a writer?’ Naomi asked.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Rosie used her fork as a pointer. ‘He writes things – books, and articles for the newspapers, stuff like that.’
‘But that’s just a stupid thing to say.’ Naomi looked at her mum.
‘Why is it?’ Phil snapped.
‘Because everybody writes things. I write my news, Mummy writes lists. I don’t say, “I’m a writer”. I talk as well, we all talk, am I a talker too? And I walk, am I a walker and I wee, am I a wee-er? And I poo, so am I a—’ These last two she added for Leona’s benefit and it did the trick, as her little sister dissolved into fits of giggles.
‘We get the message, thank you, Naomi!’ Rosie interrupted, fearful of where her daughter’s train of thought might take her.
Phil put the fork down and placed the back of his hand against his mouth, trying to swallow his supper while he talked. ‘I reckon you are a talker, Nay, you never shut up.’
Rosie smiled; trying to reassure her daughter. ‘It’s a bit different, love, it means he writes things for his job.’
‘For his job?’ she yelled. ‘Writing stuff isn’t a proper job!’
‘For the love of God, Naomi, stop shouting and just eat your chilli.’ Phil pointed towards her bowl, his jaw tense.
‘Anyway...’ Rosie shifted on her seat, trying to regain the floor. ‘He was from America, on the West Coast.’
‘Was it Washington?’ Naomi shouted.
‘No, it wasn’t Washington,’ Rosie answered.
‘Was it Florida?’ Leona asked. ‘That’s in America.’
‘Yes, it is in America, clever girl, but no, it wasn’t Florida.’
‘Does he know Buzz Lightyear?’ Leona asked, wide eyed.
‘I didn’t ask him.’
‘Was it Disneyland?’ Naomi was warming up.
‘No more guesses!’ Rosie held her hands up. ‘He was from a place called Portland in Oregon, which is on the opposite side of the country to New York and up a bit, as if you were heading towards Canada. And as I was saying, he said something quite amazing.’ She paused until she had their full attention. ‘He said that the weather gods had found some warm crumbs in their pockets and that’s why we got that little sprinkling of sunshine on a cold March day. Isn’t that lovely?’
‘Have you been on the grog, Rosie?’ Phil snorted and tucked into the remainder of his rice.
‘Daddy was on the phone to Gerald the farmer, who doesn’t have pigs or a horse or a farmer’s wife,’ Naomi said.
‘What’s she on about?’ Rosie smiled at her husband.
‘Geraldine Farmer, who’s got the big place in Mortehoe, she phoned about a new polished concrete floor she wants putting in the basement.’ Phil concentrated on his supper, chasing the grains with his fork.
‘That’s a bit of a liberty, phoning you on a Saturday. I mean, you’d think it could wait until Monday. What a cheek.’
‘She’s the boss.’ He pushed the chair back from the table.
‘Not at the weekend, she isn’t.’ Rosie tutted.
‘That’s the thing, when you’ve got as much money as she has normal routines don’t count. Her life isn’t divided up into a treadmill of nine to five with the weekends off for good behaviour.’ He looked up at the ceiling. ‘She just breezes through, doing what she wants when she wants. Wouldn’t that be nice, no slaving away, someone to babysit the kids on a Saturday afternoon... Money like that gives you choices.’
‘I’m sure it does. I did offer to come and take the kids off your hands.’ Again she smiled at her girls, wary they were being discussed like a commodity to be traded. ‘But I stand by my view, if she thinks she can choose to eat up your family time on weekends, she’s mistaken. I don’t care how much money she’s got.’ She paused. ‘I reckon we should get you a nice cold can of cider and watch some telly, how does that sound?’ She smiled at the man she loved.
He smiled back, but behind the smile he looked distracted and tired.
5
May had arrived with promise: trees were heavy with blossom and the mornings were lighter earlier. But one week in, this changed; the signs of summer were snatched away and the rain-lashed beaches were far from appealing. The early-blooming petals were no match for the relentless raindrops and they lay in clusters on the kerb, a fragrant pink cushion waiting to be washed into the drains.
Rosie had made the packed lunches and walked the girls to school, pulling her hood up over her hair as she tried and failed to keep Naomi from puddle-jumping and showering her sister in muddy droplets in the process.
She popped into the coffee shop on her way home and as her wet coat steamed in the warmth of the place, she scanned the tables to see if Mel was around. It had been over a week since she’d seen her friend and she missed her. She fired off a quick text. Oi! Coffee mate! Missing your gossip, no fun eating a jacket spud alone! Love, your friend, Rosie Shitstar X She looked forward to her friend’s response and the chance to arrange a get-together.
The response came almost immediately. Ha! Hello Rosie Shitstar! Up to my eyes, see you soooooon. X
It was rather more noncommittal than she had hoped for, but she understood. Family life could sometimes swallow you up.
Back home and having dried off as best she could, Rosie filled the kettle. She spied Phil’s Bob the Builder lunchbox on the work surface.
‘Bum.’ She didn’t like the idea of him going without his packed lunch, especially on a cold, rainy day like this, knowing how much he preferred a sandwich and a bit of cake to just about anything else. Acting on impulse, she grabbed the lunchbox and the car keys and set off to her in-laws’ house.
Mo and Keith lived on a smallholding on the way out of town, heading towards Braunton. Their spacious 1950s house, Highthorne, was quite ugly; the beauty of the place was in the 2.4 acres that surrounded it. It had a grey pebble-dashed exterior and four evenly spaced, shallow bay windows with pale green window frames. The front door was recessed inside a wide, space-grabbing porch lined with the original and now rather dulled red tiles. This was usually cluttered with shoes, boots, newspapers and the odd recycling trug waiting to be sorted, along with peelings for the compost, which Keith used to fertilise his locally famous courgettes and marrows.
To the right of the house sat a large metal-framed structure commonly known as ‘the yard’. It was from here that the Tipcott men ran their building business, and when work was scarce it was where they gathered to play pool and drink tea, ferried in and out of the house on a laminated bamboo tray, while they waited for the phone to ring. Which it always did, eventually.
The inside of their home was packed with family memorabilia. The walls were crammed with photographs of the two boys growing up, some featuring embarrassing haircuts that were a rich source of ridicule. These were encircled by wedding pictures of Rosie and Phil and images of Keith and Mo’s two adored grandchildren, who in their baby stages looked remarkably similar. Anything that arrived from the wandering Kev – a postcard or memento from his travels, usually a picture of him bare chested on sand, holding an aquatic specimen – was set in pride of place on the mantelpiece, giving the bulky, brown-glazed fireplace an almost altar-like status. Rosie loved getting updates about the places he saw and the people he met. She
always pored over the latest shots, taking in the sun-bleached, shoulder-length hair and weathered face; the laughing eyes of her school friend staring right at her.
The windowsills and shelves were crowded with ornaments, the chairs and sofa in the sitting room were piled with hand-embroidered cushions, and nick-knacks crowded the top of the television, each holding a special memory of someone dear to them. It was a busy house, full of love, and Rosie was, as ever, grateful and happy to be a part of it.
The house had been her haven throughout her teens, a source of the warmth and cosiness that wasn’t apparent in her own home. Her dad was not the demonstrative type. He was never mean or unkind, but it was as if he parented with a sense of embarrassment, going through the motions, like he had read a book on how to be a dad but lacked the softer skills, the spontaneity. She figured that was because he carried the guilt of whatever it was he had done to drive her mum away. This and the fact that he was a Roy and not a Damien or a Brett.
He now lived on the outskirts of Exeter with his partner, Shona, who was a little odd, like him, but in a different way. They were big into ballroom dancing. Shona dragged him around the country with her feather and net creations nestling in the boot. Rosie smiled to think of him in sequins and shiny, shiny shoes.
‘We need to start afresh...’ She was eighteen, just, when he had said that and he left, making it obvious that it wasn’t ‘we’ that needed to start afresh but him. Rosie wasn’t quite ready to be abandoned, even though she said she was. She lied to make it easier for him, knowing it was going to be harder for her, but she also knew that sometimes that was what you had to do. In her experience, everyone left her eventually.
Her dad used to mention Laurel’s departure as if it was incidental, as if this might lessen the blow. Something of interest, certainly, but not the life-changing event that it was. He simply lumped it together with other days that stood out in his memory. Maybe that made it bearable for him, but for her it was almost comical. ‘Do you remember that Pete Sampras win in straight sets? 6-4, 6-2, 6-4 – a bloody walkover, fantastic! And what about the day your mum did a runner after having you? Just picked up her coat and off she trotted. Who wants a cup of tea?’
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