From Something Old

by Alexander, Nick

  It was then that I understood definitively that she had told them. She hadn’t been sleepwalking, she remembered everything. And worst of all, she’d been joking with strangers about it.

  I lifted the sandwiches from my handbag and placed them on the edge of the table.

  ‘You can take those out to your grandchildren,’ I said coldly. ‘They’re just out the front there.’

  And then, without looking back, I crossed to the other side of the restaurant, where I left by the street-side door.

  I was so embarrassed and angry that I couldn’t work out if I needed to scream or cry, and the confusion between those different emotions left me feeling a bit numb. So I simply walked as fast as I could along the seafront and then hesitated before changing direction and walking the other way, back to the house.

  Once indoors, I stared out of that same window I’d caught Marge looking from and I suspect that to an onlooker I would have appeared just as lifeless.

  After a certain time, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps much longer, I snapped out of it. Anthony, I realised, would be back soon. And if I didn’t leave now, I’d have to explain, and then deal with whatever reaction my explanation produced.

  I trotted to the bedroom, changed my clothes, pulled on a pair of espadrilles, and added knickers, a T-shirt, a jumper and my toothbrush to the contents of my handbag. I had no coherent idea what I was doing or where I was going – I was simply aware that I needed to be anywhere but here.

  It took me fifteen minutes to walk to Stoke Fleming and, for no other reason than that it was familiar, I headed to the Green Dragon, where I bought a large white wine at the bar.

  ‘Are you OK?’ the barman asked me. I think he was concerned at the speed with which I’d gulped down my vase of wine.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. ‘But do you rent rooms?’

  He shook his head. ‘You could try Fords House, up that way,’ he suggested, pointing. ‘Or if not, Leonards Cove. They’re much bigger, more capacity . . . But, honestly?’

  I nodded for him to continue.

  ‘A Saturday? In July? It’s unlikely.’

  I walked in the direction he’d indicated and by the time I reached Fords House the alcohol was starting to take effect. I was feeling quite seriously tipsy.

  The guest house was a large, pretty building with Georgian leaded windows, baby-blue stucco walls and ivy climbing up the drainpipes.

  When a sullen teenager informed me that they were full, I almost cried, but before I’d reached the end of the street, a woman tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but we’ve had a cancellation. Would you like to see the room?’ And so I followed her back to the house.

  The room was clean and pretty, with a view out over the garden.

  Because the owner seemed concerned about my lack of luggage, I told her I’d be fetching it later from the car. I’d parked on the wrong side of town, I lied.

  I’ve never been a very good liar, and she seemed doubtful, but then she caught sight of the golden tint of my credit card, and suddenly all was well.

  I took a shower and dried myself on fluffy towels before laying myself across the cool cotton sheets.

  I stared at the ceiling for a while, and when my phone rang with an incoming call from Anthony, I reached over and switched it to silent.

  It was only then that I took a normal, full breath of air. It was, I realised, the first time I’d managed to do so in days.

  I must have fallen asleep for a bit because when I next glanced at my phone it was almost three. The screen also informed me that I’d missed five calls from Anthony, and that I had three voicemails and four text messages waiting.

  I listened to the voicemails first. They started off by informing me that he’d found Marge and that I could return. Had he actually imagined I was looking for her? He then went on to ask where I was, and if I was OK, and then, with an increasing sense of urgency and irritation, when I was coming home.

  The most recent text message read, ‘The girls are crying for their mummy. What the fuck do I tell them?’

  I knew this had been purpose designed as a heat-seeking missile aimed at my heart, but knowing this didn’t seem to offer any protection. I needed to know that my girls were OK.

  Anthony answered immediately. ‘Jesus, where are you?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been looking all over.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I told him. ‘I’m in a hotel.’

  There was a pause then, before he repeated, ‘In a hotel?’

  ‘Yes, I’m in a hotel for the night. I needed a break. I’ll be back in the morning.’

  ‘No, you’re coming back right now,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not. I—’

  ‘You’re to come home now. You’re needed.’

  ‘Oh, you can cope without me for one night,’ I said.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Ant said, getting angry. ‘The girls need you. And a break from what, anyway?’

  ‘I’ll explain tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘No, you’ll tell me now. You’re to come home and we can talk about whatever it is right now.’

  ‘No. Sorry. Um, good night, Ant,’ I said, as lightly as I could manage. And then I ended the call.

  My phone rang again immediately, and as not answering it made me feel sick, I switched it off, only to discover that made me feel even worse.

  So I switched it back on and no sooner had I typed the code to unlock it than it began to ring all over again.

  ‘Ant!’ I said, on answering. ‘Can’t you just . . . chill . . . or something? Can’t I just have—’

  ‘Chill?’ he spat. ‘You’re telling me to chill?’

  ‘I just need a few hours on my own. I just . . .’

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘You just what?’

  ‘I can’t be under the same roof as that woman. Not this evening.’

  ‘If by that woman you mean my mother,’ Ant said, ‘she doesn’t want to be here either. In fact, she wants to go home.’

  ‘Home?’ I said. ‘What do you mean, home?’

  ‘Apparently it’s going to piss down all week, anyway. Starting tomorrow, so . . .’

  ‘Look, we can talk about it in the morning,’ I said. ‘We can look at the weather and decide what to do.’

  ‘I’m not angry or anything,’ Ant said. ‘I promise. Just come back.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ve paid anyway, so . . .’

  ‘The girls need you,’ he said. ‘They’re worried.’

  ‘Then reassure them,’ I told him. ‘You know they don’t need to be worried, so reassure them.’

  ‘Only I don’t know anything, do I?’ Ant said. ‘Not with you behaving like a lunatic.’

  ‘Ant,’ I said. ‘Just give me a break, OK?’ It was one of his favourite phrases. ‘One night alone. Is that really too much to ask?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it’s too much to ask.’

  ‘Well, tough. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not OK with this,’ he said.

  ‘I can hear that.’

  ‘This is bullshit, Heather, and you know it. This is absolute bullshit, and if you don’t—’

  That’s when I hung up on him again. And it’s when I switched my phone off for good.

  I stayed there for another hour, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath again. But I felt stressed and nauseous and miserable. Whatever I’d hoped for, it wasn’t this.

  I was just wondering if it wouldn’t be better to return and face the music when there was a timid knock on the door.

  ‘That’s it,’ I heard a woman’s voice say. ‘Knock harder.’

  I opened the door to find Sarah beaming up at me from the hallway. Behind her stood the adolescent I’d seen earlier.

  ‘She wanted to surprise you,’ she explained.

  ‘Daddy says to tell you to come down,’ Sarah said with precision. ‘He says the car’s all packed and we’re ready to go. And he’s on yellow double lines.�
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  ‘Gosh,’ I said, crouching down and forcing a reassuring smile for my daughter. ‘Is he here?’

  She nodded. ‘Gran and Lucy are in the car. Gran says we have to go home now, but Lucy wants to go to the beach.’

  ‘OK . . .’ I said.

  ‘Do we have to go home?’

  I sighed and mentally sieved through all the possibilities, working out various knock-on scenarios. And then I scooped her up in my arms and wrinkled my nose as I said, ‘Yeah, I’m afraid we do, honey. But we’ll do something nice at home instead, OK?’

  She nodded reluctantly. ‘Will we be able to go to a funfair?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can.’

  ‘OK then,’ she conceded. ‘Is that where you’ve been all day?’ she asked, pointing over my shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I came here for a snooze.’

  ‘Can I see?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You can help me gather my things.’

  No one spoke for the first half an hour of the drive, and eventually Ant switched on the radio, which was a relief. Marge sat up front, stony-faced, though perhaps no more so than usual, while the girls slept either side of me. To avoid interaction, I pretended to have fallen asleep, and a few hours into the journey my anger cooled enough for it to really happen.

  When I woke up, we were already in Broadstairs, and Ant was lifting Marge’s bag from the back of the car. Cool night air was rushing in.

  ‘God, what time is it?’ I asked, over my shoulder.

  ‘It’s half eleven,’ he replied. ‘Go back to sleep. We’ll be home soon.’

  He never did ask me what had happened that lunchtime, and by the next morning I didn’t want to think about it, let alone talk about it, ever again.

  But I suspected Marge had told Ant something, or he’d pieced his own version together from clues, because he certainly seemed more tolerant than usual of my aversion to his mother.

  According to the TV, the weather was indeed far worse down in Devon than in Kent, so we felt blessed whenever the sun came out, and managed to make the most of our holiday-at-home, taking the girls, as promised, to Dreamland, and even managing two full days on the beach.

  The only oblique reference to the whole drama came the following spring when Ant asked me if I thought he should reserve Beach Cottage again, ‘or not’.

  ‘Not,’ I replied, with conviction. It was unusual that he should even seek my opinion, so I assumed he’d been expecting my reply. He certainly didn’t seem surprised.

  ‘Mum thought maybe Cornwall . . .’ he started, but seeing my expression, his voice faded. ‘OK. Where then?’ he asked.

  ‘Here’s just fine,’ I told him. ‘As long as it’s just the four of us.’

  ‘Oh . . . OK,’ he said. Again, it wasn’t the reaction I would have expected.

  By May, I was regretting my decision. I spent all day, every day, in Chislet, after all, and the idea of spending the two weeks of Ant’s holidays cooped up with him there was even less attractive than my normal day-to-day solitude.

  But Devon had left a nasty taste in my mouth – actually, more of a physical aversion – and I was terrified that Marge would worm her way into any trip that we could plan within driving distance.

  What I secretly wanted was to discover somewhere further afield – maybe even a new country with a different language – somewhere with different coins and foods and customs.

  But how on earth could I make that happen? As I say, as far as Ant was concerned, trips to foreign parts, even to visit my sister – still living in Rome, but now single – were out of the question. He would have liked the idea of me travelling without him even less.

  At the beginning of June, Lucy surprised us at the dinner table by asking if we could go to Spain.

  ‘Spain?’ I laughed. I glanced at Ant, who shrugged in a search me kind of way. ‘Why do you want to go to Spain?’

  ‘Ben wants us to go,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I asked, frowning at my daughter. Though I knew that Ben was her current sweetheart, her statement made no sense to me.

  ‘He wants us to go to Spain,’ Lucy repeated, as if I was stupid for not understanding.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, shooting an amused glance at Ant, ‘but you’re not making any sense to me. Where did this idea come from?’

  Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘We had to write a story. A holiday story,’ Lucy told me. ‘I said I haven’t got one, cos we’re staying at home. And Ben said we should go to Spain.’

  ‘Because Ben’s going to Spain?’ I said.

  ‘Yes!’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. We’d have to book flights and find a house to stay in. We don’t even have passp—’

  ‘No, stupid!’ Lucy said. ‘We can stay in—’

  ‘Don’t call your mother stupid,’ Ant interjected, raising one finger.

  Lucy tutted and rolled her eyes again. My angelic child was starting to become a proper little madam. ‘Ben’s got a house to stay in,’ she said. ‘A big house with lots of rooms.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure Ben’s parents aren’t expecting to share that house with us. It’s like the house we rented in Dorset. That was just for us, remember? So the house they’ve rented is for them. Do you understand, honey?’

  ‘It was Devon,’ Ant corrected me, ‘not Dorset.’

  ‘OK, Devon,’ I said. ‘But the point is—’

  ‘His mum says it’s OK,’ Lucy said with a shrug.

  ‘You’ve asked his mum about this?’

  ‘It’s a special gnome house,’ Lucy said, nodding as she warmed to her subject. ‘It’s made out of caves the gnomes used to live in and Ben’s grandad can’t go with them any more and Ben’s sad cos he really likes him even though sometimes he’s a bit strict, and they’ve got loads of rooms for everyone. It’s got a jamuzzi or something, and a swimming pool with water that goes the wrong way so you have to swim and swim but you don’t get anywhere, but Ben’s mum doesn’t like that because she says it feels like being in a bad dream.’

  ‘Honey, you know that you can’t just go away with strangers,’ Ant said.

  ‘But Ben’s not a stranger,’ Lucy said.

  ‘No, but his parents are,’ I explained. ‘I’ve seen his mother maybe once or twice in my whole life. And I’m not sure I’ve ever laid eyes on his father.’ The truth was that I was struggling to picture either of them.

  ‘Oh, he’s really nice,’ Lucy said. ‘Isn’t Ben’s dad nice?’ she asked, turning to Sarah, who nodded her agreement.

  ‘He gave me a lollipop,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but we still can’t go on holiday with strangers. Now eat up your tea,’ Ant told her.

  Lucy pushed her bottom lip out and picked up her fork. ‘A stranger’s, like, a bad person,’ she said. ‘A stranger is someone you mustn’t get in a car with. But Ben’s not a stranger. He’s my friend.’

  Two

  Joe

  My parents were basically brilliant. I know people are surprised when I say that because so many bad-mouth their mums and dads these days, but it’s true. They were ace.

  Actually, I wonder sometimes if all the horror stories you hear are even true – if there isn’t a bit of exaggeration going on, do you know what I mean? Because it does sometimes seem like everyone wants to be a victim these days.

  Anyway, no victim status here – no excuses for whatever I’m supposed to be but am not. My childhood was great, so it’s all on me.

  My dad, Reg, is retired now, but for most of my childhood he was a plumber. A lot of middle-class people assume that because he was a tradesman he must be a bit thick, but they’re wrong. There are actually plenty of clever plumbers out there, and the majority of them earn more than most teachers. If you’ve ever had the misfortune to call out an emergency plumber at midnight, you’ll know that they don’t come cheap.
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br />   Mum always worked, too. When I was little, she was a cashier in one of those little local shops that try to sell everything but never really have what you want, bang in the middle of Whitby. And yes, you’ve guessed it: that’s how the two of them met. If chatting up your sweetheart in front of a selection of plastic buckets might not be everyone’s idea of romance, it certainly worked for Mum and Dad. No one ever doubted how much they loved each other.

  Willis Bargains went bust the year that I went to secondary school, put out of business by the arrival of various out-of-town superstores, so Mum and Dad ploughed their savings into a Regency terrace on the seafront, which they’d decided to run as a guest house.

  Everyone said it was a mistake, that it couldn’t possibly work, and I suppose those weren’t the best years to be opening a bed and breakfast in Whitby. But Mum – who had a flair for shabby chic long before anyone had thought of calling it that – made a go of it, and with Dad’s DIY skills, plus a little cash from occasional plumbing jobs, they made it look brilliant. Though nothing we ever had was brand new, we honestly never lacked for anything.

  Mum and Dad were both big readers, so the house was always stuffed full of books. Dad, who I suppose you could say was on a spiritual quest, favoured biographies and hefty volumes about philosophy or religion, while Mum was more into fiction and would plough her way through the Booker longlist every year, titles she would request at the local library.

  For a while, in the nineties, Dad was a Buddhist – he even used to chant, which always gave Mum the giggles. But then his reading led him to Christian Science, then TM and deism and the rambling writings of Walt Whitman, and at that point the chanting stopped. In the end I think he slotted together everything he’d read – plumber-style – to build his own hybrid belief system. Whatever it was he came up with, it certainly worked for him: he was pretty much always smiling.

  So yes, my childhood was good. I felt loved and cherished by two calm, centred people who clearly loved one another. And I grew up with a healthy attitude to life, specifically to the money and material issues that everyone else seems to struggle so much with.

  Just occasionally I’d get jealous – what kid doesn’t? So, sure, a friend’s Raleigh racer would catch my eye, or the school bully’s All Star boots, and I’d wonder why I couldn’t have stuff like that. But then I’d go round to friends’ houses and hear the lifeless discussions about EastEnders; I’d see the empty bookcases, the lack of hi-fi (our Marantz was ancient but sounded amazing); I’d sit on their brand-new mock-leather sofa, bought on tick, and understand on a subconscious level – these thoughts were never actually words or phrases – that my parents were unusual, were special, and I was lucky to be growing up the way I was.