The Long Way Home

by Fanny Blake

  Regret and sadness silenced her.

  ‘What about Morag and Lorna?’ Mary was intrigued. ‘You mean she wasn’t the same with them?’

  Isla recovered herself. ‘She was more tolerant with them.’

  Odd memories had flashed into her mind over the past weeks, prompted by what had happened. Her first intimation something was wrong had been bad enough. She had been fourteen.

  ‘You were such a mistake!’ May had shouted it in frustration during an argument over the length of a skirt Isla had chosen to wear to a school party. That must have been when the first corner of the sticking plaster that kept them together began to be ripped away.

  Afterwards, May had been apologetic. ‘I should never have said such a thing. You know I didn’t mean it.’ But words like those could never be forgotten. The arms that had hugged Isla were stiff, and Isla had refused to yield to them. Being the oldest and a mistake had obviously been enough for her to merit different treatment. But what kind of mother would divide her children like that, she asked herself. How little she had known her. And now she never would know her better.

  ‘That’s terrible.’ Mary shook her head. ‘What a family!’ Hers was close knit and, as a result, she thought everyone else’s should share that same sort of love.

  ‘I’m going to stay with Morag and Lorna on my way north. I want to sort this mess out as best I can. They’re not speaking, although Lorna’s asked the lawyer if they can put some of the land up for sale. She won’t give up, even though they haven’t got probate and Aggie has the final say. I don’t know why it’s so important to her.’

  ‘Perhaps she needs the money.’

  ‘Andrew’s got plenty.’ Isla had wondered more than once if that was why her sister had married him. Her marriage to a successful lawyer from a local family had fast-tracked Lorna through Edinburgh society. She had never needed to work and she led as sybaritic a lifestyle as any Edinburgh housewife might want.

  Mary looked puzzled. ‘Bang goes that theory. What would your mother say?’

  ‘She’d probably enjoy it.’ Isla lowered her hand to Jock who had come outside to see what was going on. ‘Once we got older, divide and rule became Mum’s method of parenting.’

  ‘She’s been outstandingly successful then.’ The sun glinted on Mary’s glass as she lifted it to her mouth. ‘Why though?’

  ‘God knows. I’ve gone over and over what I can remember. Maybe it was simply that she had her favourites and I wasn’t one of them. Maybe it was that Scottish Presbyterian streak that frowned on my longing for independence and leaving home to study drama in London.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Except it obviously began before that. I only met her recently at Helen and Mike’s wedding, but I remember how she kept at a distance from everyone. I tried to talk to her but she didn’t seem interested.’

  ‘Par for the course. I was so used to it, I didn’t even notice. Sometimes I wonder if marrying Dad stopped her from having some other life that she wanted. But they got married so young, what could that have been? I don’t remember her talking about anything much before that.’

  ‘First child syndrome. That’s probably what it was. You’re like the lab rat that has everything tested on them. The next ones have it much easier.’

  Isla considered the idea. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Have you ever talked to Lorna and Morag about it?’

  ‘I tried once or twice but never got anywhere. They just said I was making too much of it, especially Lorna.’

  ‘You should definitely have it out with them. If you don’t get to the bottom of it now, you never will.’

  But Isla found confrontation less easy than her friend.

  The sound of a car pulling up on the other side of the house stopped their conversation.

  Mary slipped on her sandals and jumped to her feet. ‘That’ll be George.’

  Toby and Jock trotted off round the corner of the house to investigate.

  Minutes later, George appeared from the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled up, a bottle of beer in his hand. A stocky man, his head like a brown boiled egg, and a smile that sent wrinkles chasing across his tanned face. ‘Isla! So great to see you. As beautiful as ever.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘What about this weather? Isn’t it the best reason in the world to have moved here? Big skies, sea air. And a day spent “at work” on a golf course.’

  He sat down beside her, after dropping a kiss onto Mary’s forehead.

  ‘I hear you’ve been having your difficulties.’

  ‘Mary told you?’ She didn’t like the idea of them discussing her behind her back. She’d always believed her chats with Mary were confidential.

  Sorry, mouthed her friend.

  ‘You have my sympathies.’ George swigged his beer. ‘My family’s as dysfunctional as they come. My father didn’t speak to his brother for years so all the cousins are completely estranged. Still. What you don’t know, you don’t miss.’

  ‘Actually, that’s not terribly helpful.’ Mary nudged him to shut up. ‘Why don’t you have a shower before supper.’

  ‘Why not indeed.’ He smiled at her then looked at Isla. ‘Mine is only to obey.’

  ‘Idiot!’ Mary punched his arm.

  Isla didn’t know another couple like these two. Where others existed in a state of cold warfare, buckled under the strain or survived in resigned affection, they seemed as much in love as they had ever been. She looked on them with some bemusement, wishing she had it in her to give as much to someone as they gave each other. When it came to relationships, she had always held herself back, a strategy she had developed as a deliberate precaution so that she wouldn’t get hurt. The shell she had developed to protect herself against her mother’s slights had been fortified after Ian left her. She didn’t want to be hurt like that again. As for her relationships since then and where they had gone wrong, the answer was always the same. She was always the one saying goodbye and returning to her solitary existence, which she relished until the next relationship came along. Even Keith had left in the end. They had eleven years together, although he always kept his own home. Somewhere he could escape to and see his children. This arrangement had seemed to suit them at the time but in the end he found what she couldn’t give him, that one hundred per cent commitment, with someone else. She acknowledged her failing – if that’s what it was – but couldn’t help herself. Self-preservation at all costs. However, now she had met Tony, those barriers were breaking down. Maybe this time…

  8

  To Isla’s relief, Mary had laid on company for an otherwise extremely bored Charlie. She and George had moved to Norfolk to be near their daughter Gaby and twin granddaughters who were about Charlie’s age and also came with phones attached, looking, with their long hair and skimpy dresses, as if they belonged to the same tribe. After an awkward start while the girls sized each other up, reluctant to be thrown by their grandparents into the same group, they accepted Charlie, and she them. As a result, both trips to the beach, both picnics and a barbecue were a pleasure as the teenagers detached themselves from the adults, leaving them to relax. Isla watched as Charlie, Leila and Sammy shared earbuds, singing along to the same songs, sharing whatever was on their phones, posing for selfies. Occasionally when it got too hot, the three of them would leap to their feet and run, long-limbed and free, hair blown by the wind or knotted up high, into the sea to cool down, shouting at each other and laughing. Isla was delighted to see Charlie enjoying herself. But when she had to engage with Isla, she reverted to disinterest and monosyllables at worst.

  For two days, they all relaxed together. With Gaby and George and the girls, Isla and Mary found they didn’t have as much time on their own as Isla had hoped they would. It wasn’t until their last night, when Charlie had been swept off by the others to have a fish and chip supper in Sheringham and George was inside, preparing some work for the coming week, that Mary and Isla found themselves alone again.

  Outside, it was still warm, the last of the sun casting a
rosy glow across the sky. A couple of candles flickered on the table in front of them. The scent of jasmine and roses drifted on the night air. Mary had curled up on the sofa, her legs tucked underneath her, glass of rosé in hand. She looked relaxed and untroubled – sun drunk. ‘This is the life. It’s going to be another scorcher tomorrow.’

  ‘What a sunset.’ Isla looked up. The vastness of the Norfolk sky emphasised what a teeny speck they were on the planet.

  ‘Isn’t it fantastic? I’m so glad we moved here. No regrets.’ Mary took a sip of her wine, thoughtful. ‘So, I’ve been thinking about May. Just leaving you a picture doesn’t make sense at all. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s of three angels and used to hang in Dad’s study until he died and Mum relegated it to the attic. When I was a kid, we’d look at it together and he’d always say, “You’re my little angel, Isla.” ’ She felt a pang of sadness at the memory.

  ‘Sweet. Do you think that’s why she thought it was special?’

  ‘God knows. In fact… hang on.’ Isla went inside to bring out her bag. From her wallet, she took out a folded piece of paper fragile with age. ‘I got it reframed just before I left, and the framers found this behind the backboard.’ She opened it carefully. ‘Another note. I don’t suppose it’s anything.’ She passed it to Mary who was already reaching for her reading specs.

  She peered at the scratchy, curlicued writing. ‘It’s in French. Mon cher…’ She hesitated. ‘Pour ton anniversaire.’

  ‘For your birthday,’ translated Isla.

  ‘I know! Je t’aime de tout mon coeur, pour toujours Gros bisous. Céleste. I love you with all my heart, for ever. Kisses. My A-level French comes up trumps at last. How romantic. Who’s Céleste?’

  ‘No idea. It must have been in there for years.’ Isla refolded it with care, trying not to tear along the folds.

  ‘Do you think it’s written to your dad?’

  Isla laughed at the thought. ‘No! Mum and Dad married when they were in their early twenties and never looked at anyone else.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘True. But this is in French and Dad didn’t speak anything but Scottish.’

  ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘Also true. But as far as I know neither of them ever went to France. They certainly never mentioned going there. If he had, he must have been so young.’

  ‘Youth doesn’t stop you falling in love.’ Mary raised an eyebrow. ‘George and I got together when we were nineteen, amazing as it may seem. And look at you and Ian.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re talking about Dad.’ A kind and decent man but who hadn’t a romantic bone in his body. Anniversaries went unnoticed, birthdays forgotten. She didn’t remember him ever buying May flowers.

  ‘He must have had a life before you though.’ Mary was turning the letter in her fingers. ‘Céleste. Mmm. Interesting.’

  ‘Stop it! Wouldn’t we know if he had?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Mary’s eyes gleamed. ‘Children don’t know half of what goes on in their parents’ lives.’

  ‘But this must date back much longer ago than that.’ Isla tucked the note back in her wallet.

  ‘Show Morag and Lorna. Just in case they know something you don’t.’

  ‘You’re the only other person who knows about this. I haven’t even told Tony.’ His name slipped out without her thinking. What would he make of her, a woman whose mother didn’t want to know her? Damaged goods. Run, as fast as you can. She wouldn’t risk that. Not yet.

  ‘Who?’

  She hadn’t meant to keep Tony a secret from Mary, but she worried that talking about him might jinx things. Although, she reminded herself, she had told Ian. The more people who knew about the relationship, the more real it became. Up till now, they had existed in a private bubble that no one knew about, and they had been quite happy there.

  ‘Don’t be so coy,’ Mary prompted. ‘You’ll have to tell me in the end. Have you been on that dating app again?’

  ‘Never again.’ Isla took a breath. ‘I met him having coffee at the Ashmolean.’

  ‘Really?’ Mary looked at her, disbelieving.

  ‘I’d gone there for the Jeff Koons exhibition – not for me, as it turned out. Afterwards, I went up to the restaurant for a quick coffee. He asked if he could share my table.’

  ‘Nice move. They say galleries are meant to be the best places to get picked up.’

  ‘It’s never happened to me before and God knows I’ve tried!’ Isla laughed. ‘Remember that bad patch after Ian when I was so scared of a future on my own?’ Those early days after he had left had been so empty that Isla would trail round the National Gallery or the V&A while Helen was over at a friend’s, not really seeing the pictures and collections she loved so much but wondering what she would do with herself. She gave a small shake of her head to clear those memories. ‘Anyway, we got chatting…’

  ‘What about? And what does he look like? I want to know everything.’ Mary actually rubbed her hands together. ‘Have you got a picture?’

  ‘He’s taller than me, slim.’ She left out the slight pot belly. ‘Quite good-looking if you don’t mind a receding hairline! And he’s got a sweet, slightly wonky smile.’ She pulled out her phone and scrolled through the photos. ‘There.’

  Mary snatched it from her and blew up the picture to get a better look at his face. ‘Mmm. Nice.’

  Isla smiled. He was. ‘And what we talked about? I honestly don’t remember – whatever he’d just seen in the museum, probably. The weather. Nothing momentous.’ She was too embarrassed to admit to the way she was immediately drawn to him as he asked about her job and listened attentively as she told him. He had been genuinely interested, whereas others often dismissed a Museum of Childhood as something frivolous or irrelevant. ‘When I got up to go back to work, he asked for my number.’ She remembered how his hand had shaken as he passed over his phone for her to key it in. That had endeared him to her.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He texted me that night to say how much he’d enjoyed meeting me, that he didn’t make a habit of approaching strange women in restaurants but he’d like to see me again. I left it for a couple of days—’

  Mary sighed as if there was no hope for her.

  ‘I didn’t want to seem too keen,’ Isla justified herself. She couldn’t confess even to Mary how difficult she found making any kind of move. ‘And then I texted him back. We met for lunch and…’

  Mary shifted position so she was leaning forward not to miss a word. ‘And you haven’t looked back?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that but…’

  ‘But you do like him?’ At least she didn’t clap again.

  ‘Yes, yes I do. But with my track record… I’m nervous.’

  ‘For heavens’ sake. You’ve just been unlucky.’

  ‘For thirty odd years?’

  ‘Yes, well.’ For once, Mary didn’t have an argument. ‘Very unlucky then. So tell me about him. What does he do?’

  ‘He ran a gîte in France for the last ten years but when his wife left him he had to sell up.’ He had shown her pictures of a group of beautiful stone buildings bathed in sunshine, centred round a sparkling blue pool, surrounded by fields and woodland. The place looked idyllic. ‘With all the uncertainty of Brexit, he decided to come back here and start something new, so he’s looking into all sorts of possibilities, renewing the contacts he had before he left the country.’ That’s what he had told her.

  ‘So where’s he living?’

  ‘With friends outside Kidlington. Apparently they’ve got a self-contained one-bed flat over some stables where he’s staying for the moment.’

  ‘Apparently? You haven’t been there then?’

  Isla felt herself blushing. ‘No. He stays at mine. It’s much easier. He hasn’t got any work to go to in the mornings and I have, so it makes sense.’

  She had been shocked at the speed with which their relationship had developed. Despite her reservations abo
ut committing herself again, she found herself enjoying his company – his cooking too. He liked nothing better than rustling up meals in her kitchen, using up what was in her cupboards, going out to buy more. He had been a good listener when she needed one, but he was an entertaining and knowledgeable talker too. He made her laugh. As hard as she might resist she found herself falling for him. If she didn’t take a chance or two in her mid-sixties, she reasoned, it would soon be too late. After all, if Ian still could, then so could she.

  ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘A few months ago.’ The date February the 12th was imprinted on her memory, just five weeks before her mother died. Isla took a sip of her wine, then looked towards the bottom of the garden where the twilight was deepening.

  ‘What?!’ Mary pushed herself forward in her seat so she was almost on her feet. ‘All that time and you didn’t think to tell me?’

  ‘If I’d seen you… over the phone seemed to be making too much of it.’

  ‘Oh, come on. But you do like him?’

  ‘He’s lovely, very kind. We have a good time together.’ But was that enough?

  Now Mary was looking dubious. ‘You don’t seem very sure. Are you happy, at least?’

  Isla thought for a moment. Was she happy? What was happy? Getting used to someone else in the home that she had made for herself was hard. Her house in Walton Street wasn’t big but it was just right for her. She had got used to her independence, her freedom, her habits that she hadn’t realised were habits until Tony teased her about flossing her teeth in the morning while boiling the kettle for her first cup of tea, putting the milk on the teabag before she poured in the hot water, hanging her washing over the bath and leaving her shoes littering the hall. Initially she had been annoyed but she had made a conscious effort not to let it get to her and over the past weeks, her habits had begun to change. After all, what she got in exchange was companionship and the warmth of another body in her bed, that intimacy that she had been without for so long, the touch of skin on skin. And sex! She had given up the on the idea of ever having it again but she had been surprised by the ease with which they slipped into such an unexpected and regular shared pleasure. After the initial awkwardness, she soon discovered she wasn’t too old for it after all.