by Erin Green
‘What can I get you?’ she asks, her row of perfect teeth framed by a wide smile.
‘A large glass of medium house white, please,’ I reply, dividing my attention between the bartender and my purse. I don’t need to witness any unpleasant gestures or comments from those further along the bar.
A colourful display of crisps and nuts stands beneath the optics calling my name and luring me to buy. I could murder a large bag of scampi fries or dry-roasted peanuts, but . . . I can’t. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t be tempted.
I talk myself into just having the wine. I don’t want to be crunching while the two women are talking to me. I’m trying to give a good first impression.
‘That’s all, thanks,’ I quickly say, before my brain can request the much-wanted snacks.
Back at the table, the two women look up and smile as I approach. I’m not disappointed by my fellow holidaymakers; I get along better with older people. I automatically feel inferior to women of my own age, not because of anything they do, but more due to my own insecurities.
‘Sorry I’m late. My train journey involved three changes, and then I had to catch a bus – not to mention the hike up that huge hill,’ I joke, gratefully sipping my wine.
‘I caught the train but got a taxi from Paignton station,’ says Emma, looking at Ruth.
‘Same here, though just one change for me.’
I can hear a unifying tone in their accents.
‘Are you both from the Midlands?’ I ask.
‘Rugeley,’ says Emma.
‘Tamworth,’ says Ruth.
‘Wow, no way – I’m from Burntwood.’ I laugh. Emma and I can only live ten miles from one another. ‘How the hell does that happen?’
‘You travel to the other side of the country only to meet people from your own doorstep; how funny is that?’ says Emma, unceremoniously spluttering her wine across the table.
We laugh and shake our heads at the bizarre nature of coincidence.
Or is it fate?
Emma
‘Seriously, you contemplate booking a holiday, which you are in desperate need of, but then you start thinking: but with who? All my girlfriends are married or busy raising their children, some refuse to do British holidays any more, so I kept putting it off. It was only when I saw the advert—’
‘The one about cosy comforts?’ interrupts Ruth eagerly.
I nod before continuing.
‘Yep, the very one. Emma, I said to myself, just bloody do it – stop faffing about and pay the deposit . . . and that was that!’
‘I did the same. It took me two weeks to get myself sorted, though, as I had to make arrangements for my mother. We live together . . . she has dementia,’ says Ruth, giving a tiny shrug after her explanation. ‘My father was killed in a car accident when I was twelve, so I look after my mum.’
‘Oh dear, is it difficult for you to be here?’ asks Benni, her tone softly comforting.
‘Yes, yes, it is. I haven’t had a holiday in years, so it felt like a huge decision for me to come away and organise for Mum to go into respite care for the two weeks . . .’ Ruth’s sentence fades; she seems to be struggling to justify her own needs.
‘Will she be OK?’ asks Benni, a look of concern eclipsing her features. I’ve taken an instant liking to this young woman. She’s not the age group I was hoping for, but still, she seems a genuine sort.
I watch as Ruth seems to shrink into herself. ‘I’m not sure.’ She shrugs. ‘Her doctors assure me she’ll be fine, and the care home seems lovely, but you never know what she’s thinking or feeling. She might do very well for a few days and have a good sense of clarity, but then suddenly relapse. She’s steadily getting worse.’
‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy herself. The time will fly by,’ says Benni, sounding uncertain of her words.
‘Good for you,’ I add quickly, hoping my delayed reaction doesn’t imply that I think badly of Ruth.
‘You deserve a break from the daily routine just as much as we do,’ chimes in Benni, obviously catching my drift.
‘And you, Benni – have you got a job?’ I ask.
‘Of sorts. I do agency work at the local vinegar factory near to where I live.’
‘Agency?’ I ask, taking in her appearance: a natural freckly complexion, a defined dimpled chin and a blonde ponytail, the fullness of which I’d kill for. Her cotton T-shirt is simple but unflattering given her fuller figure, but as long as she’s comfortable, what does it matter?
‘Yeah, there’s very little chance of a permanent job at the moment, so I have a contract with an agency, who send me wherever I’m needed. It’s all a bit up in the air most of the time, but I get called back to the vinegar factory most weeks.’
‘Won’t they employ you directly?’ asks Ruth, playing with her empty glass.
‘It’s difficult. The agency tie you into their contracts, and if you get offered a full-time job with the company, there’s a release fee to be paid. So to employ me, the factory would need to pay more upfront, but then they’d save money because the agency charge so bloody much to send me there. It’s ridiculous, if you ask me.’
‘Sounds like a rip-off,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘It means I’m stuck for the time being,’ agrees Benni, adjusting her T-shirt to cover her elasticated waistband.
Our three glasses sit empty before us.
‘Shall we have another drink here, or should we mosey on over to the cottage and I’ll rustle up something to eat for us all?’
Ruth and Benni exchange a quick glance and a decision is made.
‘To the cottage!’ announces Benni, pushing her chair back.
Ruth
I feel awful as we walk the short distance back to Rose Cottage from the Queen’s Arms. It’s literally twenty steps, and yet my silence seems so obvious. I need to start coping with this. I believe the term is ‘self-care’. I need to start looking after myself a little better, but as soon as I mention my mother, that wave of guilt washes over me and I could burst out crying.
Emma unlocks the key safe and lets us into the cottage. It’s such a sweet cottage, and suitably named. I wish our climbing rose at home blossomed and bloomed as this one does above the lounge window. Though I suppose it would be awkward to dead-head each year, a ladder job for sure. I wouldn’t cope well with that task; it would definitely be overlooked whilst I cared for Mum. Sadly, every job is overlooked in favour of Mum’s care.
I follow the other two into the hallway, past the staircase, and head for the galley kitchen at the rear of the cottage, which leads off the dining room.
‘I dumped my belongings in the lounge when I found your note,’ explains Benni. ‘Have you both chosen a bedroom?’
As Emma explains the bedroom set-up, I listen, hoping to chase away my negative thoughts.
‘Ruth has taken the first bedroom on the first floor, me the second – but I didn’t unpack in case you didn’t like the large bedroom with the en suite on the top floor. The choice is yours. I’ll happily move rooms.’
I watch Benni’s eyes widen at the mention of an en suite. I secretly wanted that room, but felt it looked a little pushy to ask when Emma and I were deciding. I should be grateful that I’m on holiday at all, I remind myself sternly.
‘I’ll go take a look, shall I?’ says Benni, hastily leaving the dining room as Emma wanders through to the kitchen and opens the fridge.
‘The owners have left us a welcome hamper: eggs, cheese, butter, milk . . . some button mushrooms and cherry tomatoes – sounds like an omelette to me!’ calls Emma, her back end poking out from the fridge door.
‘Sounds fine to me, though you might want to run it past Benni too,’ I say, settling myself at the dining table, unusual by design given its rustic, artisan style.
‘Phuh! I’m sure she eats anything,’ calls the muted voice from the
kitchen.
I wince. I’m sure Emma didn’t mean to be rude, but that sounded a little offensive, given the young woman’s size.
Emma’s head pokes around the kitchen door.
‘Sorry, did that sound a bit . . . ? What I meant was, who doesn’t like omelettes? Eggs, cheese and milk – surely everyone eats those.’
‘Of course, but she might have allergies or such like,’ I say, pushing the original comment aside. No offence caused or meant, plus Benni didn’t hear the remark.
‘Yes, right you are . . . allergies – I’ll ask.’ Emma disappears and I hear the sound of frying pans and cooking utensils being gathered. I hope she doesn’t start cracking eggs before she checks with Benni.
Benjamina
I climb the staircase to the first landing, then take the second set of stairs up to the final floor, which opens into a massive bedroom complete with a stunning view of the surrounding rooftops and the harbour beyond.
I linger by the window, getting my breath back.
Two flights of stairs might be an issue, but I want this room. I hope I don’t have to be polite and give it up for Emma. I feel like a child excited purely by the prospect of waking up in the morning and seeing this is all just for me. My bedroom at home, being my mother’s bungalow, is the tiny box room that first-time buyers use as their nursery. I’m still in my nursery aged twenty-five – how bad is that! Though given my crap wages and employment prospects, it’s hardly surprising.
I lean against the window ledge and admire the sky-high view. To my right I can see a tier effect of pretty cottages built into the hillside looming high above Lower Manor Road up which I’d struggled to walk earlier. To my left is the local pub from which we’ve just walked. It looks tiny from here, yet seemed so big as I stood plucking up the courage to enter. I was lucky that Ruth and Emma were literally inside the doorway waiting for me. How awful would it have been if I’d walked in and straight out again, then had to greet them back here at the cottage after they’d witnessed my faux pas! Cringe-worthy or what?
Emma
‘I’ll take the top floor, if that’s still OK with you, Emma?’
I turn at hearing my name to see Benni entering the kitchen, her face all smiles and freckles.
‘Sure thing, I don’t mind either way. Are you OK with omelettes?’ I ask, eager to begin cooking.
‘Sounds good to me. I’ll volunteer to be the official washer-upper, given that I can’t cook.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’ I ask, looking at her under my fringe.
‘Can’t. I burn everything.’
‘Didn’t you have home economics lessons at your school?’ I ask, unsure how anyone can get to their mid twenties without learning how to cook.
‘We did, though it’s called food technology now. I didn’t join in every lesson . . . my mum didn’t always have the right ingredients in the cupboard. I dropped it in Year Nine when I chose my options, so I still burn everything.’
‘It’s just a matter of getting your timings right . . . For a second there I thought you were one of the new generation who refuse to cook,’ I add, seeing Ruth standing behind Benni’s frame. ‘It’s not the done thing, apparently. It sounds to me as if you’ve simply never had the right guidance or instruction. I’ll happily teach you; you never know, you might enjoy it.’
‘I despise cooking, it just feels like another daily chore to me,’ says Ruth, over Benni’s shoulder. ‘I always end up cooking the same things; it’s easier and quicker than faffing about with anything new.’
‘I have a go sometimes,’ Benni says, ‘but I’m not organised enough and I never understand the recipes properly, so normally I do the shopping and my mum cooks. The only time I enjoyed cooking was for a school charity event – the school provided the ingredients and I made tiny chocolate truffles to sell to the parents.’ There’s a sudden flicker of pleasure in her voice.
‘Ladies, I promise you that for the next two weeks I’ll be in my element as long as you don’t ask me for twice-fried chips, breaded mushrooms or chicken Kiev,’ I say, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.
‘I’ll wash and tidy after you produce the goods then,’ says Benni.
‘And I’ll . . . well, I’ll keep the cottage clean and do the shopping, so fair’s fair,’ offers Ruth.
‘That sounds perfect,’ I assure them.
As I whisk the eggs and add a little seasoning, my earlier reservations are forgotten. Despite the age differences, I think we’ll be fine together for the next fortnight.
Chapter Two
Sunday 19 August
Ruth
I wake with a start just after 5.30 a.m. A quick glance around the unfamiliar bedroom and instantly I feel lost. Alone. Panicked. My heart is racing. Desperately recalling yesterday’s events in order to explain the here and now.
My recall is swift: Brixham. I lie back and stare at the dusky shapes of unfamiliar furniture arranged around the room. My heart rate is easing, my sense of belonging returning.
Is this how Mum feels each time she forgets herself – like an almighty jolt from dreamland to a reality she doesn’t recognise or understand? Does she experience this exact confusion a million times a day? Or is panic a memory from her childhood that has faded too?
A lump clogs my throat. I feel like crying.
I need to stop doing this to myself. Berating myself every minute of the day. I have spent the past five years caring for her needs. I give her every free hour I have, and yet here I am feeling as guilty as hell for making time for myself. Two weeks to do as I please, when I please, and yet . . .
A creak outside my bedroom door distracts my thoughts. Who is it, Emma or Benjamina?
I can’t tell whether the direction of movement is from along the corridor or down from above, but either way somebody is up and wide awake.
Seconds later, I hear the front door click.
Boy, someone’s an early riser.
I throw back the duvet and hobble to the window. My back isn’t as good as it used to be, as much as I try to stay active. I can’t combat the strain of lifting Mum in and out of the bath. We need to think about changing the bathroom to facilitate her needs.
I pull aside the bedroom curtain and peer into the darkened road below.
Benni.
The sun isn’t even up yet, but she’s out and about. That’s unusual for the younger generation in my experience: my son, Jack, gets up as late as possible, every day of the week.
I watch her saunter down the hill, not a care in the world, so lucky to have her entire life ahead of her.
I sigh.
If only.
Shopping or sightseeing? Surely, it’s too early for either. Or simply wishing to escape her daily life to enjoy the sea, sand and sunshine. Or like me, with no plans, no hopes and no dreams.
I return to bed, chastising myself for not being gracious at fifty-two, mature in my outlook. Instead, I harbour resentment deep within. It’s difficult, even with Jack. He doesn’t understand that he should make the most of life, stop wasting his days. While he’s free from a mortgage, free from worries, ill health and . . . responsibilities.
‘Stop it.’ The words leave my mouth, my conscience sick of hearing the same broken record of woe and self-destruction that is my internal monologue.
Youth is wasted on the young, just accept it.
Benjamina
I pull the front door closed behind me, having checked that there is a key in the safe. I’m sure neither Ruth nor Emma will be happy if I have to bang on the front door on my return.
Usually on holiday I’m a lounge-about person, I take my time doing things, but this morning I had a sudden urge to be up, dressed and out. I can’t say I have ever done this before, but why not? I’m on holiday, I can do as I please for the next two weeks. I have no one to answer to, no one shouting their orders and no
restrictions about spending time doing whatever I please. Bloody hell, this is a first, and I’m determined to make the most of it.
Before I know it, I’m halfway down Church Street, bracing myself for the steep incline, which is just as difficult to walk down as it is to walk up. Go figure that one! I’m wearing flat ballet pumps, but still it’s no picnic. Shoes are a major concern for me given how swollen my feet can become. I live in ballet pumps. No heel, no ridged seams, but sadly no cushioning insole either. I can feel every bump and edge of these cobbled streets, which will play havoc with my feet as the day goes by. I might need to invest in a decent pair of sturdy shoes if I’m to walk these hills each day.
I weave my way down amongst the quaint cottages, stopping at benches that appear like magic at various points, before reaching the main road. I have no idea where I’m heading, but taking a gentle stroll in the soft morning light seems like the thing to do when staying in a harbour town. I’ve never been to Brixham before and if it wasn’t for the advert I’d spotted offering a sense of security amongst other solo holidaymakers – I probably wouldn’t be here now.
I pass shop after shop, all closed given the early hour, but I assume they will be busy with tourists and locals alike once nine o’clock arrives. Gift shops, charity shops and fish and chips shops line my route as I gently plod through the empty streets. It’s comforting to see the familiar names – the Co-op, Costa Coffee and Superdrug – hiding amongst the local shop frontages.
My usual routine on a Sunday is a long lie-in, followed by several hours dedicated to a box set and maybe a leisurely afternoon spent flicking through magazines. Early evening is spent dreading Monday’s shift on the production line at Vine Yard’s vinegar factory. A factory floor filled with rowdy women bantering back and forth about their kids and noisy machines pounding in your ears followed by a bus ride and a lonely walk home contemplating my prospects.
I stop walking.
What prospects? I don’t have any. I haven’t any hobbies as such. When was the last time I heard from my school friends? I used to speak to Lesley Crawford every Sunday, but not recently, in fact not since the weekend when we discussed the Olympics opening ceremony. When did she stop calling? Does everyone lose their school friends once they reach their mid twenties?