New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  Laid bare as pure facts, my daily existence is even sadder than I imagined.

  I resume my walk. In the far distance I can see various landmarks – a lighthouse, the harbour wall, an ancient-looking sailing ship complete with complicated rigging and crow’s nest – any one of which will be a welcome destination when I finally arrive. I’ll sit and quietly watch Brixham wake on a Sunday morning.

  Crossing the main road, I arrive at the harbour wall, where hoardings announce that the Golden Hind will open at 10.30. I’m not usually interested in museums and such like, but it might be worth a look around if the weather turns nasty one day. Looking towards the dawn inching across the horizon, I doubt I’ll need a rainy-day pursuit today.

  I continue to plod along the length of the harbour wall, watching the high tide lap at the edges. The sound is so relaxing, reminding me that I can forget about everything for the next fortnight – as if I haven’t already.

  I glance at my watch: 5.55. No doubt my mum will be fast asleep after a good night at the Liberal Club with her friends, and Dan, my older brother, might still be out with his cronies, having pulled an all-nighter at a dingy poker game. A wave of guilt snags at my conscience before I hastily chase it away. For the next two weeks I’m not responsible for anyone else in my family; just myself. I won’t need to struggle on the bus with the weekly shop, or keep a cautious eye on the recycling box to make sure there aren’t too many empty bottles visible to the neighbours. As for the daily mess around the bungalow, they’ll need to sort themselves out; a quick run-around with the vacuum and a spot of washing-up won’t harm them. I can’t imagine that Dan even knows where I keep the clean tea towels.

  I focus my attention on the fleet of boats in the distance heading towards a point further ahead. I quicken my pace, interested to see what lies around the corner from the harbour. I pass shops and pubs all with their metal shutters tightly fastened, but as I follow the harbour wall around the corner, I see that the boats are docking at the far end. Several are already anchored there, and a number of men are energetically throwing white plastic boxes to one another before the final guy in the line piles them on to the harbour’s edge.

  Is this the morning’s fishing catch?

  I stand a short distance from the nearest boat and watch, mesmerised by the busy nature of the scene. Men old and young, dressed in heavy coats and woollen hats, with brightly coloured dungaree waders, bantering light-heartedly as they play catch with the plastic boxes.

  Each boat is top heavy with equipment and metal work as the busy bodies beneath unload quickly. On the harbour side, other men stride back and forth wheeling trolleys piled with crates. It looks like an ants’ nest, where everyone has a job and everyone knows his role.

  I linger a while before seating myself on the large concrete step beside the harbour. I can rest my legs, watch the dawn lightening the morning sky and enjoy seeing the catch brought in.

  How perfect. A million miles away from a Sunday morning at Redwood Drive, Burntwood.

  ‘Are you all right there?’

  The voice startles me. I didn’t see the man approach.

  I point to the boats, as if that answers his question.

  ‘It’s not a good haul today; we did much better yesterday,’ he explains, removing his woollen hat and stuffing it into his pocket. ‘You visiting, are ya?’

  Once revealed, his brown curls tumble in large loops, and his gentle hazel eyes stare inquisitively. I don’t reply, but simply stare back.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just watching . . .’

  ‘That’s fine. I thought . . . Oh, never mind.’ He turns away to look at the nearest boat before turning back to face me.

  ‘Is that your boat then?’ I ask, unsure of myself, wondering if I’ve caused offence.

  ‘Trawler . . . it’s a fishing trawler.’ He laughs, a smile spreading across his wide mouth. ‘Don’t let my dad hear you calling it a boat; he’ll put you out to work for a night so you never make the same mistake again.’

  ‘Trawler,’ I correct myself. ‘Yours?’

  He shakes his head, his curls dancing.

  ‘Nah, my dad’s . . . and his dad’s before that. She’s bloody ancient, to be fair, but she’s got plenty of years in her yet. She might be mine one day.’

  ‘And you’ve been out all night?’ I ask, thinking of another male who could well be dragging himself home after a skin full – though I doubt Dan has netted any return for his evening.

  ‘Since one o’clock this morning. We didn’t go too far today, but some nights we leave at ten o’clock and return for the fish market.’

  ‘The fish market?’

  ‘Yeah, just in there. They’ll be auctioning our catch to the local restaurants, and maybe some top-notch London kitchens. Our catch might end up being sent anywhere and used for all sorts of posh nosh, or for simple fish and chips sold literally over there.’ He points to the nearest row of shops and pubs.

  ‘So you’re a fisherman?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me and many more around these parts. We go out every day and net what we can, when we can. It’s a real job.’

  It’s my turn to laugh.

  ‘Sorry, that was such a stupid question,’ I say, ‘but where I live, people like me don’t ever think about . . . fishing.’ I nod towards the trawler.

  ‘And what do you do?’

  ‘Nothing much . . . I work at a vinegar factory back home. I’m on the bottling production line.’

  He gives a small laugh. ‘And here, people like me, don’t think about the likes of you doing such a job.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  He smiles and extends his hand towards me.

  ‘I’m Ziggy. Nice to meet you.’

  ‘Benni,’ I say, taking his hand for a brief shake. I can feel the calluses at the base of each finger, his rugged nails and weathered brown skin. Quite different from my podgy white fingers complete with French manicure.

  ‘You arrived yesterday, I take it?’

  I nod.

  ‘Most folks come on a Saturday. One week or two?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘With family?’ he asks, removing his woollen hat from his pocket.

  ‘No . . .’ I hesitate, unsure how to explain the three solo holidaymakers in Rose Cottage. ‘With friends, actually.’ It isn’t entirely a lie; after last night I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.

  ‘That’s nice . . . Right, I’d best make haste so we can finish for the day. It’s been good chatting to you; see you another time.’

  I repeat the sentiment and watch as Ziggy does a slow jog back towards the outbuildings of the fish market parallel with the row of bobbing trawlers.

  I scan the horizon; the morning’s blue sky is nearly in place. Behind me, row after row of cottages painted in pastel shades stare out across the harbour. Somewhere amongst them is the steep road I need to navigate in order to claim a decent breakfast and a morning cuppa.

  I get up from my concrete seat, adjust my baggy T-shirt to cover the tops of my leggings and set off slowly back along the harbour wall.

  Emma

  I don’t want to seem pushy, but I might as well use my strengths during the holiday rather than ignore them. I mash the tea while flipping the waffles, delighted that my early morning stroll to the local Co-op has resulted in maple syrup and a bounty of local produce for our holiday cottage.

  As the sweet smell of the waffles fills the air, I feel on cloud nine. It seems so long since I’ve taken delight in preparing food – five years, ten years at a guess – but this feels right. This is where my heart lies, cooking good food to be enjoyed in a . . . I look about the tiny galley kitchen . . . in a location where the vibe is positive and my talents will be appreciated.

  ‘Morning!’ Ruth makes me jump with her sudden interruption. ‘That smell
s wonderful.’

  ‘Good morning, did you sleep well?’

  ‘Not too well, but that’s to be expected given that it’s a new bed, a new house and new . . . friends.’

  I smile. That’s nice to hear. I bet she’s been worrying about her mother’s first night in the care home.

  ‘Benni went out very early this morning; is she back yet?’ asks Ruth.

  ‘Nope, but I hope she’s ready for a fine breakfast when she does roll in. I’ve made waffles, or there’s fresh bread and local honey if you prefer.’

  Ruth perks up at the sound of honey. She seems a simple soul, and yet I noticed last night how forlorn she became whilst talking about her life at home.

  ‘Have a seat and I’ll bring it all through,’ I say, not wanting the kitchen to be cramped with bodies.

  Ruth disappears into the adjoining dining room, her pink quilted dressing gown pinned about her slim frame. She seems frail today, altered from my first impression. Maybe she’s homesick already, or suffering the effects of last night’s gin.

  I remove the warm bread from the oven, pile the waffles on to a serving plate and carry it all through to my waiting diner.

  ‘Here we go! Tuck in, don’t stand on ceremony,’ I say, returning for the cutlery and honey pot.

  ‘Emma, this is quite a spread. I hope you’re not on a busman’s holiday without a rest from the day job.’

  ‘Phuh! No such thing for me. I adore proper food. Making this is a lovely change from the fried crap I serve every day. I’ve thought about starting my own business with my redundancy money, though I fear it might all get swallowed up by the astronomical cost of setting up. I could always seek additional investment with a business partner, I suppose, but it wouldn’t be purely mine then, would it?’

  ‘Anything in particular?’ asks Ruth, choosing a waffle and eyeing the maple syrup.

  ‘I’m torn between a small bakery and a coffee shop. I know there are plenty of each along any high street, but I’d make mine different by using my talent for taste.’

  Ruth looks up, intrigued.

  ‘It’s a knack I have for putting flavours together. However odd the combination first sounds, once the delicacies and textures are blended, then bingo, it’s a winning combination! Don’t ask how I do it, I just can. I believe my paternal grandmother could do the same.’

  Ruth’s green eyes slowly close with pleasure as the waffle melts in her mouth.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ she murmurs, taking a second bite.

  ‘Ah, bless ya for saying.’

  ‘Waffles were always a favourite with Jack when he was young.’

  I raise a curious eyebrow.

  ‘My son, he’s twenty-five.’ Ruth shakes her head. ‘Boy, how the time has flown. He’s recently left home and is renting a place with his girlfriend, Megan, which allows me a little more freedom when Mum’s not needing my attention . . .’

  She falters. I see her struggle to complete her sentence, as if her train of thought has been distracted away from Jack and his new living arrangements.

  ‘How lovely,’ I say, unsure if I want to reveal my own circumstances. ‘Married?’

  ‘Jack? Oh, sorry, you mean me. No. I never married. I was twenty-seven when I had Jack . . . on my own. His father said he wasn’t ready for such a commitment – some men are and some aren’t, don’t you think?’

  I give a knowing nod. I can imagine it’s been difficult.

  ‘Mum looked after me when I needed her support. There was never a question of me not keeping the baby; it was more about how we could remain respectable in the eyes of the neighbours. She grew up at a time when social stigma was prevalent; I think those attitudes were ingrained within her upbringing. I suppose without my father to help guide her, she probably felt we were already different from the rest of the street. Being a single parent due to my father’s death was socially more acceptable than my unplanned pregnancy, so I followed her plan. I never questioned it.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘Some people have a knack of getting exactly what they want in a subtle manner by overruling others. They appear to have all the answers, so you simply go with the flow, and before you know where you are, you find they’re running your life. I’ve had a man dominate me in much the same way. Friends and family thought he was great for me, so charming and handsome, when really he controlled everything I did. Thankfully there was never any violence or aggression, yet his jealousy and insecurities dictated every choice I made.’

  ‘Exactly. And now the tables seem to have turned and I’m making all Mum’s decisions for her. I know I’ve got nothing to worry about – the care home is a reputable one and came highly recommended, so they’ll be looking after her well – but still . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t stop you worrying, does it?’ I say, sensing her guilt.

  Ruth nods her head and continues to eat.

  I note her despondency. She should be proud of herself given the effort and responsibility needed to bear such a situation alone. I’ll do what I can to ensure she has a great two weeks, if nothing else.

  Simultaneously we hear a key in the front door.

  ‘Hello!’ calls Benni, bounding into the dining room. ‘Boy, have I had a walk and a half.’ Her cheeks are rosy red, a healthy glow glistens upon her brow and there is a vigour to her step.

  ‘It seems to have done you the world of good,’ says Ruth.

  ‘It certainly has. I never knew a harbour town could have so many pretty landmarks yet be so compact,’ says Benni. ‘Have either of you been here before?’

  ‘Me, when my son was very small. I was desperate to provide him with a proper family. I thought I might be lucky enough to meet a decent man in the same situation and in a new place . . . Well, you know . . .’ Ruth’s sentence fades.

  Both Benni and I turn to view her blushing cheeks.

  ‘Ay ay, someone had an agenda,’ I tease her.

  Ruth’s blush deepens. ‘Not at all. Back then I needed to make the most of my free time. I’ve always worked. Even when Jack was tiny, I went straight back to work and left him with my mother all day.’

  ‘You were young. You wanted to enjoy yourself,’ says Benni, her beaming smile fading somewhat.

  ‘Exactly. Some dreams are pie in the sky, though, aren’t they? I never met anyone I was taken with.’

  ‘It’s not too late . . . you never know who you might meet,’ says Benni, her smile returning. ‘I intend to let my hair down while I’m here, try new things and enjoy getting to know the two of you.’

  ‘And so we shall!’ I say. ‘Here’s to being ourselves, doing as we please and enjoying the time we have together.’

  Ruth

  It’s 10.30. From my reclined position on the sofa, I watch the wall clock. I’ve struggled through ten pages of the Jane Austen I found on the bookcase, which I hoped would reignite my reading habit. It hasn’t. Instead, my gaze keeps diverting to the hands of the clock.

  The landmark hours of my usual day with my mother are etched upon my mind. Events around which our existence revolves. Breakfast, which is a good barometer for determining the day ahead. Her bath routine, likewise a mood indicator. Her medication. Her mid-morning snack. Her repeated refusal of fruit squash to help with her hydration levels. And of course, her constant questioning: ‘What time is it?’ asked approximately every seventeen minutes. It used to be every twenty-three minutes, but it’s even more frequent now. I’ve learnt to cope. To answer without a hint of frustration or impatience. Sometimes I’m honest. At other times I’ll say any old thing – Mum never queries my answer regardless of how dark it is outside. I don’t think she knows the difference any more.

  I stare about the lounge, unsure where Emma and Benni are. I heard neither go out.

  I close the book; there’s no point pretending. I’m on holiday and I am bored senseless.

&
nbsp; What do people do on holiday? Eat, drink and what? What do I do on holiday?

  My last one is so long ago now, I’ve forgotten where we went. Was it Ilfracombe or Barry Island? Either way, it definitely involved a twelve-year-old boy, his mum and his gran. It seems a lifetime ago. Mum, Jack and I happily filled our week with penny slot machines, beach balls and live entertainment on stage at the caravan campsite bar.

  I can hardly fill this holiday in the same way.

  In the silence of the lounge, I hear the ticking of the clock, the rumble of passing traffic and my own steady heartbeat.

  I suppose I could go for a stroll along the harbour wall, venture to the local shops or take a paddle at the water’s edge. Sadly, none of those things interests me.

  So what am I going to do to fill the next thirteen days?

  I didn’t think about it before I arrived. I didn’t plan like Emma and Benni clearly have. I didn’t count down the days or even buy new holiday clothes. I literally thought my holiday would be cancelled at the eleventh hour due to unforeseen circumstances relating to Mum and I wouldn’t find myself in this predicament. Bored.

  I could stare out of the window at the passing tourists and watch the world go by. I could take a little siesta. I could browse the clothes shops for a few holiday items. I could phone Jack and ask how he is. I could, but I won’t.

  Actually, I might do that if I can’t think of anything else to do.

  Who in heaven’s name is ever bored on holiday?

  This is the story of my life. Empty.

  I want to cry.

  For the first time in years, I have free time, the chance to do as I please, and yet I can’t think of a single thing I want to do. Typical. Back home, I’m busy juggling a full-time job with my caring role and my head is filled with a million tasks I wish I could do other than bathing, feeding and constantly telling the time. And now I’m free, I’m at a loss.