by Erin Green
I might as well be back home.
I glance at the clock: 11 a.m. Time for Mum’s mid-morning snack, which I usually leave prepped on our kitchen sideboard. Today, a kindly woman in a uniform will deliver it in the care-home lounge. It’s comforting to know Mum has proper company and not just our kindly neighbour who drops in a couple of times a day.
I sigh.
I despise myself for allowing this to happen. I’m an invisible person who is kept busy doing things for others, and that alone justifies my daily existence. I’m needed. I’m useful. Yet outside of that, who am I? Remove Mum, remove Jack, and what’s left? A woman who hasn’t a clue how to fill her hours by herself. Who can’t even name what she’d like to do. A lost soul amongst strangers. I shared my life story with Emma at breakfast, so what else is there for me to chat about? I’ve said it all.
If I stay here, I’ll end up ruining Emma and Benni’s fortnight. If I don’t like me, why should others take an interest?
Emma
It’s one thing to stroll by and wistfully watch the excited children and their accompanying parents crab-fishing over the harbour wall. It’s another level entirely to impulsively purchase a new plastic bucket, a crab line and a bag of bait to indulge one’s inner child.
I drop my line into the water and wait, enjoying the view. I bet Rugeley isn’t looking so beautiful, despite the overshadowing beauty of the old power station’s cooling towers, which have hogged the skyline for decades.
There are moments in my life when borrowing a well-behaved child from a neighbouring family seems reasonable: seeing the latest Disney remake at the cinema, visiting Legoland or queuing to speak to Santa. Today, I simply ignore the strange looks aimed at the woman crabbing alone. Hopefully my bucket of sizeable crabs will suggest a talent absent in the families either side. I’m praying that one of their brood doesn’t accidentally knock it over during a tantrum after having been refused permission by their father to hold the nylon line for fear of friction burns to tiny fingers. Though I suspect it’s more about the father’s reluctance to relinquish his enjoyment to his offspring.
I have no such worries; I’m going solo.
It’s amazing how therapeutic it is, despite the noisy neighbours. With the sun on my face, an azure sky overhead and the delicate lapping of the waves, I let my worries pass me by. Redundancy isn’t what I asked for, nor what I hoped for, but I have to be honest. I haven’t been happy since my very first shift at the roadside chain of ‘Fry it, grill it, eat it!’, with a menu filled with trice-fried chips, side orders of trice-fried onion rings served upon wipeable plastic cloths. In fact, I’m surprised I stayed so long. It was supposed to be a pit stop between catering college and my dreams as a sous chef within a classy hotel. It’ll take time to find what I truly want, be it a coffee shop or a small bakery, but that’s the least of my worries. My redundancy money is safely in the bank awaiting my decision, and . . . well, the other stuff can wait.
I feel a gentle tug on my crab line, similar to the painful tug on my heart strings; both appear empty when inspected but I know from experience both are a waiting game.
The little lad in the neighbouring family squeals with delight as his father raises a crab pot with a healthy horde of snapping occupants. The boundless energy, the excitement at such small achievements – it never ceases to fascinate me. The boy is thrilled beyond belief as his hero nets the catch of the day. Does the guy realise this might be his most treasured memory? If he doesn’t, then someone should nudge him, in case he’s so absorbed in the retrieval of a crab pot that he misses the admiration on his young son’s face, that one-in-a-million moment.
The dad reels in the crab pot, abruptly asks for the plastic bucket and then scolds the boy for spilling half the contents down his new shorts, wetting them through. The boy’s face drops. The memory moment is gone. Missed. Lost for ever.
I smile at him before returning my interest to my own line – empty and forlorn in the water.
Within twenty minutes, I’ve had enough. I need some light refreshment, given the soaring heat.
I say goodbye to my collection of claw-clacking crabs before tipping them back into the harbour water. I shake the bucket for dramatic effect, splashing the father beside me, who glares before resuming his new-found sport. Pity his young son’s delight didn’t win his interest.
‘Sorry,’ I mouth, before wrapping my nylon line inside the bucket and setting off on the trek back to the cottage.
I’m unsure what I want to do. A siesta? Sun myself whilst reading on the back patio? Or treat myself to a cheeky vino alongside a plate of cheese and crackers? It all sounds good, but nothing piques my interest.
I continue my stroll along the quayside, window-shopping as I go. That’s when I spot it: an old-fashioned ice cream parlour, its frontage as colourful as a box of wax crayons.
Instantly, I know what I want. My pace quickens as a long-forgotten childhood song spins about my head: ‘I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Ice Cream’. I don’t read the sundae menu pinned inside the window; I enter without hesitation.
I’m met with a mind-boggling black-and-white tiled floor with a distinct geometric pattern that plays tricks on my eyes like an Escher drawing. Thankfully the welcome from behind the serving counter steadies me.
His olive skin crinkles about his eyes, his bright smile accentuates a direct gaze and he’s wearing the cleanest catering whites I’ve seen in a long time.
‘Hello, madam . . . how can I help you today?’ he says, in a smooth, rich Italian accent.
A nice touch, signalling authenticity for any ice cream parlour. Instantly I’m transported to Rome and the best gelato I’ve ever tasted.
I browse the array of plastic tubs filled with a multitude of popular flavours. My mouth begins to water at the thought of their taste and texture.
‘Today’s special is chocolate and chilli ice cream.’
‘That sounds delightful.’ I look up into dark, smouldering eyes watching me peruse the selection.
From a table in the corner a shriek of laughter fills the air, and we both glance over to see a group of teenagers, heads locked together, shoulders juddering, six bodies crammed around a table intended for four.
‘I’ll have a double scoop of the chocolate and chilli, please.’
Retrieving a note from my purse, I wait as he manhandles the tub and firmly scoops and rolls two large dollops into a waffle cone.
‘Good choice. We’ve only just introduced this flavour.’
‘Luca, how about we try—’ A second man, wearing identical catering whites, enters the serving area from a back room, and stops when he sees me waiting. ‘Hello.’
I give a polite smile. His grey eyes twinkle beneath a pale but heavy brow, he’s obviously local given his accent, and somewhat alluring given his charismatic smile by which I’m transfixed. How can a mere smile, like the Mona Lisa’s, draw you in within a heartbeat? I wonder.
‘It’s such a beautiful day; are you enjoying your holiday?’ he asks, leaning both arms on the glass counter and staring at me intently. His confidence emanates from him, creating a magnetic field around his strong but slender frame.
‘Yes, the harbour is absolutely stunning,’ I reply, but find I have to look away. One glance and he seems to know everything about me.
Luca is still waiting to hear the end of his direct question, his dark gaze flipping between me and the stranger.
‘I’m Martin . . . nice to meet you.’
His hand extends awkwardly over the top of the counter towards me. I raise my own hand, but due to the angle of the display case and my short stature, I can only reach part way, pinching the tips of his fingers in a feeble introductory handshake.
I instantly regret falling for his persuasive action.
Who shakes hands like a teeny tiny mouse?
Martin looks down at my h
and and then back to my eyes. Yep, I bet even he is now questioning the kind of woman I am, based on that last action.
‘And your order is . . . ?’
‘Ready and waiting, boss,’ says Luca, holding the chocolate sauce ladle aloft, offering to embellish my cone.
‘Oh no, thank you, chocolate and chilli is enough for anyone’s taste buds,’ I laugh.
‘Surely you wouldn’t question Luca’s choice?’ asks Martin, pulling a quizzical face. ‘His family are renowned for the finest ice cream in Rome and he’s brought all his expertise to us here in Brixham.’
‘Oh no, sorry, that was rude of me. I’m a chef by profession. I pride myself on excellent taste buds and—’ I don’t have a chance to finish my sentence as both men fire questions at me, while I reach for my double scoop delight from Luca.
‘Now, you’re talking, lady . . .’ says Luca, still holding my cornet with a tissue.
‘How excellent is excellent?’ asks Martin.
‘It might sound boastful, which isn’t my intention, but pretty damned excellent actually – a born talent, for sure.’
‘And you use this talent . . . where?’
‘Please don’t judge me, but sadly, I waste it serving fried food morning, noon and night in a cheap roadside café in the Midlands.’
Both men stand and stare.
‘May I?’ I ask, indicating my double cone, which is starting to dribble. I take it from Luca, place my five-pound note on the glass counter and unceremoniously lick the melting ice cream. The creamy texture is divine, the flavour so rich and the . . . I cease analysing the cone. Instantly I’m aware of two sets of male eyes widening slightly as they watch. I blush profusely.
How naïve am I?
The teenagers burst into raucous laughter, I suspect at my expense. I can imagine the social media post winging its way across the ether involving a sassy lady, an ice cream and an avid male audience.
‘Anyway . . .’ says Martin, breaking eye contact.
‘Yes, anyway . . .’ repeats Luca, coughing to clear his throat.
I want to die of embarrassment. I didn’t mean to be suggestive, but sadly I have been.
‘Keep the change,’ I say. ‘Pop it in the charity box or something, and I’ll see you another day.’
As I turn to leave, Martin calls out, ‘Visit us again soon. We need to discuss your amazing talent because—’ The door cuts off the last of his words.
Head down, eyes low, I continue to eat my delicious ice cream as I begin the trek back to Rose Cottage.
Boy, will my housemates laugh at this little anecdote!
Benjamina
I’m not one to don trainers usually, but my latest purchase is definitely more comfortable than my ballet pumps. As I climb towards the cottage, I feel like a child with new school shoes, though my floaty cotton skirt with its elasticated waistband might not be the perfect accessory. I watch the pink laces bob up and down against the grey quilting and feel like I’m moon-walking on a layer of cushioned air, my abandoned pumps swinging in the shop’s paper bag.
I’ve already stopped twice on my homeward climb but am grateful when I spy another wooden bench. I’ll sit for a moment, breathe deeply and enjoy the view over the aged stone wall. I can see for miles: the harbour, the marina, the lighthouse and a grand-looking building framed by dense vegetation. Under a clear blue sky everything looks so wonderful. I could sit here all day and never tire of the view. I retrieve my mobile and snap a couple of panoramic photos.
Back home, I’d feel too self-conscious to sit here pondering the view, afraid of people staring, hearing their unkind remarks about my size or fitness level, but here, in one morning, I have acquired a laissez-faire attitude.
Is it the sea air? Or simply being more independent?
I have new trainers; what else matters?
‘Hello, Benni!’ The voice lifts my mood higher. I watch as Ziggy glides to a stop in front of my bench, tipping his skateboard on to its end before he grabs the top edge. ‘How are you?’
He’s the definition of cool in faded jeans, a white T-shirt and unlaced trainers, so different from this morning’s fishing garb. And a skater boy – wow!
‘Ziggy!’ I exclaim, pleased by his sudden appearance. ‘I’m great, thanks . . . just pacing myself.’
Ziggy’s dark curls sweep low over his eyes. ‘Wise decision. You’d be amazed how silly some of the tourists can be – they seem to forget how unfit they are. Last week, an old guy had a heart attack when he attempted to jog to the top of this road. He should have phoned for the ambulance before he started!’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way! He got an entirely different bed and breakfast than the one he’d booked.’
‘I’ll heed the warning, though I can’t ever see me attempting to jog, so there’s no worries there.’
Ziggy grimaces and frowns.
‘You’re tough on yourself, aren’t you?’
I shrug. I call it honesty. The guy has eyes in his head; how can anyone ignore the rotundity of my frame? Even the kindest of people describe me as big-boned.
‘Maybe,’ I mutter.
‘Where are you walking to?’ he asks, filling the growing silence.
I hesitate before answering, unsure if it is wise to confirm details to a stranger who I’ve known for less than a day, but he seems so open and trustworthy.
‘Rose Cottage.’
‘I know it.’ A smile lightens his expression. ‘I used to have a paper round on this stretch. Carrying a huge bag up this hill felt like army training, especially on a Sunday with all the supplements inside. It’s a holiday let nowadays, but back then it used to be a family home,’ he adds.
I smile politely, slightly embarrassed that I’ve clammed up. Along with buying trainers and hiking up steep hills, casually chatting with males is not my usual forte.
‘In fact, any cottage with a decent view around these parts is a holiday let now, but hey, mustn’t complain.’ He shrugs. ‘It attracts more tourists, so it’s good for us locals.’
Suddenly being here with Ziggy doesn’t feel so awkward. I shouldn’t be so self-conscious.
‘Anyway, I’d better get going,’ he says. ‘I’m heading down to catch up with my mates.’
‘It’s nice seeing you again, Ziggy,’ I say, collecting my paper bag from the bench.
‘You too. Maybe I’ll see you down at the fish market one morning . . . I could give you a guided tour of the auction.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I say, beaming.
‘See ya, Benni.’ And with one fluid foot flip, his skateboard lands on the tarmac before he pushes off, zigzagging down the steep hill towards the main street.
I continue my climb at a gentle pace, my mind replaying his kind invite. If I leave the cottage at five tomorrow morning, maybe I’ll be at the fish market in time to see his trawler landing their catch.
I wonder if the locals get sick of tourists parading along their harbour, enthralled by their daily lives.
I know I’d be none too pleased showing countless visitors around the vinegar factory whilst I monitor and maintain maximum production on the bottling conveyor belt.
Ruth
Having wasted three hours sitting on the sofa failing to read a book and staring at the clock, I give myself a good talking-to. I struggled yesterday when introducing myself to Emma and Benni because I couldn’t think of anything to say about myself. I’m a mother, daughter and carer. I work full time as a bank cashier, my first and only job. And that’s it. I rarely go out or do anything remotely interesting outside of my family role. I never spend money on myself or my appearance. I refuse every invite offered to me, be it a quick coffee with the girls after work, a wedding anniversary party or even, for the last ten years, the staff Christmas party.
Now, with time on my hands, what do I want to do? I
decide to compile a list. After twenty minutes of thinking, it consists of one thing: painting.
So before I can talk myself out of the idea, I pull on my shoes and go out to find the nearest art supplies shop.
‘Can I help you?’ asks the young girl with the tri-coloured hair. I stare boggle-eyed at the racks of brightly coloured pencils in every shade of the rainbow, the sketchpads, watercolour palettes, acrylics and tubes of oils.
I’m happy to browse, unsure of my needs, but my polite smile and bashfulness don’t dampen her eagerness to help.
‘We have a great offer on graphite pencils for this week only – a complete beginner’s set for only . . .’ I tune out and continue to look around. But she persists, describing the quality, the tonal range and the reputation of the manufacturer.
My heart rate is elevated, my palms itching to create. I can’t remember the last time I entered an art shop, but I know it was years ago, before I had Jack. I recall the joy I used to feel every time I stared at a blank sheet of paper, the scope of possibilities bewitching me prior to touching the paper with any material. It seemed so indulgent at the time, to allow my imagination to run riot as the first mark can signify such possibility – anything from a simple mindless doodle to a detailed landscape. The composition didn’t matter back then – landscape, portrait or still life; all that mattered was my ability to capture an image, a moment in time, much like a photographer as he presses the shutter-release exposure.
In time, I duly select the recommended weekly bargain of graphite pencils, a decent-sized sketchpad and a putty eraser, promising myself that I will return if this impromptu project sets sail into something more. If not, I’ve only wasted twenty-five quid, which will hardly wreck my bank account.
My second stop is a clothes shop, for a couple of pairs of linen trousers and a few colourful tops, not unlike those Emma wears, though not her off-the-shoulder style. Then I hastily return to the cottage, sneaking my purchases up the stairs and into my room before the other two can spy my carrier bags.
Tomorrow I will attempt to sketch the marina. It’ll be my first creative piece since my A-level days. Before a deep-seated love of all things creative was eclipsed by the offer of a full-time job and the staff entitlement of a mortgage rate one per cent lower than the customers’ rate. A fine reason to accept a career in banking, or so my mother said.