by Liz Davies
Ellis sent her mother a narrow-eyed glare. ‘I bet you won’t even tell her off. It’s so not fair.’
With that Ellis charged across the landing and took the stairs two at a time. Kate heard the front door slam a second or so later. She pitied any family who purchased this house at some future date, when she and Brett decided to move into something smaller – they’d need to replace all the doors and possibly do some serious replastering; and that was just for starters.
Portia, undoubtedly having waited until her sister had stormed off downstairs, yanked her bedroom door open, and yelled, ‘She’s so mean, she never lets me borrow anything, and she’s got way nicer clothes than I have and lots more than me, and it’s not fair because she has more pocket money than I do, and if I had the same amount that she does I wouldn’t need to wear her stuff, and if she wasn’t so selfish—’
Portia paused to take a breath and Kate jumped in. ‘Wait there, young lady. She’s older than you so it’s only right she has more of an allowance. When you get to her age, you’ll have the same as she does now.’
‘Inflation,’ Portia said. ‘You’ve got to take that into account.’
Kate blinked. Fair play, her daughter had a point and kudos to Portia for her negotiation skills.
‘We’ll deal with that when the time comes,’ Kate said. ‘That doesn’t excuse you for taking Ellis’s top without permission. You know better than to help yourself to other people’s things. It’s up to you – you can either have your phone taken off you for the next three days, or you’re grounded. Your choice.’
Kate knew that both of the options would hurt.
Portia had an excellent line in pouting. She crossed her arms, dipped her head to stare belligerently out from lowered brows, and thrust out her chin. ‘You never tell anyone else off, it’s always me! You hate me! Well, that’s OK because I hate you too!’
Kate stared in open-mouthed shock as her middle child whirled on her heel, dashed back into her bedroom and slammed the door. Of course, she slammed it. Hell would freeze over before any of her children ever shut a door quietly.
She made a vow that once Portia had a home of her own, she would visit her for the sole purpose of repeatedly slamming every door in the house. If her daughter objected, she’d blame it on the menopause, or encroaching old age.
Let’s see how she’ll like that, Kate thought, turning her attention back to the confetti-filled bathroom. What was she doing? Oh, yes, she’d been about to fetch the vacuum cleaner—
Her trouser pocket buzzed. It was a text from Ellis. If you don’t tell Portia off, I’ll never forgive you.
Another buzz, another text, this time from Portia. I hate you your ruining my life.
Phone or grounded? She replied to Portia, not even faintly amused that she was holding a conversation via text with someone who was only about ten feet away.
Ground me. I dont care was her daughter’s reply.
This was followed by Portia’s furious screech, ‘I didn’t want to go to that stupid party anyway, because I’VE GOT NOTHING TO WEAR!’
The music was turned up even louder, and she feared for her daughter’s eardrums. ‘I swear to God, I’m going to cut the plug on every single electronic device in this house,’ she muttered. ‘Except for the kettle.’
Kate tried not to stomp as she went downstairs to fetch the vacuum cleaner, but it was hard not to resort to her daughters’ methods of showing displeasure. She not only felt like stomping, she felt like slamming doors and yelling, too.
‘Oh, shut up,’ she griped to Pepe, who continued to yap that annoying high-pitched bark of his.
The nans were still hard at it, arguing in the living room, and Kate tried to ignore them as she wrestled with the Dyson which had got caught up in some scarves and a coat that had been flung into the little cubby-hole under the stairs, instead of being hung on a hook.
‘Whose fault is that? He never should have married her,’ Helen shouted, and Kate paused.
Married who? Surely Helen wasn’t talking about her? Kate stopped her rummaging and took a step towards the living room to peer through the door. The two nans were in a face-off, barely three feet apart and scowling at each other. Beverley was standing up for the occasion and Helen had her hands on her hips.
She debated whether to butt in now and calm things down, or let the pair of them have their say once and for all. This row had been building for years. They may as well get it over with; it might even clear the air.
‘You’ve never worked in your life, so you don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Beverley was saying.
‘I have!’
‘You did three months in a travel agency before you fell pregnant with your precious Brett. I hardly call that working. After that, Derrick kept you. You don’t know what it’s like to work and run a home.’
‘Better that, than try and do it all and end up being a bad mother.’
‘Are you calling me a bad mother?’ Beverley sounded furious.
Kate winced as her mother waved a long and very pointy knitting needle in the air. That’s it, she had to step in before things got out of hand.
‘If the cap fits,’ Helen retorted as Kate moved into the room. ‘And your Kate is going the same way. As I said, Brett never should have married her.’
Helen had her back to Kate, but she realised something was wrong when Beverley’s eyes widened. Slowly turning to face her daughter-in-law, Helen’s face was ashen. She opened her mouth and closed it, then shook her head.
Kate felt the blood drain from her own face, and nausea roiled in her stomach.
Without a word, she whirled around and fled into the kitchen, Helen’s call of, ‘Kate, Kate, wait, I didn’t mean...’ following her.
The last thing she heard before she darted through the door, the still-yapping Pepe hot on her heels, was her mother saying, ‘Now you’ve gone and done it, you nasty old bat.’
She didn’t slam the door, and neither did she slam the one on the garage. Her movements were deliberate and measured, as she took one of the small suitcases off a shelf and let herself back into the house.
Her mother and mother-in-law were still going at it, but this time Kate hoped her mother would stick Helen with the knitting needle.
Quietly, and with the minimum of fuss, she slipped up two flights of stairs and into her bedroom, and threw an assortment of clothes and toiletries into the case, paying little attention to what she packed, except for her charger. She must have her charger; how else would anyone reach her—
Kate hesitated and took it back out again.
She needed her phone just in case of an emergency, like breaking down on the M5, or if she got lost, but once she arrived at her destination, she’d switch it off. And if she didn’t have much battery, then she wouldn’t be tempted to keep checking her phone.
Brixham, that’s where she’d go, she decided. Someone had recently told her it was nice there. A bit of sea air and some time to breathe was what she needed. Peace, quiet, and no drama was what she craved. She didn’t want Christmas either, and although she knew she couldn’t avoid it, she suspected that it might be a bit less obvious at the seaside, with the sounds of the waves and the calling of gulls drowning out carols and cheerful Christmas tunes. There wouldn’t be any squabbling children telling her they hated her, no mother-in-law saying Brett should never have married her, no husband ignoring her.
Let them get on with it and see how they liked it without her holding everything together. Either they’d realise just how much she did for the family, or they’d manage perfectly well without her. And right now, Kate, with tears pouring down her face and despair in her heart, didn’t particularly care which one of the options they’d take.
But there was something else that niggled her as she threw the suitcase into the boot of her car and slid into the driver’s seat – she had an awful feeling they’d only miss her when they came sniffing around the kitchen on Christmas morning and discovered there was no turkey in
the oven.
Chapter 23
The only reason Kate pulled into the services was because she was desperate for the loo. She was thirsty, too. She hadn’t had a drink since the cup of coffee in the abbey, and she’d shed so many tears on the drive to Exeter that she thought she might be slightly dehydrated.
As she sat in Costa Coffee, sipping her drink, she took out her phone and switched it on.
It was mid-afternoon, two and a half hours since she’d done a runner, and it seemed no one had missed her yet, although she did have several texts.
Beverley – U let Pepe out hes been outside for ages I think hes got a chill
Ellis – Can you wash that top, I’ll wear it tonight
Beverley – If U R passing that nice sweet shop can U get me lickorish humbugs
Sam – Wots for dinner
Portia – I want a lift to the stables. Where are you?
Portia – Don’t bother Annies mum will pick me up.
Portia – I’ll need a lift back tho
Portia – Mum
Portia – Mum???
Portia – Answer me!!!!!
Portia – Ignore me then, I dont care
Helen – I’m going back to my own house. I’m clearly not wanted here.
Beverley – And some toffees plz btw shes packing as soon as shes gone ill move into the spare room n u can have yours back
Kate had to read this last one a couple of times before her mother’s meaning was clear and, despite herself, she gave a tiny smile. Her mother could write beautiful letters, but when it came to texting...
Portia – Forget it. I’ll walk back and probably die of hypothermia or something
Doris – Hope you’re feeling better, my lovely. Don’t come into work until you are xxx
It was amazing to think that the only person who had bothered to put a kiss on the end of their text was her manager – the woman who was having the wool pulled over her eyes by a definitely not-ill Kate.
Abruptly, she felt even worse than she’d done a few hours ago. How could she be so mean and deceitful to the only person in the world who appeared to care about her?
Sniffing, she dabbed her eyes with a soggy, crumpled tissue and checked Google maps. It was roughly one hour to Brixham, and it was already nearly dark. Examining the route carefully, she saw it was a more or less straight run into Paignton and then a short dab from there to Brixham itself.
She took another good, long look at the online map, made sure she knew where she was going, then she switched her phone off again, vowing to only turn it back on if she got lost. Although, she would send Brett a quick message to let him know she was safe and well as soon as she checked into a hotel.
That was a point, and one she hadn’t considered when she jumped into her car – would there be any vacancies over the Christmas period? She guessed that some of the smaller places might not be accepting guests at this time of year.
Oh, well, she’d deal with that issue if it arose. For now, she was intent on reaching her destination without falling apart.
Feeling very fragile and extremely unloved, Kate got back into her car for the final stage of her journey.
It was late afternoon by the time she arrived in the little fishing village, which wasn’t as little as she’d anticipated. The shops were still open, and light spilt from their windows and doors. The streets were strung with fairy lights, and individual homes glittered and sparkled with festive cheer. Kate had never felt less like Christmas in her life. It might all look very pretty, but it left her feeling a little sad and rather deflated.
At least there were plenty of small hotels and guest houses to choose from, she saw as she drove along the one-way system before finding a car park and pulling into it. She got out and stretched, easing the kinks out of her back, took the little suitcase out of the boot, and headed towards the nearest hotel, The Pirate Inn. There was a restaurant next to it called The Pirate’s Parrot, and a gift shop on the other side named The Pirate’s Gold. All three businesses appeared to be open, so she pulled her case towards them, hoping the inn would have a room free.
‘Arr, we do, as it happens,’ the man behind the small reception desk said when she asked if he had a room for tonight. Bizarrely, he was wearing a patch on his right eye which he kept lifting up to see what he was doing, and had an extremely realistic-looking stuffed parrot on his left shoulder.
‘Pirate,’ Kate said, bemused.
‘Arr, that I am. Call me Dave, Cap’n Dave.’
Kate smiled weakly, thinking the joke a bit overdone, and wondering if perhaps she should try somewhere else.
‘How long be you wantin’ the room for?’ he asked.
‘Um...’ She honestly didn’t know. It was Wednesday today, Christmas Day was on Saturday. Did she really intend to stay here over Christmas?
Her mind flitted back to earlier, when her daughters had told her they hated her, and her mother-in-law had said Brett should never have married her. She thought that maybe she would stay that long. Christmas was hardly going to be celebrated in her house, not when every single family member, including the dog, seemed to be at war with everyone else. It was just another day – but one where people were forced to spend time together watching crap TV and eating too much. No wonder they argued and fought. It was like sticking a bunch of rats in a too-small cage and expecting them to live in peace and harmony.
Peace my backside, Kate thought. The only peace she was going to get was in Brixham, where no one knew her, no one made any demands on her, and she wasn’t being yelled at or hated.
‘Four days, possibly five,’ she replied. ‘If you’re open to guests over Christmas, that is.’
‘Aye, that we be,’ the man said, lifting his eye patch up again, and peering at the screen on the desk in front of him. Kate watched as he laboriously entered her details on the computer. Every now and again, she glanced at the grey parrot on his shoulder. Its fake beady eyes watched her closely, and she could have sworn it moved.
Ugh, creepy. How he could stand having that thing (it was stuffed and not a plastic fake one) on his shoulder was beyond her. She thought it was quite gruesome.
He got her to sign in, took her card details, then lifted a key off a hook behind him. ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you to your grotto.’
Kate blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Your grotto? Your room?’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘You’re not into the pirate thing, I take it?’ he asked, leading the way down a narrow corridor and up a steep flight of stairs.
The building looked to be at least a couple of centuries old, and the low ceilings and small, quaint windows reflected its age. Thankfully, there were no more stuffed parrots, that Kate could see, though there was the odd lobster pot dotted around, and lots of lengths of coiled rope with buoys on them.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘I’m not sure I like pirates.’
He looked hurt. ‘Here I am, dressed in my best pirate costume, with Polly on my shoulder and you’re telling me you don’t like pirates?’
‘No, sorry.’
‘You’ve not heard of the smugglers which used to be rife around these parts?’ He’d lost his pirate accent by now and was speaking to her in a normal voice. ‘The Pirate Festival is a big attraction,’ he added.
‘Oh, is it on now?’ That would explain a lot.
‘No, it’s held in May, but this is called The Pirate Inn, so...’
‘Ah, I see.’ It was a bit over-the-top, but if the pirate thing appealed to people and helped keep customers happy, who was she to complain?
‘Here’s your room,’ he said, halting outside a sturdy wooden door and inserting an old-fashioned key into the lock.
The door swung open and he stood to the side to let her in.
As Kate sidled past him, she could have sworn that damned parrot was staring at her. Who in their right mind liked having dead creatures around them? It was downright morbid.
Oh, but the room was, in fact
, lovely. It was decorated in pirate style (naturally) and the owners had done their best to make it look as though it was in a ship, with wooden panelling, a tapestry on the bed, and an old dressing table with a gorgeous enamel jug and bowl sitting on it. There was also an en suite, the door to it hidden among the panelling, and was surprisingly modern, apart from a wonderful, free-standing, roll-top bath with gold, fish-shaped taps.
‘There’s a TV in here,’ he said, opening yet another panel to reveal a large, flat-screen telly, ‘and this here, is your wardrobe. There are tea and coffee making facilities in this cupboard and a fridge. Breakfast is between seven-thirty and nine-thirty, and if you need anything, just shout—’ He paused dramatically, and Kate glanced around at him, wondering why.
‘Pieces of eight!’ yelled the parrot, with a flap of its wings, and Kate let out a little shriek.
‘That’s... great,’ she said, once she had regained her composure. ‘Very clever.’ Not.
‘Polly is a clever girl. Most parrots are,’ he said. ‘She’s an African Grey, and is about thirty years old. Say hello to our guest, Polly.’
‘Hello, hello,’ the parrot squawked.
Kate leaned against the dressing table, her heart thudding. ‘I assumed it was stuffed,’ she said. ‘No wonder I kept thinking its eyes were following me.’
‘She loves surprising people. It’s her thing. I just let her get on with it. Right, is there anything else, or shall I leave you to settle in?’
‘I’m good thanks,’ Kate replied, her heart rate slowly returning to normal. Dear God, what with silly poodles and parrots who liked to scare people, Kate’s nerves were starting to unravel. And she simply didn’t want to think about mothers, mothers-in-law, children, or husbands.
She did, however, need to tell Brett she was safe. It wouldn’t be at all fair of her to let him worry, so she turned on her phone again and braced herself.
Ellis – Don’t bother with washing the top. Portia can have it. I’ve bought a nicer one.
Portia – You didnt clean up the mess in the bathroom and I cant find any loo roll. This house is a pigsty.