Chapter 14 #3
I see old friends I’ve not encountered since I was a teenager, many of whom I’d forgotten even existed until they walk over for a chat.
I also have quite a bruising encounter with my old maths teacher, who automatically makes me feel stupid just by being in close proximity to me.
He seems slightly less scary now I’m an adult, and to be fair he doesn’t ask me to do quadratic equations in my head, but still – there’s something about people from that time in your life, isn’t there?
They take up residence in your soul, and somehow make you feel exactly what you felt the first time around.
It’s probably why we still go a bit flighty when our first crushes are nearby, or expect a detention when our maths teachers look at us funny.
Some of the encounters are enjoyable, some perplexing, some just surprising.
Ged Williams, for a start – he was maybe ten the last time I saw him, and now he’s in his twenties and looks like a Norse god.
He tells me all about his comedy strip act, Jolly Ged and the Funky Farmhands, and looks really disappointed they’re not performing tonight.
‘Connie didn’t think it’d be your dad’s cup of tea,’ he says, frowning. ‘But she said she might book us for your baby shower.’
‘She did?’ I ask, my eyebrows shooting up in surprise. I didn’t even know I was having a baby shower, never mind one that would include strippers. ‘Oh. Well. That’ll be fun, I’m sure!’
I glance over at Connie as Ged chats and narrow my eyes at her. What else has the woman got planned for me? She seems to sense me watching and looks in my direction. She does a little bump and grind and makes me laugh. I suppose it could be worse.
I do my best to have a relaxed evening, but it is tiring.
It’s not just that I remain sober as everyone else disappears into their wine and beer, but I’m also very much a talking point.
I’m the prodigal daughter, not only back from her travels but up the duff as well, with no ring on her finger and not even a man on the scene.
People aren’t exactly scandalised, more interested – not a lot happens in Starshine Cove, so I can totally understand why people are curious about me.
It’s just a lot to deal with. I do absolutely fine for the first hour or so but feel myself starting to flag as the evening wears on.
By the time the band takes to the stage, I am retreating an inch at a time, edging further and further away from the hubbub.
I find a little spot for myself at the back of the gathered crowd, nursing a cranberry juice and tapping my toes as the music begins.
I don’t often wear heels, and I’m not sure I’d be able to dance in the ones I borrowed from Cally even if I wanted to.
Maybe I should sneak back home and change into my Converse, I think – though I suspect that if I do that, I might never come back.
I might crawl into bed and not emerge again until the morning.
It’s not an entirely terrible concept, and I glance out at the party, wondering if I could get away with it.
The band is suited and booted just like the rest of us, and I know Connie booked them because they offer such a wide mix of songs – from disco classics through to swing hits that will fit with the older vibe that my father enjoys.
They’re currently belting out a killer version of ‘Dance The Night Away’ by The Mavericks, which I’ve heard played at parties all over the world.
Dad is at the heart of it all, doing a bop with Connie in the centre of the dance floor.
He is fit and active for his age, but he moves a lot more carefully than Connie, who is going for it full-throttle, her bun now collapsing over her shoulders in a cascade of yellow curls.
Lilly and Meg are in a little circle with Cally and Archie, all of them doing some kind of Baloo-style dance that involves a lot of shoulder shimmying and jumping up and down.
It all looks like a huge amount of fun, and hopefully I’ll have a second wind at some point and get in on the action.
I lurk on the sidelines for a while longer, chatting to people who pass, nibbling on the odd snack, enjoying watching the party but also feeling increasingly separate from it.
Some of that is down to being sober and maybe a bit tired, but some of it feels familiar in a way I don’t especially like.
It’s the same creeping sense of distance that I used to feel when I was younger, a strange and completely unfair feeling that this is not my world.
That I am not welcome. That I do not fit in.
I sigh and shake my head. I am not a teenager any more, so I don’t just give in to it.
Back then, I’d have been up a tree and angry straight away, because I didn’t understand my own emotions, or have the maturity levels to manage them.
I’m not convinced I’m that mature right now, in truth, but I am at least old enough to call myself out.
Nobody here has made me feel like I’m not welcome, or that I don’t fit in.
Quite the opposite, in fact – they have done everything that they can to make me feel comfortable here.
If I occasionally don’t, then that’s down to me, not to them.
I’m not totally sure if that conclusion helps or not, and I start to think that I need a break. Just half an hour by myself, not having to make any effort to be normal at all. Plus, I could get my comfy shoes, and then maybe I’d be more tempted to get up and boogie. I usually love a good boogie.
I walk around the side of the dance floor, edging ever closer to the little path that leads back to the cottage.
I don’t need to say goodbye to anyone or make a big deal about it, because I’m definitely coming back.
Aren’t I? Yes, I tell myself. I am. This is my dad’s celebration, and I’m not going to run away from it.
I’ve made it all the way to the side of the stage, nobody noticing because they’re all way too busy kicking up a storm to Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It Off’.
I pause for a moment, enjoying the sheer magic of watching my ninety-year-old father getting jiggy with Tay Tay, joining in with all the actions in the chorus. It’s a glorious sight for sure.
I realise as I look on that he is completely surrounded by people who love him, and who he loves in return.
Some are related to him by blood, others are those he is bound to by the ties of marriage.
Yet more are close to him because of friendship, shared history and new history and the indefinable magic that makes one human being cling to another.
His family is huge, and it comes in all shapes and sizes, connected to him in a myriad of different ways.
He is part of this community in a way that has always been a source of strength to him.
I smile as Ella joins him on the dance floor, one of his newer family members, her smile telling me how much he means to her.
She sashays her way to his side, bumps hips with him, and he pretends to almost fall over.
My father is in the middle of a flurry of activity, of waving arms and bouncing legs and singing and laughing and love.
He is happy, and he doesn’t need me, and that is good.
He has lived without me for a long time and done just fine.
I head off to the little cul-de-sac, feeling such a strange mix of emotions.
I am a total mess, I really am – I even annoy myself.
I break it down in my mind, realising that it makes no sense.
If people rely on me too much I’m worried I might feel pressurised and trapped, but if they don’t rely on me enough I feel irrelevant and surplus to requirements.
It’s a lose-lose situation and the only possible conclusion I can reach is that I’m a bit of an arsehole.
This is not a revelation, but it’s also not great. I don’t want to be an arsehole. I want things to feel simple and easy and straightforward. So why do I keep getting in my own way?
I let myself in to the cottage and immediately kick off the high heels.
Stupid torture devices – it’s probably all because of them that I’m having a mental slump.
I go and put the kettle on, passing the photos of my mum on the way.
I stop and stare up at her, her knowing eyes and easy smile, the way she is still able to look into my soul.
‘I wish you were here,’ I tell her, my voice a little ragged.
‘I wish you could tell me what to do, or at the very least take the piss out of me and make me laugh. You always said I didn’t need to be normal, I just needed to be me.
But what if being me is crap? What if being me means being miserable when I shouldn’t be, or always looking for excuses to move on because I’m not happy?
What if being me isn’t good for my baby?
And if it isn’t, how do I stop being me and be someone else? Someone less complicated?’
She doesn’t answer, which is probably a good thing.
I look at her some more and take deep breaths.
I open my heart and my mind and let all my memories of her in.
Sometimes I keep them out, because they hurt too much – because thinking about her is too hard, the emotions too raw, even after all these years.
Sometimes if I let myself really miss her, I worry I won’t survive that pain, and I’ve learned to keep it penned up like a flock of unruly sheep.
But tonight, I need to. I need to feel her close.