Chapter 2
TWO
Spring, the present day
It is the second week in March, and the village is starting to come alive after its winter hibernation. The holiday cottages that skirt the edge of the green are booked, the Starshine Inn is getting busy, and the weather is playing with us all. Yesterday was grey and wet, but today is bright and sunny, the air filled with a hint of the warmth to come.
Once Easter arrives, it will get even busier, and I will be back to opening the café every day – but for now, I am making the most of my time off.
I got up early, and came down to the beach for a walk. Maybe, I think, as I gaze out at the glimmering blue waves, I should get a dog. My father-in-law, George, lost his Golden Retriever, Lottie, at Christmas, and I know he misses her. He’s determined not to get a replacement, though, because as he says, he’s ‘knocking ninety and it wouldn’t be fair’.
I could get one, though, for us all to share. Maybe another retriever, or a little spaniel, or a stray that needs a new home. I could take it to work with me, and have something to cuddle at night. I’d definitely be the kind of dog owner that lets their dog sleep on the bed, though with my current spate of nocturnal hot flushes and restless nights, any dog with half a brain would stick to its basket.
My friend Ella, the village GP, has a little dog called Larry. They found each other when she first arrived here, and they’ve been a double act ever since. He looks like a lamb crossed with a Wookiee that was shrunk in the wash. He is the kind of dog who makes people laugh just by existing.
It’s gorgeous down here on the sand, the sound of the water hissing in and out, the seagulls calling, the sun reflecting from the sea. It would be even more gorgeous if I had a pal to throw sticks for, and I decide that a dog really would be a great idea.
I’ve adapted to the kids being away – them coming home for Christmas helped, and I’ve finally stopped sleeping in their beds. But it’s still not great, if I’m being honest. I have a busy life; I am rich in friendship and family ties and community. I have a place here, a place where I am needed and liked and loved. I know all of this, but I don’t always feel it. Sometimes I just feel lonely.
Maybe that will change with time – I hope so, because in an ideal world, my precious babies will finish their education and fly. They will spread their wings and take off, into their own worlds and their own lives. This is one of the ironies of parenting: if you do your job well enough, your children are confident enough to leave you behind.
I stroll along the bay, my only company a solitary mum carrying a baby on her chest in a papoose. I wave at her, and smile as I take in her unbrushed hair and tired eyes. Those days seem a million years ago now, but I do remember how hard it is – how it feels like the fatigue and the chaos are never going to end. Then in the blink of an eye, they’re at little school, then high school, then gone.
When my eldest, James, went to uni, I still had the other two at home. Now they’ve left as well, it’s harder to deal with. It makes me feel weedy, which I don’t like very much at all. It would, of course, all be different if Simon was still here. If I had a partner in crime. Someone to hold me at night, even if I was having a hot flush. Someone to go on these walks with, to watch Netflix with – it’s the little things I miss. Our house was always noisy – despite Simon saying when we first met that he liked peace and quiet, he seemed to love the opposite as well.
The noise, the clutter, the mess – it might have driven other people mad, but I always loved it. Now, it’s way too silent. Just me and Dolly, and my singing fish – one of those where you press a button and he comes out with a song. He’s on the wall, and does Don’t Worry, Be Happy for me several times a day.
That’s good advice, I decide, as I make my way up the steps that lead from the beach up to the Cove Café. Archie, my brother-in-law, is also the village gardener, and he keeps the place gorgeous. At the moment he has an apprentice, Rose, who is blooming just as brightly as her namesake.
The steps lead up to a terrace, and troughs of flowers are scattered on the stone. Swathes of vividly coloured tulips dance in the breeze by my side – pinks, purples, reds. There are daffodils of every shape and size, more than I ever knew existed. The hanging baskets are trailing overhead, not quite ready to come out and greet the world just yet.
I pause, stroke the velvety curve of a tulip, and look back at the view. As ever, it is breath-taking. I have lived here for a quarter of a century, and I still never get fed up of it.
I walk around the building and onto the green. When I first arrived here, staggering out of Simon’s car with a bleeding scalp wound and desperate for a G&T, I thought it looked like something out of a movie. One of those Hollywood versions of rural England – the neat green, the thatched cottages around it, the pub. It didn’t look real. Too pretty to be true.
Now, it’s very real. I know the people who live in those cottages. I know the people who live in the homes built up into the hillside, and Trevor who runs the village shop, and Jake who owns the pub. I know them all, and I’m part of the fabric of the place. I am Connie who runs the café, and is the chair of the Starshine Cove management committee. I host meetings and formulate plans and raise funds for everything from the communal minibus to our regular cinema nights and our yoga classes. I like to be useful, and for the whole of my life I’ve always had an abundance of energy.
I’m one of those people always on the move, always looking ahead, always busy. In my London life, that often got me into trouble – but here it’s been a blessing. Now, though, for the first time, I feel it ebbing away – I feel like I’m gradually deflating, like a tyre with a slow puncture. I don’t know how much of this is down to simple aging, or if it’s because of the kids leaving, or some toxic mix of both – but I feel like I’m in a state of flux. Everything’s changing, and I’m not sure I like it.
Trevor waves at me from behind his counter. He calls his shop the Emporium, looks like Gandalf, and sells his own herbal teas that claim to help everything from heartbreak to negative auras. I should probably pop in and buy the lot. Maybe take a bath in it.
I wave cheerily back, because that’s what people expect of me, and head into the former Victorian schoolhouse that is now our community centre. I have my office here, and it’s the base for lots of the village activities. We’ve recently started running a crèche for the village parents, and I’m helping out this morning.
My eardrums almost burst as I walk through the doors. There’s music playing, the kind that is the background to the lives of every parent with a small child – in this case The Wheels on the Bus . A small group of toddlers is sitting on a colourful mat singing along and following the actions, apart from one little boy who is hitting himself on the head with a wooden train and laughing each time. That’s boys for you.
There’s a TV set up in one corner, where the slightly older children are watching a show that seems to involve animals who are enlisted in the emergency services. Others are busily playing with blocks and dolls, and one has a plastic toy lawnmower and is running around with it at breakneck speed.
It’s a kaleidoscope of colour and sound, and when you’re not used to it, it feels a bit like someone spiked your morning coffee with magic mushrooms. I head over to the area where the babies are, because why wouldn’t I? There’s Evan, who was born on Christmas day the year before, and is now a delightfully fat little man who has recently started walking. He still does more falling than actual walking, and I remember it so vividly, that stage – when the corners of tables become potentially lethal weapons as they stagger around.
His mum, Miranda, works at the Starshine Inn, and is a very close friend of my oldest son, James. I’ve never quite figured out if they’re more than friends – he is almost twenty-five, and it feels inappropriate to ask. I decided he’d tell me if he wanted to. James was there for Evan’s birth, and even when he was technically still living with me, he spent most of his time with Miranda and the baby. Now he’s moved to Jersey for work, and I know how much Miranda must be missing him – because I’m missing him too.
Ella is sitting on a rocking chair, giving her five-month-old daughter a feed. Her GP surgery is in the same building, so she’s already back at work – taking plenty of breaks to spend time with baby Caterina. She’s named after her husband’s Italian mum, but she is universally known as Kitty. So far she has Ella’s blonde hair, and Jake’s deep brown eyes, and she’s going to be a heart-breaker when she grows up.
That is a long way off, though, and at the moment she is blissfully unaware of anything but the warmth and sustenance of her mother. Ella sees me approach, and gives me the weary smile that new mums always seem to have. The one that says they are happy, but also wondering what the hell they’ve done to their life.
I pull a chair over and lean in to see Kitty’s sweet little face as she starts to drift off to sleep. Ella tidies herself up, sighs, and says: “I was going to whisper, but I reckon if she can sleep with this racket going on, she won’t mind.”
“Here’s hoping,” I say, holding up crossed fingers. “How are you?”
“Apart from feeling like a dairy cow, I’m fine.”
I nod with an understanding smile, and bite back on the reply that all mothers of twins are tempted to make: yeah, try it in duplicate.
Ella studies my face, and I get a slightly prickly feeling on my skin. She’s lived here for less than two years, but she already seems to have the ability to read my mind. I don’t know if it’s a doctor thing or an Ella thing. It’s definitely an annoying thing.
“Why haven’t you been in to discuss your medication?” she asks, frowning slightly.
“Ummm… I’ve been busy. And I’m feeling fine. And I’m sure Trevor has a special tea I can take instead.”
“If you’re planning to go into the Emporium and start talking to Trevor about the menopause, let me know beforehand so I can get the defibrillator ready. He’ll have a heart attack.”
I ponder this, and decide she is right – our Trevor is a gentle soul, and much as he might have a passionate interest in standing stone circles and fertility goddesses, a real-life woman describing her hormonal imbalance would freak him out. I might do it just for fun.
“You seem tired and sad, and I hate that – especially when there’s no need for you to tolerate it,” Ella says, shifting slightly so Kitty can snuggle more comfortably.
“Everyone is tired and sad sometimes, Ella. I’ll deal with it. Stop pushing the drugs on me.”
“I’m offering you HRT patches, Connie, not crack cocaine!”
“Well, maybe that’s where you’re going wrong… and thank you. I don’t mean to be snippy. I know you’re trying to help. And most of the time I genuinely am okay. HRT patches won’t bring my kids back, anyway.”
Or, I silently add, Simon.
Adding it silently, of course, doesn’t stop the Incredible Telepathic Woman next to me from figuring it out.
“I was talking to Lucy the other day,” she begins. Lucy is another recent addition to the village, the mother of Rose the gardening apprentice and partner of Jake’s brother, Josh. “Her mum has joined a dating site! She’s been single for decades, but now she’s getting out there, meeting men for coffee and doing Pilates. And you remember Cally’s mum – she met the new love of her life in her seventies!”
“Yes, I’m aware, and good on them. But I think I’d rather hit myself on the head with a wooden train than do that, Ella. I’m happy being single. Meeting new men for coffee is my idea of hell – never mind the Pilates. I’m just going through a period of… readjustment.”
That, of course, is putting it mildly. When Simon died, I had three grieving teenagers to care for. I had to put them first, and I also suddenly had to do everything on my own. Put the bins out, unload the dishwasher, buy a stepladder so I could reach the top of the cupboards. Remember the car’s MoT, find an accountant, renew the home insurance. Couples all have their different ways of divvying up the household tasks, a kind of domestic rota of responsibilities – and when one half disappears, the one left behind has to become an instant expert.
Between the practicalities and the kids and running my business, I never had time to even think about meeting someone new – nor the inclination. Simon was, and always will be, the one for me. Even the memory of him is better than the reality of someone else.
“Anyway, enough life coaching, Doctor. Don’t you have any warts to look at?”
She grimaces, and says: “I’m due back on in a few minutes. But it’s blood pressure and cholesterol checks today, unless there’s a wart emergency.”
“There might be, you never know. Could be an epidemic heading your way. Give me that baby and leave us be.”
She shuffles Kitty into my arms, and I love the solid weight of her, warm and chunky against my body. It’s a long time since mine were this age, but I’ve had a bit of practice with Miranda and Evan, and it all comes back pretty quickly. The baby makes a little squeaking noise and has a half-hearted snuffle at my boobs.
“There’s nothing there for you, Kitty Kat, and I know you’ve just been fed,” I say, rocking her gently until she settles again. Nothing on earth compares to a sleeping baby, with their tiny snores and the funny faces they pull, the way their chubby fists wave around. The lush milky smell of their tiny heads.
Ella stands up and stretches her arms into the air. She’s already pretty much back to her previous self, weight-wise, which frankly disgusts me. It’s almost as though eating sensibly and going on runs helps with that kind of thing.
“Hey,” she says, as though she’s suddenly remembered something. “Is it tomorrow that you’re going to get Sophie from college?”
“The day after,” I reply, unable to keep the glee from my voice. “Technically it’s still term time, but the last bit of it is practical, so she’s coming home to help out. I now get free slave labour and the chance to claim I’m doing it all for her education. She’s bringing a friend, Marcy, to stay as well.”
“Will they help out at your posh food night?”
The Cove Café is, most of the time, quite a simple place – fresh croissants from the village bakery, soup and sandwiches, ice creams, all the usual stuff. People come for good, home-made meals and the chance to enjoy the view and the ambience – which is, if I do say so myself, very welcoming.
But every now and then, usually once a season, I put on something special. I indulge the part of me that was once the head of a Michelin-starred restaurant, and plan gourmet nights. They’re pretty popular – which is me being modest. In fact, they’re always over-subscribed, and there is a waiting list of people hoping for cancellations. We serve three courses, and pair them with wines, and charge a small fortune – though it’s nothing, of course, compared to London prices. It’s hard work, but it allows me to express my creative side and brings in a lot of revenue – some of which is reinvested in the Starshine Cove fund. Those Zumba classes don’t come cheap.
“They will,” I say, grinning. “It couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it – which of course I have!”
Finding staff in our quiet little corner of the world can be a challenge. My kids always helped out, as did a young man called Sam, who has also gone off to college now. This university lark has cut right into my workforce – I hope it doesn’t catch on.
“So are you just driving to London, grabbing your free labour, and coming straight back?” Ella asks.
“No, sadly. I’m going up the night before, to have dinner with Marcy and her family. I suppose it’s fair enough, they want to meet me before they let their precious girl come and stay. Probably want to check I’m not a nutter.”
“They’ll be disappointed, then, because you definitely are!”
“Is that a medical diagnosis?”
“One hundred per cent, yes. It sounds like fun, anyway – a night out in the big city!”
“I suppose so. But I lived there for years, and the charm wore off. Plus I’ll have to find, you know, real clothes to wear. Ones that don’t make me look like a clown.”
I see her debating whether to dispute that or not, and she wisely decides on not. I’ve always liked bright colours – pinks and yellows in particular – and when I was younger, those colours always came in the form of skin-tight dresses and other glamorous gear. These days, I’m more of a dungarees and jeggings kind of woman.
“Well, let me know if you want me to come shopping with you. I could do with some new bits myself. None of my old bras fit.”
“That’s because you’re a dairy cow these days. And thank you, maybe I’ll take you up on that. Now, leave me alone with this adorable baby girl.”
She leans down to drop a soft kiss on Kitty’s forehead and does exactly that. She looks back and makes a moo! noise as she disappears into her surgery.