Chapter 37
It’s funny. Even a couple of months ago, my mum would have been the last person I wanted to see in a difficult moment. I’d tell myself she would only make things worse, say something that would irritate me and leave me dwelling on our conversation for days afterwards. But now . . .
She gazes out of the train window, the verdant fields and forests rushing by. ‘Oh, look, darling! A little Bambi!’ She gasps with delight, pointing at a baby deer grazing in a field.
‘Cute,’ I say with a smile. The train route to Hastings is much prettier than I was expecting, once you get past the suburban London blob.
‘Isn’t this nice already?’ Mum says enthusiastically. ‘Our little trip to the seaside!’
I nod. Mum wanted a change of scenery and to celebrate the end of my exams, so we’re going to spend the weekend in a little house in the Old Town.
We’ve been blessed with the weather – you’d think late June would be a dead cert for sunshine, but a key thing to remember is that we live in England, so good weather is absolutely never guaranteed.
Once we’re safely installed in the house, we wander out in search of a drink, and settle on a cute pub with seating outside.
‘How are you really doing, darling?’ Mum asks once we’ve got ice-cold drinks and a steaming bowl of chips in front of us.
‘I’m fine!’ I say breezily. ‘Why?’
‘You’re just very quiet, that’s all. I want to make sure you’re having a nice time.
’ The idea that my mum would think I’m being quiet because I’m not enjoying being here with her tugs at my heartstrings.
Which leaves me with no option but to tell her about Laurie.
The first meeting, the misunderstanding over the column, the ways he was kind to me (skirting around the spiking incident because I don’t want to rehash that right now), how my feelings changed over time and where we left things the other night, that final, grudging, ambiguous loss.
‘And . . .’ She pauses, thinking. ‘What would you say to someone who wrote to you and told you about this situation? How would you deal with it if it was someone else?’
I think for a moment, sipping on my straw.
‘I guess I would say . . . that it’s good nothing really happened between you and that should hopefully make it easier to just move on and put the whole thing behind you.
To confine it to the past and not dwell on it too much since it clearly wasn’t meant to be.
That there will be someone else out there for you .
. . lots of other someones, in fact. And definitely don’t chase him, because he’s seeing someone else and has imposed that boundary. ’
‘And does that sound like advice you can follow?’
‘I guess so. I don’t think I have much of a choice.’
‘I think that’s always the hardest part. Not feeling like you have a choice, or feeling like the choice has been made for you.’
‘I always want to feel like I’m in control.
Like anything that’s happening is happening because I want it to – I’m the master of my own destiny and all that.
But this whole situation feels like such a mess,’ I say, shaking my head.
‘I think you’re right. I think I need to just put it behind me and move on. ’
Mum smiles. ‘Darling, I didn’t say that. You did.’
‘Ha,’ I say, blushing a little. ‘So I did. It’s like I’m trying to give all the power away to someone else so I don’t have to be responsible for how I’m dealing with the situation I’m in.’
She squeezes my hand across the table. ‘You’re very wise. I think you’ll do the right thing.’
‘I hope so.’
Mum thinks for a moment. ‘You brought your swimming costume, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I thought I’d pack one just in case,’ I say, though I hadn’t actually thought of using it. ‘Why?’
‘I saw an inspirational quote on Instagram once that said, “The cure for anything is salt water – tears, sweat or the sea,” and I thought, Do you know what? You’re onto something.’
‘Do you think the sea has warmed up enough?’ I ask, pre-emptively wincing at the thought of plunging into cold water.
‘Oh, maybe not,’ Mum says. ‘Silly me. Probably not a very good idea, is it?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I say quickly, realising that this is probably something she needs more than I do. ‘I think it’s a good idea. I want to do it. Shall we go tomorrow morning before we walk to Bexhill? We’ll feel so smug all day.’
‘We don’t have to stay in long, darling! It’s more . . . the act of doing it.’
‘I’m in.’
* * *
The next morning, we wake up early with a mission, walking along the seafront promenade to St Leonards beach.
The pebbles shift underfoot, the click-clack sound oddly satisfying against the low, rhythmic sweep of the waves. Mum stands, hands on her hips at the top of the beach’s slope. ‘Are you sure you want to go in?’
‘Positive,’ I say.
‘Good.’
We walk down, closer to the water, and put our bags down, slip off our shoes and take off our clothes.
‘God, I wish I’d brought flip-flops!’ Mum says, hopping from foot to foot as the pebbles press into the soles of our feet.
‘Next time,’ I say, smiling. ‘You live and learn.’
Mum grimaces. ‘There might not be a next time!’
‘Come on.’ I hold my hand out to her, something I can’t have done for many, many years.
She takes it, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.
One day a long time ago I held her hand for the last time, and the next day I didn’t, and then I never did again, until today.
It’s as if we never really know what’s happening to us until it’s in the past and we can look back on it.
We’re always too in the thick of it to really understand it in the present.
That’s just something we all have to live with, I suppose.
Hand in hand, we dash into the sea, separating to raise our arms over our heads, which only prolongs the initial discomfort of the cold as it hits each body part from our feet up. And finally, we’re in, submerged.
Maybe it’s the knowledge of Mum’s quote about salt water, maybe it’s the shock of the cold, maybe it’s thinking about her, maybe it’s how much I already miss Laurie, but within seconds of the water touching my skin, I feel warm tears on my cheeks. When I look at Mum, I realise she’s crying too.
‘See, sweetie? I told you it would be fun!’ she says, sniffling, which makes us both burst into uncontrollable laughter.
We don’t stay in long. Mum was right: what we needed was just the act of doing it.
‘Now, we breakfast,’ Mum says, stomping off in the direction of the café on the beach, so clearly infused with a zeal for the new day that it’s almost radiating off her. ‘We need fuel for our walk to Bexhill,’ she calls over her shoulder.
When we get there, people are already sitting on benches, eating breakfast while their cute dogs pant next to them, morning runners basking in the warm glow of their achievements with a coffee on a deckchair.
We order and take a seat on a picnic table looking out to sea. Mum seems lost in thought, and I take the opportunity to cast my eyes over her. Not a scrap of make-up, damp hair, and she’s still the most beautiful person in the world.
The breeze lifts her curls, sends them across her face. ‘Darling, I really loved the time we spent together while you were revising for your exams. It really meant a lot to me,’ she says, looking out to sea, the morning sunlight glittering on the gently undulating waves.
‘Me too.’
‘And I’ve been thinking a lot about what we talked about . . . the Sabor shoot . . .’
‘Oh, yes?’ I say, feeling like a fist is gripping my insides, so desperate am I for my mum to do it but knowing very well that she’s reluctant.
‘And I decided I’m going to do it . . . and I’m not going to . . . you know . . .’ She mimes injecting something into her face. ‘Or do a mad diet or anything like that.’
The relief floods through me so swiftly I actually let out an audible sigh.
‘That’s great news. Thank you,’ I say, before backtracking.
‘I don’t know why I just said that. I meant to say .
. . I think it’s the right decision . . .
and I’m proud of you . . . but it came out as “thank you” .
. .’ I furrow my brow, taken aback by my ability to misspeak.
She shrugs. ‘Maybe I’m not just doing it for me.’
I nod. ‘Maybe not. Who knows, maybe this will be the start of a new career moment for you?’
Mum shakes her head. ‘I’m happy with my yoga classes, darling. It’s just . . . the act of doing it, I think. And I wouldn’t be doing it without you, so thank you.’
‘Any time,’ I say casually.
The sun beats down on us as we walk along the coast, a gorgeous, radiant warmth against our skin, the exact opposite of the cold shock of the sea.
As we walk up to the top of the coastal path, the highest point before making the descent into Bexhill, I feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead.
Surveying the landscape on either side from this vantage point, I’m grateful for all of today’s salt water. But I miss Laurie.