Chapter 17
I wake up the next morning at six. There is no need for me to, but I guess my body clock has adjusted and these days expects me to be up, dressed, and ready for adventure before breakfast. I am in an actual bed, in an actual room, with an actual ceiling and walls. It feels strange—this is the first time I have had such privacy in a while, and I’m not sure I like it quite as much as I thought I would. It is weird, not having Luke and Charlie within shouting distance; not having Betty clambering up to greet me. Even having so much space is slightly disorientating—it’s amazing how quickly I have gone full wild.
I slept in my old room, but thankfully it has not been preserved like some creepy Museum of Me and is clearly used by another teenage girl these days—I presume my niece, Shannon. So weird to say that, and I find that I am actually looking forward to meeting her. Maybe she’ll help me re-form the Sugababes.
The walls are painted a pretty shade of lilac, and there is a dressing table and mirror in the corner scattered with abandoned tubes of lip gloss, hair clips, and the long strands of earphone wires. She’s probably been complaining to her mum for ages now about how she’s lost them.
The bed is now a small double rather than my old single, and when I poked around in the wardrobe, I found a small selection of teenage girls’ clothes. It is a bit strange, truth be told—like I am in some kind of time-slip movie where I am inhabiting a different version of my own life.
I know that there is no chance of getting back to sleep, so I get up, pad along to the bathroom, do my ablutions, and get dressed. As I make my way downstairs, I look out of the landing window and see Joy in all her glory and feel a tug of what I can only describe as homesickness. I wonder what Luke is doing, whether he is up and on his first coffee, if he’s doing a crossword or reading a book, if he’s gone for a walk with Betty and his binoculars. It might feel odd for him too, being alone again—or, for all I know, it’s a blessed relief. He was the one who chose to stay outside, instead of using one of the spare rooms.
I amble into the kitchen on autopilot, as I have done countless times before in my younger life, yawning and searching for sustenance. Frank is also awake and dashing around my ankles looking for love. He follows me into the room, and I get quite a shock when I see that my mother is already there, sitting in her dressing gown at the table, a mug of tea in front of her. Her hair is a mess, which is very unusual, and she looks exhausted.
She glances up, and her eyes widen in surprise, and I see her process of regaining control. Funny how I never noticed any of this when I was a child; never noticed how hard she works at being her.
“Jenny,” she says quietly. “Join me. I’ll get you a... what? I don’t actually know what you’d like anymore.”
“Coffee, please, Mum. White, no sugar.”
She makes my drink, and we both sit down again. Frank disappears off to another room, obviously deciding that we are no fun at all.
The new table is shiny and clear, and I find that I miss the old one, with its scrapes and scratches. It was battle-scarred and looked like it had stories to share.
“Are you okay, Mum?” I ask, gazing at her over the steam. “You look tired.”
“Glass houses and stones, dear. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“I did, actually. I’m just... well, it takes a bit of adjusting, doesn’t it?”
“In all sorts of ways, yes. I am so happy to see you, darling, I really am. And to meet Charlie of course. But... it’s been a bit of a shock. I know you sent those postcards, but I never knew, you see, if you were really safe. I’ve had to get on with life—with work, with Richard and his family and their ups and downs, with looking after your dad. But underneath all of that, I suppose I’ve always been worried about you. Now you’re here, and I can see you are fine, but I can’t quite switch it all off...”
I gulp down some coffee, and it burns my throat, and I feel kind of like I deserve it.
“I can imagine that, Mum. And I’m sorry for all that worry. I know now what it’s like to be a parent, and I know I’d be exactly the same if it was Charlie. But I’m here now, and I am indeed fine, and maybe we can make up for lost time.”
She nods firmly, as though trying to convince herself, and pats my hand.
“I am absolutely made up of questions,” she announces, “but I don’t want to come across like the Spanish Inquisition... Where have you been living?”
“Most recently, Norfolk, for a long time actually. At first, London, then Kent. Then I followed work to the east coast. We had a lovely cottage there, where Charlie has lived for most of his life, but it... well, funny story actually, Mum, but it fell into the sea!”
She looks understandably shocked and replies, “Goodness! That doesn’t sound especially funny, Jenny—it could have been a tragedy!”
“I know. But it wasn’t. And anyway, that’s how we ended up doing this—traveling with Luke. And if we hadn’t done that, then we might not have ended up here, so it’s all worked out in a way. Who needs a large-screen telly anyway?”
“Oh, I do, sweetheart—my eyes aren’t what they were! But I know what you mean. You do seem... happy.”
That, I realize, hasn’t always been the case. If by some freak coincidence I’d bumped into my mum a year ago, I’m not so sure she wouldn’t have seen through me—used her mum X-ray superpowers to look beneath my skin and see that I was actually lonely, anxious, wrapped up in fear and regret. I don’t think I even knew that myself—it’s taken some pretty strange events to understand what was really going on.
“What’s up with Dad?” I ask, keen to distract the Spanish Inquisition before she gets her knives out.
“It’s his heart,” she replies gravely. “He was diagnosed a few years ago, and mainly it’s managed, with medication and some lifestyle changes. No more full English for breakfast every morning. It was one of the motivations for selling the farm, of course. Hopefully, next month, he’ll be going in for a bypass, which we’re told will make a huge difference. But for now, he’s easily tired, gets out of breath, sometimes gets a bit low... It is what it is.”
She shrugs, but I can hear the pain in her voice, the way she is trying to hide her fear. They didn’t have me and Richard until they were in their thirties, but Mum first met Dad in primary school. I never thought of it as a great love story—they were just boring old Mum and Dad, who got on my nerves. They weren’t exactly Rhett and Scarlett. But now, older and hopefully a thimbleful wiser, I see that it is a love story—to have remained committed to the same person for the whole of your life takes stamina, hard work, tolerance, and a truckload of genuine affection. Now it is clear that she thinks that love story might be reaching its final chapter, and she is struggling.
I am awash with so many different emotions, I can’t even process them. Sadness, that my Superman of a father has been so reduced. Sympathy for my mum, his Lois Lane. And, most toxic of all, I suppose, guilt—guilt that I haven’t been here to help, and the creeping suspicion that maybe I contributed to it all. What if the stress of what they went through with me added to his burden?
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” is all I can manage. It covers all of it, in its own way. And I mean it—I’m sorry for her, for me, for my dad. For the whole mess.
“Seeing you has perked him up,” she replies, waving away what she perhaps perceives as pity. “Seeing you, meeting Charlie. It will help and at least put a smile on his face... So. Luke. What’s going on there, then, with your dishy flanker?”
I actually find myself blushing and sputter out: “Nothing! He’s not ‘my’ dishy flanker. He’s... his own dishy flanker! Nothing going on at all!”
“Yes. I can see that,” she replies, narrowing her eyes at me. “Totally innocent reaction on your part there, dear. So this is how he gets through life, is it? Traveling in his motorhome? How does he pay the bills?”
“That’s not really any of your business, Mum, is it? He’s a good man.”
“I wasn’t suggesting anything other!” she snaps back, and I see that we are yet again on a cliff edge. “I was merely asking a question. Forgive me for being interested; you tend to have a few questions when your daughter walks through the door after eighteen years of absence!”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. This isn’t what either of us needs. This is how we used to be, and that did not end well. I am not seventeen anymore, and I need to stop overreacting to everything she says.
“I know,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry. But this is hard for me as well, and I’m doing my best. Let’s call a truce, shall we? I haven’t seen you for so long, I don’t want to argue with you.”
She nods, and I see her also try to calm herself.
“I don’t want that either,” she replies, “and I’m sorry too. I don’t know, Jenny, maybe we have eighteen years’ worth of bickering stored up as well as everything else? I see how Shannon and Rebecca wind each other up, how easily they fall into sniping, and it looks horribly familiar to me. Mothers and daughters, eh? Perhaps it was ever thus.”
She might, of course, be right—but we are both grown women, and should be capable of acting like it if we try our very hardest.
“We’ll be okay,” I say, holding her hand on the kitchen table. “We’ll adjust. Do you have anything I can take out to Luke for breakfast? We didn’t get the chance to stop off for supplies on the way here.”
This is a complete lie, but its intentions are good—we both need a break, and giving her something to do, something to organize, will restore her balance, make her feel more capable and in control. It will also give me time to well and truly bury some of the snarky one-liners that my seventeen-year-old self still seems to want to throw at her—number one being to ask her not to call the cops on Luke just for not having a job.
It does the trick, and she bustles about making toast and assembling it on the tray with little ramekins of jam and marmalade. I can tell from the jars that it’s all homemade, and smile at the thought. The kitchen might be new, but some things haven’t changed—she used to spend days on her preserves, hated waste of any kind.
“I made extra,” she says, indicating the laden tray. “For you as well... I thought perhaps you’d like to take your breakfast with Luke this morning.”
It is a peace offering, and I accept it as such, smiling and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.
Frank appears at my heels again as I go to open the back kitchen door, which leads me out to the side of the house. Here, I see other signs of change—a greenhouse and a rainwater butt have appeared. I pause and wonder what doesn’t feel right, and realize that it is the quiet. Farms are noisy places, even in the morning—but now that the milking shed is no more, it is eerily calm out here.
I curse my feet for making so much noise on the gravel, unsure of whether Luke is even awake yet, and not wanting to disturb him if he isn’t.
Frank has no such qualms, of course, and runs straight to Joy’s steps. He scratches at the door and woofs, and I hear Betty bark frantically in return. No way anyone is sleeping through this racket.
I balance the tray on one knee, knock gently, and open the door, carefully climbing up the steps.
As I walk in, Luke is emerging from the shower, a white towel tied around his waist, his skin still glistening with water. I gasp and wonder if we should have named the shower Adonis.
“Sorry!” I mutter, looking away, busying myself putting the tray down on the table. “Didn’t mean to intrude!”
“It’s okay,” he says, amusement in his voice. “Give me a minute.”
I soon discover that having a young springer spaniel in a motorhome is entirely less manageable than having a well-behaved dachshund in a motorhome, and leave the door open so they can go and play. They disappear in a flurry of fur, and I hope Betty doesn’t decide that alpacas are her mortal enemy.
Luke emerges from his room in his traditional baggy shorts and T-shirt, fully respectable. The damage has been done, though, and I know that I won’t forget that particular image for a while.
“I brought you breakfast,” I say, gesturing to the table.
“I see that. Thank you. Will you join me?”
We both settle into our usual spots and tuck in. “Wow,” he says, wiping his mouth, “this jam is something else.”
“Yes. She’s something of a jam guru, my mother.”
“How’s it going?” he asks, meeting my eyes. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I reply, sighing. “Maybe it’s going as well as it can. It’s all so complicated, though, isn’t it? So many years away, so much has changed. It’s like dipping back into a TV show after decades of not watching it, and wondering why everyone looks older... I’m sure it’s the same for them. I mean, I turned up with a child in tow!”
“Plus a layabout drifter who lives in a motorhome and doesn’t even have a job.”
“Yeah. That too. I’m trying to ignore the little digs, because she’s older, and because she’s gone through a lot, and because... well, she’s probably entitled to them after the way I behaved.”
“From what you’ve said, you didn’t do it alone, Jenny, so give yourself a break. I think it’ll all work out. Life is too short for grudges, for family rifts.”
He is, of course, right—and he perhaps knows that better than anyone.
I nod, feeling instantly calmer. I also feel... relieved. That’s a weird word to choose, but it’s the right one—I feel relieved to be back here, in this small space, with this man. Relieved to be able to just be myself again, not to have to watch every word, tiptoe over eggshells, look out for minefields in every conversation.
“How are you?” I ask. “Was it glorious to have your space back to yourself again?”
He frowns, and finishes his corner of toast, and replies: “Actually, it really wasn’t. I kind of missed you guys. You know, the gentle sound of you snoring like a truck, the delicate aroma of Charlie’s farts wafting down first thing in the morning, the queue for the Mona Lisa...”
I flick a crust at his face in response, because I am a very mature human being.
“Do you want to come on a walk with the dogs?” I ask. “All that jam might make you fat if you don’t stay active.”
“Only if you promise not to snore.”
“Only if you promise not to bore me so much I fall asleep...” We both laugh, and I feel all of the niggling tensions inside me unravel.
Luke gets his walking boots on, and I retrieve my sneakers from Susan, and we set off into yet another beautiful summer’s day. It’s almost becoming boring now, the way every morning brings sunshine and clear skies with it.
I lead Luke toward the shortcut to the coast. When I say shortcut, I mean death-defying flight of stone steps that lasts for about half a mile. I guess I’m out of practice with it, and by the time we get to the bottom, I am sweating with nerves.
“I used to run up and down those...,” I say as we emerge down onto the sand, the dogs already there and running in and out of the waves.
“Not easy,” Luke replies as he gazes out at the beach, “but, wow—worth every step!”
The cove near Foxgloves is tiny, a perfect horseshoe of sand enclosed on both sides by cliffs. The sea can get wild, and it’s not a place that many tourists ever discover. We have it entirely to ourselves, and I slip off my shoes as we walk. Nothing quite beats the feeling of sand between your toes.
The water is the same vivid blue I remember, the light catching it in shimmering kisses, the waves frothing onto the golden shore. Seabirds fly to and from the cliffsides, and the only sound is their cries and the gentle hiss of the water creeping toward us.
“The colors are amazing,” he says, sounding awestruck. “It’s like someone painted it—everything is so bright and pure.”
“I know,” I reply, smiling. “You should come down to see a sunset. I suppose I took it all for granted, growing up here—the countryside was my play park, the beach was my backyard. Summers were long and luscious, and I went totally feral from July onward. By the time I hit my teens, it all seemed very mundane—looking at it now, I can’t quite believe that.”
“Well,” he says, leaning down to pick up an iridescent shell and examining it, “that’s pretty normal for a teenager, isn’t it? You’re more interested in your social life than birdwatching.”
“Very true. I wanted to be out in the world, away from a place that felt just too small to hold me. I was so sure that some astonishing future was waiting for me. Little did I know that I’d end up working in an office and living in another very small place.”
“That’s what you used to do,” he points out, “not what you do. That’s who you were, not who you are—a lot has changed since then. You’ve traveled the country, been on a rollercoaster, lived on wheels... and who knows what you might do next?”
I nod, and know that he is right. I have changed. Even though my living quarters have become much smaller, my horizons have become vast.
“What will you do next?” he asks as we walk toward the large boulders that fringe the beach and perch there, watching the dogs play. “More short-term, I mean, not in an existential way.”
“I just don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I didn’t think that far ahead, which, with hindsight, might have been a mistake. Charlie is loving all this, and my dad... well, he’s not in the best of health, it turns out. Dodgy ticker. So I think I’ll stick around for a while. At least to see how things go.”
As I speak the words, I know that it is the right thing to do—I owe it to my family, to Charlie, and very possibly to myself to see this through for a little while longer. I will stay, but I realize that I don’t want Luke to go. It might be selfish, but I’m just not ready to say goodbye to him.
“Would you consider staying put here for a while?” I ask, looking up at him.
He is staring at the birds on the cliffs and, I suspect, wishing he had his binoculars.
“I think they’re kittiwakes,” he says, nodding in the direction of the cliffs, “and yes. I’ll stay for a while. It’s beautiful here, and I’ve never explored this part of Cornwall. I’ll stay—you know I have my two-week rule, though. But for at least that long, if you decide to run away again, you’ll have a getaway driver.”
I nod and briefly touch his hand with mine. Two weeks is better than nothing. I am grateful, and relieved, and understand exactly what he means. I am a flight risk, even though I don’t want to be. I want to spend more time with my parents and brother; I want to reconnect with them, and I want to give Charlie the extended family he needs, as well as some stability. But I also feel the pressure of it closing in on me—the expectations, the needs of others, the responsibility. I am not seventeen anymore, and I have no excuses—if I mess this up, I will be doing so as a grown-up. That alone is already making me feel like running—but I won’t. I have too much to lose by leaving, and entirely possibly a huge amount to gain by staying.
“Is it okay to swim here?” Luke asks, gazing wistfully out at the ocean.
“On a day like this, yes, probably, as long as you don’t go too far. There are currents, and if the weather is rough, it gets treacherous against the rocks. It’s not the kind of place you mess with, or swim in alone. It looks perfect, but you never quite know what’s going on beneath the surface.”
“Ah,” he says, smiling, “an accidental analogy from the writer of the world-renowned Sausage Dog Diaries.”
“Maybe,” I reply, shrugging. I think about the pretty house up all those steps, and my parents, and all of the love I know is still there between us. But I can’t quite separate it yet from all the pain, all the trauma, all the hurt we have caused each other. I’m going to dive in, but I’m still wary of those riptides.