Chapter 27
THE CARAVAN
While James and the boys go off to tell their mother where they are, I debate my next move.
I realise that this is my best chance to pay Moya a visit.
But it’s risky. She has no idea who I am, and she certainly isn’t expecting me.
While it would be far better for James or Dom to introduce us, that could take up even more time, and I know that if I don’t take a chance now, the opportunity could be lost forever.
All the possible scenarios run through my mind – would she be pleased to see me or angry that I rocked up to her door unannounced?
My heart races as I muster all the courage I have, hoping I’m ready for whatever reaction she might give me.
I walk up to her old-fashioned caravan, nestled in a secluded hollow, among the lush and wild greenery.
The private spot seems perfect for someone looking for a quiet retreat away from the hustle and bustle of the everyday grind.
The sun’s soft golden rays dapple on the caravan’s roof – a faded, weatherworn structure that echoes of simple times and rustic living.
I can’t help but let a small smile grace my lips as I imagine my mother and Moya sharing a hot cup of tea within its confines, catching up on old memories and stories.
The tiny chimney puffs out a curl of smoke.
I knock on the door, disturbing the perfect silence.
Nothing but the birds seem to answer, with little twitters of laughter.
A shiver runs through me – perhaps it’s the cold, or the anticipation of whatever conversation might unfold within.
I start to run an impatient hand through my hair, but before I even have the chance to give the door a second knock, I hear it: the faint murmur of a radio playing inside the caravan.
This and the smoking chimney tell me Moya must be home.
Is she ignoring me? Would she if she knew I was here for my mother?
‘Hello? Moya? It’s… it’s Daisy Clarke. I’m Rose’s daughter?’ I call out, trying to keep my voice steady despite the million questions swirling in my mind. ‘I… I wanted to ask you about my mother.’
But there’s no answer.
My heart sinks – I’m left baffled and discouraged by Moya’s lack of response. Can she hear me? Is there a reason she doesn’t want to see me? I thought she and my mother were friends.
Desperation seeps into my soul, and I can feel the determination that drove me there slipping through my fingers.
‘Moya?’ I half-shout, half-whisper, my voice not sure what to do and how far to push.
I don’t want to bother her, much less harass her, but I want to meet her.
To try to see her face to face, even for just a moment…
‘If you don’t want to talk, I can come back later.
I’ll be at the house every day, fixing it up. ’
Nothing.
I can’t help but feel the weight of Moya’s rejection prickling my skin. Is she hiding something? Or is she just a hermit who’s lost all taste or tolerance for the outside world? And what does this all mean for my search for the truth about my mother?
The wind rustles the grass and tries to bolster my spirits, but deep down in the chambers of my heart, I can’t help but wonder what I’ve done to deserve such a cold shoulder from a woman so dear to my mother, even if it was such a long time ago. She may not even know that she’s dead.
My frustration mounts. I can’t believe Moya won’t answer the door. I came here because she was my mother’s friend, to learn more about their past together. I thought she could help me unravel the truth.
I pace back and forth outside the van, my mind filled with questions that confuse and disorientate me.
My gaze flickers to the door separating us, and the empty pleas inviting me to leave.
Now, the dilemma presents itself. Should I keep trying, keep knocking on that frustratingly stubborn door, hoping she’ll eventually open up?
I could ask Dom for help – he’s closer to Moya, and she would trust him, listen to what he has to say.
But would that be enough to get her to open the door?
An idea forms, and I quickly grab my notepad, scribbling down my thoughts.
I can slip a note under the door and let Moya know that I come in peace.
Once she reads it, perhaps she’ll let me in.
Taking my chance, I scribble a note explaining myself and add my phone number on a scrap of paper, praying that Moya will respond.
Decision made, I slide the paper under Moya’s door, softly knocking as I do, hoping to catch her curiosity.
With the note delivered, I leave her doorstep, my heart racing with a mix of anticipation and fear.
I glance back one last time, and my breath catches in my throat as the door shifts ever so slightly.
The knot in my chest loosens, replaced with a glimmer of hope that blooms into a gentle warmth. There’s a chance for the truth yet.
The thread that connects all of us – the stories that bind us together – they’re fragile, breaking easily.
But I’ve learned they can be woven back together with the right intention at the right time.
For now, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep pushing through, trying to connect with Moya until I’ve found the answers my mother left behind.
Though the heartbeat of anxiety remains, it’s tempered by a growing sense of optimism, like tiny embers from a dying fire. I may not have the answers yet, but I’m going to keep searching. Forward I go, further into the unknown.