Chapter 7
I look up from the letter. People are wandering into the kitchen, chatting and loading their plates with more of Pam’s party food.
It’s as if the volume has suddenly been cranked back up.
As Pam drifts away, Shane lifts the parcel from the bag and looks at me.
‘You open it,’ I say. He hesitates, frowning, before unwrapping it carefully.
‘Wow,’ he says, cradling the Polaroid camera as if it were made from the thinnest glass. ‘Haven’t seen one of these for years.’
‘Me neither.’ I blink at it, not knowing what else to say.
‘So Ravi wanted us to…’ He tails off.
‘Document our journey,’ I murmur.
‘There’s film too,’ he says, delving into the bag. ‘She really thought this through, didn’t she?’
I nod, hardly able to focus as I turn the letter over. Here, a smaller piece of paper has been glued to the bigger sheet. It’s yellowed and looks as if it was badly crumpled, and Ravi had tried to iron it out.
It’s our original itinerary, I realise. A relic from 1988:
July 4 – Laughing Haddock, Grimsby
July 5 – Marine Hotel, Bridlington
July 6 – Cockles, Scarborough
July 7 – Black Bull, Pontefract
July 8 – REST DAY
July 9 – Mucky Duck, Huddersfield ROB JESSOP COALFISH RECORDS!!!
So this is it. This is the route she wanted us to ‘retrace.’ Not exactly ‘Hello Wembley!’ – but back then, it had seemed better than that. Because, whereas Wembley Stadium was unimaginable to us, these were the towns of family days out and visits to aunties; places we understood.
‘But where will we stay?’ I’d asked her.
‘And how can we afford to do this?’ Ravi assured us that we’d be paid for some of the gigs.
However, as this would be barely enough to buy us a Sherbet Fountain, we’d mainly be kipping in the spare rooms and on the floors of relatives and friends of friends, supplemented by a couple of nights in cheap guest houses, which her parents – being the only ones with money – would pay for.
Most excitingly was this Rob Jessop from an actual record company. A small one, granted, but to the three of us, he might as well have been God.
I fold Ravi’s letter carefully and look at Shane. ‘What d’you think about all of this?’
He blows out air and shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. I can’t quite get my head around it…’
‘No, neither can I.’ Obviously, though, we can’t do it. I’m sure he knows this too but, like me, doesn’t want to be the one to say it.
The party is starting to wind up and all around us, there are hugs and vows to get together again soon.
Shane slides the camera back into the gift bag, and I fold up the letter and slip it in too.
As he places it on a shelf, someone calls him over to join a conversation.
Seeming relieved, he excuses himself and beetles off.
Feeling a little stranded now, I help to gather up glasses and plates. Pam has snapped into practical mode and hasn’t mentioned her daughter’s letter, or the camera, again. It’s as if, once satisfied that she had handed it over, that was that – job done.
‘So where are you staying tonight, Josie?’ Dev asks.
‘The Craven Hotel,’ I reply, glancing at the ornate brass wall clock above the sideboard. Not yet nine o’clock but I’m hit with a wave of exhaustion.
‘Nice,’ he says with a wry smile, and I laugh.
‘It’ll do the job.’
‘Dad’ll give you a lift if you like?’
‘Oh no, I’m fine to walk,’ I exclaim.
Now Kamal has appeared, with Shane at his side. ‘Shane’s at The Craven too,’ Kamal announces.
‘Oh, you’re not staying with your mum?’ Dev asks him.
‘Erm, no. Not this time—’
‘Aw, mate. I get it,’ Dev says quickly, and he and his father seem to exchange a look.
And now Kamal is jingling his keys, insisting that he’ll drive us and reprimanding us for ‘wasting good money on rooms – you could’ve stayed with us!
’ Then there are hugs – so many hugs – and Shane and Kamal and I step out into the cool, still night.
It’s reassuring somehow to see that Kamal still drives a big, solid, dad-type saloon, immaculate inside and out. Having jumped into the back, I breathe in the aroma of citrus and leather as Kamal chatters away. ‘So, how’s life in London, Josie? I haven’t had a chance to ask!’
‘It’s great,’ I tell him.
‘You’ve got a daughter, right?’ He catches my gaze in the rear-view mirror.
‘Yes, Cora. She’s twenty-eight. Just had a baby.’
‘You’re a granny! Unbelievable! How’s that then?’
‘Wonderful,’ I reply.
‘Do they live near you?’
‘Yes, just a couple of miles away—’
‘We’d have loved grandkids, but it never happened with either of ours. You’re very lucky,’ he says wistfully.
‘I know, Kamal. I really am.’ With all that he and Pam have been through, it seems terribly self-pitying to feel hurt by Cora and Zack’s determination to keep me at bay.
The first time I held Poppy – this impossibly tiny, beautiful thing – Zack loomed over us, glowering, as if I might be about to bolt out and toss her into the back of a van.
And last week I messaged Cora: Okay if I nip over tomorrow?
I have the day off. I thought I could take Poppy out, do a big park walk. Give you both a break.
Weekend after next would be better, she’d replied. Say Sunday between two and three?
Such is the strictness of Border Control. By then, hopefully, my visa application will have been approved. I wouldn’t want to try and enter my daughter’s home illegally.
‘And how’s life with you, Shane?’ Kamal glances to the left. ‘How’s Paula?’
I catch a beat’s pause before he replies, ‘Erm, we’re not together these days. But it’s fine, it’s totally amicable…’
‘Oh, it’s good when you can work things out like that,’ Kamal says. ‘Especially when there are kids. You have two, Pam was saying?’
‘That’s right,’ Shane says. ‘Ryan and Liv, sixteen and eighteen.’
‘Ah, one of each, like us.’ But not any more, the brief silence seems to say. Kamal coughs dryly and the lull stretches until we pull up at the hotel. Shane and I thank him profusely, and in the hotel foyer we stop and look at each other.
‘Well…’ I start uncertainly.
Shane exhales. ‘That was some day, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. So, this thing that Ravi wants us to do—’
‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it?’ He pushes back his wavy hair and looks around the featureless foyer.
It feels wrong now to head straight for our rooms. I need to decompress a bit and try to make sense of Ravi’s request; how she’s set up this project for us.
Is it a test, a challenge, or what? We make our way towards the lift.
There’s not another soul in sight; no one on reception, even.
However, there is a bar. It looked pretty dismal when I glanced in earlier, but I’d hazard a guess that there’s wine – and right now I’d kill for a nightcap.
However, I’m detecting a distinct lack of I’m desperate to spend more time with Josie vibes. More like, Thank God that’s over. I steal a quick look at his handsome face – the soft green eyes, the full, expressive mouth – and a sharp pain seems to needle my heart.
‘Well,’ I start again, ‘it’s getting late…’ Not yet nine thirty. Virtually a child’s bedtime.
‘It is, yeah,’ he agrees.
I jab the button for the lift. An awkward pause settles, and we wait for so long that I start to wonder if the damn thing’s working.
There are faint rattles and creaks from a universe light years above us.
Shane stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets and looks around as if suddenly captivated by the decor: scuffed white walls, a blue checked carpet, a lone office-type chair with a stained grey seat.
My mind whirs as I try to dredge up a conversation starter.
Something innocuously space-filling and not about the fabulousness of service stations, with their thrilling facilities. But nothing comes.
Finally, the lift arrives and we step inside. ‘Which floor?’ I ask as if he were a stranger. As if we’d never kissed passionately – and that kiss hadn’t led to so much more – in the derelict mill.
‘Three, please,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’m on three too.’ And this is the part, I muse as we travel upwards, where we discover that we are in adjoining rooms. And at some point during the night, both of us will realise that we can’t stand it.
We can’t bear lying in bed, wide awake, and so I blunder out of my room, just as he does, and we meet in the corridor and—
‘Here we are!’ he announces unnecessarily, stepping back to allow me to spring out first.
‘I’m this way,’ I announce.
‘Oh, I’m along here.’
I force a tight smile, realising that this is probably the last time I’ll ever see him. I feel hollow inside and yearn to throw my arms around him and tell him how sorry I am – about everything. ‘It’s been great seeing you,’ I say.
‘You too!’ he enthuses, with what seems like a sudden wave of relief. The way you become louder and more animated when you sense a job interview drawing to a close. Lovely to meet you! Thank you for seeing me, and now can I get the hell out of here, please!
We hug stiffly and I turn and stroll away casually, waiting for him to call me back: Josie, wait! And when that doesn’t happen, I pluck my key card from my purse, and the door clicks open, and I tumble in and virtually collapse onto the bed.
Instantly, my phone rings in my bag.
My heart jolts. Shane. He wants to talk, after all! I grab at it and glare at the name displayed. My boss, Rupert, is calling me – on a Saturday night.
Decline.
Checking my messages now, I see a whole stack from him.
Josie, something’s happened, need to talk.
I know you’re away but there’s a problem.
JOSIE, CALL ME ASAP!!