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by Penny Parkes

  Callie nodded, assurance lifting her chin and her gaze.

  Safe ground.

  ‘English, French and biology.’ She failed to hide the delighted smile. ‘I got nines for all three at GCSE, so I think I can make a pretty decent fist of it. Then university. English probably. I have zero intention of ending up like my mum.’ She paused, cogs almost visibly whirring. ‘And what about you, Anna? Didn’t Eleanor say you’re a writer? You have to know that totally slays.’ Callie leaned forward, intrigued.

  ‘One day, someday, maybe,’ Anna replied. ‘For now, I’m a house-sitter full-time.’

  ‘So, you’ve time to write,’ Callie finished for her, almost determined to stick with the illusion.

  ‘Not always,’ Anna hedged. ‘Not often, actually.’

  Honesty deserved honesty.

  Unfazed, and with the boundless enthusiasm of youth, Callie simply nodded. ‘Maybe I could help?’ she said cheekily. ‘I is good wiv words.’

  ‘I is too,’ Anna laughed. ‘Until I try and write them down.’

  Chapter 27

  Bath, 2019

  Her own words stayed with her through the night, even as Ulysses prowled and yowled, and Callie lay snoring gently on the sofa.

  What happened to the ideas that still pinpricked her thoughts and daily actions when she tried to translate them onto the page? They became elusive and clumsy, skittering away from capture like butterflies from a net. Any of their originality or insight got lost as she tried to coax them into sentences, paragraphs, plotlines.

  And, on the rare occasions those ideas complied, bent a little to her will, just enough to give the illusion of control?

  It didn’t last.

  It couldn’t last, because somehow they still escaped her bidding, even on the page; somehow, they were vocal in their own direction and form.

  Disconcerting and disheartening, not to be the master of your own prose.

  Kate had suggested it was time to let go of her globe trotting, experience-seeking job, but in the small hours of the morning, Anna formulated a counter-proposal: it was time to let go of the dream.

  For dreaming was surely a young person’s game, a hint of naivety necessary for the fantasy to survive? Talking to Callie that evening, hearing the certainty and conviction in her voice had made Anna feel somehow less. Less equipped to take a chance on herself and her creativity, certainly, but also less for not having the motivation to even give writing professionally a shot. A real shot.

  Callie herself, so animated, so reminiscent of a girl called Lucy Graham as she enthused. Lucy, who hadn’t troubled Anna’s thoughts for years, was suddenly in her head again, vocal and driven and opinionated without any of the realities of adulthood denting her teenage ambitions.

  Anna curled around Norbert, weaving her fingers into his fur and wondering when she’d quite so comprehensively lost her nerve. Had it been around the time she stopped emulating Lucy? Or at least her chutzpah and self-belief? Although that approach alone had given Anna the courage to apply to Oxford, to carry her through the interviews and assessments, and then ultimately buoy her through that first week of university when she’d felt such an imposter that without Lucy to emulate, she would surely have drowned.

  Anna frowned in the darkness, still remembering that jolt of disconnect when, in her second term, she’d discovered that her whole methodology had been built on a lie: Lucy Graham had flunked it. Straight Bs had carried her off to some university on the south coast, and away from everything she’d been working towards. Away from Anna.

  And so, the pale imitation had curled into a corner of the Bodleian, her Jesus College scarf protecting her from the draught, tipped from her axis and more confused than ever.

  The memory was so clear in Anna’s mind that she could almost feel the chill in the air and the echoing sounds of the Bod, that musty aroma of ancient books heavy in her chest once again.

  Could it simply be that Lucy had had everything to gain and Anna had absolutely nothing to lose? A gamble for both, yet somehow Anna’s phony confidence had trumped Lucy’s convictions.

  And what kind of message did that send?

  It had been around that time that Anna started questioning everything and everyone. Their motivations, their authenticity, consumed her as she tried to get a handle on how the world actually worked outside the classroom.

  Introvert. Extrovert. Outspoken versus quiet resolve.

  It wasn’t so much that she had lost her blueprint, her idol, as that she felt rudderless. Everyone learned by example, yet Anna’s life had hardly offered up a surfeit of role models. Learning how to be – who to be – had become a full-time preoccupation for a while. And still, even now, Anna wasn’t convinced she knew the answers.

  She was still blindsided by those with innate confidence and authority, confused by those who simply took up more space in the world, without easement or apology.

  Owning the room? Anna felt that she could barely afford to rent it.

  * * *

  Sweaty and grumpy after a night’s tossing and turning, Anna awoke to the smell of coffee. Tugging an oversized jumper over her pyjamas, she walked into the kitchen to find Callie engrossed in Sylvia Plath, a half-empty cafetière steaming beside her.

  ‘A little light reading?’ Anna said by way of greeting, pouring herself a cup of coffee and hoping it was strong.

  Callie looked sheepish. ‘Eleanor lets me borrow her books. She has all the good stuff and it’s nice, you know, to dive into something without having to write about it, analyse it and snuff the joy and spontaneity away.’ She tapped the cover. ‘Not that there’s a lot of joy in The Bell Jar.’ She grinned.

  ‘More a how-to guide, if I recall,’ Anna said yawning, before her gaze snapped into focus. ‘You’re not feeling, you know – I mean, you’d say if you were feeling that bad, right?’

  Callie shook her head. ‘I’m not going to top myself if that’s what you’re asking. Wouldn’t give Liam the satisfaction.’

  ‘Okay,’ Anna said, wondering if that was a good enough reason to stand down the instinctive surge of concern. ‘But maybe I should talk to your mum?’

  ‘No need,’ Callie said abruptly, standing up and putting her coffee cup in the sink. ‘I have to go to school now, anyway. Please, Anna. Don’t get too involved. You said yourself you’ll be gone by Friday.’ She shrugged. ‘But I did truly appreciate our chat last night, and the sofa.’

  She walked over to the door. ‘That cat is the devil, by the way. I woke up this morning to find him sitting on my head. I’m not convinced he wasn’t trying to smother me.’ She offered a shaky smile. ‘Maybe see you later?’ And with that, she was gone.

  Anna sank down into the vacated chair – the comfy one with the view right down the garden to Royal Avenue and the bandstand beyond. Was Callie’s life really any of her business? And, having been specifically asked not to speak to her mother, was it really a step too far to ignore that request? She frowned, kicking herself for asking – better to ask forgiveness than permission – wasn’t that how the saying went?

  She sipped the coffee and, as so often, when pop-philosophy ‘popped’ into her head, she smiled, thinking of Marjorie, who’d never met an aspirational quote she hadn’t liked. Marjorie, who had instilled in her a sense of adventure, the courage to go somewhere new, and a deep and abiding love of dogs.

  ‘Norbert?’ Anna called, wondering at the kind of terrier that so enjoyed a lie-in. ‘What do you say we go out for breakfast?’

  * * *

  It was easy to see why this café was Eleanor and Richard’s favourite spot: the vintage glazed windows flooded the whole area with light and the shiny-leaved rubber plants softened the hard corners of the rustic wooden floor and tables.

  Norbert trotted sweetly through the maze of tables and chairs and hopped onto a small upholstered armchair in the window. It seemed he was a regular.

  Anna felt her shoulders settle and her breath came easier. She hadn’t quite anticipated the pull
of Bath’s steep hills and her calves were only grateful that she’d limbered up in Dittisham. She certainly didn’t need to seek out a gym while she was here.

  The café was mostly empty, a few tables dotted here and there with pairs of women deep in conversation over poached eggs and coffee. And no matter how adorable Norbert looked sitting opposite her with a look of trusting expectation, Anna couldn’t help but wish that Kate were here instead.

  A few funny texts – mostly disparaging the other honeymooners – and the odd snatched conversation had hardly been enough to fill the void, and Anna had to work hard at times to remember that not only was she happy for her friend, but that she also truly liked Duncan. Duncan, who had quietly but consistently stolen away Kate’s heart as well as her time.

  Instead she took a breath and tapped out a text to Henry. It was a promise she’d had little intention of keeping, but staying in touch with him by text was almost too easy. A simple text much less personal than a call and hardly demanding. So much so, that the little quack every time one of his photos or messages landed had begun to make her smile, even before she’d opened it. Anna snapped a photo of Norbert – her breakfast date – and hit send before she could overanalyse herself. Small steps.

  ‘So,’ she said, turning her phone face down on the table, ‘what do you say, Norbert? Bacon?’

  His ears pricked up instantly and Anna laughed. ‘Okay, so I see where this is heading. I order my breakfast, you eat it?’

  ‘Actually, he normally has his own,’ a deep, resonant voice said from a few feet away.

  She turned, taken by surprise, and watched as a tall, somewhat erratic man folded himself into the armchair at the adjacent table. Did the concept of personal space not extend to this bloke, she thought crossly, checking that there were in fact twenty other tables he could have chosen without sitting right on top of them.

  Was he like one of those twats who liked to swim as close as possible when you were doing laps? Maybe he wasn’t British and hadn’t received the memo that crowding a person was poor form unless absolutely unavoidable.

  He laughed and his hazel eyes were filled with apology. ‘And now you’re thinking that I’m one of those monsters with no concept of personal space, aren’t you? It’s just – well – this is my regular table. Just as that one is Richard’s. I guess we’re both creatures of habit.’ He reached out and stroked Norbert’s tufty ears, looking momentarily ill at ease. ‘I could move, if I’m making you uncomfortable?’

  Anna shook her head, reminding herself that she was stepping temporarily into someone else’s life; she hardly got to call the terms.

  ‘You just took me by surprise that’s all.’

  ‘I’m Jack.’ He held out his hand to shake in greeting. ‘And I’ll leave you in peace.’ He nodded at the notebook and pen that lay open in front of her.

  She smiled. ‘I’m Anna. And don’t worry. I only arrived yesterday so today is about finding my feet a little.’

  ‘Anna.’ Jack nodded, as though committing her name to memory. He held up his noise-cancelling headphones by way of a promise of privacy and nodded at Norbert. ‘I can promise you though, that if the lad doesn’t get his own bacon – a sausage too, if you’re feeling generous – then you’ll get sod all work done over his nagging.’ He grinned once more and then settled his headphones over his conker-brown hair and turned away.

  Anna had intended to write a list of all the things she wanted to do and see in Bath, but in that moment, an old familiar feeling came over her: it seemed vital that she record every nuance of this coffee shop, of the wave in Jack’s hair, of the sounds and aromas emanating from the open-plan kitchen in the corner. As her pen scratched across page after page of disjointed thoughts and impressions, Anna could feel the release in her soul.

  She carried so much and shared so little.

  Writing had always been the one outlet she could trust.

  Trust not to betray her confidences, but sadly not to be loyal – fickle talent that she had.

  Catching herself staring at Jack’s profile, she wondered whether it was simply a lack of application on her part. Within moments of plugging in, he seemed engrossed in the lines of coloured code he was creating on the MacBook. Oblivious, even, to the world around him.

  He looked up and caught her eye, smiled, then returned to his work.

  Not oblivious then. Anna blushed, embarrassed to have been caught watching.

  Order placed, Norbert placated, Anna was soon deeply absorbed in her own spontaneous project. There was something about the light in this coffee shop that illuminated the warmer hues and cast deeper shadows; the juxtaposition beguiling and inspirational.

  It had been a very long time since Anna had attempted anything new, but where was the harm in a short story of no consequence? Might it not in fact give her the permission she needed not to censor her writing at every pause?

  Turning the page to a blank sheet, she began to write.

  A fresh notebook was the ultimate blank canvas – no pressure to memorialise her travels and impressions as she did in her journals, yet still with more weight and bearing than a simple email, dashed off in haste.

  And, as always, the first page was actually the easiest for her, before her critical inner voice had time to chime in, or her imagination run on into wilds of darkness.

  Her phone beeped beside her and she glanced down at the screen, Kate’s latest photo showing a half-empty cocktail glass and a backgammon board against a tropical night sky.

  Tell us you’re doing something interesting? We spent the day learning about a giant nut. Coco de mer. Oh yes, ask me anything – I am now an unwilling expert… It was that or learning to dance the Moutia.

  Anna replied, grinning. Only her academically minded friend could be suffering so in the luxury of the Seychelles retreat.

  I’m writing in a coffee shop with a Norfolk terrier, a foxy code-writer and a lot of bacon.

  Oh. My. God. I don’t know which part of that to unpack first. Bacon, I remember you… So many questions… But mainly, I guess, I’m just thrilled that you’re writing. I won’t disturb. Speak later.

  And then she was gone, a blur of Kate’s warmth remaining.

  Anna didn’t need sixteen acquaintances to fill those sterile Perspex chairs at The Cove; she had already won the lottery with Kate.

  So, with Kate’s voice echoing in her head, Anna picked up her pen once more, determined.

  It took three more pages for the concept to dissolve under Anna’s stewardship. The characters morphed into edgier, more brittle, versions of themselves, the putative plotline no longer gentle and appealing but underscored by a note of impending tragedy.

  Frustrated and annoyed with herself for falling into the same old patterns, she tore the pages from the notebook and ripped them in two. In that moment, she didn’t care about the look of concern from the next table or the inevitable disappointment in Kate’s next message. She was too angry, too caught up in revisiting her own past to even care.

  Chapter 28

  Coventry, 2004

  It was certainly one way to make an impact on your child’s sixteenth birthday.

  Not necessarily the Sweet Sixteen, moments-to-always-be-remembered, type impact, yet definitely unforgettable.

  Anna held the envelope in her hands and turned it over and over, trying to decipher how she felt.

  The only other card, signed by every resident of the group home, stood sentinel by her bed. The extra egg at breakfast and a tuneless mangling of the birthday song had started her day well. The mock GCSE exam had, surprisingly, been a welcome distraction. Physics. Not her favourite subject, but then, were any of them anymore?

  She knew she was slipping, and couldn’t bring herself to care.

  She was capable of so much more, she knew that, but somehow, as the hope for a different life had ebbed away, so had her motivation and determination. All that angst and fervour – to prove what? And to whom?

  The envelope felt light in he
r hands, yet weighed her down with its potential.

  Good and bad.

  The postmark alone hardly boded well, but for a moment, Anna allowed herself to believe: early release, time served, a date in the diary for when Graham Wilson would be allowed back into the population at large. Reformed.

  She tore at the adhesive strip and held her breath.

  Forever Friends bears stared back at her, two holes in the cardboard where a birthday badge must one day have been secured. Its removal was not lost on her: in prison – however low-security – a pin was a weapon in waiting.

  Her father’s familiar scrawl inside was like turning back the clock, to Blue Peter after school and being carried aloft on his shoulders. She bit hard on her lip, trying to resist the overwhelming urge to rip away the soft, tender skin inside.

  You’re sixteen!! How did that come around so fast? Happy birthday, Anna. I miss you. Every day, but especially on your birthdays – when I feel you growing up, getting older, living your life without me. You’re sixteen now and I’ve been moved to a different set-up. Less intimidating for you, if you wanted to visit? No pressure, sweetheart, but I’d love to see what my little Anna looks like now she’s all grown up. With love, Dad.

  Expectation sat on her chest.

  As her teeth tore through her lip she could only wonder what the right thing to do could possibly be. And, perhaps more tellingly, whose feelings took priority in this situation.

  She shoved the card under her pillow, ripping it slightly in her haste to get it out of sight and out of mind. All those years she had longed, ached, for contact from her father and now this…

  It didn’t feel anything like she had imagined it would. And it didn’t feel good.

  Instead, she felt almost manipulated, as though her own equilibrium was of no importance.

  Even at her massive comprehensive, where half the school qualified for free lunches and possession of a two-parent family placed you firmly in the minority, they had spoken again and again of the importance of this year. This, her GCSE year.