Home is Just a Feeling

by Lesley Hudnott

  One of Elfie’s eyebrows arched. “Nice. Yours was a happy family, then?”

  “Oh yes, always a laugh a minute in our house.”

  Brutus remained in the crook of Elfie’s arm. “Why, you’re quite the natural there, rocking that old teddy,” I gently teased. Quickly dropping the bear on the bed, the pain in my friend’s eyes told that I had inadvertently touched a very raw nerve indeed. My hug quickly rebuffed, an awkward moment hung in the air, rescued only by Elfie’s immediate apology.

  “Jack and I, well, we couldn’t have a family. Silly I know, to still be so sensitive about it all these years on. Jack would have loved a boy, someone to pass his woodworking skills on to, as well as all those blasted tools still cluttering up the shed.” Smiling wistfully, she continued, “I always hoped for a daughter, Cass, perhaps someone like you, sweet and gentle.” As she stroked my cheek, tears rimmed our eyes, each imagining what might have been.

  SIX

  Parking my bicycle in the narrow alleyway beside Our Little Shop of Treats, I ambled around the centre of Summerlea West, packing my few groceries carefully in my old rucksack as I went.

  Summerlea West was built mainly to accommodate the overspill from Summerlea. A small, seaside market town, it boasted a primary school, community centre, and two public houses. A little dull in winter, Summerlea West blossomed in summer, welcoming holidaymakers from around the globe. Our Little Shop of Treats was very profitable, so Lucy told me.

  I had met Lucy Erskine seven years ago, at a pub quiz. Our team needed another member after someone cancelled last-minute, and Lucy was alone, hoping to find a team. She and her then boyfriend lived locally. Scott didn’t take to Luke at all, so Lucy and I met up sometimes for lunch, and our friendship developed. Over one such lunch I noticed her wince as she lifted a menu.

  “I’ve ditched Luke. He’s always coming home drunk, only this time I could smell cheap scent on him. He didn’t even bother denying it. Anyway, he’s gone now, presumably to live with her. Not before he slapped me around, though. It was the worst ever.”

  “He’s done that before?” My God, what was it with some people?

  “Oh yeah, many times, Cassie. My fault for putting up with it, I suppose. Still,” Lucy winced again, smiling wanly as she raised her glass, “At least the miserable so-and-so couldn’t clean me out though. I always kept my bank account separate. Cheers.”

  ~~~

  “Is everything okay, Mrs. Harrington?” Looking up at the young waitress, I realised my lunch was untouched. God, how long had I sat here, just thinking? “Here, let me fetch some fresh coffee; lucky you didn’t have a hot meal!” Smiling, I agreed with Poppy as I thanked her.

  Lunch finished, I thanked Poppy again, slipping a decent tip into her hand as I left. I often used to lunch at “Poppy Green’s”, with Lucy or alone. The café, named after Poppy but owned and run by her father, Artie, was a welcoming place. Nicknamed “R.T.G’s”, Poppy once confided to me her interpretation, “Really Tight Git’s”. Her father, it transpired, kept all the staff tips. Consequently, at my request, Poppy never acknowledged any money I handed over.

  Over lunch I had come to a decision.

  Go on, darling, go on. Cross the street, open the door, and just walk in.

  The main street now seemed a mile wide, each step like wading through treacle.

  It’s okay, Cass, it’s okay. I’m with you, I’ll always be with you. You can do this.

  Then suddenly, there I was, in a shop I had not entered for five years. My own shop. “Our Little Shop of Treats”. Amazingly, it felt perfectly natural to be there. I wandered around, hoping no-one would enter as I marvelled at Lucy’s arrangement of the stock; everything perfectly displayed to attract people in. No wonder the place was so profitable!

  “Good afternoon, madam.” I spun around and, with a wide grin and outstretched arms, Lucy enveloped me in an enormous hug. “I saw you coming, Cassie. I’ve kept as quiet as a mouse, crouched behind the counter while you mooched around. It’s like you’ve come home. I can’t tell you how often I’ve caught you quickly looking in. I’ve just wanted to open the door and haul you inside!”

  Bolting the door and turning the sign to “Closed”, Lucy smiled and shepherded me towards the stairs up to the flat, the flat that had been Scott’s and my home. “C’mon, early closing today! Tea o’clock, methinks.”

  Sitting in the living room above the shop, I gazed aimlessly out of the bay window while Lucy busied herself in the small kitchen next door. Presently, placing a laden tray down on the coffee table, she poured tea. “For some reason, I baked a cake yesterday; first one I’ve ever made! You, Cassie Harrington, have the dubious honour of being my guinea pig. Tuck in.”

  The boiled fruit cake was a sterling first attempt. “I bet you found the recipe at the back of the right-hand drawer, beside the hob. I always kept it there, safe. It was Scott’s grandmother’s, and he preferred it over heavier, traditional Christmas cake each year. I don’t like marzipan and he hated icing, so we kept it plain.” I softly chuckled, surprised at how easily I could talk about Scott now, without totally going to pieces. Then again, five years had passed…

  As we sat, chatting and generally putting the world to rights, shoppers dwindled in the street below as dusk gradually descended. When silent tears occasionally trickled down my cheeks, other than briefly patting my hand, Lucy just let me be. I thought that she and Elfie Patterson had much in common. I must introduce them soon, over lunch perhaps.

  ~~~

  Feeling a hand lightly press my arm, I opened my eyes. The street below was now quiet in the darkness.

  “Welcome back. You’ve been out of it for a while, a couple of hours at least. I’ve locked your bike in the yard and supper is on the go; just a bit of steak and salad, nothing fancy.” Heading for the kitchen, Lucy looked back at me with a determined glint in her eyes. “You’re staying overnight, too, and I don’t want any arguments.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Smiling, I thanked her, giving myself up to the peace and kindness that enveloped me.

  Supper (and a large glass of red wine) finished, it occurred to me that I felt as relaxed in the flat as ever, that the last five years spent avoiding the place perhaps need not have happened. Sometime soon I must “talk shop” with Lucy. Not knowing how I would have coped without her these past few years, there must be some way of showing my gratitude. Not a huge party, Lucy was more of an ‘intimate gathering’ type; not money, she would be extremely offended; not a cruise or holiday abroad in case she felt I was packing her off out of the way.

  “More wine?” I nodded, grinning as I held my glass out. “Oh, and I found these.” Lucy proffered a box of mint chocolates, left over from Christmas. “I’ve made up the spare bed, Cass, or would you rather…?”

  “The spare bed’s fine,” I reassured her. “This is your home now, Lucy, I hope you know that.”

  Growing up, Lucy Erskine had been fostered by five families; she never mentioned why, and I never asked. Having stored all Scott’s and my personal stuff, the stuff that makes a home, in boxes in the spare room, Lucy had not replaced it with anything, not even one photo. She had once told me that, due to her background, she preferred to ‘travel light,’ and that a sense of belonging, a ‘feeling of home’ was enough for her. “Honestly, Cass, it’s all anyone really needs. If you wished, you could just bung a few bits and bobs around, anywhere, and call it home. Think about it.”

  That night, many thoughts jumbled around my mind; one, however, stood out.

  I thought of Elfie’s and my earlier conversation, in my bedroom. While I could, indeed must, have been mistaken, Elfie’s “And you’d never heard about the parties, you say?” seemed, from her intonation, to imply that she had. Since that was out of the question, I pulled the duvet snugly around me and enjoyed a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

  SEVEN

  Summerlea West’s long beach was empty. Since the holiday season had yet to fully start, I idly supposed that any visitors
would be enjoying a lie-in or their eggs and bacon, and who could blame them?

  At eight-thirty this Sunday morning, the soft white sand moulded to my bottom and legs, I just sat and listened to the gentle swish of the sea, soothing as ever. Lulled into total relaxation, with the sun’s warmth gradually seeping into me, Lucy came to mind. Having known each other for just over seven years, in some ways Lucy was like a soft, timid kitten; a kitten possessed of a steel spine though since she had certainly saved my bacon these past five years. Whenever Scott or I had entered the shop, Lucy had quickly faded into the background, busying herself or making tea, seemingly unable to realise that we valued her for her lovely self, not merely her usefulness. I supposed this stemmed from her upbringing.

  Despite the fresh morning air and an egg and bacon sandwich earlier, an orchestra’s entire percussion section continued to thump away inside my head. Flowing freely the previous evening, the red wine now exacted its revenge as I vowed to leave it alone in future…

  Paddling the length of the beach and back, I remembered my Aunt Ivy. When Merry, Craig and I were small, Aunt Ivy and Uncle Albert occasionally took us to the beach. It was quite a journey and we would be loaded into their ancient black car, which spluttered and screeched all the way there and back. Excited on the way there and eyeing up the huge wicker picnic basket, a combination of tiredness and Uncle Albert’s incessant grumbling about sand in the car ensured our quietude on the return trip.

  At the end of these rare days out, Uncle Albert would load up the car while Aunt Ivy kept an eye on us. Then, and this was my favourite bit, Aunt Ivy always scooped me up, cuddling me as she kissed the top of my head. Feeling cherished and secure was unfamiliar to me and I relished it, snuggling in and wishing the jaunt back to the car took forever. I could still smell her light floral scent whenever I thought of her.

  ~~~

  Wandering around the small shop after Cassie had left, Lucy felt unsettled. Sunday mornings usually meant a lie-in, leisurely breakfast, and a long soak in a bath perfumed with very expensive bubbles. But not today. Idly rearranging photo frames and other small knick-knacks on the distressed white shabby-chic dresser, Lucy struggled to make much sense of the previous evening’s conversation. Undoubtedly prompted by a surfeit of red wine, Cassie had really opened up regarding her earlier life, including Merry and Craig. Suddenly, being fostered five times did not seem so bad.

  This time of the year “Our Little Shop of Treats” was closed on Sundays so, mooch over, Lucy returned to the flat and made more coffee.

  It was great to see Cassie in the shop and flat once more, of course it was. Lucy had hoped for this to happen so many times over the past five years. How lovely to be able to repay a little of the kindness shown by Cass and Scott. So why did she now feel so, Lucy struggled for the correct word, territorial? Truth to tell, Lucy was afraid that Cassie would, at some point, wish to return permanently and where would that leave her?

  Tears rimmed Lucy’s eyes, shame enveloping her for thinking this way about such a good friend. God alone knew where she would be now but for those two, and she was truly grateful. Scott and Cassie had bought the cottage at Summerlea soon after Lucy and Luke parted company. The flat was rent-free in return for opening the shop each morning and what Scott had called ‘all the boring stuff.’ All three took turns in the shop, although Cassie and Scott loved to be out and about, anywhere and everywhere, sourcing stock.

  Gratitude, grateful. God, how Lucy loathed those words. Everyone had cause to be grateful now and again, she knew that, of course she did. It was just that, all her life, Lucy had been expected to show what she often considered disproportionate gratitude for every last little thing. All the worn-out hand-me-downs, the unwanted moth-eaten teddy, the rusting dolls pram with the wonky hood, the sinister-looking doll with one eye that never closed… “There, Lucy, isn’t that kind of Jemima (or whichever kid it was this time) to give you such a lovely present? Say ‘Thank you’ like a good little girl.” And there Lucy would stand, beaming away, ebulliently expressing gratitude, trying to fit in… Again.

  An hour or so later, her coffee now stone cold, Lucy forged ahead with her day. Having confronted a few things head-on in her mind, it surprised her how much better she now felt. Acknowledging fear, gratitude and, dare she think it, jealousy, seemed to render them just words again, no longer cruel phantoms cluttering her mind. Tidying the spare room, Lucy saw that Cassie had forgotten the small brass snuff box, recalling yesterday’s euphoria as it gave up its secret. She chuckled; at least one foster family had taught her a skill! She would call Cassie later but for now, that warm bath with those expensive bubbles awaited.

  ~~~

  Pedalling away from the beach, I felt like a new woman. Yesterday marked a turning point for me; I had entered my shop after a five-year absence and everything was fine. My shop. Having forgotten the snuff box this morning, I headed there now.

  There was no reply so I cycled the couple of miles home to Summerlea, arriving refreshed and rejuvenated. Knowing I should wait until able to show her the actual contents of the small box, I nevertheless ran across the village green to see Elfie, eagerly anticipating her reaction to the photos I had taken.

  “She’s not there, Mrs. Harrington; taken to hospital. I popped in to see her about a couple of hours ago; Silver Surfers stuff, you know. It’s Elfie’s turn next week.”

  “Whatever’s wrong with her, Mrs. Baxter, do you know?”

  “Oh yes, dear.” Her next-door neighbour had found Elfie in the garden.

  “She’d been pegging out laundry and slipped; couldn’t move a muscle. Shock, I expect. From the look of her, I thought she was damned lucky she hadn’t pegged out as well. And that lovely lace tablecloth, ruined. Bloody rose bushes, and she will keep them. In tatters that cloth is, just look at it.”

  Glancing briefly at the torn white lace now held aloft, I thanked Mrs. Baxter. My offer of a lift to the hospital was politely declined. “You go today, dear, I know she’ll be glad to see you. Perhaps you’d tell her that a few of us Surfers will be along tomorrow; well, I reckon she’ll be in for a day or two.”

  Back across the green, my bike now in the shed, I started the car. Stopping it again, I thought that if Elfie might be in hospital for a couple of days then she would need fresh nightwear and toiletries. My only problem was, and she had told me this herself, that the upstairs of her house was strictly off limits - to everyone. Informing me that, while she had nothing to hide, some places were just private, I promised never to go upstairs unless it was a life or death situation. I sincerely hoped this was no such thing.

  ~~~

  “Mrs. Harrington?” The nurse smiled kindly, observing my carrier bag and bunch of flowers. At my affirmation, she ventured, “Cassie?” Chatting as we walked along a lengthy corridor, I was informed that Elfie had suffered mild concussion, extensive bruising and a severely sprained ankle.

  “Mrs. Patterson was very lucky not to have broken any bones. By the way, do you know who George and Albert are, or were?” I explained that the only George I knew, Mr. Shepherd, and Albert Smithers, my uncle, would mean nothing to Elfie.

  “It’s just that she keeps apologising to them, profusely, but doesn’t say why. Mind you, she’s on very strong pain killers. Has she ever mentioned any parties to you, from her youth?”

  “Not that I recall. Why?”

  The nurse grinned widely. “Well, Mrs. Harrington, they certainly sounded more fun than any I ever attended! Although, as I said, she’s on strong medication. Ah, here we are.”

  Leaning over to kiss Elfie’s forehead, I was struck by how utterly worn out she looked. My plump, bustling friend, who lived life at the double, slowly opened her bright blue eyes and smiled to see me. “George, Albert, I’m so very…”

  “Elfie, it’s Cassie.” I gently held her hand. “Don’t worry about George and Albert, they know you’re sorry, everything’s okay now, really. Try to relax a bit, those painkillers are just playing tricks with your
mind, that’s all.”

  Brightening a little, Elfie drowsily asked if she was ‘high.’

  “As a kite, sweetie,” I giggled. “You’re going to be here for another couple of days at least so I brought a few things in for you.” To reassure her I continued, “And I didn’t go upstairs, Elfie. The supermarket does some really decent stuff, even your favourite face cream.”

  A tear trickled down her face as she murmured how kind and thoughtful I was. “You must let me pay…”

  “Not a chance,” I cut in quickly. “This is a get well present, so behave yourself and do just that.”

  Gradually, Elfie became ever sleepier. Reminding her that one or two Silver Surfers would visit tomorrow, I kissed her forehead again before leaving.

  EIGHT

  Since offloading my troublesome bathroom mirror at Summerlea West’s auction house my cottage had regained the peaceful, welcoming atmosphere I knew when Scott and I first moved in, just under six years ago. Knowing that housework awaited, I rebelled on this beautiful morning, instead taking a large coffee and digestive biscuits out to the small patio garden. Deciding that compromise was key when weight-watching, plain biscuits replaced the usual chocolate as I relaxed amid numerous pots and planters filled with herbs and sweet-smelling flowers.

  Eventually, and having finished my magazine, I decided my bedroom needed what Aunt Ivy always called ‘a do.’ Curtains in the wash, I dragged the bed to the middle of the room. Kneeling to wipe the skirting boards, I noticed two envelopes just under one side of the bed and both addressed to me. They must have fallen out of Merry’s carrier bag when Elfie and I discovered Brutus, the Titanic bear.

  One was from my mother, the other from someone whose writing I did not recognise. Speedily finishing my bedroom and shoving the bed back against the wall, I grabbed the letters, skipped downstairs and hurried back to the garden.