Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  ‘Not really, no. I handed in my notice. At work. I’ve got holiday owing so I just walked out.’

  ‘Fuck, Kate! Seriously?’

  ‘No, April Fool. Of course, seriously. You’re not the only Stanley who can stomp off like a dipstick.’

  ‘But why? I thought you loved that job. Are things awkward with Charlie?’

  She sighs her weary ‘Kate’ sigh. ‘It’s got nothing to do with Charlie. Well, that’s one factor, I suppose, but not the factor. I can’t go into it all now. I’ll explain it face to face, whenever that might be. When might that be, An-An?’

  ‘Crikey, I don’t know. I’m just taking it one sea area at a time.’

  ‘What’s to see in Portland?’

  Kate has a point. I don’t actually know. According to my trusty tea towel, it stretches from Christchurch to Salcombe. I only have one, half-baked stopover in mind.

  ‘I might head for Poole.’

  ‘Poole?’ she laughs. ‘Why Poole?’

  It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud. ‘Because of Mum. Those Poole Pottery milk jugs she collected. You know, that went on the top shelf of the Welsh dresser and gathered greasy dust and we couldn’t use them. When we had visitors, she served milk from the carton.’

  No reply. I wait. Have we been cut off?

  ‘Katkin? Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ She sounds tearful. ‘I just miss her so much. Every day. Dad too, obviously. I miss them both. I miss you. Even when you’re close by, I feel a distance. How did we let that happen?’

  ‘My fault. Wallowing, shutting out the world. My fault, Katkin. We’ll make it up, though. We’ve only got each other, haven’t we?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s try that.’

  ‘Starting now?’ I suggest. ‘Tell me what happened at work, why you left.’

  ‘I will, I promise. Soon. Sorry, got to catch a train. Bye-bye, An-An.’

  That’s Kate’s other phone thing. She will always be the one to end the conversation, never me. Oh well . . .

  ‘Rav’ at Brighton station ticket office sorts out my route to Poole, with a change at Southampton. It will take me two hours and forty-one minutes. No worries, I have my buttery-coloured cashmere yarn and knitting needles at the top of my backpack, plus a well-thumbed psychological thriller I found in my hotel room. And I like being bored. Two hours and forty-one minutes? Pah! They will fly by.

  Around West Worthing, I have finally crafted the right response to Simon’s text. How to sound keen but not too keen, cool but not too cool. After much fiddling and finessing, it reads: ‘Hi Si. So great to see you & hang out. I want to do it again too. Thanks for bearing with me. Really. Thanks. Will bring you back a Fair Isle bobble hat. Off to Dorset now. Lots of love, Stannie.’

  Fair Isle bobble hat? Too twee? Too cool? Too late. It’s sent. With any luck, he’ll find it endearing. I sense that he’s pretty smitten. Or am I fooling myself into thinking there’s (love) life after Rob?

  At Arundel, my phone beeps a notification. I put down my knitting and allow myself a little smile. Simon is so smitten and couldn’t wait to reply. Good.

  But no, it’s from Kate. ‘Giving you a heads-up to expect a call from your favourite father’s ladyfriend’s daughter. Pippa asked how/where you are, said she’ll be in touch. Ha ha!!! xxx’

  I’m instantly on edge. Pippa hasn’t stuck her oar in yet, but it stands to reason that she’ll be furious with me, on her mother’s behalf. Especially if Bev’s told her that, when I had my moment of madness and stole the ashes, I hurtled off with the remains of her dad and not mine.

  Pippa is a pleasant enough woman. If I met her at a party, we’d manage a decent conversation for ten minutes, as long as we didn’t stray into anything controversial or uncomfortable. I don’t know her politics but I’ve got a fairly good idea what they are and they’re from a very different hymn sheet to mine. Her husband, Mark, is a senior partner in a law firm and earns squillions. Elliott and Evie go to an independent school with fancy uniforms and a well-stocked stationery cupboard. When Elliott had his tonsils out, the NHS wasn’t troubled.

  I inherited my politics from Mum and Dad. Nothing too firebrandy or banner-wavy. Just a sense of what’s right and fair and equal. I loved them for that and was happy to follow where they led. I suspect Dad had to rein in some of his more egalitarian views when he got together with Bev: she’s resolutely apolitical and far happier talking about geraniums or Strictly than Prime Minister’s Questions.

  At Southampton Central I have five minutes to buy a coffee and a KitKat before boarding the Poole train. Pippa rings just as I’m settling into my seat and snapping off a chocolate finger.

  ‘Annie, it’s Pippa. Pippa Spencer. Bev’s daughter, Pippa . . . Spencer.’

  I stop myself from saying that I flipping know who she flipping is. Pippa has never done me any harm so my antagonism towards her is hardly her fault.

  ‘Hi Pippa, how are you?’

  ‘Fine thanks. Just getting over a cold. We’ve all had it.’

  ‘That’s good. That you’re getting over it, I mean.’

  A pause while she weighs up whether to continue the small talk or to cut to the chase, the reason she’s ringing.

  ‘Kate said you’re in Dorset.’

  ‘Not yet. I’m just pulling out of Southampton station right now, on my way to Poole. Sea area Portland.’

  ‘Oh yes, the Shipping Forecast. Mark sometimes listens to it because of his sailing. The thing is, we’re in Lulworth for the week, at the cottage we time-share with his brother and sister. There’s always a tussle over who gets the summer hols. Your dad and my mum came to stay a few times.’

  ‘That rings a bell. He said it was really chocolate-boxy. In a good way.’

  ‘It is. Roses round the door and all that. Mark’s forever banging his head on the low beams. Anyway, Mum’s down for the week too and she – we – wondered if you’d like come for lunch, supper, whatever. If that fits into your schedule.’

  ‘I don’t have a schedule. Or a car. I’m not sure how I’d get to – where was it – Lulwood?’

  ‘Lulworth. No probs. I can pick you up from Poole station. It’s not far. What time does your train get in?’

  ‘13.13, hold-ups permitting.’

  ‘Great. I’ll be in the car park. Metallic gold Renault Scenic.’

  ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘People carrier. Mark’s pride and joy. It’s got seagull business all over the bonnet. You can’t miss it. Great. We have a plan. That’s great. Call me if you’re held up. See you in a bit. Byee.’

  I could call her straight back, point out that I didn’t say yes and, actually, I have other plans. But, apart from finding a B&B, I don’t. I’m still not sure if Poole Pottery is even made in Poole.

  An hour later, I’m sitting alongside Pippa in her guano-covered people carrier, driving through the Poole ’burbs, direction deepest Dorset. My Star Wars wheelie suitcase, with Dad ensconced within, is squeezed into a boot packed with wetsuits, surf boards, fishing rods, beach shoes, wellies, waterproofs, walking boots, two crates of beer and several six-packs of Pepsi. The Spencer clan clearly has a busy week planned.

  Pippa has swapped her usual smart-casual wardrobe for a pale-yellow polo shirt, salmon-pink shorts and two-tone deck shoes. Her face is free of make-up, apart from a slick of lip gloss, and her bobbed hair is as neat and trained as ever. She looks good. I really should try to like her more.

  ‘You travel light,’ she says, as we leave Poole and she can finally shift into fifth gear.

  ‘I only need a couple of changes of clothes and access to a washing machine.’

  ‘Use ours while we have lunch. Mum’s making seafood risotto. You do eat seafood?’

  ‘I love seafood. My mum hated shellfish so I had to leave home to try my first lobster.’

  Not much more to say about seafood. From either of us. Pippa knows the roads well and whips us swiftly past Wareham and Wool, past signs for Monke
y World and the Tank Museum.

  ‘Mark’s out sailing with the kids,’ Pippa tells me, overtaking a tractor. ‘We’ve got a boat. Well, a third of one. He could practically sail before he could walk. He’s so in his element. Elliott loves it too, Evie not so much. She’s more land than sea, that one.’

  ‘I’ve just caught up with an old friend in Brighton who has a fear of the sea. We did a tour of the wind farm.’

  ‘Evie would love that. Anything with an engine, anything mechanical. She’s always asking me how things work: the Nespresso, the retractable flex on the vacuum cleaner. Like I’d know. I always say: Ask your father.’

  Pippa seems nervous around me, nattering nineteen to the dozen to fill any awkward pauses. I learn, in detail, that Mark grew up in Dorset and really misses living by the sea. Landlocked Potters Bar just doesn’t cut it. Maybe my Shipping Forecast quest will resonate with him. His brother and sister never strayed as far away as he did: Julia is a dentist in Bridport, Tim is an accountant in Sherborne. They’ve all done really well for themselves. Pippa so envies Mark his siblings, even though they often squabble, especially Mark and Julia, usually at Christmas.

  Pippa envies Kate and me too. ‘Such a tight unit. You two against the world. That’s what it seems like to me, anyway. If you’re an only child, it can be very lonely. When Dad died, I wish I’d had a big sister to hold my hand, tell me it would be all right. But there we are. If wishes were fishes. Do you know that song?’

  ‘I thought wishes were horses.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She takes a deep breath, as if she’s about to deliver a well-rehearsed speech. ‘I do have one wish, Annie. That we make an effort. For Mum’s sake. She’s been through this twice now. Losing my dad, then yours. She’s been so brave, so dignified, but she really doesn’t deserve any of this.’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t. Who does?’

  ‘Obviously you and Kate know all about the grieving process. Two steps forward, one step back. One good day, one bad day. You’ve been there twice, so you know the drill. Even so, Mum’s been worried about you. That’s why she invited you. She feels responsible for you, in lieu of your dad. She needs to know you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m fine. Under the circumstances. I’m fine, Pippa.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll want to know that she’s fine too. Especially after the business with the ashes. Please will you check that she’s still okay with what you did, Annie? Yes, she said she is but I’m really not sure.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  And I will. I need to stop thinking this journey revolves around me.

  The cottage is beautiful, hiding behind a bank of oak trees at the top of a quiet lane. There really are roses round the door, pink blowsy ones nodding in the breeze, and a neatly manicured cloud of white jasmine. As Pippa parks the people carrier, Mark and the kids rock up on bikes, looking windblown and hungry.

  ‘Granny will find you a snack,’ Pippa says, shooing them indoors. ‘Do not touch the muffins. They’re for later. And yes, I’m looking at you, Elliott Spencer.’

  Mark retrieves their abandoned bikes, props them against the wall and ambles over. Like Pippa, he also favours salmon-pink shorts, but with a Jack Wills logo-ed T-shirt. I’d forgotten how unfeasibly tall he is, towering a good foot over Pippa and me. He’s one of those men who exudes laidback, cocky confidence and, even though we barely know each other, he leans down and gives me a two-cheek kiss. I’m impressed. Men are usually crap at that. I nearly broke my nose once, trying to mwah-mwah Rob’s nervous cousin.

  I immediately decide that Mark’s having a steamy affair with a colleague. Not his PA or secretary. That would be too easy, too cheesy. More likely a fellow lawyer who isn’t remotely expecting wedding bells. Otherwise, his life with Pippa and the boys would be too cosy and comfortable. Obviously, Mark doesn’t know that I know . . . even though my suspicions are based purely on an overactive imagination.

  He goes to unload my Star Wars wheelie suitcase from the car boot, but I stop him.

  ‘Might as well leave it in the car,’ I point out, a bit too eagerly. ‘I’m only here for lunch, then I’ll head back to Poole.’

  ‘I’ll give that B&B a ring for you, Annie,’ Pippa chips in. ‘Our friends Roger and Sally stayed there. They said it was really cosy and friendly.’

  Mark ignores her and takes my case to the house. ‘Don’t be silly. Stay with us.’

  Pippa glares at his departing back. Did they discuss this at breakfast? Did Pippa say I wasn’t welcome and Mark said nonsense? Or maybe Bev told them she didn’t want me to stay. Because she’s decided she needn’t be nice to me any more . . . Because I’ve really, really upset her by taking Dad’s ashes and he’s turning in his urn?

  But when I find her in the kitchen, in a Cath Kidston pinny, stirring a vast vat of risotto on the Aga, she couldn’t be more pleased to see me. She wipes her hands on a towel and rushes over, open armed.

  ‘Annie! How lovely that you could come. I want to hear all about your adventures.’ She spots my suitcase, dumped in the hall by Mark. ‘And you can stay too? It’s a bit cramped but we’ll squeeze you in somewhere.’

  I marvel at my ability to lie on the spot. ‘I wish I could stay, Bev, but I need to be back in Poole later. I’m meeting an old friend of Mum’s tonight. Who lives in Poole. Her name’s . . . Glynis. From university. They shared a student house at university. Yes. Glynis.’

  ‘So you’re looking up people on your travels, are you? That’s good. I was worried you might get lonely.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve caught up with friends in, let’s see, Forth, Tyne, Dover and Wight. And Kate joined me in sea area Thames.’

  Bev remembers the risotto and loosens the grains with a splash of stock. ‘Will you stir? I need to make the garlic bread.’

  It’s all very domestic and, on the surface, totally relaxed. Bev crams dollops of pungent butter into baguette crevices while I stir the rice. It smells bloody lovely.

  ‘How is Kate?’ Bev asks. ‘I never seem to ring at a good time.’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine. Really well, as it happens.’ Bev needn’t be told that she’s had a lesbian fling, walked out on her job and sounds desperately unhappy right now. I know exactly how that feels, apart from the lesbian thing. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.

  Pippa bustles in with the beer. ‘Do you want to use our washing machine, Annie? It’s in the futility room, as Mark likes to call it.’

  He would. I’ll bet he’s never done anything as ‘futile’ as wash a load of bed linen or a muddy football kit in his life. You can tell.

  I find the washing machine and tip my carrier bag of grubby clothes straight in. I can’t believe I’ve travelled so far on so few clothes. It’s a life lesson, actually. Don’t pack what you don’t need. Anyway, half the case is taken up by Dad’s urn, wrapped in the jeans Yasmin gave me. I rest him on a nearby shelf as I add the detergent and set the dial to ‘quick wash’. I don’t intend to stay here any longer than I have to.

  Bev shouts, ‘Lunchtime, everyone!’ from the kitchen and, after a bit of nagging to get the kids indoors with clean hands, we’re all sitting around an ancient refectory table helping ourselves to risotto, salad, garlic bread, griddled courgettes and broad beans from the garden. We could be the cast of a TV commercial for home insurance or wholemeal bread or casual clothing. The Spencer crew are a great-looking family: Mark with his lanky Peter Crouch vibe, Pippa all petite and stylish, and the kids, already tanned from sailing, now squabbling over who will get the coveted crust-end of the baguette.

  Bev beams at her brood. She must miss cooking for Dad, fussing over him, finding recipes that would keep down his cholesterol and keep up his roughage. Not that it helped. He still died.

  Pippa asks about Glynis and I find myself elaborating wildly on my lie; how she and Mum lost touch in their twenties but we found her phone number in an address book after Mum died, hoping she could come to the funeral. But she was in Australia and then we lost touch again and b
lah-blah-blah. I can’t believe I’m churning this stuff out and that these people are listening, commenting, believing. I’m slightly ashamed that it comes so easily.

  And then I am punished for my deceit. The god of duplicity and dentistry takes revenge. I bite on a chunk of baguette and find something hard, like a pebble, rattling around in my mouth. I remove it, wipe off the half-chewed breadcrumbs and study it.

  Evie is fascinated too. ‘Eeeuw! What’s that?’

  ‘A crown. My crown. It’s come out.’

  As I speak, wind whistles past the hole and catches on an exposed nerve. I wince.

  Elliott peers at it. ‘Is it like a denture or something?’

  ‘It’s a little fake tooth,’ Bev explains. ‘The dentist puts them in when your tooth isn’t suitable for repair any more. Or if you ate too many toffee apples and sticks of Swanage rock when you were little.’

  ‘Don’t, Mum,’ Pippa says firmly. ‘Elliott and Evie take really good care of their teeth. Don’t you, kids?’

  Evie nods earnestly. ‘Can I have it, Annie?’

  Mark has been half engaged in a text on his phone. He says it’s work related but he’s probably arranging a liaison with his secret lover. ‘Course not, Pickle. Annie needs to get it stuck back in.’

  ‘There’s some superglue in the kitchen drawer,’ Evie points out helpfully. ‘Mum used it yesterday to repair my Crocs. I have really steady hands when I make models.’

  I feel almost invisible as they discuss me. I’m not in pain but I am in discomfort and suddenly feel far from home and the safe hands of my usual dentist, Dr Shah.

  ‘Not to worry. I’ll find an emergency dentist in Poole,’ I suggest, feeling the wind on my nerve again.

  Mark won’t hear of it. ‘Julia’s closer. My sister. She’s just down the road in Weymouth. I’ll ring her now. See if she can squeeze you in by end-of-play today.’

  I go to the bathroom to swill out my mouth. I scrutinize the gap in the mirror. It’s my first and only crown. I have taken excellent care of my teeth my whole life so this feels distinctly unfair.