Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  When I get back, there’s news. Julia is on her way home from a conference in Birmingham. But she can see me tomorrow at 5 p.m. That means staying with the Spencers, whether I like it or not. Bloody great.

  Bev asks if Glynis will mind not meeting up with me till tomorrow. ‘Maybe she can join us for supper? She’d be most welcome.’

  ‘We’ve not managed to connect this long,’ I reply philosophically. ‘One more day won’t hurt. I’ll suggest supper, though; thanks, Bev.’

  After lunch, Pippa and Bev clear away and won’t hear of me helping. Mark and the kids cycle to the farm shop to pick up strawberries for pudding. And I check out my accommodation. I’ve been offered either the lumpy fold-out sofa in the middle of the open-plan living room or an air bed in the summer house. There’s no loo but if I don’t mind using a potty, it will at least afford me a bit of privacy. Apparently the kids like to get up early, make themselves cereal and commandeer the sofa while they play on their tablets. No contest.

  I’ve stayed in a variety of places since I set off: the fish-themed B&B in Cromarty, the posh hotel in Scarborough, the super-stylish loft conversion in Leigh-on-Sea, Hilary’s agit-prop retirement flat in Bexhill. But this has to be the most magical sleepover so far. Yes, it’s a glorified garden shed and, okay, I’m not a fan of spiders or weeing in a battered enamel chamber pot that’s seen the business end of a fair few arses over the years. But if I can get past that – and I can – it’s positively enchanting. There’s an air bed, a paint-flaked Lloyd Loom chair, an old bentwood coat stand decorated with wire hangers and a little school desk. I may never leave . . . except if I need to do more than a midnight wee.

  Despite the delights of the summer house, I feel trapped. I want to be able to leave when it suits me. Must I wait until Mark’s sister can reattach my crown? I try Googling dentists in Poole but I have no signal. I can’t even text Glynis to tell her what’s happened. I honestly do process that thought for a split second, before reminding myself that she is fake news. Whenever I lie, I do it so convincingly that even I believe it. Get a grip, girl.

  After supper (which sadly Glynis couldn’t make because she’s feeling unwell) the children watch a Japanese amination on Netflix, kiss everyone goodnight – even me – and head for bed. Bev is happy to babysit so that Mark and Pippa can nip to the pub. Would I care to join them? I decline. I can’t see us having a huge amount to talk about once Elliott and Evie aren’t buzzing around to distract us. Besides, I think Bev’s expecting some quality time with me and I daren’t make up another bullshit story about craving an early night just in case God exacts further punishment and a wisdom tooth plinks out.

  We take our teas onto the back porch and settle in two distressed Adirondack chairs. We agree that bats are amazing, resourceful little creatures but hope they don’t fly too close. This is good. This is nice.

  ‘Peter loved this house,’ Bev tells me, balancing her mug on her armrest. ‘He wondered if we should move to Dorset permanently. We even looked at a place in Swanage, near the pier. It ticked all the right boxes.’

  ‘He never told me.’

  ‘Because it didn’t happen. We thought about it for a week or two but he didn’t feel he could leave you and Kate, move so far away. I had the same qualms about Pippa and Mark and the kids. They rely on me for childcare and, besides, they’re only ever down here a few weeks a year. He time-shares this cottage with Tim and Julia. Apparently they inherited some money from an uncle.’

  ‘Lucky old Mark.’

  ‘Isn’t he? All this plus the partnership. You know he’s a partner in his law firm now?’

  ‘Lucky old Pippa.’

  I mull over what Bev said just now about Dad not feeling able to leave us. I should let it pass. I know I should. Must I accept Bev’s distorted spin on something I can’t hear in Dad’s own words? What if I don’t like what she says? I should behave with maturity and let it pass . . .

  ‘Why did Dad feel he couldn’t leave us? Me and Kate? We’re both grown-ups.’

  Bev gives a little nod, as if she’s weighing up what to say. Just as I decide maybe I don’t want to hear her reply after all, she launches in. ‘Of course you’re both grown-ups. And, oh, he was so proud of you: your teaching, Kate’s, um, whatever it is she does with software. But your mother’s death had hit you hard. He could see how much you needed him, especially when you had your, um, breakdo—when you broke up with Rob and gave up teaching.’

  ‘Did he worry that I’d become a spicehead or a bag lady?’

  As always, Bev laughs. She thinks I’m making a joke. As always, I let her.

  ‘He adored you both. You know that, Annie. The simple reason is he couldn’t bear to be so far away from you.’ She waves an expansive hand around at the garden. ‘All this – the garden, the countryside, the sea. It’s lovely but it’s for holidays, isn’t it? Not for life.’

  ‘He thought about it, though.’

  ‘You do when you get to our age. Where you’ll be happiest, cosiest. You think about your mortality too. We both did. But we reckoned we’d have plenty of years put aside to get old together. Sadly, it was not to be.’

  I know it’s irrational but I suddenly feel a huge wave of resentment towards Dad. He thought about abandoning Kate and me and moving to Dorset, to create ties with his ‘new’ family, plus the grandchildren we selfishly hadn’t provided. And then he decided against it because of us.

  ‘So let me get this right, Bev. We held him back from his dreams because we were too inadequate to look after ourselves. Not Kate maybe. Just me.’

  However she glosses over it, I feel guilty. I pissed on his twilight years by being so useless.

  ‘I knew this would be awkward. That isn’t what I meant at all, Annie.’

  I don’t want to hear any more. I retire to the summer house, feigning tiredness. Once zipped into my sleeping bag, I compose a long text to Simon, saying way more than I mean to. Yes, maybe we could make a go of it. And yes, this time we wouldn’t blunder into a relationship like a pair of self-obsessed, dopey kids. He makes me feel wanted again and I’m hugely grateful.

  Then I delete the message which I can’t send anyway because of the non-existent signal. Probably just as well . . .

  I sleep so soundly that I have no need for the chamber pot, thank God. I occasionally half-hear the snuffle of a passing cat – or it could be a hedgehog – but I don’t let it rouse me from dreams about teeth and Dad and madly stirring something over a scary open fire that isn’t risotto and boils away anyway. In my dream, Dad wears a Fair Isle tank top. Dad never wore tank tops. I blame Bev.

  At 5.45, Evie pops by, in PJs and Crocs. She isn’t noisy but she doesn’t tiptoe either.

  ‘Have you seen my Star Wars escape pod? I think I left it in here.’

  ‘Um, no. What does it look like?’

  ‘Duh-err, like an escape pod. Wow, is that your suitcase? It’s awesome.’

  Nobody has commented on my suitcase since Yasmin gave it to me in Edinburgh, although I’ve had one or two strange looks in hotel receptions and at stations. Someone even told me his son had the same one. Who was that now? The car-hire guy in Scarborough, maybe? To have it admired so enthusiastically by Evie is pretty flattering.

  ‘A boy called Fin gave it to me in Edinburgh because he already had one,’ I tell her. ‘It is awesome, isn’t it?’

  ‘How’s your mouth? Can I see your crown again? Can I see where it came out of?’

  I fish the fake tooth out of my purse. It’s tooth-coloured and looks real. Evie picks it up and studies it closely. ‘I want one of these when I grow up. It’s so cool.’

  ‘I’ll show you the hole after I’ve brushed my teeth,’ I tell her.

  First the suitcase, now the tooth. I can do no wrong with Evie. She must think I’m pretty damned awesome too. We search for the Star Wars escape pod, which I find behind the Lloyd Loom chair. It’s . . . awesome.

  ‘Do you want some orange juice with bits in it?’ Evie asks. ‘I do.�
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  ‘My favourite kind. Yes please.’

  She pads off to raid the fridge and returns a few minutes later with two half-full tumblers and a snack pack of popcorn, tucked into the waistband of her pyjamas.

  ‘Won’t that spoil your breakfast?’ I ask, attempting to be the responsible adult.

  ‘Not if we share it.’

  She tips the popcorn onto my sleeping bag and divides it into two equal piles. I remember the science of sharing with Kate. Each square of chocolate or chunk of cheese had to be precisely the same size, weight and volume. It drove Mum mad.

  There’s no need for conversation as we sip our juice and eat our popcorn. Evie is comfortable in my company and that pleases me no end.

  ‘We’re going to Swanage Railway today to go on an old train. Are you coming too?’

  ‘I haven’t been asked.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Thank you, Evie. I’d love to.’

  ‘What’s a fuck-up?’

  Her innocent question catches me unawares. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A fuck-up. Daddy said you’re one. And Mummy said that’s not fair.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask him?’ I suggest.

  Mark is super-nice to me at breakfast. Did I sleep well? Was I warm enough? More toast? More tea?

  I tell Mark I’m just fine . . . for a fuck-up. Okay, I don’t say that second bit. After last night’s chat with Bev, I decide not to make a scene. It would probably only rubber-stamp my fucked-up-ness, not just to Mark but to the whole family.

  Elliott has a litany of whinges to air over his Corn Flakes. Why did Evie wake him up at 5.30? Why isn’t it sunny yet? Why didn’t his favourite shorts go in the wash so he could wear them today?

  ‘And why do we have to go on that stupid old train again?’ he concludes, kicking his chair leg for emphasis. ‘We do it every time we come here and it’s boring.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Evie responds. ‘And we don’t do it every time. We didn’t go at Easter because it was raining, even though the train was still running. Did we, Mum?’

  ‘It really wasn’t a day for going out, Pickle,’ Pippa confirms. ‘We’d have got soaked through.’

  ‘So you said “next time, definitely” and this is next time. And Annie really wants to come, don’t you, Annie.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Elliott pushes his plate away and stomps into the garden. ‘You always side with Evie. So not fair.’

  Bev offers to go after him but Pippa shakes her head. ‘He needs to know that losing your temper doesn’t win arguments.’

  Mark uses his lawyerly nous to broker an acceptable compromise. How about he takes Elliott sailing and everyone else does the Swanage thing? Deal? Deal. Evie gives a victorious grin and a little hop of happiness. Awesome.

  So the people carrier, now spattered with a few more Jackson Pollock swirls of seagull shit, is a spacious, women-only affair: Pippa and Bev in the front, me and Evie in the back. We drive cross-country, along thin, lumpy roads, occasionally outstaring drivers coming the other way so that they have to reverse into a passing place. Pippa takes no prisoners.

  We park at Norden station, in the middle of nowhere, so that we can enjoy the full experience of taking the train to Swanage, then back again.

  ‘We’ve done it the other way too,’ Evie explains. ‘But this way’s way better because then we have something to do when we get there.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Swanage!’ she shouts, hurtling ahead to the station entrance.

  The platform isn’t busy: just a few families like us, plus the inevitable train-spotting couple: the man wearing one of those khaki cricketer’s sun hats and tucked-in shirt, the woman wearing a weary smile, wishing she was in a foldaway camping chair on the beach, with the latest Martina Cole.

  Once on the train, Evie nabs us our very own compartment, with a corridor outside. And we’re off, chuffing through Corfe Castle station, with its picture-perfect ruins on the hill.

  Bev remembers travelling on trains like this when she was Evie’s age. ‘They even smell the same,’ she says. ‘Musty and dusty. And the seats had antimacassars, to soak up the Brylcreem.’

  Evie looks to Pippa and me for a translation. We shrug. Not. A. Clue.

  The train ride is pleasant but underwhelming. Once you’re sitting inside a vintage train carriage, pulled by a vintage steam engine, it begins to feel normal. But on a normal train journey, you don’t get waved at by families in campsites as you steam past or see over-excited men taking photos with fuck-off cameras at every station.

  Evie is in heaven. I may be underwhelmed but I’m loving her excitement.

  ‘How often have you done this, then?’ I ask her.

  ‘Four, no, five times,’ she says, totting it up in her head. ‘Well, ten times if you count the there and the back.’

  ‘And the novelty hasn’t worn off? You still love it?’

  She stares at me as if I’m mad. ‘Duh-err! Ye-es!’

  A volunteer guard, in full uniform plus peaked cap, slides our door open and Bev hands him our tickets. He clicks a hole in them, under Evie’s watchful gaze.

  ‘Can I hold them, Nana?’

  ‘Until we get to Swanage. Then I’ll keep them safe for the journey home.’

  The guard, a cross between David Attenborough and the Werther’s grandad, shows Evie how his ticket clicker works. He must have to do this for every child on the train but, give him his due, he makes it look as if he just thought of it.

  ‘And what’s your name, miss?’

  ‘Evie.’

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Evie?’

  ‘Yes.’ She’s suddenly all shy and goofy, staring hard at her Crocs.

  ‘That’s good. Because if I see anyone who isn’t enjoying themselves, I tell them they’ll be tossed off.’

  Evie and Bev nod earnestly at his warning. Pippa catches my eye and we swallow down our laughter. It has to escape as soon as he’s gone.

  ‘What?’ says Evie, perplexed.

  ‘What?’ says Bev, puzzled.

  By now, we’re too hysterical to explain. Evie shrugs and moves to the corridor to watch Swanage appear. Grown-ups are so silly. They laugh at stuff that isn’t even funny.

  ‘What?’ Bev asks again. ‘What did I miss?’

  Pippa whispers an explanation into Bev’s ear while I watch the penny drop. She is at first horrified, then embarrassed. Just as I’m thinking this is going to turn eggy and awkward, she emits a loud, fruity hoot of laughter. She turns pink, flaps her hand at her face and mops her eyes with a hanky.

  ‘It’s just – I wouldn’t have – I honestly didn’t know it was called that.’

  I’ve never seen her so uninhibited. Dad must have seen her like this, loved her for this. It suits her.

  Another day, another Great British seaside resort. In travelling around the coastline, I am bound to experience one or two. Perhaps I should write a guide, comparing Scarborough with Southend with Swanage. The tourist tat in the shops is the same: sun hats that resemble watermelon slices . . . rubber rings that resemble doughnuts. The fish and chips smell of fish and chips and the streets heave with day-trippers, whether you’re in Tyne, Thames, Portland or Plymouth.

  That said, I’m starting to take a shine to Swanage, probably because I’m seeing it through Evie’s eyes. She’s such a sunny, upbeat little girl. She’s curious about everything: the train; the ship-in-a-bottle in a junk shop window; my stupid crown, twenty-four hours on.

  Evie helps me choose a £1 ball of red wool from a bin outside a charity shop. It reminds me of the wool I bought to knit the hat for Stephen Gately. Then we stop for a cup of tea and Evie shares my jam tart. It’s definitely home-made, rather than cash-and-carry, with very buttery pastry and the darkest raspberry jam. Evie declares it’s the best she’s ever eaten, and she’s right. It is really, really good. I hadn’t noticed. Too busy chewing on the side without the missing crown. I should notice stuff more.

  Then w
e walk onto the pier, with Evie running ahead to observe an angler landing a fish. ‘Don’t go far,’ Pippa shouts.

  Evie waves and I wave back, rather over-eagerly. Am I enjoying her company just because she’s enjoying mine? Or is this the ongoing broodiness I’ve become brilliant at locking away? I honestly don’t think I felt the same connection with Duncan and Yasmin’s boy. I just envied them their family unit, as I envied Kim in Scarborough, even though her two are practically grown up. So perhaps this isn’t broodiness; perhaps it’s regret. It looks as if I’ve missed the boat and it makes me particularly sad when I meet amazing children like Evie.

  ‘You’ve got a new best friend,’ Bev tells me as we find a bench, leaving Pippa and Evie to explore the end of the pier.

  ‘Evie, you mean? She’s a sweetie.’

  ‘She adored Peter too. Maybe she sees him in you. I certainly do.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Well, obviously I never met Jackie so I don’t know what you inherited from her. I’ve only seen photos. Kate looks more like her, I think. Her hair, her lovely long legs.’

  ‘While I got Dad’s rugby player legs.’

  ‘You and me both. Peter was always trying to get me into shorts on our hiking holidays but I dug my heels in.’

  I try again. ‘Why am I like Dad?’

  ‘Apart from the legs?’ She chuckles. ‘You have his temperament, his eyes. You both do that shoulder-heaving thing when you laugh and your eyes go all crinkly. You must know what I mean.’

  I do. Of course I do. ‘Dad and I used to make each other laugh all the time. Mum called it “acting the giddy goat”. Silly voices, silly walks. Kate hated it. She’d hang back, pretend we weren’t her family.’

  ‘I have to ask, Annie. Is Kate okay?’ Bev looks genuinely concerned. ‘I can’t help it, I worry about you both. I don’t expect you to ring me every day, like Pip does. But Peter would want me to keep an eye on the two of you.’

  Well, according to Bev’s oh-so-perfect son-in-law, I’m officially a fuck-up. And Kate’s going through all sorts of emotional shit right now, most of which she won’t talk about even to me. I’m fairly sure the lesbian thing isn’t the half of it.