Annie Stanley, All At Sea

by Sue Teddern

  The thump in the pit of my stomach is back, the one that I also felt from my connection with Evie. It’s the physical manifestation of missed chances at motherhood. But I’m not going to let it bring me down. I’ve connected with Josh and Evie in my own way and that’s more than good enough. All the pleasure, none of the pain, and no stretch marks or stitches in my fanny either.

  We set off, windows wide open for a welcome through-draught, and Josh gets me up to speed on why he’s here and what this favour is.

  ‘So what it is is—’

  I can’t help it, I laugh.

  ‘What?’ He looks aggrieved.

  ‘“So what it is is.” Oh, I’ve just missed you, Josher, that’s all. Well, go on, what “is” is it?’

  ‘You know I’ve got a place at Exeter Uni. English and film studies?’

  ‘I did know that. I’ve just been way too self-obsessed lately. Course you have, clever old you.’

  ‘I knuckled down at the last minute, just scraped through. Well, anyway, what it – the thing is, Dad wants me to stay in halls for my first year because that’s what you do, right? That’s what all my mates are doing. I get that. But Barney O’Hara from school, remember him?’

  I do. Instantly. Shoulder-length hair, yappy and over-excited like an annoying spaniel.

  ‘So his brother’s in his third year at Exeter and he’s moving in with his girlfriend and he’s like: Do I want to take over his room in a rented student house?’

  ‘But your dad doesn’t want you to?’

  ‘Stupid, isn’t it? When I didn’t even have to look for it. It found me.’

  ‘What does your mum say?’

  ‘Oh, she’s too distracted with her shop. She’s opening an online gift shop. It’s all she thinks about, 24/7. She says whatever I decide is cool with her.’

  ‘So you want me to approve? I don’t think so, Josh.’

  He looks worried, as if I’m not going to provide the solution he requires. ‘I persuaded Dad that if you come with me, look at the room, look at the house, check out the neighbourhood, that might convince him it’s all good.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He trusts your judgement, Annie. If you say it’s okay, he’ll believe you. So you just need to give it the once-over and say it’s okay. Okay?’

  ‘And if it’s a crack house or a squat, I can say that too?’

  Another flaw in Josh’s foolproof plan. ‘Yeah, I suppose. But it won’t be.’

  It isn’t a crack house or a squat. It’s a terraced house in a pleasant part of Exeter, called Pennsylvania, not far from the campus, not far from the football grounds, not far from the town centre. Judging by the crates of empties in front gardens, there are several other student houses along this street.

  Number 56 has two bikes padlocked to the railings and a neglected lawn. The front window has the obligatory pinned-up Indian throw, pretending to be a curtain, and there’s music blasting from the back. It’s like my student house in Moulsecoomb. It’s as if time stood still.

  We’re shown around by Dinah whose parents, she tells us within ten seconds, own the house. She’s keen to point out that she’s just one of the gang but it’s obvious she’s taken on Head Girl responsibilities, which is fair enough if The Bank of Mum and Dad has to pick up the tab when bills aren’t paid or furnishings are trashed.

  ‘Kitchen,’ she says, stating the obvious, as we follow her in. Like Josh, she’s also in cut-off jeans but, whereas his flap round his knees and expose the first four inches of his tighty whities, hers are pretty much denim knickers: snug, torn and showcasing a pert little bum. Josh can’t take his eyes off it, even when I give him a hefty nudge. Dinah also has long white-blonde hair and, beneath a cropped T-shirt, the kind of bra-less boobs I never had, even when I was her age. Josh is quite taken with them too.

  ‘Depending on who’s around, someone will make a shedload of chilli or mac ’n’ cheese. Otherwise, people prefer to do their own thing, foodwise.’ Dinah opens the fridge and each shelf encapsulates a differing nutritional approach: tofu burgers and muddy carrots; half-consumed tinned beans and budget trifle; beer, just beer.

  ‘How many live here?’ I ask, knowing Josh is unable to conduct any major interrogation while his tongue is hanging out of his mouth.

  ‘Me, Lula plus new person upstairs,’ Dinah recites. ‘Mo and Edwin downstairs.’

  That sounds like a lot of housemates for one modest house. ‘So there’s no communal living room, no dining room?’

  Dinah imperceptibly rolls her eyes. Josh follows suit. I’m not fussed. I’m here to be Nasty Cop and if she takes offence, that’s not my problem.

  ‘Hey, who needs a dining room?’ Josh jokes, willing me to shut up.

  Dinah nods, her hair bouncing animatedly. ‘Absolutely, Josh. People stay in their rooms when they’re not on campus. Sleeping, eating, studying . . . entertaining. We did have a communal living room when Mum and Dad first let the house but it was hardly used.’

  More to the point, turn it in to a bedroom and that’s another rent coming in.

  I remember a joke someone told me when I was a student. I can’t recall which university it referenced but, for the sake of argument, let’s say it was Exeter.

  Question: How many Exeter students does it take to change a lightbulb?

  Answer: No need. Daddy just buys them a new house.

  We tramp upstairs to see the vacant room. The door of the master bedroom is ajar and it doesn’t take a detective to deduce that Dinah’s got the best room in the house: neat as a pin, slatted wooden blinds, a smart Ikea desk-and-bed combo. Head Girl’s perks.

  The bathroom looks well used and there’s a rota on the door: it’s Edwin’s turn to clean it . . . the day before yesterday. But there’s no cross in the ‘done’ column. There’s an Edwin in every shared house: slobby, lazy and dozy. Leave it long enough and someone else will relent and buy the new loo roll, empty the bin, wipe up the cider.

  I can tell, from the layout of the house, which is identical to several I’ve lived in over the years, that the vacant room will be the box room. And it is. Not even big enough to swing a small rodent: single bed, clothes rail fitted wonkily in an alcove and two small chests of drawers topped by a plank of wood to make a desk.

  ‘Wow,’ says Josh. ‘Dinky.’

  ‘That’s one way of describing it.’ I nod. ‘Where will you put everything?’

  ‘I don’t have much “everything”. And I’m not going to get any “everything” when I’m here. Just books and stuff. Yeah, no, it looks great, Dinah.’

  I give him a warning glare. Her arse has clouded his judgement and I’ve a duty to Rob – and Maggie – not to let his dick decide.

  ‘Is the rent lower for this room because it’s so much smaller?’ I ask. ‘And can Josh – or whoever moves in here – can they upgrade if a bigger room becomes vacant?’

  ‘A bit less. And yes, they can upgrade. This used to be Lula’s room,’ she replies, starting to tire of her managerial duties. ‘We’ve got two more people coming this afternoon to check it out. I need to know before then. Your friend vouched for you so it’s yours if you want it, Josh.’

  ‘Don’t the other tenants have to meet him first? And him them? That’s what we did when I was a student.’

  ‘Back in the Ice Age,’ Josh mutters.

  ‘I’m in charge. I decide.’ Dinah heads back downstairs. ‘I’ll give you five minutes to think about it.’

  We wait until she’s out of earshot, then both speak at once.

  ‘You did want my opinion,’ I say.

  ‘I really like it,’ Josh says.

  ‘Oh, I know what you “really like” and trust me, Josher, she’s way out of your league.’

  ‘Don’t call me that here,’ he hisses.

  Josh swears he’ll be happy in this claustrophobic little room. But I’m the responsible adult and I think it would be a big mistake. And Rob would never forgive me if I don’t say what I truly think.

  ‘Are y
ou sure you mightn’t be better in halls?’ I try. ‘Just for the first year. To get the hang of student life.’

  But he’s made up his mind and my misgivings are surplus to requirements. All I can suggest is that he says ‘yes’ to Dinah and I’ll work on him on the drive to Cornwall.

  ‘I won’t change my mind, though,’ he says, jutting out a determined jaw. He looks so like his dad. Rob used to pull the same face when he ordered an over-hot curry, then ploughed through it, rather than admit his eyeballs were on fire.

  Dinah looks underwhelmed by Josh’s thumbs-up. As long as the rent’s paid, she doesn’t care who’s squeezed into the box room. My guess is that Josh won’t make any kind of impression on her. But right now, he reckons he’s on a promise and I have to admire his optimism.

  We hit the road for Cornwall, taking the fastest route via the A30, rather than driving across Dartmoor. Before we’ve even left the Exeter, Josh starts his pitch on why the student house will suit him. He doesn’t mention Dinah. Not once. He claims he wants to strike out, to be independent, not bound by university rules and restrictions.

  ‘Dad says if I choose catered halls, I don’t have to cook for a whole year.’

  ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’ I suggest tentatively. ‘More time for settling in and studying.’

  ‘But I like cooking. Nana taught me. I make a blinding crumble. What if I want to cook?’

  ‘You can’t live on crumble. Anyway, aren’t there self-catered halls of residence?’

  ‘Yeah? So? I just don’t want to stay in halls.’

  ‘If Rob asks me what I think, I won’t lie, Josh.’

  ‘Tell him you respect my decision. Because you do, don’t you? End of.’

  End of. I can keep up the pressure and piss him off or I can let him figure it out for himself. Dinah will be his landlady, nothing more. If she’s after some Netflix and chill, she’ll draw from a different pool of eager guys. And if Josh has to learn that lesson the hard way, so be it. Especially if the walls are thin and he hears every last grunt and groan, as I did with Glynis and Jeremy.

  ‘Remind me where we’re going?’ I say breezily, opting to change the subject . . . for now.

  ‘Fowey but it’s pronounced Foy. Do you know it?’

  ‘Like Happy’s Berg and Haisbro.’

  ‘Huh?

  ‘I talked about it at Dad’s funeral. Or did I dream that? Never mind. Why-ee Foy-ee?’

  Josh laughs. It isn’t that funny, I know, but we allow each other bad jokes.

  ‘Got a promise of some summer work down there. Rhys’s Auntie Julie does B&B in her pub and she said she’d try us out, helping with the breakfasts and cleaning and stuff. Rhys has a tent so we won’t have to fork out on accommodation. I’m going to get a six-pack and learn to surf.’

  ‘That’s quite an art, cooking a full English breakfast. Hey, you can always serve them crumble.’

  ‘Crumble, egg and bacon, poached crumble on toast, the full crumble. She probably won’t let us near the cooking, just serving and clearing away. I’ve brought proper trousers and a school shirt.’

  I’m impressed. Before I went to uni, I took a summer job in a factory but I only lasted three days. It was too hard. After that, I mostly slept. Mum was tired and weak from the radiotherapy, so when I wasn’t sleeping, I was keeping her company, doing laundry or burning sausages. It drove her mad, watching me do housework badly.

  ‘So,’ I say as we head for Okehampton with Josh’s Spotify playlist blasting from the speakers. ‘Student houses. Did you know I lived in one in Brighton?’

  ‘Is this one of those stories where you say how rank it was, to try and put me off?’

  ‘It was great. I loved it. I stayed there after I graduated. Big mistake. Leave before you’re ready to go. Rule for life, that one.’

  ‘Why did you stay?’

  ‘The usual reason. Boyfriend. Plus I was loving the student life even though I wasn’t a student any more. Then we broke up and he went back to Scotland – Duncan, my boyfriend – and, well, I realized I was ready to be a grown-up. I couldn’t put it off any longer.’

  ‘And how’s that working out for you? The grown-up thing?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I start.’

  I need a ‘comfort stop’ and Josh announces loudly that he’s ‘gagging for a slash’. Same difference. Rather than hunt the streets for a public loo, we head for Okehampton Waitrose. The car park is heaving but I eventually find a space.

  ‘If I give you a tenner, will you buy Rhys’s aunt some flowers?’ I ask Josh, after we’ve both done what we stopped for.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she’s giving you a summer job and it’s a nice gesture. Because she’ll remember you as “that thoughtful lad” when you break a plate or swear in front of the guests.’

  ‘I meant: why should you have to pay for them?’

  I’m impressed. Josh is a sweet, sensitive boy. He can do way better than Dinah. I give him a little hug.

  ‘What it is is there’s no need for you to pay. Dad gave me some dosh to get her chocolates but flowers are nicer. Even now, you two are so in each other’s heads. Scary or what?’

  It is. We are. Maybe we always will be, even when he and Fi are collecting their pensions. But he’s not mine so it means nothing.

  Back at the car, we carefully lay a mixed bouquet of summer blooms on the back seat. I’ve also treated Josh and Rhys to three six-packs of beer and a five-litre bottle of mineral water. I create a space for them in the boot while Josh gets cash from the ATM. My phone rings.

  ‘Annie, it’s Bev. I just wanted to know how you are. And where you are, come to that.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m in Okehampton.’

  ‘How’s the tooth? All shipshape?’

  I chuckle at the nautical reference. ‘Firmly anchored. Mark’s sister did me proud. So, yes, I’m fine. I’ve got Josh with me. We’re heading for Cornwall.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. I always liked Josh. I’m pleased you have a travel companion.’

  Bev carries on talking but her words are drowned out by a deafening volley of car horn over my left shoulder. An impatient woman in a grubby Land Rover wants me to terminate my phone call and depart so that she can have my parking space. I beckon Josh back and tell Bev I’ll call from Cornwall. As we drive off, Josh pulls a face at Grubby Land Rover Woman because she won’t stop hooting. So rude.

  Bev’s right; I am lucky to have Josh alongside me. I wish I’d had a passenger on that interminable drive from Scarborough to Happisburgh. It makes such a difference, even when you’re not chatting or sharing the driving. Occasionally, without prompting, Josh will unwrap a humbug and post it into my mouth, then he has one too and we see whose lasts the longest. Even though I’m super-careful not to chew into the sticky centre after losing my crown, Josh wins every time.

  ‘How are you, Annie?’ he suddenly asks.

  ‘Well, I’ll be hungry in about half an hour. Hey, we can have a Cornish Cornish pasty.’

  ‘Not “how are you right now?” I mean, how are you from . . . all this? This trip with the ashes. Is it helping? Dad worries about you. He doesn’t say so, but he does.’

  What can I tell him? That I’m okay. But am I? That I’m so glad I took on this ridiculous project. But am I? That I look forward to getting back to St Albans when I’m finished? But will I? Dad will still be gone, Rob will still be with Fi, Kate will still be grieving and messed up and I’m still not sure I’m ready to go back to teaching.

  The only difference between now and when I set off is that I’ve found a way forward with Bev. She isn’t the Enemy any more. That has to be worth all the miles I’ve covered since I set off for Luton Airport.

  ‘How do you think I am, Josh?’ Answering a question with a question was one of my favourite tricks with demanding pupils.

  ‘I think you’re better than you were because now you’re, like, doing something, instead of just vegging out on the sofa.’

  ‘Anythi
ng else?’

  ‘I think you miss Dad.’

  His words come out of left field and I nearly bite clear through the latest humbug, which he only popped into my mouth seconds ago.

  ‘Do you miss him, Annie?’

  ‘Well, yes. Course I do. I loved Rob. I still do . . . as a friend. But, well, I was a mess and I needed to sort myself out. It’s just taken longer than I expected.’

  ‘I still don’t get why you had to break up with Dad to sort yourself out.’

  When Josh says it like that, I find it hard to answer. What was I thinking when I pulled the plug on us? I know why I broke up with Toby and I think I know why I broke up with Duncan. But Rob? Couldn’t we have ridden the storm together? At the time, I thought I was better off battling through it alone. I didn’t want to drag him under the waves with me. But he wouldn’t have let that happen. He’d have held my hand, pulled me through the undertow, saved me.

  I stare at the A30 ahead and the road signs for Thrushelton, Stowford, Broadwoodwidger, Dingles Fairground Heritage Centre. I try to explain. ‘Here’s what I’ve learned from this trip, Josh. In the past, I’ve had a tendency to take a bad thing and make it even worse. Mum died. We knew she would. It didn’t come as a surprise, like it did with Dad. Afterwards, I tried to bounce back, get on with my life, and that’s when I met your dad. But it didn’t happen. I couldn’t “bounce”. Ridiculous idea, if I’d only been rational enough to see that. So then I thought a bit of space and self-reliance would sort me out. Just me. By myself. No Rob to hurt or worry. It made sense at the time. I made a bad thing worse for both of us.

  ‘But I’m trying to change the habit of a lifetime and make things better from now on. That’s the plan anyway. So . . . how am I doing?’

  ‘You’re getting there. Bugger, I just crunched my humbug.’

  When our stomachs won’t stop rumbling, we make a pit stop in Launceston. So many market towns these past few weeks. So many loo-and lunch-breaks. So many pay-and-display tickets cluttering glove compartments. Launceston has the usual quota of narrow streets, clogged with parked cars, the usual range of cafes, charity shops and chain stores. It will do.