by Sue Teddern
Annie dampened a flannel and gently washed Mum’s face. She found a fresh T-shirt, neatly unpacked in the chest of drawers, and helped her change. Mum allowed herself to be cleaned and tidied, teary gratitude in her eyes.
‘Remember when you drank all that orange juice at your nana’s and you puked it up in the car?’ she said weakly. ‘And I had to wipe you down with a tartan blanket until I got you home.’
‘Oh God, the orange juice. Why didn’t you stop me drinking it?’
‘Because you’d have thrown one of your hissy-fit wobblers if I had. You never did it again, though, did you?’
Annie filled a tumbler with tap water and got Mum to swill out her mouth. Then they stared at each other. It didn’t need to be said, but even so . . .
‘It’s back, isn’t it?’
Mum nodded. ‘And I’m so bloody furious. I knew it was a possibility. Dr Golding said as much. And I’m not stupid. But I told myself I’d be one of the lucky ones.’
‘You still could be. And you’d be more prepared for the chemo this time.’
Mum shook her head. ‘I’ve accepted it, love. Your dad too. At least he says he has. This isn’t going to get better. D’you know what, I think I’d like a little nap now. Wake me up in an hour, will you?’
Annie was angry, teary, helpless. Kate had gone straight from her circuit class to an Indian head massage so she had no one to debrief with. Maybe Kate didn’t know yet, in which case was it her news to tell, or Mum’s?
She went to the indoor pool and angrily thrashed back and forth . . . five lengths, six . . . ten. In the tepid water, with only one other swimmer to get in her way, she could cry, hit out, push against the tiles with a force she didn’t know she had. In rhythm with her strokes, her head pounded: not fair, not fair, what about us . . . what about Dad . . . not fair, not fair . . . It was a release but it was only temporary.
She put on her white towelling bathrobe, lay on a lounger and closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. There was absolutely nothing she could do to make this less awful, less . . . terminal. When would Mum die? How should they spend the time they had left? How would they cope without her?
Too many thoughts, too many questions . . .
She must have disengaged her brain long enough to doze because when she opened them again, Kate and Mum were sitting beside her in director’s chairs, also wearing their fluffy white bathrobes. Kate, as ever, had her phone in her pocket and, when Magda brought them a carafe of iced water, asked her to take a photo of them, all scrunched together on Annie’s lounger with Mum in the middle, like a Stanley sandwich.
It was so obvious: Kate didn’t know yet. Her phone suddenly rang and she sprinted out onto the lawn to take the call.
‘Do you want me to tell her?’ Annie asked, half fearing the answer.
‘No, no, I’ll do it. But thanks, love. That’s sweet of you.’
‘Okay, but I will if you change your mind.’
Mum encased her in a tight towelling hug. ‘I’m so proud of you, you know. I don’t say it enough, my darling girl, but I am.’
‘Me too.’ Annie ran a fluffy cuff across her cheek, to mop up a stray tear.
‘Promise you’ll look after each other. Kate pretends to be hard as nails but we know different, don’t we?’
Annie nodded as Kate rushed, excitedly, back from the garden.
‘Hey, hey, good news. In fact, the best news ever.’
Annie and Mum exchanged looks. ‘Well, tell us.’
Kate sat beside Mum and clapped her hands, like a happy child. ‘I didn’t want to say before in case it was a no. Who needs bad news on a spa break! But it’s official. I’ve got a new job with a software start-up run by this amazing couple, Ros and Ross Lomax. Apparently I was the best candidate by a country mile. They bloody love me. Ros just said so.’
‘Oh, that’s splendid,’ said Mum. ‘Let’s have champagne with our lunch.’
‘Congratulations, Katkin. Well done, sis.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve been a bit tense and snarky since we got here. Now you know why. I have such a good feeling about this job, this year, every flipping thing. Seriously, I really do. Bring it the hell on!’
Chapter Twenty
Lundy
Fowey fully recharges my batteries. I swim, I sleep, I eat fish and chips with mushy peas, I knit. I hang out with Josh, Rhys and Josie and sample more of the amazing local cider. Not to be outdone by ‘Josh+Josie’, Rhys makes a move on a super-tanned Dutch girl called Tineke. She’s clearly stringing him along but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I even feel relaxed enough to ring Rob and confirm that Josh is really pleased to be staying in halls for his first year at Exeter. Josh doesn’t let on to his dad that he was tempted to take Dinah’s room. Our little secret.
I tell Rob about fabulous Fowey and Josh’s B&B job and how much he’s going to enjoy his summer here. I keep my tone upbeat and breezy. But Rob sounds distracted.
‘Have I called at a bad time?’ I ask.
‘What? No, sorry, Annie. I’m driving and you’re on speaker.’
‘Anywhere nice?’
Suddenly a female voice chips in. ‘Hi Annie, this is Fi. We’re just coming into – where are we, Rob?’
‘Battle. We’re on our way to Bexhill to visit Hilary.’
I bristle.
Reason #1: I now have a voice for Fi. She’s no longer just a name. It’s an attractive voice too, not a squeaky or silly one. Shit.
Reason #2: Even though Hilary is Rob’s godmother, I experience a twinge of annoyance. Didn’t I go out of my way to visit her when he was too busy? Didn’t I check that she was okay? Over a couple of days, I learned stuff about her that I’m guessing Rob – or humourless Fi – will never know, not least her big love, Frank, and her secret life on Tinder.
The other big thing Hilary told me was to put Rob behind me and move on. And she was bloody right. I think I already have.
‘Hi to you too, Fi,’ I gush. ‘Give Hilary a great big hug from me, won’t you? Tell her I’m definitely following her advice. And do say hi to her neighbour, Toni.’
‘Will do,’ Rob replies. ‘Sorry, got to go. We need to stop for petrol.’
I text Kate again. Does she fancy joining me in sea area Lundy or what? Her reply is typically terse. ‘Yeah, what the hell, why not. Send deets of where + when.’
Before setting off from Fowey the next morning, I take advantage of the available Wi-Fi to establish the full ‘deets’. Over breakfast, I text Kate and instruct her to catch a train to Barnstaple; I’ll meet her in the station car park. There’s a ferry to Lundy island from Bideford or Ilfracombe. It looks a bit barren, with just puffins for company, but there is accommodation. I wonder if Kate fancies that. I tell her to pack walking boots, just in case.
Josh brings me a mug of coffee and a generous serving of eggs, expertly scrambled by Rhys. When I pop into the kitchen half an hour later to tell him I’m off, he abandons his pot scrubbing to give me a massive, soap-suddy hug.
‘All good?’ I ask.
‘All good,’ he replies.
‘Good. Don’t break her heart and don’t let her break yours.’
‘Blah-blah-blah.’ He grins. ‘And you take care too, Miss Stanley. You are seriously bloody amazing.’
‘Blah-blah-blah,’ I say, as I exit, before he makes me cry.
The cross-country drive is trouble-free although I do a detour around Okehampton, not wishing to tempt fate. At a service station near Torrington, I give Kate a ring. No reply so she gets one of my bambling voicemails.
‘Are you on the train? Do you have an ETA? I’ll be in the car park. Silver-grey Hyundai with a Z and a 3 and maybe a G in the number plate, I think. Or an 8. Keep me posted, Katkin, or are you just going to rock up without warning, like you did in Canvey Island? Laters.’
I get to Bideford at noon and visit the tourist office for information about the Lundy ferry and accommodation on the island. I’m told it gets booked up months, years, in advan
ce, so I settle on a printed list of Bideford hotels. Maybe this is the night we treat ourselves to something five-star because I haven’t run out of money yet and because we’re worth it.
Still no word from Kate.
I buy my Lundy wool and succumb to a Devon cream tea in a doily-ridden cafe but I’m starting to get annoyed. Kate said she was coming, so where the fuck is she? How long should I leave it before I give up on her? What is she playing at?
I’m just about to pay for a twin-bedded room in a mid-range hotel near the pannier market when my phone rings.
Kate.
My aim is to stay calm. ‘Are you at Barnstaple? Why didn’t you say? Get a coffee, find a bench and I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Forty minutes tops.’
‘I’m not there. I’m at home.’ She sounds snotty and teary.
‘Oh Kate, you could have said. I’ve been expecting you all afternoon.’
‘I don’t know what to do, An-An. I’ve ruined everything: my work, my life. What am I meant to do now?’
‘What’s happened? Hey, I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happened.’ There’s an ominous silence. ‘Katkin, are you still there?’
‘I’m just grateful that Mum and Dad aren’t around to see how useless I am.’
‘No, no,’ I tell her. ‘I’m useless. You’re the sensible one. Are you coming to Devon? Please come to Devon. We can talk, make it better.’
‘I don’t want to come to fucking Devon. I’ll still be fucking useless, won’t I?’
I have to ask. How can I not? ‘Okay then. Do you want me to come to you?’
Kate’s faint reply is drowned out by a passing car.
‘Do you want me to come to you?’
‘Yes,’ she replies, sounding like a little girl. ‘Could you, An-An?’
PART III
Chapter Twenty-One
Irish Sea
I’m just grateful that I caught up on all that sleep in Fowey because the next ten hours are mental. The first five involve getting from Bideford to St Albans by car, train, Tube, train and, finally, a taxi. I doze for all of ten minutes on the Exeter to Paddington leg and dream quite vividly that I leave my suitcase on the luggage rack. For the rest of the journey, I keep it on my lap, which isn’t easy . . . especially in the taxi. There would be a certain irony in losing Dad again, just as I reach home.
Josh texts to ask how I’m doing in Lundy. Explaining why I’m heading back to St Albans is too complicated. Plus it’s Kate’s emergency, not mine. I give him the bare bones and it seems to be enough, probably because he’s keener to keep name-checking Josie than hear where I am. Josie is so amazing. Josie is so clever. Josie calls him ‘Josh the Nosh’ because he’s always hungry. He can’t believe his luck. I tell him she’ll be pinching herself too.
Kate’s living-room blinds are closed and there are no lights on upstairs. Perhaps she’s gone to bed. She knows I’m coming. I texted her every half-hour, more for my own reassurance than hers. A couple of half-arsed thumbs-up emoji replies make me wonder if she’s changed her mind and the last thing she wants is her chaotic sister rocking up at . . . crikey, nearly 11 p.m. Too bad. I urgently need the loo, two mugs of tea and some Ambrosia creamed rice straight from the tin, if she has such a thing.
She gives me a huge hug when she finds me on her doorstep. As a rule, Kate doesn’t hug. Or if she does, they’re brittle, unsatisfying affairs. She’s wearing the towelling bathrobe from our spa weekend with Mum. It looks as fresh and fluffy as the day she bought it. Her hair is pulled back in a headband and her face is cleansed and creamed. She is incapable of looking shit, even when she feels like seven shades of it. How does she do that?
I follow her into the kitchen. She has been scrubbing cupboards, scouring fridge shelves, running a bleach cycle through the washing machine, polishing the pedal bin . . . possibly even descaling the U-bend. The smell of chemicals and cleaning agents practically takes my eyebrows off.
She slumps on a kitchen stool, exhausted, so I put the kettle on and, in the absence of tinned rice, bung a couple of restorative slices of wholemeal into the gleaming toaster.
‘So,’ I say, once tea and toast are ready. ‘Tell me what’s happened.’
Kate is no longer teary or furious with herself. Those hours scrubbing every available kitchen surface must have calmed her down. It’s as if she’s composed her crisis into a concise business report, free from emotional masochism or irrational thought.
‘I’m fine, An-An. Anyway, aren’t you meant to be in Lundy?’
‘I am. I was. But you wanted me to come home.’
‘I didn’t think you would.’
‘Of course I came. You sounded so upset. How could I not come?’
‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine now. I’m happy to pay for the return trip, if you need to get back to Bidecombe tomorrow.’
‘Bideford!’ I bellow, surprising us both.
I abandon my toast and tea and leave the room before I lose my temper further. Can’t she see how hurtful her fake indifference is? She’s always had a problem with looking vulnerable. God knows, it’s never been an issue for me. I can’t get angry, though, or I’ll never find out what’s happened.
But I am angry. In fact, I’m quietly furious. Dad and I still have Irish Sea, Malin, Hebrides and Fair Isle on our schedule. I want to finish this ridiculous trip. I need to finish it. Then I can see Simon and take a punt on my future. And now I’m hundreds of miles off course. I was hoping to make a bad thing better by coming home but this time it’s Kate who’s made it worse.
She gives me a minute to regain my composure, then finds me in the living room. She’s put my toast and a fresh cup of tea on a tray, as well as two Tunnock’s teacakes. I can’t believe she has a supply of these. So very me but so not Kate. It makes me smile and love her even more.
‘We’re both tired,’ she says, sounding like that sad little girl again. ‘Why don’t we talk in the morning? I’ll make up the spare bed while you drink your tea.’
She gives my arm a stroke. ‘Thank you, An-An. I’m really glad you came.’
Before falling asleep, I listen to the Shipping Forecast. I realize that the slog of getting from one sea area to the next, hiring cars, returning cars, catching trains, watching the pennies, finding a bed, a cash machine, a petrol station . . . all the details have taken my eye off the ball. Or urn, in this case. This. This is why I’m doing it. For Dad.
I scoot around the coast in my head: Cromarty, Edinburgh, Scarborough, Happisburgh, Canvey Island, Bexhill, Brighton, Lulworth, Fowey, Bideford. I think about Duncan, Kim, Hilary and Simon, not to mention Kate, Bev, Pippa, Evie and Josh.
I am amazed by how far Dad and I have travelled.
In every sense.
Kate’s nineties semi is on the other side of St Albans to my flat, in a quiet cul-de-sac. She was on a good salary at LoMax and spent much of it on making the house her own. It’s very monochrome and restrained. She doesn’t do knick-knacks or ornaments and she prefers moody black-and-white photos of Manhattan to anything colourful, ethnic or challenging. I gave her a framed Bridget Riley primary-coloured Op Art print as a housewarming gift; she hung it in the downstairs loo.
We’re both up early the next morning and decide on a walk before breakfast. Kate is ready to talk and I’m certainly up for listening, in a sisterly, supportive way. It’s another of those conversations where we won’t have to maintain eye contact, just walk, hands in pockets, looking straight ahead. That’s how Kate will want to play it, this heart-to-heart of ours: focused, factual and unemotional. I can do that.
We walk the path behind her house, towards Tyttenhanger. I could murder some toast but I sense that Kate’s ready to unburden, so I will my tummy to stop gurgling.
‘Right,’ she says, as if she’s starting a conference call. ‘I’m just thinking of a good place to begin.’
‘Jump right in and work backwards. Would that help?’
‘O-kay.’ She doesn’t sound convinced. Too disorderl
y for Kate.
We walk on for a bit while she collects her thoughts. A dad runs by, chasing after a child who has just learned to ride a bike and now can’t stop. A spaniel runs after the dad. Kate and I laugh.
‘O-kay,’ she says again. ‘The Charlie thing.’
‘Hang on, you told me it wasn’t a thing. Or rather, it wasn’t the reason you chucked in your job.’
‘No, see, this will only work if you don’t interrupt.’
‘Sorry.’
‘The thing with Charlie . . . you know, when we were all in Coventry on business and I was drunk and everything . . . and I was mortified because it was so unprofessional and I’d never done anything like that before . . . you know, slept with a colleague and slept with um, well, you know . . . a woman.’
‘Can I say something?’
‘No. Yes. What?’
‘Sleeping with a colleague can definitely be a mistake. Been there, done that, got the P45. But I won’t have you beating yourself up about something that just kind of happened and isn’t “wrong” in any sense of the word.’
‘I know that. I’m not stupid. I know that, okay. It just freaked me out because it wasn’t who I thought I was. Am. And, afterwards, seeing Charlie every day at work, well, it totally messed with my head. I couldn’t concentrate. I made stupid mistakes. I booked a venue for a big presentation on the wrong day and only just cancelled it in time. I lost the firm’s credit card and found it in my gym bag a week later. I ate a whole box of Belgian chocolates that I’d bought for Bev. You know me, An-An. I don’t do stuff like that. You do but I don’t.’
We laugh because it’s true. Kate has always been perfect. My sister has never flooded a neighbour’s bathroom or bought a vintage rug heaving with moths or lost her pants on the London Eye.
‘And Ros and Ross were very sweet and very tolerant but I could see they were getting really pissed off with me. You can’t fuck up when you’re a small business like LoMax because it affects everyone. So I quit. I jumped before I was pushed. I had no choice.’
