by Sue Teddern
‘Simon’s son. He’s 13, lives with his mum, stays with Simon at weekends. You’ll know what that’s like.’
‘I’m pleased for you, Annie. I really am. That you’ve found someone. I didn’t like to think of you cocooned in that flat, not caring about yourself.’
‘I was fine. I am fine.’
‘Will you move to Brighton?’
‘God, I don’t know. Me and Simon are even earlier days than you and Fi. But yes, it’s a possibility.’
It wasn’t until two seconds ago. Will I move to Brighton? I wonder . . .
We’re still in sea area Malin when we dock off Tobermory early the next morning. Back when she booked the cruise, Hilary also reserved two seats on the seven-hour Scenic Mull coach excursion, thinking Fi might like to see the island of her great-grandfather. But Fi isn’t here: she’s parked in a Shropshire field flogging frittata.
Over breakfast, Hilary runs through today’s schedule. ‘I rather regretted not booking a place for myself on the Mull tour, especially when I learned that it includes a visit to Iona. So now I can go in Fi’s place. You don’t mind accompanying me, do you, Robin?’
‘It’ll be good to have some you-and-me time. But what about Annie?’
I look up from my eggs Benedict. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m happy to mooch.’
‘Are you sure?’
His concern is slightly annoying. ‘Rob, I’ve just travelled around nine-tenths of the British coastline. I reckon I can kick my heels in Tobermory for a couple of hours.’
So they head off to the lounge to be checked in to their coach party and I have a second cup of coffee and a Danish pastry. After yesterday’s frantic dash around Glasgow, I’m quite happy to rely on my own company and keep it simple today.
Tenders ferry us from the Black Watch to the quayside. As soon as we step onto dry land, we’re extras in what must be one of the quaintest high streets in the British Isles. There’s a photo of it in every Scottish guidebook, a poster of it on the wall of every Scottish tourist office. If you’ve watched Balamory, you’ll recognize it in an instant.
I’ve seen some pretty places since I started this trip but Tobermory wins hands down on sheer unadulterated cuteness. I amble along the main drag, dodging all the other tourists checking out the shops: Highland crafts, chocolate, candles, pottery, Tobermory whisky. In a community hall, I come across a charity shop and buy a pretty ball of muddy yellow yarn for all of 50p.
I find a bench, with a fine view of the Black Watch anchored in the hazy distance, and wonder if I should phone Kate. When I first started seeing Rob, our regular phone chats got postponed or forgotten. Obviously, I didn’t stop thinking about her or wondering how she was.
Actually, that’s not true. I did stop thinking about her. Rob was front and centre of every sentient thought and I dreamt about him too. I was totally caught up in my new relationship, so desperate not to fuck it up. I can only assume Kate’s too busy, enjoying every minute with Charlie, to want to waste time talking to me.
When I told her about the cruise, she was pleased. Ever the completist, she knew I had to see my journey with Dad’s ashes through to the finish line. She met Hilary once, at a family gathering, and liked her spirit.
‘I’ll be a Hilary when I’m her age,’ she’d said at the time. ‘Cranky and independent, speaks as she finds. Doesn’t care what she looks like.’
I’d laughed at that last bit. Kate will always look immaculate. I’ll be the one in mismatched socks and yolk-stained cardies. I already am.
So. To phone or not to phone. In the end, I message her, with a photo attached of Tobermory harbour. ‘Hey Katkin. This is my view RIGHT NOW. Adorable innit. Hope you + Charlie having fun. Miss you. Don’t want to disturb your weekend. Big love, An-An.’
I resend the photo to Simon because he’s also inhabiting a big chunk of my thoughts right now. ‘Just two sea areas from finishing. Let’s catch up after that? xxx Stannie.’
My nostrils suddenly twitch at a familiar seaside smell. A fifty-something woman has sat with an ‘oof’ at the far end of the bench, digging into a steaming parcel of fish and chips. She sees me inhale and proffers a chip. I decline, still full from that pastry.
‘You’ll be missing out,’ she says, bobbing it in front of me again. ‘Best in all the Hebrides. His deep-fried scallops are legendary.’
She waves at the takeaway van behind us, where there’s quite a queue. I don’t want to be labelled as That Snooty Tourist, so I take a chip. It’s very good, not flabby, not greasy. I nod an approving ‘yum’.
‘Told you so.’ She grins. ‘Are you touring? You know, “If it’s Tuesday, it must be Tobermory”?’
‘I’m cruising. On that.’ I point to the Black Watch.
‘Oh, very nice. I prefer trains myself. I did the Orient Express for my fortieth. But you can’t beat Scotland for the best rail journeys. Me and my other half, we’ve done them all. Some twice.’
She tells me she’s come to Tobermory on the bus from Dervaig, which is west of here. She babysits twice a week for her son and daughter-in-law, and her grandson, Lewis, is a little monster.
‘So cheeky, such a fibber. He’ll go far. Do you have children?’
My heart catches. I hate it when people ask. It isn’t going to happen.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘My son works out there.’ She nods seaward. ‘Taking folk like you out on his boat to see the wildlife: porpoise, dolphins, minke, even the occasional killer whale. You’ll not have time while you’re here, will you?’
‘Afraid not. Once everyone’s back on board, we sail to Orkney.’
‘Ah, “If it’s Wednesday, it must be Kirkwall.” That’s no way to see Scotland, hen. You’ll need to come back and do it properly.’
‘I will. Definitely. I bet your son never misses the Shipping Forecast. Especially when there’s a storm brewing and he’s got a boatload of tourists booked for the next day.’
‘The Shipping Forecast? Och, that’s just for townies.’
‘Seriously?’
‘He uses an app on his phone. They all do. Stands to reason. What if you turn on the radio a minute late and the announcer’s already done Malin or Hebrides or wherever? You’d need to wait six hours until the next forecast. Proper sea folk don’t have time for that. But it’s a nice wee relic and it works better than counting sheep.’
I need a moment to take this in. The Shipping Forecast is for people who have no need of it? What would Dad think? Should I be disappointed on his behalf? I have a brief moment of sadness, as if this news has devalued my trip around the British coast.
I decide it hasn’t, and not just because I’ve nearly reached the finish line. Dad would laugh. A ‘wee relic’ for landlubbers. He’d be hugely tickled by that.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hebrides
Our waiter asks where everyone is; our table for six has four empty chairs. I can answer for Hilary: today’s tour of Mull has wiped her out and she’s ordering dinner from room service. And Rob bumped into Barry and Mim on deck earlier, who told him they’re ‘pushing the boat out’ and have a table booked in the fine dining restaurant with Dawn . . . and Steven.
‘Mim’s beside herself,’ Rob relates as we study our menus. ‘She hoped there’d be some eligible men on board. “Our Dawnie deserves a bit of happiness after all she’s been through.”’
I’m briefly distracted by the selection of starters. ‘Ooh, good, goat’s cheese fritters. Poor Dawn, though. Imagine getting to know someone new, especially if the last one was “a lazy layabout”, and your parents have ringside seats and are watching your every move.’
‘Plus you’re at sea so there’s no escape.’ Rob pours the wine. ‘At least Barry and Mim approve of Steven. Your dad wasn’t too thrilled when we got together.’
‘He was cross with me, not you. Dad thought I was a marriage wrecker.’
‘He didn’t want to see you hurt. Understandable dad behaviour.’ Rob clinks my glass. ‘
To Peter, who I still miss like crazy. You look great, by the way.’
I’m finally wearing Kate’s blue dress. When I checked myself out in the cabin mirror, I wondered if it was too tight. But Hilary told me to stop being so ruddy silly. ‘You’re curvy. You’re sexy. Flaunt it, you noodle.’
‘I do, don’t I? Dress from Kate, necklace from Bev, pashmina from Hilary. I didn’t want it but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s quite the force of nature.’
‘Always has been. She was full-on excited today. So thrilled by what we saw, especially Iona. I’m not surprised she’s flaked out, though. How was your day?’
There’s not much to tell; a bit of mooching, a bit of shopping, a chip and a chat on a harbour bench. ‘Guess what I learned? You’ll never guess.’
‘I hate it when you do that.’
‘Proper sea folk don’t use the Shipping Forecast any more, not when you can check weather conditions there and then on your phone. So it’s become aural cocoa for landlubbers like us. Cricket on the green, bobbies on the beat, “Sailing By” on the wireless and God save the Queen. Three cheers for nostalgia.’
‘Wow, I wonder what Peter would have made of that.’
‘He was no Little Englander and he couldn’t bear anyone who was. The Shipping Forecast was his one concession to patriotism because he felt it on a gut level. It gave him a sense of belonging: Lundy, Fastnet, Irish Sea, Wight, Portland, Plymouth. That was Dad’s national anthem. And don’t look so worried, I’m not about to make myself cry. Right, I fancy the lamb tonight. What are you having?’
When I get back to the cabin, there’s a done-with room service tray outside our door and gentle snoring from the other bed. I undress and wash as silently as I can and slip into bed.
I hadn’t relished sharing a cabin with Hilary but we make a good team. We’re sharing her toothpaste, rather than have two tubes on the go, I’ve taken to her fennel tea bags and I enjoyed wearing her pashmina tonight. It was strangely reassuring, despite the occasional straight grey hair threaded through the weave.
I think about Rob.
Dining together felt so normal. Our ease with each other can’t just switch off, despite The Shag. He was always generous with compliments and I’d have been miffed if he hadn’t paid me one tonight; I did look good in Kate’s dress. When I got close to tears, he was genuinely concerned.
I think about Kate.
I can’t find it in me to envy her happiness with Charlie, even though they’re still in the honeymoon period. Charlie has months to go before learning that Kate turns into Scrooge at Christmas. She despises mince pies and figgy pudding but will happily put away a whole tub of brandy butter. (Mum was furious.)
Kate texted a reply to mine from the Tobermory bench but I only see it as I’m about to turn off my bedside light. ‘You always told me to relax, unclench, chill. At last I’m learning how. V V V happy with C & starting to believe it’s for keeps. Love you so much, my best big sis. Katkin.’
I lie in my narrow cabin bed, finding the swell of the waves strangely soothing. Hebrides is the only sea area where I won’t have a stop-off point or to buy the yarn for a knitted square. Dad’s ashes will simply be sailing by. At this penultimate leg of our journey, with only Fair Isle to go, I reckon it’s okay to tick Hebrides off as ‘visited’. I took the urn, I make the rules.
I’m ready to sleep . . .
‘They had a big barney,’ Hilary suddenly announces from her bed beside the porthole.
‘You what?’
‘I was taught to say “I beg your pardon,” but civility is de trop these days.’
‘I beg your pardon, Hilary. Who did?’
‘Robin and Fi. I got the impression it was quite acrimonious but he was giving very little away. That’s why she didn’t come on the cruise and you’ve been blessed with me as your cabin mate.’
‘What about?’
‘I told you. Robin wouldn’t be pressed.’
‘But what was your impression? Just a lovers’ tiff or have they broken up proper?’
‘It did sound serious. However, I have no solid evidence to back that up. Ask him tomorrow, why don’t you? Now could you please desist with this interrogation and let’s get some shut-eye.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
July 2015
Rob gave Annie a shove, waking her from her stress dream about getting locked in the staff room overnight.
‘It’s burning! Annie, get up. Your quiche’s burning!’
She threw herself out of bed and ran into the kitchen, just in pants and half asleep. They’d only popped back to bed for a twenty-minute cuddle but must have dropped off. Where did Rob keep his oven glove? Did he even have one? Or had Maggie taken it when they shared out the stuff of their marriage? A folded tea towel would have to do.
She rescued the flan tin and flung it on to the worktop, where it hit some spilled tea and emitted a hiss. The quiche itself wasn’t totally burnt but the crust was charcoal.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Rob. Your fucking oven is a bastard.’
Rob padded into the kitchen and held out the faded plaid shirt Annie had adopted as her dressing gown. Clothed, she was calmer. But the quiche was still inedible. She could hardly cover it in squirty cream and grated chocolate, her usual solution to burnt baking.
‘Hey, it’s not the end of the world,’ Rob said, buttoning up the shirt and enveloping her in a hug. ‘We can pop into Sainsbury’s on the way to the picnic. See? Sorted. Let’s go back to bed, eh? We don’t need to get ready for another hour.’
Annie shook her head angrily. Why didn’t he get this? What was so difficult to get? She’d promised to bring home-made quiche, pasta salad, grapes and two kinds of Kettle Chip. She’d told Bev she was making the quiche from scratch, saying it was Mum’s favourite recipe. Her mother never had a favourite quiche recipe but Annie desperately needed to include her in Dad’s sixtieth birthday picnic or she’d be forgotten. Who was this bloody Bev anyway, and who had appointed her ‘menu monitor’?
Back in bed, Annie couldn’t relax, even though Rob’s work-calloused hands knew where to go to de-stress her. ‘At least I made the pasta salad,’ she sighed, ‘but any idiot can make pasta salad.’
‘It looks delicious. They’ll love it. Relax, Annie. You’re all tensed up.’
‘Kate’s bringing summer pudding. She makes an amazing summer pudding. Pippa’s a rubbish cook so she won’t have made anything. But she’ll be bringing Elliott and Evie so that more than compensates for any shop-bought dips.’
Rob gave up his attempt to distract her and pulled both hands out from under the covers. There’d be no sex now. Oh well, he’d try again later, when they got back from the picnic.
‘Listen, lovely, you’re over-thinking this. Your dad’s having a birthday picnic for family and friends. A nice day out. Nothing to stress over. And if you do get stressed, I’ll be there to hold your hand and eat your pasta salad. Even if it is a bit heavy on the spring onions.’ Rob tensed for the inevitable thump in the ribs.
Annie leapt out of bed . . . again. ‘There’s enough pastry left to make another quiche. I’d better not burn this one.’
The smell of warm pastry now pervaded Rob’s car as they drove at speed to Verulamium Park. Annie had sat on the kitchen floor watching the second quiche cook and, this time, it was perfect. That left her just ten minutes to throw on a favourite summer dress and her Sunday-best Skechers trainers. No time to tidy her hair but it would be fine pulled back in a random clamp. Rob was in his usual linen shorts and T-shirt.
They were five minutes away, just enough time for Rob to fit in a quick whinge about Josh. ‘So is he trying to score points off me or off his mum, because I’ve actually lost track? I’ve told him, I’ll buy the sodding Xbox if he can just stop acting like a 5-year-old.’
‘I thought Maggie was buying it?’ Annie asked, tentatively. The Xbox saga had been rumbling on for weeks. Every time she thought it was sorted, there would be a new twist, an unexpected subplot.
‘It won’t be Maggie who buys it, though, will it? It’ll be that sweaty-handed prat she’s shagging. To stick it to me that I should have bought it ages ago but I can’t be relied on to do anything right because I’m such a useless dad.’
‘You’re starting to repeat yourself, Rob.’
‘Sorry. I’m just pissed off that Josh is so good at winding me up. I know his game. I was just the same with my mum and dad. And he should be at the picnic today. That was purely to get at me, Annie. Peter will be so disappointed.’
‘He won’t even notice. Not when Bev’s busy fussing over him or handing out her amazing Thai prawns and pouring her delicious Pimm’s.’
Rob laughed. ‘You’re annoyed with your dad for taking up with Bev, and I’m annoyed with my son for being a manipulative little shit. The joys of parenting, eh?’
‘There are joys, though, aren’t there? Josh hasn’t put you off kids for life?’
‘I’m hardly going to disown him. I might need him to wipe my arse when I’m 90. As for me having any more, well, we’re both on the same page there, aren’t we?’
What page? When was that decided? Annie was keen to query his words, but they were turning into the Verulamium car park so she bit her tongue. They could discuss it some other time, when she wasn’t so wound up about this sodding picnic. Their relationship was still so new; she’d hold back with talk of having kids until she was sure they had a future. She hoped they did. Rob was a keeper.
They unloaded their picnic things from the car: food; blanket to sit on; Cava; frisbee; plus Dad’s birthday present – a book of black-and-white Magnum photos of all the Shipping Forecast sea areas. Annie took two of the heaviest bags but Rob made her put them down again, alerted by her anxious frown. He placed a reassuring hand on each shoulder and kissed her. It was important to sound loving but firm.
‘This is your dad’s day, Annie. This is all for him. Your quiche is perfect and the picnic will be perfect. Trust me, it will all be perfect.’
‘Even with too many spring onions in the pasta salad?’
