by Sue Teddern
So . . . Rob runs round the deck for much of the day, Hilary requisitions a favourite armchair in the library to finish her Harlan Coben and I acquire ruby toenails and honey highlights in the ship’s salon. Rob and I have lunch together in the buffet but, apart from him thanking me for listening last night, we don’t talk about Fi. I keep us off the subject by telling him my plans.
‘I’ve decided: I’m going back to teaching but not at Rangewood. I need a fresh start, a clean slate. It’s time to get off my arse and get on with my life.’
‘That’s great, Annie. You’re a born teacher. It’s what you’re good at, it’s who you are.’
I could have been more than that, I want to say. We could. But I blew it.
In the evening, we dine with Barry, Mim and Dawn and we’re all quietly relieved that this will be the last time we have to fill the space with inane conversation.
‘You must let us know if ever you’re in Bury,’ Mim suggests over tiramisu and Muscatel.
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Hilary’s jovial reply shuts down any discussion and Mim has no idea she’s just been snubbed. I have so much to learn from Hilary.
Dawn nabs me in the Ladies’. Like Hilary, she’s desperate for a happy ending. ‘Well? What happened with Rob?’
‘Nothing. That ship has sailed.’
She looks crestfallen. ‘Really?’
‘It’s fine, Dawn. Honestly. Rob and I are mates, that’s all. Ship mates.’
Back in sea area Irish Sea, the Black Watch docks in the shadow of the Liver Birds and we are efficiently disembarked. I now know what a cruise is like and am in no hurry to experience another, even when all around us are planning their next trip.
Hilary looks knackered and frail, so Rob and I waste no time getting a taxi to Lime Street Station, with half an hour to spare before our 12.33 train takes us back to the real world. I use the station loos and study my reflection in the mirror. Did this woman staring back at me have any expectations when she washed her hands at this very sink six days ago?
Well, yes, six days ago I thought I was off on a Scottish cruise with Rob and Fi. Would I feel like a gooseberry? Would Fi and I become proper besties, not just for Orkney but for life? Instead Hilary was my cabin mate and shifted the whole dynamic. Little else has changed, apart from me finally realizing that I’m done with self-pity and regret.
I’ve been bobbing about at sea, rudderless and without a compass. Now it’s time to head for the shore.
Rob and I are friends. We have too much shared history not to be. But that’s all we are. Little orphan Annie has no more parents to lose so I won’t need Rob for emotional or practical support. I can’t shut myself off any more. I’ve done too much of that.
We find our train carriage and settle in our seats. God love Hilary, she’s snoring by Runcorn. I really don’t want to chat, and I sense Rob doesn’t either. So he reads Hilary’s newspaper and I noodle about on my phone or gaze out of the window.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve explored the edges of the British Isles, from Cromarty through Dover and Plymouth to Fair Isle. Now I’m seeing the inner workings . . . Crewe, Stoke, Stafford. Some small-town names flash by, too fast to read. Places you go through to get to somewhere else, in our case St Albans Abbey Station, via Watford Junction.
‘I need tea,’ I tell Rob. ‘Can I get you one too?’
‘Please. And biscuits. You choose. Should we wake Hilary, see what she wants?’
‘No, don’t. I’ll get her a peppermint tea.’
I wave away his £20 note and make the six-car trek to the buffet, negotiating numerous feet in aisles, a wandering toddler and a student type with a massive rucksack, snoozing on the floor in that dead space between carriages. Just the sort of thing Josh would do and right in front of the toilet too.
Service is speedy and I’m soon at the front of the queue. Rob shouldn’t ask me to choose his biscuits. Of course I know he loves shortcake and can’t abide custard creams. Will archived trivia like that fade with time?
I head back, carefully clutching my paper carrier bag so I don’t tip scalding tea down my thighs. The student is still asleep on the floor, making access awkward for anyone needing the loo. As I weave past him, Rob appears.
‘I got you shortcake so it’s too late to change your mind.’
‘I’ve been sent by Hilary. She is so bossy.’
‘Does she want proper tea?’
We smile. No need to complete a favourite joke about proper tea being theft.
‘She said to tell you she wants a bacon roll but she’ll only have it if there’s brown sauce. Or did she say ketchup?’
‘Ketchup is banal. Brown sauce adds spice, oomph.’
Rob looks exasperated. ‘She called me back twice to make sure I relayed her precise words. What was it: “If Annie doesn’t say what she wants, she’s an idiot.” About brown bloody sauce? I hope she isn’t losing her marbles.’
I get it. Hilary doesn’t do subtle and I totally get what she’s trying to tell me: I can live the rest of my life without Rob but it will be like a bacon roll without brown sauce.
If I don’t say what I want, I’m an idiot.
I want Rob.
Rob holds out his hands to take the teas. ‘Or I can get the bacon roll, if that’s easier. But if I forget the brown sauce, that’s me deleted from her will.’
‘I love you!’ I hear myself say more forcefully than I planned.
Rob looks shocked. A woman coming out of the loo looks shocked. The sleeping student on the floor turns over, grunts and hugs his rucksack.
I don’t have time to order my thoughts or practise my words. ‘I shouldn’t have let you go, Rob. I was all over the place. And then I was literally all over the place, taking Dad round the Shipping Forecast. Cromarty, Canvey Island, Okehampton flipping Waitrose, everywhere. But I’m not all over the place now and I won’t let you go again.’
The woman gives me a reassuring smile and leaves the three of us to it: me, Rob and the sleeping student.
‘But if you want to be with Fi, I can’t stop you. Do you, really?’
He looks exasperated. ‘Bloody hell, Annie. What do you want me to say?’
‘“Yes, Annie, I really, really want to be with you.”’
He nods. ‘I do. Ever since we broke up.’
‘I’m so sorry, Rob. For being such an arse. It’s just . . . I was so scared.’
‘On your trip?’
‘Before the trip. Before Dad died. After Dad died. I didn’t think I deserved to be happy. So I let you go. That’s what turned me into such a – such a failure, such a nothing. I’m so sorry I hurt you, Rob. I thought by letting you go, I was making it better for both of us. But I made it worse. That’s been a bit of a habit with me.’
Rob takes the carrier bag of teas from me – I hadn’t realized I was still holding it – puts it on the floor and wraps his arms around me. I feel safe. Anchored.
‘Is that a sympathy hug or am I getting somewhere?’ I ask into the muffled warmth of his armpit.
‘I love you too, Annie. So bloody much. I thought with Fi, I could move on. But it’s never felt right. This, though. This feels right.’
I cry. I cry so much these days. It’s partly relief – Dad and I have finished our journey – plus I’m so exhausted. But it’s not the kind of wasteful, pointless exhaustion I wallowed in six months ago, in that permanent bum dent on my sofa.
Something’s still niggling me. ‘The vasectomy. You don’t want it because you do want kids?’
‘I always thought Josh was enough. Now I’m not sure. Do you want kids, Annie?’
‘I don’t know either. I have to want them for the right reasons. Not just “because”.’
The student wakes with a judder. His first sight is us two, hugging and crying. He shrugs and turns over.
‘Will we be all right, do you think?’ I ask Rob.
‘For the rest of our lives, definitely. But I’ll be bollocked all the way home if I don’t get Hi
lary her bacon roll.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘We’re good, though. Aren’t we, Annie Lummox?’
‘We’re good. Previously cyclonic, occasionally moderate. Now we’re good.’
Coda
July 2020
Annie woke with a jolt. She’d overslept, today of all days. But the digital clock said 05.15 so she could close her eyes for a couple more hours. Rob snored gently beside her, his hand curled under his cheek. She felt his familiar fuggy breath on her face and the body warmth he gave out so unconditionally, even in his sleep.
The Shipping Forecast would be starting soon on Radio 4 but she didn’t need to hear the familiar sing-song of sea areas. She had her own version: Cromarty, Edinburgh, Scarborough, Happisburgh, Canvey Island, Bexhill, Brighton, Lulworth, Fowey, Bideford, St Albans, Liverpool, Glasgow, Tobermory, Kirkwall.
Good.
She turned onto her back, crossed her arms behind her head and planned her morning. She’d decided against buying a special outfit for the occasion. That wasn’t her. She remembered the dress she’d bought for Dad’s funeral. God, it was awful. Today she’d wear the freshly washed jeans and sailor-striped T-shirt Yasmin had given her in Edinburgh, her go-to outfit for every occasion. She might even run a quick iron over them, just to give Bev and Kate a shock.
When, on her return from the cruise last year, she’d suggested the picnic and scattering of Dad’s ashes in Verulamium Park, to celebrate what would have been Dad’s sixty-seventh birthday, Bev and Kate agreed instantly. Quiche was mentioned . . . summer pudding . . . Thai prawns . . . Pimm’s.
In the past few weeks, Hilary and Toni had booked their train journey from Bexhill; Josh and Josie hoped to get away for a couple of days off from their holiday jobs in Fowey; and Pippa insisted she and the kids would be fine if Mark was there too but Bev said absolutely not. She’d never liked him and, now that he’d been kicked out, she had no desire to see him ever again, thank you very much.
The debate around Mark’s presence, plus Kate’s ongoing stress over her first IVF cycle, made the decision to simplify the proceedings all the easier. Bev suggested they pare everything down to the minimum: no picnic, no friends and family from far and wide (although they’d be joining them later – all except Mark), no speeches, no fuss.
Just Annie, Kate, Bev, Dad and a moment to be together before his ashes enriched the grass.
Annie slipped out of bed, padded into the kitchen and turned on Rob’s bastard oven. She’d agreed with Bev and Kate to keep it simple. But who’d say no to a bit of home-made quiche and a paper cup of Cava?
Acknowledgements
I wrote Annie Stanley, All at Sea in 2019, hence the absence of face masks, furloughs and lockdowns. I’m sure these references won’t be missed. If I’d written it in 2020, I wouldn’t have been able to visit so many sea areas or go on the cruise to Mull and Orkney, as Annie, Rob and Hilary did.
Conversations with various friends gave me the nudge I needed to make the leap from script to prose. Thank you, Isabel Ashdown, Kate Harrison, Donna Hay and Karen Rose. I’m also very grateful to Lizzie Enfield, Katie Fforde and David Nicholls for providing just the right words of encouragement at just the right time.
I’m proud to be a member of the Beach Hut Writers, an informal network of Brighton and Hove published writers, and am sure I’ve learned much of my craft simply by listening to them in the pub, on the beach or over Christmas lunch. Special mention to Araminta Hall, who gave me an early kick-start via her excellent novel-writing workshop.
Thank you to all the friends around the UK who supplemented my research trips and Google searches. Those who answered my plaintive pleas on social media (and have probably forgotten that they did) include Jos Bell, Henrietta Hardy, Sharon Nixon, John Phelps, Pauline Smith and Lucy Sweet. The Women’s Quilt Facebook group assisted with a knitting query; how to create same-size squares with different ply yarns. My St Albans insiders were Helen Singer and Jon Meier, and it was great to hang out with Nick and Helen Fisher in Dorset. I couldn’t visit every sea area so please forgive any omissions or inaccuracies.
I’m grateful to all my Brighton and Hove friends for gee-ing me up whenever I wondered how I’d transport Annie and her emotional baggage to the next sea area. Special mention to Fleur Peacock, for encouraging me to hoist that kettle bell and perfect that plank.
Then there are the Material Girls; we’ve laughed and cried together over hummus and Kettle Chips for half a lifetime at least. Plus ca change. Big love to Alison, Blake, Georgia, Gerry, Jo, RK and Rosy. We miss Annie and Gilda every day.
I fell on my feet when Sheil Land added me to their client list. Lucy Fawcett has held my hand through (mostly) happy scriptwriting experiences. Gaia Banks told me I should write a novel and kept reminding me to do so. Her feedback and encouragement have been invaluable.
I love being part of the Mantle family and have enjoyed the process, from one-paragraph idea to end result. Sam Humphreys, my editor, is such a reassuring presence and I’m grateful to Kate, Rebecca and Jess for getting my words onto the page, Mel Four for her cover design, and Philippa McEwan in publicity.
My unofficial editor has been my amazing, inspiring, resilient sister, Ruth. I’d like to pretend the ‘bacon roll with brown sauce’ idea was mine, but the spark came from her.
My travel companion has been my husband, Edward. We’ve so enjoyed exploring our coastline together, from Cromarty, through Canvey Island, to Mull and Orkney. His love, patience and support have made this, my first novel, possible.
ANNIE STANLEY, ALL AT SEA
Sue Teddern has been a window-dresser, a secretary, a feature writer and a university lecturer. She has over twenty years’ scriptwriting experience, from episodes of Birds of a Feather for TV to Soloparentpals.com and Cooking in a Bedsitter for radio. Annie Stanley, All at Sea is her first novel.
She is married and lives in Hove.
First published 2021 by Mantle
This electronic edition published 2021 by Mantle
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ISBN 978-1-5290-2506-4
Copyright © Sue Teddern 2021
Cover design by Mel Four / Pan Macmillan Art Department.
Author photograph © Gaia Banks
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