by Pat Young
‘Indeed I did, first class, the morning after we spoke. I even paid for one of their fancy padded envelopes, and insurance, in case it went missing. See, that’s what happens when you sell off the Post Office. What can you expect?’
‘Do items often go missing in the post in Scotland?’
‘Well, not usually, but it happens.’ The woman chuckles. ‘Wait till I tell you: my neighbour, a flighty thing, once sent for some fancy underwear. To spice things up, in the bedroom department, as she put it.’
‘What, it never arrived?’
‘So she says, but there was talk her man had intercepted the postie and taken delivery himself. We’ve no idea where the “long-cherie” went, but there was a wicked rumour going round here for a while.’
Mrs Wilson laughs again and Catherine can’t help smiling. She’d like to meet this woman, she thinks. Have an espresso or a glass of wine with her.
‘But usually parcels get to the right place, you’d say?’
‘Oh aye, normally. To be fair, they said between three and five days for France. Let me ken if you don’t get it by the end of the week and I’ll kick up a stink. Have you heard from that lovely boy of yours, by the way?’
Catherine’s heart beats heavily. ‘No, not yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Whit are you afraid of, dearie?’
Catherine uses the expression as a turn of phrase, nothing more, but it sounds as if the kind-hearted woman has taken it literally.
‘I’m afraid something’s happened to him, Mrs Wilson. I just have this dark foreboding. I can’t shake it off, no matter how much I try to distract myself.’
‘Och, don’t be silly, lassie! He’s just a daft boy, like the rest at that age. Lost his phone and would never think to use a phone box. See this technology. The young yins can hardly function without it. You’d wonder how we ever managed, wouldn’t you?’
Mrs Wilson’s upbeat reaction saves Catherine from unburdening herself to this generous-hearted woman who has no need to hear a guilty diatribe. Catherine makes a promise to ring Mrs Wilson when the phone arrives and to be sure to drop by Learigs Farm if they’re ever in Dumfries and Galloway.
The house is silent. She’s often spent the day alone, when Sebastien was at school and Eric at work, but she’s never found the quietness unnerving before. She switches on the radio, listens for a moment before searching impatiently for a more pleasing sound. Eventually, when she can find nothing to engage her, neither music nor chat, she switches off and looks around her tidy, spotless kitchen. There’s not a trace of Sebastien.
She takes a towel and wipes an already-gleaming draining board, wishing with all her heart he was here to leave annoying circles of brown liquid from his half-rinsed coffee mugs. How many times did she ask him to put them straight into the dishwasher?
He just laughed, sometimes ruffling her hair, affectionately, messing up her sleek style, knowing that annoyed her too. When she objected, he’d say, ‘Just getting my own back, Mother. You’ve been doing that to my hair for years.’
He was right. She couldn’t stop herself touching his hair. Especially when it darkened from baby blond to the gorgeous reddish gold it now was. How she longed to stroke his hair off his forehead, even if he did pull away, saying, ‘Mother. Will you quit that, please?’
Towel in hand, she wanders through the hallway and into Sebastien’s bedroom. Like the kitchen, it’s far too tidy. She regrets changing his bedlinen and lifts his pillow to her face, hoping to catch a scent of him, but all she smells is the fragrance of fabric conditioner, as if Sebastien’s head has never lain there. She puts the pillow back and smooths its cover. What wouldn’t she swap, right now, to turn back the clock to the days when he was little? When he loved nothing more than having the covers tucked tightly round his neck as she said sternly, ‘Hey, you bedbugs! I’m warning you. No biting tonight.’ He’d smile sleepily as she kissed his forehead and whispered, ‘Night, night, sweetie pie. See you in the morning.’
All these nights his bed has been empty. All those mornings since she last saw him. How many more till this torture ends? Catherine dabs at her eyes with a pretty white handkerchief, embroidered by her mother-in-law, and sticks it back in the pocket of her cardigan.
With another empty day stretching ahead of her, she’s awash with regret. If she could turn back time, she would handle it all differently. She would swallow her pride and say, ‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it, Sebastien, and you’re right, a holiday job will be fun. You’ll come back speaking fluent English, but with a funny accent.’ He’d have laughed at that.
They could have shared the excitement of planning his adventure. She could have shopped for clothes with him, advised him on what to pack, got to know his plans. When she first discussed it with her mother-in-law, Mamie had cautioned her. ‘I don’t think you should try to block Sebastien on this, Catherine. I’ve rarely heard him so excited and I think it will be the making of him. What are you worrying about? I know all grannies would say the same thing, but really, Sebastien is a wonderful boy. He’s kind and caring, full of life and very intelligent. He might get into a few scrapes when he’s away but he’s not going to do anything stupid, is he?’ Her mother-in-law had touched her arm, trying to reassure her. ‘You’ve done a good job, dear, brought him up well, taught him good values and sound judgement. He’ll be grand. He’ll have an unforgettable summer and he’ll thank you for it. I urge you to let him go with good grace, Catherine. Otherwise…’ Leaving the sentence unfinished, Mamie raised her eyebrows and Catherine understood. He’ll go anyway, Mamie was going to say and she was right, that’s exactly what he did.
‘If you love someone you have to set them free. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.’ Her mother-in-law’s words come back to her as she empties the coffee grains into the bin. ‘A mother’s job is to give her child wings to fly and a nest to come back to.’ The words of a wise woman. Someone who’s been there. Someone who lost a child.
The doorbell interrupts her reverie. Catherine rushes to the door and almost snatches the package from the concierge’s hands. Fortunately, good manners prevail, and she remembers to thank the man and give him a tip.
She stands in the hall and turns the parcel over and over. Now that it’s finally here, she’s reluctant to open it. As if she’s worried the contents will be a disappointment.
She fetches some scissors from a drawer in the kitchen and carefully cuts off the end of the tan-coloured bag. Some dusty paper stuffing escapes from the padding and flutters to the floor. She doesn’t bother picking it up.
The phone itself has been sealed in bubble wrap and Catherine feels grateful to Mrs Wilson for making sure it got here safely. She struggles for a moment with the Sellotape that forms an outer skin, before using the scissors to slit open the wrapping.
Sebastien’s sleek phone slides onto her hand, cold. Catherine pictures it lying in the Scottish field where he dropped it. She raises it to her lips, savouring the connection to her son.
True to her word, Mrs Wilson has included the charger she bought specially. The phone is showing fifty per cent charge. When it prompts Catherine for Sebastien’s passcode, she taps in the four digits that represent his date of birth and hopes for the best. When that fails, she tries Eric’s birthdate. Without much hope, she keys in her own and feels ridiculously pleased to see the phone unlock.
The background wallpaper is obscured by rows of apps, but Catherine can make out her own face and Eric’s in a photo taken last year in the Seychelles. She didn’t know Sebastien had that photo. It’s touching to know he wants to see them every time he uses his phone. Perhaps he’s been missing them more than she thought.
Catherine taps the email icon and scrolls through Sebastien’s inbox till she finds what she’s looking for.
Dear Sebastien,
Again, we’re delighted you’ve agreed to come and spend the summer here with us at Brackenbrae. We feel sure you’ll be an asset to our small but enthusiastic team. I’ve a
ttached our new brochure to give you a flavour of the place. We look forward to seeing you here on Monday 28 May, any time that suits you. Let me know if you need a lift from the station or the airport.
It was signed with best wishes from Richard. The owner, presumably.
Catherine scrolls down and taps the screen to download a pdf file. She taps again and waits. When the document opens, the seascape on the front cover is breathtakingly beautiful. ‘Brackenbrae,’ says a font as understated as a whisper. ‘So much more than a campsite.’ Catherine flips quickly through the virtual brochure, noting how professionally it has been put together. She can understand why Sebastien felt drawn to this place, and would like to see more, but for the moment she is interested in only one thing – contact details. She finds a website, a phone and fax number, and a postal address on the last page. Dunure Rd, Ayr.
Catherine flops onto a kitchen chair. She’s found him. At last.
She reaches for her handbag, finds her diary and notes the Brackenbrae details, then dials the phone number, remembering to add the UK code this time. She nibbles on a fingertip while she waits. Nothing happens. She checks the phone screen. Dead. How frustrating, the battery was showing a charge when she unwrapped it. Is this another reason why Sebastien didn’t call them at the start of his trip?
She retrieves her own phone from her handbag and dials the campsite number again. It rings only once.
‘Brackenbrae Holiday Park. Pim speaking. Good morning. How may I help you, please?’
Catherine realises too late that she ought to have taken a moment to prepare an English version of what she wanted to say. ‘Euh, hello. Euh, can you tell me if my son is there, please?’
‘I will certainly do my very best, Madam. Your son, is he in a yurt?’
‘I’m sorry. I do not understand.’
‘What type of accommodation does he have, your son?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘I see. Then can you perhaps tell me your son’s name?’
‘Sorry, of course. How stupid of me. His name is Sebastien Lamar. He’s French.’
‘Ah, you mean Seb, I think.’
This is no time to argue about names. ‘Seb, yes. From Paris. Is he with you?’
‘No, Madam. I’m sorry.’
Catherine’s joy vanishes.
‘He is not with me. I believe he is in the playbarn, working.’
Like a phoenix, her poor burnt heart soars again. ‘Oh, thank god,’ she says, quietly.
‘Sorry?’
‘No, it’s okay. Do you think you could possibly go and get him?’ Catherine tries to ignore the butterflies that are fluttering in her stomach.
‘I regret to say that I am not authorised to leave the office at this time.’
Catherine sighs with relief at the reprieve, then gets angry at herself for feeling that way.
‘But when I see Sebastien, I shall certainly tell him that you called, Mrs Lamar.’
‘Yes, please. Do that.’ The moment the words leave her mouth she regrets them. ‘Sorry, no. I’d rather you didn’t mention this call to Sebastien.’
‘It is no trouble, I can assure you.’
‘No, please. That’s kind of you to offer, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t. He’s a big boy now and he wouldn’t like his mummy checking up on him.’
The receptionist laughs. ‘I see what you mean. I would feel annoyed too, were my mother to call for this purpose.’
‘I thought so. You won’t tell Sebastien I rang?’
‘Your secret is safe. I swear it on my very life.’
Catherine can’t help smiling at the language. ‘Your English is quite exceptional.’
‘Thank you very much indeed. I am doing my utmost to achieve a high standard.’
As she says goodbye and disconnects, Catherine wonders how Sebastien, no, Seb, will get on with this colleague. She looks forward to finding out.
She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, enjoying the warm contentment that comes with knowing her son is safe.
She dials Eric’s mobile. He answers on the second ring. ‘Have you heard from Sebastien?’ he says, his voice so full of hope she can picture his face, all lit up.
‘Sorry, my love, not yet. But I’ve got Sebastien’s phone. It got here safely and so did he. Well not here. He got there safely, is what I’m trying to say. To the place he’s working. In Scotland. Brackenbrae.’
‘Slow down, darling. You’re babbling.’
‘Sorry, Eric. I’m excited, relieved, thankful, delighted. Oops, and babbling.’
‘That’s okay. Did you speak to Sebastien?’
‘No. He’s working. But I don’t mind. As long as I know he’s there.’
‘That’s wonderful. Well, I’m afraid I’m working too. I’ll see you later.’
‘Just one thing?’
Too late, he’s gone. She wanted to ask him if she should order up a new phone for Sebastien. She knows he’ll say yes. ‘Can’t have the boy that far away from home without a reliable phone.’ That’s what he’ll say.
All the nightmare scenarios she’s been imagining since Sebastien left have served no purpose, other than to drive her mad. Now that she’s seen where he’s living, she can close her eyes and imagine that beautiful view of the sea with the island in the distance.
Her next call is to Mamie.
The phone rings and rings. Catherine pictures it on the little table in the dark hallway of the house where Eric grew up. She can almost hear the metronomic tick-tock of the pendulum in the antique grandfather clock. She can see Mamie opening the panel on its well-polished front, a little Sebastien standing patiently at her side. Mamie reaching inside to catch the chain. Placing it in Sebastien’s small hands and watching as he pulls and pulls till the heavy weight on its end rises and the clock’s set to keep time for another week. Seems so long ago and yet so recent it could be yesterday.
‘Hello?’ Mamie’s voice sounds frail, her breathing laboured.
‘It’s Catherine, Mamie. How are you?’
‘Fine, dear.’ The woman’s a saint. Catherine has never known her to complain.
‘You seem a little breathless? Are you using that inhaler the doctor gave you?’
‘I keep forgetting. I’m turning into a silly old woman.’ Mamie laughs, as if failing health and memory is all a huge joke. Maybe it is.
‘Mamie? Are you sure you’re quite well? You sound a little wheezy.’
‘Of course, I’m well. Never you mind about me. Have you heard from our lovely boy yet?’
‘Yes. Well, no. I mean, not directly, but I know why he hasn’t been in touch.’ Catherine relates the story of the lost phone, making Mamie laugh at Mrs Wilson’s account of Sebastien being chased by the bull. When Mamie’s laughter ends in a bout of harsh coughing, Catherine frowns. ‘Should we pop down to see you this weekend?’
‘Certainly not. I’ll be grand. There’s a bug going around. In a couple of days, I shall be as good as new.’
‘Good. I hope so. Eric thinks we should go to Scotland once Sebastien’s settled in and pay him a surprise visit, but I’m not sure.’
Mamie asks, ‘Now, why wouldn’t you go, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Because I don’t think he’d want us to. Also, because I am so ashamed at how I sulked and grumbled before he left. Mamie, I didn’t even kiss him goodbye.’
‘That’s terribly sad, Catherine. You and Sebastien have always been so close.’
‘We were, until I ruined it all.’
‘You haven’t ruined anything. He’s just trying to prove to you he can stand on his own two feet.’
‘I just have this terrible feeling,’ she says, then stops, not wanting to put her fears into words.
‘Oh, that’s normal when they leave home. He’ll be fine. But why put yourself through this? Eric’s right, you should go and see him, even if it’s only for an hour or so. It’s a long way to go, I know, but you can make a little holiday of it, once you’ve seen with yo
ur own eyes that he’s fine. Catherine, I believe very strongly that when there’s disharmony in a family, it’s the mother who should always be the one to make the first move. To stretch out a loving hand and smooth the wrinkles on life’s bedspread. I don’t think you should let this go on any longer.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘I am right. I lost one of my boys, I expect you know that, although I never talk about it. But I can tell you this, if I had my time again, I would do things differently. Forgive and forget. Sadly, I could never forget, and Henri could never forgive. Then it was too late. Please don’t make the same mistake I did. Go and see that precious boy of yours, while you can.’
‘You’re right, Mamie. I’m being ridiculous. I’ll give Eric a call later. Ask him to get our flights booked. Pronto.’
‘Good girl. Now, stop worrying. Knowing our Sebastien, I’m sure he’s having a whale of a time.’
Mamie laughs and again it turns into a coughing fit.
‘Are you sure it’s okay for us to go to Scotland? Shouldn’t we wait a week or two, till you get over this cough?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ says Mamie, when she gets her breath back. ‘Go. Be sure to give Sebastien a big kiss from his granny and tell him I want to know if he’s walked that coastal path yet.’
30
Ayrshire
Can’t wait to get home, but Mum’s late. Everybody else is away, but I’m not allowed to leave the playground till Mum gets here. What if something bad’s happened to her now?
There’s a corner where I can see all the roads, if I stand on the wall and hold onto the railings. The main road that goes to Ayr, the one down into Dunure, called Station Road. Silly name. Dunure hasn’t even got a station. The one that leads up the hill towards Brackenbrae.
I spot Mum’s car, parked in the layby. Why doesn’t she come and get me if she’s here?
I go back inside to look. Maybe she’s been here all along. In a meeting with the head teacher, maybe.
