This Is Your Life

by Susie Martyn

‘Help yourself, I’ll be in shortly. Got to catch Hamish first.’ She stomped off crossly towards the gate.

  Back inside, Cassie was making a sandwich. She caught Lizzie’s eye. ‘She still off on one?’

  Lizzie nodded, and grinned. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The solicitor. I think she thinks Dad should just keep paying her bills forever. He’s not that bad you know. He’d never let anything really terrible happen to us. And I think she’s fed up with the liveries already. She’d have me out there doing all her stable work. I did do some, until I got to Sid’s horse. It totally trashes its stable and it stinks of wee, so I told her. CBA.’

  ‘CBA?’ Lizzie was mystified.

  ‘Can’t Be Arsed.’ Cassie seemed far more relaxed about it all than her mother. ‘Anyway, you can come and watch the end of Hollyoaks if you like,’ she

  added. ‘We won’t have missed much. It’s quite boring at the moment - or have you got time to help me chose a dress? Only I’ve got a party next Saturday. I’ve been looking on line, but it’s just not Mummy’s sort of thing. She says she’s too busy...’ Cassie rolled her eyes, trying to look as though she didn’t care, but Lizzie had a suspicion that this party might be quite important.

  ‘You could show me the dresses you’ve been looking at…’ said Lizzie, and Cassie leapt up straight away, forgetting all about Hollyoaks, pleased that someone was taking an interest.

  Lizzie equally was surprised when Cassie showed her some quite bohemian outfits and she had a brainwave.

  ‘Sparkies! I’ll take you to Sparkies! Cassie, it’s not far, only in Rumbleford, and I bet you’d find something there! It’s my favourite shop - I’d love to take you...’

  ‘Wow, that would be cool...’ said Cassie slowly. ‘Are you sure that’s ok? Mummy won’t mind, she finds that kind of thing a real bore. The only shopping she really likes is for the horses...Do you know, I have thirteen pairs of jodhpurs and not one single dress?’

  Though shocking, that was not entirely surprising. They fixed a date for the following Saturday.

  Next morning, Lizzie was admittedly dumbfounded when her car was actually ready for her. Well, nearly ready, that was.

  ‘‘Ere, ‘ang on a minnit an’ I’ll just torque yer nuts..’ A young lad in greasy overalls with equally greasy hair, bent over the front tyre wielding something resembling a rather butch hairdryer.

  Inside the office, in which it looked like all Dave’s invoices from forever were piled messily on the floor, he thrust a scrap of paper at her.

  ‘How much?’ Lizzie was aghast as she read it. ‘I had no idea...’

  ‘See it’s that tyre a yours miss, right bad it was, and the labour mind...gotta pay young Sam see...’

  ‘Dave. What if I pay cash and you give me a discount.’ Lizzie spoke firmly.

  Dave cleared his throat. He wasn’t used to folks questioning his bills. He didn’t get much repeat business, but had failed to make the connection.

  ‘Bit iregilar like, innit?’ Then seeing Lizzie’s face, reluctantly gave in. ‘Oh alrighty...’ and he sighed.

  With a spare couple of hours, Lizzie drove over to Hethecote. Though she wasn’t really needed in the garden, she loved to follow the latest developments with the allotments. But just inside the gate, Miriam was talking to a man Lizzie didn’t recognise, with a scruffy horse standing beside him.

  ‘But you simply have to take him,’ the man was blustering as Lizzie walked over, trying to make Miriam take the lead rope. The horse at the other end was staring loftily at her.

  ‘Isn’t he pretty?’ said Lizzie, taking a step towards him.

  Intelligent black eyes gazed back at her, then it tossed its head and snorted.

  ‘But he’s an Arab,’ said Miriam in desperation. ‘He’s not going to fit in here.’ The horse stretched its curved neck towards her. It really was beautiful, with dark liquid eyes and fine bone structure that would make Hamish look like a sumo wrestler.

  ‘Please,’ said the man - slightly madly. ‘Only it’s the wife’s. And she’s run off and left me. And I hate bloody horses - especially this one...’

  ‘But we have sick children coming here to pet the animals. I’m sorry, he just wouldn’t be suitable...’ said Miriam firmly.

  The man got out his mobile. ‘Then you don’t leave me a choice.’ He dialled. ‘Hello? I’ve got a horse I need to dispose of…’

  Miriam sighed. ‘Alright,’ she said defeatedly. ‘As long as you make a donation.’

  The size of the donation bore no reflection to the trouble that lay ahead. The horse became known as Dodger, and though he was impeccably behaved with all the visitors, once they’d left he was diabolical.

  ‘I’ll kill that fucking horse,’ raged Antonia one evening, as she charged round Miriam’s yard after it. ‘Bloody animal, got out of its stable and raided the feed room,’ she fumed. ‘Emptied all the sacks all over the place and it tipped the bin over. Then it fucked off again. I know it was him though,’ she fumed. ‘He left his calling card in the middle of the floor. The nerve of it.’

  Antonia was the only person Lizzie knew who could identify a horse by its droppings. ‘And some moron left the hay store open, it got in there too. Hay everywhere.’ Antonia really was furious. ‘I tell you, I’ve gone right off that horse. Nothing but a pain in the arse,’ she shouted after it.

  The horse glanced at Lizzie. Slightly smugly.

  ‘Grab it will you and stick it in that stable over there. Make sure you lock it in.’ She stalked off into the tack room.

  Lizzie gently held a hand out, which the horse sniffed noisily before allowing her to take hold of its head collar and lead it away, docile as a lamb.

  That Saturday afternoon as promised, Lizzie took Cassie to Sparkie’s, the latter not at all sure what to expect, as Nola and Julia embraced Lizzie, and turned the open sign to ‘closed’.

  ‘So we don’t get disturbed,’ they explained to Cassie. Cassie was puzzled. Was it a shop, or wasn’t it?

  It didn’t take long though, for the girls to gently question Cassie and then produce a selection of dresses for her to try on, from which she just couldn’t make up her mind. Nola turned to Julia.

  ‘How about the pink one that came in yesterday? Oh, you know I think it’s just the right size and with your hair....Cassie, you just have to try it on...’

  This time it was ages before Cassie finally emerged from the changing room. Looking like the cat that got the cream... The dress was quirky, fitted to the waist, with a skirt of uneven layers of pink and black tulle and chiffon. It swung prettily around her as she turned this way and that, admiring her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a pixie, a slightly punk pixie, thought Lizzie, looking at Cassie’s expression of glee.

  ‘This is so cool!’ she announced, before declaring triumphantly, ‘no-one will have anything like this, not even that snotty cow Elouise!’

  Lizzie bought her a necklace to wear with it, and they left, Cassie delightedly swinging her precious carrier bag. Then they stopped at the tearooms round the corner, where they had enormous hot chocolates with marshmallows and cream on top to celebrate.

  When they got back, Antonia was in quite a mild mood to their relief, and even enthused about her daughter’s choice of dress. Which was just as well, thought Lizzie, otherwise she’d have personally murdered her.

  ‘Stay for supper,’ said Antonia. ‘Sausage and chips, Cassie’s favourite.’ A touch of guilt there maybe, thought Lizzie, wondering if Antonia was trying to worm her way back into favour with her rather uppity daughter. ‘And I’ve opened rather a nice bottle of red... Not sure whether Tobes is joining us or not...’ she sounded rather unsure.

  Tom was jet lagged. He always was travelling East, and now he was back, it was catching up with him. But determined to talk to Lizzie, he drove down to Littleton. He hadn’t gone to bed since getting off the plane at seven o’clock this morning, knowing that if he had, he wouldn’t have woken up again until Sunday. And wouldn’t have
made it down to Littleton at all...

  Having folded the roof down so that the fresh air would keep him awake, Tom was there by teatime. Bella was expecting him, and there was a roast dinner in the oven.

  ‘Darling! Oh dear, you’re looking exhausted! Whatever possessed you to drive down here without getting some sleep first? Beer? Or maybe strong coffee..’ she added as Tom stifled a huge yawn. ‘Go and sit, and I’ll bring it in...’

  Fatal. The minute Tom sat down and relaxed into the armchair, his eyes closed, and when Bella came in two minutes later, he was snoring. She stood looking at him for a moment, before covering him with a blanket, carefully, so as not to wake him. He’d always slept like a log as a child no matter what went on around him. He’d no doubt be out for hours.

  Lizzie and Antonia drove to the Goat that evening, leaving Cassie at home with one of her friends, happily planning party outfits and hairstyles without her mother sticking her oar in.

  Toby, however, wasn’t at the pub. Antonia seemed rather put out. ‘Haven’t seen him for a few days now. Not like Tobes at all. Can’t understand it...’

  ‘Call him.’ It was obvious, thought Lizzie.

  ‘I have. Even left a message.’ She was mystified.

  The Goat was oddly quiet. No Tim, Leo or Toby. They didn’t stay long, getting home early for a change, much to Cassie’s annoyance.

  Tom didn’t make it to the pub at all, in the end. He awoke finally just after midnight, and reheated the supper Bella had left out for him. He thought about walking up to Lizzie’s… but thinking she might be asleep, or the unwanted thought that she might have someone with her, he went to bed. Even though it was Sunday, he really did have to get back to the office in the morning... He’d been away for two weeks and there’d be a mountain of work to catch up on. Thinking of Lizzie, he was furious with himself for falling asleep. When it came to his love life, didn’t he just have a talent for screwing it up.

  Lizzie stirred late for her on Sunday morning, just in time to hear a car speeding past down the lane. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

  In the Boxster, Tom put his foot down as he pulled out of the village back to the motorway.

  Chapter 35

  A change was in the air as September started. The days were still warm, but there was a wind blowing, swishing the leaves on the trees. Lizzie was suddenly conscious of the sound, like waves on a beach, particularly at home at her cottage. After the hot, sleepy summer it unsettled her, making her restless and fidgety, as she thought about Eric Masterson’s offer.

  Eventually she decided. It was time. Emptying her diary and taking up Bert’s offer to feed Darren and the chickens, Lizzie had driven down to Devon. Her mind was far from made up, but something told her she should consider it. And with views of the sea to die for, Bramley House was a dream. Eric had shown her around and listened to her ideas for the acres of garden and parkland, and then they’d had lunch with Deidre. Her dementia was clearly advancing, and it had left Lizzie with an awful sense of sadness, watching as Eric gently helped her with the simplest of tasks and reassured her that everything was normal.

  They’d love her to join them, he assured her. Both of them… but she should think about it. Make sure she was doing the right thing.

  And so it was that one year and four months after she set out, Lizzie at last reached Cornwall. Stopping her car somewhere along the North Cornish coast, she gazed out of the window at the craggy coastline that stretched for miles either side of her. Taking out the map she’d bought, she’d squinted at the strange sounding names and eventually locating Spriggan Point written in tiny red letters, a few miles further on.

  Lizzie drove slowly, along tiny narrow lanes edged with stone walls that had taken root and sprouted with wild flowers, twisting and turning past farms and the occasional cottage until she wound her way down a steep slope which ended in a stony car park.

  Abandoning her car, Lizzie could already hear the sea. Making her way through the gorse bushes, she followed the uneven path over grass tussocks until the short spikes of grass became sand - and at long last, she was there. The place she’d been dreaming of, with white sand and the clearest, most sparkling water which before her eyes turned a vivid shade of blue as the clouds above her parted to let the sun through.

  Spriggan Point itself was a small headland of jagged black rocks which jutted into the sea and as Lizzie clambered along it listening to the sound of waves breaking and inhaling the saltiness, it seemed already she could feel the magic soaking into her. The way the air felt alive. Even the sky was bigger here. And as she watched it all, she realised. So much for timing – this was time-less. Completely. Unchanging - as people came and went. Calming, reviving, inspiring as was needed.

  Magic she thought. It really is. Invisibly everywhere you look.

  Much later, as she drove back up the lane, she noticed a farmhouse and impulsively she pulled in – maybe they could tell her where to find Roscarn.

  As she walked up the overgrown path, she took in the peeling paint and gutters hanging off the slate roof. A property developer’s dream….she thought, imagining with horror how something like this would get snapped up, and primped and preened into a neat, twee little holiday home.

  She climbed over more weeds that fell across the path until she reached the door and knocked.

  For ages nothing happened. Giving up, she was just turning to leave when she heard a voice shout from somewhere.

  ‘I ain’t selling, if that’s what you want.’

  A man appeared from behind the cottage. In his seventies, Lizzie guessed. It was hard to tell – he had unkempt hair and a grey beard and his clothes looked ancient.

  ‘Oh – no – it wasn’t that…’ She hesitated.

  ‘Well what d’you want then? I don’t do no scones if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘No. Actually, I was looking for a place called Roscarn.’

  The man stared at her. Taking his silence as encouragement, Lizzie continued.

  ‘Only my mother came here. Years ago – maybe as long as thirty years ago… her name was Jane. Jane Lavender.’

  Something changed in the man’s demeanour. When he spoke, he sounded gruff. ‘You better come in.’

  Lizzie looked around the gloomy kitchen. Piles of this and that were heaped everywhere – letters, old newspapers, bottles, china – gathering a layer of dust. The man was filling a kettle.

  ‘Tea?’ Lizzie nodded.

  He removed a pile of creased clothes from a chair. ‘Sit down,’ he said. As though thinking out loud he added, ‘who’d have thought, after all this time…’

  Whatever the state of the farmhouse, he made a good cup of tea – hot and strong – just how Lizzie liked it. But still he didn’t speak.

  ‘So you remember my mother then?’ she ventured.

  He put down his mug and gave a deep sigh.

  ‘I do alright. She were something, your Mum. Came here all those years ago on her own. ‘bout your age, I’m guessing, bit younger maybe. And she was sad, real sad. Her husband had died a while back.’ He frowned.

  ‘My father died before I was born,’ said Lizzie.

  ‘Ah - that’s right. What did you say your name was?’

  She hadn’t. ‘Lizzie.’

  A frown crossed his face. ‘Didn’t know she were pregnant though. Not when she were here. Whippet thin she was.’ He stopped.

  ‘She must have been - she said I’d been here too. And that means, either she came here without me which would seem unlikely… or she brought me here when I was a baby.’

  Neither of them said a word.

  ‘My son used to help run the farm back then,’ said the man. ‘When he wasn’t at sea, that was. Jago, his name was. He was between trips when your Mum stayed. My wife – Jago’s mother - used to take paying guests, see. Kept this place real nice, she did. Clean as a pin. Always baking cakes and doing washing.’ She sounded like Mollie, Bert’s wife. A look of sadness crossed his face. ‘Don’t look q
uite the same these days.’

  ‘When did you lose your wife?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘Ten years ago,’ he said. ‘Ten years… and it seems like yesterday we moved in here. Just after our wedding up the lane in the village…’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s hard, isn’t it?’ Lizzie reached out and touched his arm. ‘Doesn’t go away, does it?’

  He managed a faint smile. ‘You’re just like your Mum, you are. Thing is…’ Then he frowned again. ‘I’m not real sure how to say this, but your Mum and Jago, well. They were close. Real close. Like soul mates. When they were together, you couldn’t miss it. It were like they were made for each other.’ He glanced at Lizzie. ‘I hope you don’t mind me talking like this?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Lizzie, astounded at this part of her mother’s past of which she knew nothing. ‘Please – go on.’

  ‘Well, she stayed a good while. Few months, I’m guessing. She had to leave because her father was ill. She promised she’d come back…’ He shook his head. ‘Thing is, while she were gone, there was a storm, a real bad one. Jago was out fishing. He never came back.’

  ‘No!’ Lizzie was shocked. How terrible to lose a son, so young, like that…

  ‘He wasn’t the only one. Half the families round here lost someone that night. There’s a stone put up – on the hill. A memorial. Real tragedy it was.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Lizzie. ‘To upset you, asking all this. But I’d no idea - about any of it.’

  ‘Your Mum came back for his funeral,’ said the man sadly. ‘Heartbroken she was. Held herself together for that service then went to the beach and cried her heart out. My wife went and got her in the end. She stayed a night with us but then she left. Never once came back. She wrote a letter a bit later. Apologising. Said it was all too painful.’