Welcome to My World

by Miranda Dickinson

  What was so sad about the question was that Harri didn’t even have to think about the answer. ‘Morocco. And the Harpers didn’t like it because it was “too foreign”.’

  ‘What is wrong with people in this town? If it isn’t a coach tour, they don’t want to know.’

  ‘Luxury coach tour, thank you,’ Harri corrected him with mock disdain.

  ‘Oh, yeah, luxury coach travel. Would that be Somers Travel Direct coaches, by any chance?’ Tom smirked. ‘STD coaches – they didn’t think about that one, did they?’

  Harri laughed. She was certain that Albert Somers, local businessman, who had run his family coach firm for forty-five years, had never thought twice about the unfortunate initials. Yet it was a constant source of amusement to the staff when prim and proper elderly residents of Stone Yardley said things like, ‘We love STDs,’ or, ‘I don’t know what we would have done without STDs all these years!’ or, ‘I just couldn’t imagine a holiday without STDs.’

  ‘I guess we’re just unfortunate to be working with the most unimaginative travellers in the entire world,’ Tom sighed, stretching out his impossibly long legs and knocking over a pile of brochures by a neighbouring desk. ‘Oh crap!’

  Harri left her chair to help him retrieve the brochures, casting a cursory glance across each shiny exotic cover as it passed through her hands: India, the Far East, the Caribbean, Hawaii . . . A brochure on Trinidad and Tobago fell open at a page of colonial houses surrounded by lush green palms and azure waters. Harri and Tom paused almost reverently and shared an unspoken moment of wistful awe.

  ‘I can’t understand why these people want to stay in the UK all the time when there’s this big amazing world out there,’ Tom said, shaking his head. ‘I just want to travel anywhere that isn’t here. So far, I’ve only managed Spain, Italy and France, but I’ve got so many more on my list that I want to see before I’m twenty-five. And I’m glad you understand, mate. I mean – case in point: you understand travel, right? So – where’s the most exotic place you’ve ever been?’

  Harri winced. She hated this question and she felt her heart sinking to her toes. Because despite being so passionate about travel, despite knowing all she knew about destinations across the globe, Harri had only once set foot outside of the UK – on a day trip to Calais with her school. In fact, she had only ever been on a plane once: a small bi-plane that flew her round the local airfield on a half-hour trip, as a treat for her ninth birthday.

  Tom’s jaw made a swift bid to meet the brown carpet tiles. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously. My parents were scared of flying, so we always had holidays in Yorkshire, Wales or the Lake District. I love it there – don’t get me wrong – but I’ve always dreamed of travelling.’

  ‘So how come you’ve never just done it?’

  Harri loathed this question too. As usual, she dusted off the old excuses. ‘Life just didn’t turn out the way I planned it, that’s all. I got too involved in college, then Dad got sick and our holidays became respite care for him, with our relatives in Yorkshire and Cumbria.’

  Tom flushed a spotty shade of crimson. ‘Right, and then your mum . . .’

  Harri swallowed hard and looked down at the stack of brochures on the floor. ‘Yeah. So after everything with them I bought my house, got the job here and then I met Rob and started going camping with him.’

  ‘Camping?’ Tom laughed. ‘Wow, your fella knows how to give you a good time, doesn’t he?’ He ducked expertly, as Harri made a swipe at him with the last brochure.

  ‘Cheeky. I actually like camping, you know. Besides, Rob makes anywhere we go fun. I can’t tell you how lovely it’s been to have him in my life after feeling so alone without Mum and Dad. Yes, I’d love to travel, but right now, with Rob’s job the way it is, plus the recession and everything, going abroad just isn’t feasible for us. One day, it will be and then I’ll be off.’

  ‘Tell me about it. If I don’t save some money soon, I’m never going to be able to get out of this dump,’ Tom confided, lowering his voice in case their boss was earwigging from his office. ‘I mean, Georgie Porgie in there isn’t likely to give us a pay rise while he can use the “we’re in an economic downturn” excuse.’ His brown eyes twinkled and he jabbed Harri playfully with his elbow. ‘You really go camping with Rob?’

  Harri smiled. ‘Yep. Every year.’

  ‘Thomas! In the unlikely event that you actually decide to do anything resembling work today, that window display needs refreshing sometime before the end of the twenty-first century.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’ Tom winked at Harri. ‘Ever get the feeling that George was trained by the interception squad at MI5?’

  ‘I can hear your sarcasm from here, Thomas!’

  ‘Right, fine. Sorry, H, better go before George busts a blood vessel or shops us to the KGB.’

  Harri waved. ‘Have fun.’

  ‘Cheers. So – Rob does take you to different places camping, right?’

  ‘Of course! We’ve been all over – usually the Lake District but sometimes Snowdonia or Pembrokeshire too. We just drive around until we find a campsite and then explore the area for a couple of days before we move on. It’s nice to not be tied to a schedule, you know? And Rob’s great at planning little surprises for us. There was one time when we were staying at a site on a hill farm near Troutbeck and Rob arranged a candlelit meal for us, snuggled under travel blankets watching shooting stars in the sky over the mountains. I honestly couldn’t have been happier anywhere else on earth that night.’

  Tom’s spotty face was a picture as he walked away. ‘Ugh. Pass me the sick bucket, purrlease . . .’

  Harri’s tales of Rob’s makeshift romantic gestures were far better received by Stella, despite the fact that, as far as she was concerned, public displays of affection were nothing if they didn’t include luxury, indulgence and a hefty blow on a credit card.

  ‘I know your Rob is a sweetie, but why on earth hasn’t he taken you abroad yet?’ she asked, one Wednesday evening, when Harri had arrived for a chat after work. ‘He’s been in your life for seven years, Harri – you’d think he would’ve at least whisked you off to Paris or somewhere by now.’

  Harri dunked a chocolate digestive biscuit in her tea. ‘He says he just doesn’t feel comfortable being somewhere where he can’t speak the language. But I suspect it’s because he doesn’t like flying. His mum told me that a couple of years ago – I’m not supposed to know, but it makes sense when you think about it.’

  ‘I suppose so. Hey, maybe he’ll spring a big trip abroad on you when he pops the question.’

  Harri raised her mug. ‘I’ll drink to that!’

  Every year, Stella promised to take Harri abroad with her. Around January or February, she’d beg Harri to bring home the latest brochures from work so that they could spend happy evenings poring over impossibly gorgeous destinations. Over countless bottles of wine, takeaways and coffee-shop visits they would plan their Big Girly Adventure: ‘like Thelma and Louise without the death or guns,’ Stella would quip. But somehow, as summer approached, she would find a new man and get so caught up in romantic stuff that Harri would inevitably get invited for ‘a really nice meal out’ and receive a tearful confession somewhere around dessert. This would generally go something like: ‘I know I promised I’d take you with me this year, but before I could say no I’d agreed to go with [delete as appropriate] Joe/Mark/Matt/Juan [yes, really], but I completely, honestly promise we’ll go somewhere next year . . .’

  Despite the annual let-downs, Stella’s ill-timed romantic liaisons weren’t the problem. Neither was the recession, the weak pound or the rising cost of airport taxes. And, despite what Stella and Viv said, Rob wasn’t the problem, either. At the end of the day, it was down to her.

  Every year, Harri would entertain the notion of choosing a destination from a travel brochure at SLIT, packing a case and heading off somewhere on her own. But when she thought it through, the reality of spending two weeks by herself be
gan to tarnish the dream. What was the point of seeing wonderful places if you had nobody to share them with? Unlike Viv’s son Alex, who seemed entirely at home in his own company, for Harri the prospect held no allure. Ever since her parents died, she had become all too familiar with the sense of aloneness – why would she want to take that with her to another country? One day, she knew she would be able to do this and love it. But until she could overcome the fear of the unknown, she was content to stay as she was. Surely holidaying with Rob in the UK was far more fun than being abroad alone, wasn’t it?

  In Harri’s world, there were two versions of herself: the confident, spontaneous one in her mind, who would throw caution to the wind and go wherever her heart desired; then the real Harri – thinking about things too much and planning imagin ary journeys from the safety of her little cottage at the far end of Stone Yardley village.

  One day, she frequently told herself, one day I’ll stop worrying about it and just go.

  So, instead, Harri would buy another travel book and spend hours poring over the intricate details of other people’s adventures across the world. She became an armchair traveller – fluent in three languages and a dab hand at pub quizzes whenever travel questions came up. The world in her mind was safe, constantly accessible and, most importantly, just hers – a secret place she could escape to without anyone else knowing. For years, this had been her solitary pursuit. Until she met Alex. Then, all of a sudden, she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Three

  All About Alex

  A cold breeze blowing through the gaps in the grubby skylight above Harri’s head increases and small drops of rain begin to hit the toughened glass. She shivers and hugs her thin cardigan round her, feeling goose bumps prickling along her shoulders.

  Trying to take her mind off the cold, she looks around the vinyl walls of the cubicle, absent-mindedly reading the motley collection of graffiti. There’s quite a selection of revelations (‘Debbie is a dog’, ‘Kanye Jones luvs ur mutha’ and ‘Sonia likes it backwards’, to name but a few), along with some startling creativity (one wit has written ‘Escape Hole’, with an arrow pointing to a Rawlplugged scar where a toilet-roll holder once was). Over in one corner of the cubicle, by a rusting chrome door hinge, one small message catches her eye:

  ALex woz eRe

  Harri catches her breath and shuts her eyes tight.

  When Alex Brannan moved back to Stone Yardley, Harri’s world suddenly became a whole lot bigger.

  Viv’s only son had always been around when Harri was growing up, but she’d never really had that much to do with him; their paths rarely crossed. It was only when he returned from ten years of travelling the world that their friendship began in earnest.

  It started with the closure of Stone Yardley’s traditional tea rooms, three years ago.

  When the Welcome Tea Rooms closed, many locals declared it a sad day for the town, bewailing the loss of an institution. The truth was, however, that most of those who complained had not actually set foot in said institution for many years, largely because it was anything but welcoming. The proprietress, Miss Dulcie Danvers, was a wiry, formidable spinster who had inherited the shop from her maiden aunt. No amount of scalding hot tea or stodgy home-baked scones that made your teeth squeak could combat the frosty atmosphere of the place: so you ordered (apologetically), you consumed your food in self-conscious silence and you got out of there as soon as possible. Finally, at the age of seventy-three, Miss Danvers admitted defeat and retired to a sheltered housing scheme in the Cotswolds.

  For several months the former café lay empty and lifeless in Stone Yardley’s High Street, a gaping wound in the bustling town centre, but then, at the end of October, the For Sale sign disappeared from the shop front and work began on its interior. Residents noticed lights ablaze inside and shadowy figures moving around late into the night. Three weeks later, a sign appeared on the door: ‘New Coffee Lounge opening soon.’

  A week after that, Viv asked Harri if she’d like to go to the launch party of her son’s new venture.

  ‘You remember Alex, don’t you?’

  Harri nodded politely, although what recollections she did possess were decidedly vague. ‘He’s in London, isn’t he?’

  Viv pulled a face. ‘Well, he was, but the least said about that particular episode, the better. Anyway, the point is that he’s moved back to Stone Yardley and he’s starting his own business.’

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Harri asked.

  Viv beamed the kind of proud smile that parents wear when watching their children performing in a nativity play (even if they’re awful). ‘He’s taken over the old Welcome Tea Rooms. It’s going to be quite different and I think he’s worried that nobody will turn up. Would you mind awfully?’

  ‘No, not at all. Rob’s away working this weekend so I have a free night on Friday.’

  The moment Harri set foot inside Wātea, she felt at home. Alex had transformed the dark café into a relaxed, warm and welcoming coffee lounge. Large, comfy leather armchairs rested on a green slate floor, whilst a bar by the window – made from what looked like a large driftwood beam – offered a great view of the High Street outside. Travel books and magazines were stacked casually in wicker baskets by the sides of the chairs, and treasures from Alex’s travels adorned the walls: South American paintings, an African mask, Maori figures and Native American blankets.

  But it was the photographs that caught Harri’s eye and made her heart skip. Beaches and rainforests, deserts and islands, snow-covered mountain peaks and azure ocean vistas. And the star of every picture, in various wildly dramatic poses – and always with a huge grin – was Alex.

  While the other guests sampled coffee and ate tiny cocktail quesadillas, spicy chorizo and olive skewers, and shot glasses of intense gazpacho, Harri moved silently round the room, letting her fingers brush lightly against the richly woven textiles and ethnic sculptures as she gazed at the photos. She was looking intently at a picture of an Inca settlement when a deep voice close behind her made her jump.

  ‘Machu Picchu. I loved it there. The altitude is amazing, though – you have to move really slowly so you don’t get out of breath.’

  Harri spun round. She came face to face with a wooden Maori-carved bead necklace and lifted her eyes till they met the huge-grinned star of the photos. Alex extended his hand quickly, suddenly self-conscious, running the other hand through his sandy-brown mop of hair. ‘Hi. Sorry to make you jump there. I’m Alex.’

  Harri smiled and took his large warm hand in hers. ‘Hi, I’m Harri. This place is amazing . . .’

  ‘Ooooh, fantastic! You two have already met?’ Viv exclaimed, appearing suddenly between them, as if by magic. ‘Al, darling, you remember Harriet Langton, don’t you?’

  Alex’s large brown eyes widened in surprise as he took a step back and looked Harri up and down, almost as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘No way! Chubby Harri with the pigtails?’

  ‘Yes!’ Viv beamed. ‘Little Chubby Harriet!’

  ‘But . . . but the last time I saw her she was, ooh, this tall?’ Alex motioned to just above his waist.

  ‘I know!’ Viv agreed. ‘She’s a fair bit different now, though, eh?’

  ‘She certainly is,’ Alex replied, looking so intently at Harri that she could feel a blush creeping up the back of her neck.

  Viv’s eyes misted. ‘Her mother would’ve been so proud of her. All grown up and standing in your new coffee lounge!’

  Harri lifted a hand and waved weakly between them. ‘Hello? I’m actually here. And may I just remind you both that I was given that evil nickname when I was four years old?’

  ‘Aww,’ Viv gathered her up into a hearty embrace, which nearly expelled all the air from her lungs, ‘sorry, my darling. Harri works at the travel agent’s a few doors down from here, Al. She knows everything there is to know about, well, just about anywhere in the world. You should ask her over and show her all that strange stuff from your travels. Ooh, and
your photos too! Wouldn’t that be lovely, Harri?’

  It was Alex’s turn to be embarrassed. ‘Mum . . .’ he protested, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the floor, ‘I’m sure she doesn’t want to see all that . . .’

  ‘No, no, I would. Really. It would be great,’ Harri said quickly.

  Alex looked up at her, his expression a strange mix of amusement and genuine surprise. ‘Seriously? Nobody’s ever asked to see my stuff before – I usually just bore people to death with it whether they like it or not.’

  Harri smiled. ‘Trust me, I would love to find out where you’ve been and what you’ve seen. My boyfriend says I’m an armchair-travel junkie, so you’ll be helping to fuel my addiction.’

  Alex’s eyes twinkled and the broad grin from his photographs made another appearance. ‘Well, in that case I’d be happy to oblige. We’ll co-ordinate diaries and do it!’

  Harri told Rob the following Monday evening about Alex and his invitation to dinner. Over the weekend, she had suddenly started to worry that perhaps Rob wouldn’t be pleased in this relative stranger’s interest in his girlfriend, but her fears soon proved unfounded.

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ Rob smiled over the top of Survival Monthly.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind that he’s invited me for a meal?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He shook his head, lowered the magazine and reached over to stroke her cheek. ‘You haven’t been worrying about that, have you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to. An evening of travel gossip sounds right up your street and it will be good to chat to someone who shares your travel thing. Let’s face it – I’m not the best audience when it comes to that, am I?’ He smiled that deliciously crooked smile of his, which never failed to make her heart skip. ‘So you get a night of travel trivia and I get let off that duty for once. Everyone’s a winner.’

  Encouraged by her boyfriend’s words, Harri began to look forward to the evening with Alex. But as the week progressed, a new concern began to root itself in her head: would they find enough to talk about for a whole evening? After all, she could barely remember Alex – for all she knew about him he might as well be a complete stranger. Added to this, how would she fare in the company of a bona fide traveller, when all of her knowledge was based on other people’s experiences? Would she feel a fraud by comparison?