by Ali Harris
‘You’re going to temp?’ I raise my eyebrow and he laughs.
‘Why not? You’ve inspired me. I think everyone could do with taking some time to work out what will make them truly happy . . .’ He trails off. ‘Maybe not seven years though,’ he says with a wink. ‘I’ll try and work it out quicker than that.’ I hit his chest playfully and he laughs and lowers his mouth to mine and as our lips meet, I close my eyes and feel myself being lifted high up off the terrace as if I’m soaring through the air. I’m flying, not falling, and I know I’m being carried to a place where I will land safely. Where I can be myself, make my own decisions but be kept afloat with the full support of all the people who love me.
This is being happy.
‘Hey,’ I murmur at last as I come up for air and remember what I’m holding. ‘You’re squashing the flowers.’
‘I can see what order of priority I’m going to come in this relationship already,’ Adam says, looking warily at the flowers, and I smack him lightly with them. ‘I’m going to be a gardening widow, right?’
‘They’re for you, actually,’ I say, pushing him away from me a little so I can show them to him properly. ‘I chose them because I knew you’d come here tonight. I knew it as much as I know who I am and what I want. I knew it because I know you.’ I give the bouquet of blue and white flowers to him and start talking him through each stem. ‘Each one represents who you are and what you mean to me.’ He looks down at the flowers. They are not cohesive, as a bouquet, they would not win any prizes, and yet they say everything I want to express about him. ‘Bluebells for your constancy, snowdrops for your positivity and for never giving up on me, ranunculas for being rich in attractions.’ I pause. ‘In other words, because you’re really gorgeous.’ He throws his head back and laughs as I continue to talk him through the flowers. ‘Violets for your modesty – because you don’t realise just how gorgeous you are – and forget-me-nots because you have the key to my heart.’ I break off for a moment, suddenly recalling a long-lost memory of the man I last gave forget-me-nots to. My dad. I close my eyes and open them again. This seems to be the best way to move on from that memory. To let go.
‘And then,’ I continue, ‘surrounding them all is ivy because it symbolises friendship, fidelity and marriage. And I want you to know that being married to you is the best decision I have ever made.’
15 October 1989
My dear, darling little Bea
It is October as I write this note to you,the day after your seventh birthday, and the leaves are falling from the trees, and spring is like a distant star in the cosmos. I’m leaving today, because I can’t stand another dark winter. I’m leaving you this diary as a gift, a symbol of my deep-rooted love, in the hope that it will help you to keep growing, keep flowering, long after I’ve gone. I’m sorry it has come to this, but sometimes old plants like me need to find new soil in which to grow. But I need you to promise me you’ll grow big and strong. That you’ll trust in yourself and every decision you make, and always remember this: in the garden – and life – everything is cyclical. Each path we choose, every decision we make may one day take us back to the very same one we turned away from. And if sometimes you think you’re going round in circles, remember, you will always know where you are if you keep looking up at the stars.
All my love, forever, Dad x
Chapter 72
30 April 2014
Bea Bishop is preparing for the biggest day of her life. And this time I’m one hundred per cent ready.
‘So! Are you ready for your big day, Julia?’ Milly says jokily as she pokes her head around the spare-room door. I sit up in bed and quickly shut Dad’s diary and look at my reflection in the mirror and smile. When I woke up, I felt this urgent need to have a final read of the note Dad wrote at the beginning. I plan on putting the diary away again somewhere safe now because I know I don’t need to be guided by anything except my heart any more. But I’m happy that I’ll always know exactly where it – no – he is. And I want him here with me today, if not in body, then in spirit.
It’s what I’ve always wanted.
Having found my dad and dealt with what happened to Elliot I’m ready for today in a way I wasn’t a year ago. I’ll never forget Kieran and Elliot, but nor do I have to carry the weight of the memory or the guilt any more. Kieran has gone too, I had a final message from him. He went back to Portsmouth but then decided to leave the Navy and join the Royal Lifeboat Crew down there. He says he wants to settle down, make roots somewhere but still feel close to Elliot. He thanked me for helping him over the last few months and I did the same, then I de-friended him on Facebook. I know I’ll never hear from him again.
‘Julia?’ I say, raising an eyebrow inquisitively at my friend.
‘Roberts. Julia Roberts,’ she says. ‘You know, The Runaway Bride.’ Milly laughs, baby Holly bouncing on her chest with each guffaw.
‘Ho ho, very funny,’ I retort, flinging my legs out of bed so I can tickle Holly on her tummy. ‘Your mummy thinks she’s very funny.’ I give her a kiss on her rose-tinted cheek. She gurgles at me and then pukes up milk on Milly’s collarbone.
‘Good girl!’ I say, giving the baby a little high-five as Milly grabs a muslin and dabs the milk-sick off herself.
It’s so much fun getting ready. It’s just like the old days and the whole experience feels completely different from how it felt last year. More relaxed, more me. There’s no champagne, no corset-fitting or hair and make-up artist, no formal photographs, just some strong G&T courtesy of Loni, some loud music and a lot of laughter as we all get ready together. I slip into the bedroom on my own to get into my dress. I want to have a minute alone – and also I want to see their reaction when I come out.
Loni looks up first and beams at me, hands clasped in a prayer position in front of her mouth.
‘Oh my beautiful baby girl . . . you look just like your mama! It’s like looking in a mirror!’
‘Thanks . . .’ I say doubtfully. Loni is wearing another garish creation – lime-green and purple – and her hair has been given her classic electric-shock look.
Milly is uncharacteristically quiet. She’s wearing a beautiful yellow day dress, bought off eBay, which she’s teamed with simple white pumps. No designer labels, we decided. Milly is cutting back now she’s not working and has vowed to live a different, more economical life to go with the company she’s launching in September. ‘You can’t be strutting around in Prada whilst asking people to pledge their investments money to charitable causes!’ she pointed out.
‘You look beautiful, Bea,’ she says now as she looks at me.
‘Thanks . . . the dress is rather lovely.’ I brush my hand over the floaty cream 1970s number of Loni’s that she’s given to me and is my something old.
‘It’s like it’s been made for you, darling,’ Loni cuts in. ‘Of course, I used to be your shape, once upon a time . . .’ She looks down despairingly at her generous curves – they’re back in abundance since she and Roger officially became an item and she stopped trying to hide him. ‘I’m out of the closet,’ as she said, ‘and back in my old fat clothes.’
My wedding dress is empire line with long chiffon peasant sleeves and a soft, layered skirt that cascades to my ankles. It feels like I’m wearing fresh air. Loni told me it was always my dad’s favourite dress. I notice that she is crying and I wonder if it’s because she’s letting go of him too. Their divorce has finally gone through. She admitted she could have done it years ago – there are ways to divorce a missing person – but she just wasn’t ready. ‘But now I’ve seen him again, I feel like I’ve had closure and I can say goodbye officially,’ she said. I’m pretty sure Roger is the reason behind her decision.
‘You look like the perfect bride,’ Milly says.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been described as that before,’ I joke and we laugh. We can laugh about it all now. Enough time has passed, the past has passed.
I glance down and see my something blue, Dad
’s small gilt-edged diary which I’ve tied to my bouquet of forget-me-nots. One last outing before I put the book away forever.
Bea Hudson: This time last year I was preparing for the biggest day of my life . . .
‘I can’t believe this time last year we were getting married.’ Adam glances at me in his rear-view mirror and I smile and nod, fingering the folds of the floaty cream dress Loni gave me when she was clearing out her attic, as I press ‘status update’ and put away my phone. ‘This was your dad’s favourite,’ she’d smiled. ‘I’d like you to have it.’ She’d given me the address too, of the place Len moved to after he left us. ‘I don’t know where he went from here, but if you really want to find him, darling, this might be the place to start? I could help you, if you like . . .’
I’d stared at it, before putting the address back in my pocket. But strangely, I feel that having Dad’s diary, Adam, my job, my university course to look forward to and moving back here is enough. But who knows if I’ll feel differently in the future?
We’re making our way into Greenwich after another glorious weekend in Norfolk. We’ve been going there a lot now that Adam is in between work, looking for a cottage to rent there from September – and making the most of the opportunity to spend time with Loni, Cal, Lucy, Nico and Neve.
Adam and I are becoming pretty expert babysitters while Cal and Lucy go out, or just catch up on some sleep. I don’t think I’d realised the kind of pressure they’d been under until Cal took me home after I left Adam. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed by only communicating with them through my phone: texts, calls, Facebook updates . . . none of those things scratch the surface of people’s lives. Now I’ve spent so much more time with my family, I don’t understand how I could have stayed away for so long.
We’ve spent the last couple of days going through loads of old boxes that had been hidden up in the loft, talking over old times with Cal and Loni, talking about Dad. Something seems to have happened to make Loni want to talk about it now. Maybe it was seeing Adam and me come so close to splitting up that made her want to be more open, maybe it was Adam talking about travelling around Goa in the two months we were apart that did it (it was one of the places he went to ‘find himself’) and it just seemed to ignite Loni’s memories. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s finally met someone and is ready to let go of the past and move on. She’s been researching how to divorce a missing person and has finally filed the necessary forms. Apparently you can give your local court details of the person’s last known address and they will let you know if the divorce petition comes back unopened. Then, if you can prove you’ve tried all other means of contacting them – which she has over the years – you can fill in the statement to dispense with the service of divorce petition.
I’m ready to move on too. I don’t feel the same urgent need to find Dad any more. Maybe it’s because I’ve finally let go of past. Maybe it’s because when I left Adam Loni finally told me the truth as to why Dad left. I found it upsetting learning about his depression. It reminded me of my own struggles but also made me realise how far I have come. I know I’m not on the same path as him any more. I’m making my own destiny, following my own set of stars.
There is another life out there for me. I look at Adam and smile.
And I know it will be a happy one.
‘Have you got anything to drink?’ I whisper to Loni as our little procession made up of me, Loni, Cal, Milly, Sal and Aaron walk through the park. I realise that half our guests are already with me and I smile. We’re having a very different wedding this time.
‘Of course I have, darling.’ She pulls out a plastic bottle and winks at me.
I take a long swig from it and then splutter in surprise. ‘It’s water! I thought it was gin . . .’
Loni blinks at me. ‘Darling, I swore to Adam I’d send you off in style this time – sober style. We don’t want any more trip-ups, do we? Besides,’ she adds and taps my hand, ‘I get the feeling you don’t need Dutch courage this time, am I right?’
I smile at her. Her hair looks like an electric current has been put through it and she is glinting with gigantic costume jewellery but the main sparkle comes from her smile. I’m not entirely sure what has changed about her – just that she seems more comfortable somehow. I realise she was trying so hard to appear happy before – to be ‘Loni Bishop’ all the time. Now she is happy and it radiates effortlessly from her. Roger is meeting us at the venue and I can see she’s excited. She talked a lot about him after we left Dad in Goa. She told me how she had known him for months but that she had held back a lot from him, not allowed him to get properly close because after Dad, she felt unable to fall in love again. Sex was fine, sex was uncomplicated, but love was different. She couldn’t trust anyone as she was sure they would leave her like Dad did, but Roger was the first person who has broken through that emotional barrier. He was the reason she was struggling to focus on work. He was why the place was a tip and she wasn’t on top of things. Since seeing Dad she knows it wasn’t her fault that he left; his fate – and in turn hers – had been sealed a long time before and she’s finally stopped blaming herself. Roger has quickly become part of the family and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she’s decided she no longer has to be ‘Loni Bishop: single self-help guru’ any more. After months of writer’s block she’s written and self-published her own ebook, releasing it on Amazon under her maiden name Loni Hart. It shot straight into the bestseller list and in four weeks has already tripled the sales of her last book. It’s called The Art of Letting Go: How to Live a Brand-New Life Without Any Baggage. It is brilliant. Not least because it’s the first book of hers I’ve ever read that hasn’t made me blush.
We walk through the gorgeous gilt-edged gates and up King William’s Walk, passing the herb garden in Greenwich Park which seems to have suddenly sprung into life on this sunny April day. The ancient trees are rich with fresh green leaves and pale blossom, and lilac-pink magnolia petals are bursting with the secret promise of new beginnings. I think of my meeting with James Fischer, who was really interested in the fact that I was doing my final year of my Garden Design degree at UEA. ‘I’ve been looking into opening an office there as my boyfriend and I have decided we want to divide our time between London and Norfolk. If you want some experience, I’d be very interested in employing a part-time assistant. I can be your mentor. I’ve lectured at UEA before so I’m sure they’ll approve . . .’
I smile as I stare up at the Royal Observatory that sits on the hill; a place where astronomers have long since measured time and navigation, the place where the Greenwich meridian line is marked and where the planetarium is now based. The earth, sea and stars are all measured from there. Today it feels like the centre of the universe. Or rather, the centre of my universe. Everything has aligned. Greenwich, after all, is where my life began again. It was my second chance of happiness. It’s why I wanted us to get married here. I look up at the red time ball, waiting to drop, and suddenly I feel this urge overtake me.
‘I need to go,’ I gasp and I pull my arm from Milly’s.
‘What? Wait! STOP!’ I hear her shout as I begin to run. But I ignore her. I don’t have much time.
‘Stop!’ I command and Adam swerves alongside Greenwich Park. I open my window to stick my head out and get a better view. The sky is forget-me-not blue and the sparse clouds that are scattered across it are blushed pink like a teething baby. Daffodils line every small patch of grass in sight, yellow bells chiming in celebration of spring. Adam expertly pulls into a parking space and I immediately open the door. I can’t see the Observatory on top of the hill, but I can feel it. It is like there is an invisible string pulling me towards it.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I won’t be a minute!’ I run around to the other side of the car, knock on his window and kiss him on the lips. He looks surprised, bemused, but not unduly concerned. ‘There’s something I have to do before we go back to Milly’s. Somewhere I have to be
. . .’
‘Where are you going?’ Milly puffs as she runs up to me, Holly bouncing up and down in the Baby Bjorn attached to her body. She grasps my arm and I skid to a halt. ‘Bea, I can’t let you do this, not again!’
‘I won’t be long, Milly, I promise,’ I say, looking desperately up at the Observatory. I feel like it has been watching me all along, waiting for the right moment, the right time to bring me to it.
‘I can’t explain it but there’s something I need to do, somewhere I have to be before I marry Adam.’ I wriggle my arm free and start backing up the hill like there is a magnetic force pulling me. ‘I have to go but I promise I’ll be back in time.’
‘This is no time for sodding stargazing, Bea!’ Milly shouts.
‘Chill out, Milly!’ I laugh. ‘I’ll meet you at the flower garden in a minute!’ And then I start running again.
I dash through the gilt-edged gates on King William’s Walk, Loni’s dress billowing around my legs as I pass the herb garden and the little café. I have this incredible sense of certainty that I was meant to come here.
I can feel it.
The park is already busy on this sunny spring Saturday morning. I weave through the people streaming down the pathways, some walking dogs, some on varying forms of wheels – cycles, scooters, line skates. There are couples arm in arm and on the grass families throwing Frisbees and balls. The park is a sea of life and colour. Daffodils, tulips and crocuses are scattered over the ground.
I spot the Observatory on top of the hill and start running faster, listening to the squawks of the local parakeets and the laughs of a group of kids playing hide and seek.
