We Belong Together

by Beth Moran

  ‘Well, I know this is like probably a total hashtag fail already, but we’d be so happy just to go on the waiting list, if you ever have a cancellation – I mean, not likely, right? But stranger things have happened. So, could we put our names down? For like, four of us?’

  ‘Your names down?’

  ‘I know! I know! I’m cringing at myself even asking, but it took us so long to find the number of your assistant chappie, and you can’t have bookings indefinitely, like they must come to an end at some point? So, whenever that date is, put us down. The full retreat.’

  ‘The full retreat?’ Slow, I know, but my brain was still catching up with my ears.

  ‘Yeah, like the lifestyle reconfiguration one? Saskia said it totally changed her world! Like, that’s why she resigned from Hardman and Hanes and rebranded as an apple guru? Whatever she did, we want that one.’

  ‘Right.’ So wrong it’s right? ‘First of all, let me take some details, then I’ll figure out when we can squeeze you in.’

  ‘Yes! I’m totally down for squeezing!’

  Five minutes later, I had a party of four booked in for a night on the May Bank Holiday weekend. I could hardly claim eight weeks wasn’t enough time to prep for a lifestyle regeneration retreat, given that for the previous one I’d had about eight minutes.

  I had some work to do.

  Although the exclusivity of the retreat appeared to be its main appeal, we didn’t want to be so exclusive that every potential customer needed detective skills to find us. Becky and I spent our mornings decorating the top floor, the afternoons creating a website that we hoped came across as mysterious and need-to-know rather than vague. We fiddled about with some numbers and costings, but with so much still to work out, we ended up simply adding something about how each retreat was custom-made, and to contact one of our retreat curators for a bespoke quote.

  There was so much potential to waffle on about restoring well-being and cultivating emotional breathing space, spouting piffle that promised everything while refraining to specify what anyone would actually be doing in practice. We could have ramped prices through the roof and sniggered our way to a hefty profit. But that was not what we were here for. Becky and I were done with making money from spouting piffle. We wanted Damson Farm to welcome everyone who needed it. Those who thought they couldn’t spare the time or the money most of all.

  I worked with Charlie’s notebook open beside me, and I sought to honour her dream in every word I wrote.

  I was, however, realising that despite being a B & B girl born and bred, there was a lot that I didn’t know about the ins and outs of the business. More to the point, while I knew how my parents ran the Tufted Duck, I didn’t know why they chose to organise and plan and fry the bacon the way that they did. I’d be an idiot not to find out as much as I could as soon as I could.

  I gave them a call that Wednesday afternoon, hoping to squeeze in a conversation during the relative lull between cleaning up from one weekend rush and getting ready for the next.

  I hadn’t spoken to them in a few weeks. My parents loved me, and I loved them, but neither of them had a mobile phone, and pinning them down for a conversation was not an easy task.

  ‘Hi, Grandma.’

  ‘Hello? Eleanor, is that you?’

  ‘Yes. How are you doing?’

  ‘Well, fine of course.’

  ‘Are Mum or Dad around?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Wendy and Colin. Can you put one of them on the phone?’

  ‘Colin has gone out.’

  ‘What about Wendy?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Can you tell her that Eleanor’s on the phone and wants to talk to her, please?’

  ‘She’s upstairs, doing the family rooms.’

  ‘Okay, but can you go and ask her to come and talk to me?’

  ‘When do you want to talk to her?’

  ‘Now, Grandma. Can you go and fetch her now, please?’

  ‘Right.’

  She hung up.

  After leaving three messages on the answer phone, and sending an email to the bookings line, I decided there was only one thing for it.

  ‘I’m going to visit my parents for a couple of days,’ I told Daniel that evening as we ate dinner. ‘I’ve got loads of questions about how they run the Tufted Duck, and getting them on the phone is impossible.’

  ‘When’s the last time you saw them?’ he asked.

  ‘I stayed for a weekend last May, but they were full, so too busy to talk much past “Table three want scrambled eggs”.’ I shrugged. ‘Then again, they’re always busy. I can’t remember them ever taking a holiday.’

  ‘They never visited you in London?’

  ‘I’m not sure they’ve been further south than Blackpool.’

  ‘Is that what it’s going to be like for us, once Damson Farm is open for business?’ He stood up and collected my now empty plate.

  ‘Most definitely not. We can’t run a place to rest and recharge if we never take any time to practice what we preach.’ I got up to help him with clearing up. ‘Although you’re hardly one to talk. You barely take a day off, let alone a holiday.’

  ‘I took a month’s leave when Charlie died.’ He gave a rueful smile.

  ‘That wasn’t a holiday.’ I flicked on the kettle. ‘Maybe I should take Hope with me, give you a couple of days off?’ I stopped then, as an even better thought occurred to me. ‘Except then you’d probably end up working even longer hours without Hope to interrupt you. You should come!’

  ‘What?’ Daniel turned to face me, but he didn’t look horrified.

  ‘Come to the Tufted Duck. Best breakfast in the Lakes. I’m only going for two nights.’

  ‘Are you asking me so you don’t have to drive your death-machine?’

  ‘No! I’m asking because it would be lovely for you to see the place that inspired Charlie to come up with her plans for here. And you could do with the fresh mountain air and soul-stirring views. Wouldn’t it be amazing to spend two whole days without going in your study? No spreadsheets, no conference calls, the only forecasting required being whether to take a coat and what toppings you want on your breakfast pancakes?’

  Daniel smiled. ‘Sold.’

  Becky was ecstatic about the idea of Daniel and I going on a ‘mini-break’.

  ‘It’s a research trip!’ I reminded her, for the fifteenth time. ‘I’m going to be gathering information, grilling my parents and mostly holed up in the office while Daniel and Hope go and have fun.’

  ‘Yeah, I completely believe you,’ she smirked, dipping her brush back into the pot of cornflower paint we were using for Hope’s new bedroom.

  ‘We’re staying with my parents! And my grandma!’

  ‘Meeting the family. How very sweet.’

  At that point I may have accidentally flicked blue paint in her hair.

  23

  In order to avoid the weekend crowds, we set off early Monday evening. Our plan was that Hope would sleep in the back of Daniel’s car, but after an hour or so of fretful dozing she was well and truly fed up with the car seat.

  ‘She’s never been this long in a car before.’ Daniel grimaced as he turned up the drum and bass playlist.

  ‘Has she ever been further than Ferrington before?’ I asked, swivelling round to waggle her stuffed giraffe in time to the music.

  Daniel gripped the steering wheel harder.

  ‘Please tell me you’ve taken her somewhere other than muddy fields and a bonkers village.’

  ‘She’s not even one yet!’

  I waited, slightly aghast. I thought my parents were bad, but at least they took me to the beach every now and then. We even went to a castle once.

  ‘She’s been to the supermarket.’

  ‘Wow, a real adventure.’

  ‘And the hospital.’

  ‘Another lovely memory to treasure, I’m sure.’

  ‘To visit her mum.’

  ‘Oh.’ I turned back around,
dropping Giraffe into the pile of road-trip necessities filling up the footwell. Oh.

  A revamped 1970s floor-filler reverberated through the car as the glow of the sunset bathed everything with nature’s own disco lights. I found a teething ring in my bag, which Hope chewed down on eagerly. The bittersweet memory of Charlie filled the space between us.

  ‘Sorry. I know you’ve had other priorities than family fun days out in the past few months.’

  Daniel sighed. ‘No. You’re right. It’s not fair on Hope to have a dad who’s too busy to do anything beyond getting her through each day. It’s hardly what her mum would have wanted. I need to sort something so she can be properly looked after in the week, and then I’m free to give her my full attention at the weekends.’

  ‘Either that or you give up your job and work with me and Becky, at hours to suit you.’

  Daniel grinned. ‘I don’t think I’m quite cut out to be a lifestyle guru.’

  ‘You can change beds and set tables. Plus, I’ve got so many plans for the garden that’ll be a full-time job in itself.’

  ‘I’m going to be cleaner and caretaker, then?’

  I shrugged. ‘There’s accounting and admin, too, if you really can’t live without spreadsheets. But I bet Hope would love to help her daddy bring the farm back to life.’

  ‘If only it were that simple, I’d resign tomorrow. As idyllic as it sounds, the farm’s not going to pay my bills or provide for Hope’s future.’

  ‘Your outgoings are practically nothing. Your biggest expenditure is a Friday night pizza. Let’s see how this weekend goes, see what my parents have to say, and when we get back we can look at the numbers.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There’s no maybe about how you and Hope will suffer if you don’t start taking more days off.’

  ‘Okay, well, your lecture has been sufficiently boring to send her back to sleep, so can we change the subject now?’

  We did. We changed the subject more times than I can remember – meandering through childhood memories, dream destinations and whether halloumi is really all it’s cracked up to be or simply cheese that squeaks.

  As the shadows crept across the dashboard, Daniel’s playlist softened into easy-listening classics and Hope snoozed gently behind us, I wondered if I’d ever spoken at such length and in such depth to anyone before. Charlie had spent a lot of time with me, but so often I had deferred to her opinions and ideas – not because she chose to dominate, but because I chose to tag along in her shadow. Becky was starting to get to know me, and we had chatted about everything from the evolution of feminism to what on earth Alice was still doing with Jase – which, to some extent, I supposed were the same topic.

  But with Daniel, it was different. A whole new level of getting to know someone, and letting them know me.

  Except not all of me, of course.

  Every time I talked about places I’d been or people I’d hung out with, my role at the newspaper, let alone how I’d ended up there, I had to censor my stories. Who was I kidding? I had to outright lie.

  It was well after ten when I directed Daniel down the gravelly lane that led to the Tufted Duck. The only lights were the lamps bobbing on the boats in the marina to one side of us, and the cosy glow from the lanterns my parents had strung up along the porch up ahead.

  We swerved around the side of the house to the staff car park at the rear. I gently scooped a rosy-cheeked, sleep-addled Hope out of the car while Daniel grabbed what bags he could manage.

  ‘Are you sure they’re expecting us?’ Daniel whispered as I led him through the garden that was advertised as ‘a stone’s throw from the lake’, which might be true if an Olympic athlete was the one launching the stone. ‘It looks deserted.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s nearly 10.30. The Tufted Duck clientele will all be safely tucked up in bed by now. This isn’t the kind of establishment to encourage late-night carousing.’

  At that moment, the kitchen door flew open and we were confronted with the silhouette of an elderly woman wearing a flannel nightgown and a head-scarf, brandishing an umbrella that looked to be nearly as long as she was tall.

  ‘Who goes there?’ she warbled, pointing the umbrella at us through the dark. ‘Stop or I’ll shoot!’

  ‘It’s fine!’ I called, hastily passing Hope to Daniel before hurrying over, taking the end of the makeshift weapon and attempting to point it somewhere other than my face. ‘It’s me, Eleanor.’

  ‘A likely story!’ she growled, managing to jerk the umbrella away and make a thrusting jab at my stomach. Thankfully, her strength was about as effectual as her speed, and I had plenty of time to side-step the attack and move close enough into the kitchen light for her to see my face.

  ‘Look, Grandma, it’s me.’ I placed one hand on her shoulder and smiled.

  Squinting up at me, she took a moment to decide whether to believe her own eyes before grudgingly lowering the umbrella. ‘You’re late. Wendy and Colin are in bed.’

  ‘Not any more, we aren’t!’ My mother stepped out from the doorway, cinching the cord of her quilted dressing gown tighter.

  ‘What on earth is all this ruckus?’ Dad asked, his bushy eyebrows bristling. ‘This is a reputable establishment!’

  ‘This woman stole my umbrella!’ Grandma said, her face shining with glee as she pointed both index fingers at me.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Dad.’ I leaned past Grandma and gave them a wave. After a brief flash of surprise, they nodded in return, which was about as warm a welcome as a non-residential guest of the Tufted Duck would get. The older they grew, the more similar my parents looked. With only an inch between them in height, by day they lived in a uniform of plaid shirts and jeans so old they were fashionable again, and by night it was furry pyjamas and brown dressing gowns. Now both approaching seventy, their matching salt and pepper hair was kept short. Hands worn rough from all that cleaning, faces permanently tanned from all the gardening. Laughter lines were scarce, but years of worry were etched in permanent wrinkles. Solid, practical, predictable. Right then, it was precisely what I needed.

  ‘Well, what are you doing turning up here at this time and scaring your grandmother and most of the guests half to death?’ Mum retorted, ushering Grandma back inside.

  ‘I did tell you in my message that we’d be arriving after ten,’ I said, following them in.

  ‘We?’ Dad asked, eyebrows beetling in consternation as he waited for Daniel to pass him before closing the door.

  ‘Yes!’ I blew out a sigh of exasperation. ‘I left two messages on the answerphone. Didn’t you get them?’

  Mum and Dad exchanged blank glances before turning to look at Grandma. ‘Have you been pressing buttons on the phone again, Mother?’ Mum asked, sternly.

  ‘Well, how else am I supposed to listen to the messages?’ she replied, shaking her head in bemusement. ‘I’ve been answering that phone since before you were born. I think I know how it works.’

  ‘So you didn’t know I was coming?’ I asked. ‘This is ridiculous. I’ve called several times and emailed over the past few weeks. What if there’d been an emergency?’

  ‘Well, has there been?’ Dad asked, glancing around as if it might have snuck into his kitchen.

  ‘No.’ Sort of. But that was back in January and I knew better than to try to drag you into that sorry mess.

  ‘What’s the problem, then?’

  I didn’t add what I really wanted to say: What if I wanted to just talk to my parents? Tell you how I was? Ask for advice or even find out how you were doing?

  ‘I hope there is no problem,’ I replied. ‘Because we’ve driven all the way from Nottinghamshire and were expecting a comfortable bed followed by an infamous Tufted Duck breakfast.’

  ‘Do you have a confirmation number or booking reference?’ Mum asked, her eyes darting.

  ‘Clearly not! I didn’t think I needed an eight-digit number to visit my family home!’ I couldn’t bear to look at Daniel, the man who had welcomed a strange, bedr
aggled woman into his farm and given her a room and a hot meal. Plus a whole new life.

  ‘Well, this is most inconvenient! We don’t do walk-ins at this time of night. And besides, it’s the Weighbridge Walkers’ annual Windermere Walking Week.’

  ‘Mum, I am not a walk-in! I’m at the very least a customer whose booking you misplaced, and hopefully even more significantly than that I’m your daughter!’

  ‘Well, this man isn’t a relative.’ She looked at Daniel and then jumped her eyes back to me. ‘Is he? Are they?’ she added, jerking her chin towards Hope.

  ‘This is Daniel, Charlie’s brother, and Hope, his daughter. And they’d like a room and a cot, please.’

  ‘Well, I simply don’t know…’ The dressing gown got another tug. Dad said nothing, deciding instead to take Grandma back to bed.

  ‘They can have the Mallard room,’ Grandma called over her shoulder, in a flash of lucidity that put my suspicions about her previous nonsense in a whole new light. ‘That walker cancelled at the last minute, remember, after tripping over their walking stick.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, that’s fine then, isn’t it? If we can grab a hot drink then I’ll get the room sorted.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mum frowned. ‘As long as you’re happy to share a double. I didn’t want to presume.’

  I felt a wave of embarrassment, quickly followed by an even warmer wave of something else at the thought of Daniel and I spending the night curled up in bed together.

  ‘No! We won’t be sharing a room.’ I turned to Daniel and pulled my most apologetic face. He raised his eyebrows, the smile dancing at the corners of his mouth shooting my temperature even higher. ‘Daniel is my landlord. I work for him, helping with childcare and housekeeping.’ Keep reminding yourself of that, Eleanor.

  ‘It’s fine, Eleanor. We’ve become very open-minded in recent years in order to maintain our customer base. We don’t ask those types of questions any more.’

  ‘I should hope not! However, it won’t be an issue because, as I’ve just said, we need separate rooms.’