by Sarah Morgan
Was that why her daughter had married so young? Had she been seeking security?
Kathleen had taken the opposite approach. She hadn’t married until she was forty and even then it was on the third time of asking. She felt a strange pressure in her chest and realized it was grief. It had been five years since Brian had died, but still she missed him terribly.
She stood up, her bones aching. People who said that eighty was the new sixty had never been eighty. At her age only one thing was certain, and that was that nothing was going to get easier.
She waited for the stiffness to pass, and then joined them in the kitchen.
“Morning, Kathleen.” Sean pulled a face when he saw the ugly wound and the traces of blood in her hair. “That’s quite a wound. But I’m sure the other guy is worse. You’re an example to us all.”
“Sean!” Liza was exasperated. “Are you hungry? I’ll make breakfast.”
She opened the fridge and removed eggs, while Sean sat down and chatted about golf, fishing and the outrageous cost of property in London.
Liza moved quietly round the kitchen, laying the table and cooking.
Kathleen watched her daughter as she whisked eggs and expertly produced fluffy omelets which she sprinkled with fresh chives cut from Kathleen’s herb pots. Caring for people came naturally to her, but at some point she’d forgotten to include herself.
Sean picked up his fork. “My favorite comfort food.”
Liza made a fresh pot of coffee and put it in the center of the table, along with bowls of fresh berries and yogurt. “I brought you fresh oranges, Mum.”
“Delicious,” Kathleen said. “Let’s have fresh juice right now. Such a treat.”
Liza shook her head. “You should keep them.”
“Why? What use is an orange in a bowl? The bowl is decorative, but the orange isn’t.” Kathleen studied her daughter. “You need to squeeze every last drop of juice from it and enjoy it while you can. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”
“Is that supposed to be a metaphor? Life giving you lemons and all that?” But Liza squeezed juice and put the jug and glasses on the table.
“What’s the plan for the day?” Sean cleared his plate. “Shall we take a walk to the beach later?”
“This isn’t a minibreak.” Liza put two slices of toast in front of him. “We need to help Mum with the house.”
“I know, but in between helping, we can have some fun.” Sean spread butter on his toast. “Might see if the surfboard is still in the garage.”
Kathleen glanced up. “It is.”
Liza poked at her eggs, as if she was too tired to lift the fork to her mouth.
After breakfast, they all moved into the living room.
Sean looked a little lost. “Do you need me to mow the lawn or something? Call an estate agent? Give me orders.”
Kathleen breathed in sharply. “You will not be calling an estate agent. I’m not selling this place so please don’t waste your time trying to convince me.” Was this what it was going to be like from now on? Was every conversation with her family going to be them trying to persuade her to move, and her refusing? How dull and frustrating that would be for all of them. What was it going to take to get them to understand that she had no intention of selling? Didn’t they understand how she felt about this house?
She ignored the little voice inside her telling her that they couldn’t possibly know how she felt about the house because she’d never shared her feelings on the subject.
“Right.” Sean glanced at Liza who was dusting surfaces. “One option would be for you to stay here and we could arrange some help.”
“What help do I need? A bodyguard?”
Liza shook her head. “That man probably knew you were alone and vulnerable, Mum.”
“He was too drunk to know anything.”
Sean laughed. “I was going to suggest buying you a scary dog with an extra row of teeth, but nothing could be scarier than the sight of you brandishing a skillet in a nightdress. If the press got hold of the story, you’d be the headline.”
Liza clutched the cloth she was holding so tightly that the blood fled from her fingers. “She could have been killed, Sean.”
“But I wasn’t.” Kathleen was calm. “And if that had been the end of me—well, so be it. I will not sell this place. If you really want to do something useful, you can look for Popeye. He’s missing.”
“I’ll do that.” Sean stood, apparently grateful for something that gave him an excuse to leave the house.
“I’m going to spend the morning going through this room,” Liza said. “Clearing the bookshelves. They haven’t been touched in decades.”
Kathleen bristled. “I’d rather wrestle another intruder than throw out books.”
“But there has to be stuff here you’ll never read again.”
“Possibly. But if we throw it out we remove the option. And there is no reason to clear them. I’ve already told you—”
“You’re not selling the house. I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea to occasionally have a clear out. We don’t have to rush any decisions.” Liza clearly wasn’t going to give up and Kathleen decided that the simplest solution was to allow her daughter to load a few things into boxes. It would give her a feeling of control, and Kathleen could always unload them again after she’d gone.
“In that case you can start on those shelves in the corner.”
The morning passed, bathed in tension rather than a companionable silence.
Occasionally Liza would hold up a book. “This one?”
“Keep it,” Kathleen would say, or “put it in the box.”
Sean returned, but with the news that Popeye was nowhere to be found. “He’s probably off exploring.”
Kathleen had never thought she’d find reason to envy her cat.
On the other hand if a one-eyed, three-legged cat could go exploring, why couldn’t she? There were no rules that demanded a person be in perfect condition in order to travel beyond one’s own walls.
Liza was sorting through photo albums, flicking through the pages. “There’s a lovely one here of you with Dad.” She put it to one side and picked up the next book. “This must be one of your earliest albums.” She turned a page and smiled. “Here’s your graduation photo. Look at your hair! Why haven’t I seen these before?”
“Because I tend to focus more on the present than the past.” It was Brian who had put the photos into albums. Brian who had turned their house into a home and their little trio into a family. Kathleen had taken thousands of photographs of her travels, but they were stored in boxes in her study.
“Who are these two?” Liza pointed and Kathleen walked across the room and looked over her shoulder.
Emotion lodged in her throat.
She should have destroyed the photo.
“Mum?”
“Mmm?”
“The two other people in the photo. Who are they?”
“Friends. We were all on the same course at college. The three of us were inseparable. That was taken in Oxford.”
“The guy is very good-looking. What was his name?”
“Adam.” Did her voice sound normal? “His name was Adam.”
“And the girl?”
“Ruth.” Her voice most definitely didn’t sound normal. “She was my roommate.” My closest friend.
“You’ve never mentioned her. What happened?” Liza turned the page. “Did you lose touch?”
“We—yes.” Kathleen’s legs suddenly turned wobbly and she sat down hard on the nearest chair. She thought about the letters, tied together and safely hidden in the back of one of her drawers. Unopened. “Not all friendships last.”
“And Adam? Did you stay in touch with him?”
“No.”
“But here you are again—the three of y
ou. Do you know where Ruth is now?”
“Last time I heard she was living in California.” Kathleen felt a sudden pang.
She took the book from Liza. There was Ruth smiling at the camera, her hair falling long and loose over one shoulder. And there was Adam with those blue eyes and movie star looks.
She remembered the nights she and Ruth had lain on the banks of the river in Oxford and talked until dawn. Kathleen had been an only child and for a while, with Ruth, she’d tasted what life might have been like if she’d had a sister. There had been nothing she didn’t know about Ruth, and nothing Ruth didn’t know about her. She’d truly believed that nothing would ever get in the way of their friendship.
She placed her finger on the photograph, touching Ruth’s smile and remembering the sound of her laugh.
Brian had encouraged her to make a trip to California, but she’d refused.
She’d been cowardly.
Kathleen felt something stir inside her.
She looked up and there was Popeye, standing in the doorway of the living room, the angle of his head suggesting he was less than impressed by the number of people currently crowding his territory. He stalked across to Kathleen with a swish of his tail.
Kathleen put the album down and scooped up her cat who tolerated a few moments of affection before easing himself away from her grasp and heading into the kitchen.
Dear Popeye. If he could have an adventure, why couldn’t she? Instead of sitting here reliving things that had happened in the past, she should be living in the present.
Liza picked up the abandoned photo album. “I’m sorry if looking at these upset you.”
“They didn’t upset me. They made me think.” Kathleen felt stronger. “They made me realize it’s time to do something I should have done a long time ago.”
“You mean clear out the albums?”
“No.” Was courage one of those things that dwindled with age, along with memory and muscle tone? “Sit down, Liza.”
Liza joined her on the sofa without question, her brows meeting in an anxious frown. “Mum?”
“I’m lucky to have a daughter who cares about my welfare. Look at you, driving up here on the weekend to be with me when you have such a busy life of your own. I am grateful to you for all the research you’ve done on residential homes—” she looked at Liza “—but I won’t be needing the information yet.” Never, she thought, but she didn’t say that because she suspected she needed to give her daughter the idea that she might see sense at some point.
“Mum—”
“I know you’re acting out of love, but I’m in sound mind and capable of making my own decision on what’s best for me.”
Liza’s expression was one of pure frustration.
Stubborn. So like her father. Kathleen hadn’t been interested in marriage after everything that had happened. Fortunately for her, Brian had refused to accept that. If he hadn’t been so persistent and proposed three times, she would have missed out on the happy life she’d had. She never would have had Liza, who was now staring at her nervously, worried about her next move.
“You can’t stay here, Mum.”
“I don’t intend to, but nor do I intend to move into a home and wait patiently for death.”
“Not death, but—”
“I’m going to take a trip to California.” It was a big place. There was no likelihood that she would bump into someone she didn’t want to see.
“Cali—” Liza choked. “Are you kidding? That’s a twelve-hour flight.”
“I won’t be flying all the way. I’m taking a road trip across America. Route 66.” The moment she said the words she felt her insides lurch with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Was this bold or foolish?
It didn’t matter. She’d waited long enough. Too long. She wasn’t going to let the past stop her from doing something she’d always wanted to do.
But even without the emotional pressure, it was an ambitious trip. There were days when her bones ached so badly she could barely drag herself from her bed, and here she was blithely talking about driving two thousand four hundred miles—she hated thinking in kilometers—as if it was nothing more than a trip to the village.
Sean was the first to speak. “Exciting. How can we help?”
Dear boy.
Liza opened her mouth but Kathleen spoke first. “I’d appreciate a lift to the airport when I’ve made all the plans.” She almost asked for help booking her flight, but she knew she’d have to find the confidence to do that herself. Ridiculous that the thought of a flight booking scared her more than a road trip. She found it impossible to believe that pressing a button and inserting a credit card number was enough to ensure her a seat on a plane.
Liza finally found her voice. “Route 66? You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. I’ve already done the research.” Kathleen thought about the box file under the desk in her study, bulging with maps and guidebooks.
“But why California? If you want sunshine, then come to the South of France with us. Or is it because you want to see Ruth after all these years?”
“I don’t know if Ruth is still there. She might have moved, or—” She might be dead. At their age, it was a distinct possibility. But this trip wasn’t about Ruth. Kathleen had no wish to see her, and she was sure Ruth would feel the same way.
The past could never be undone.
“I don’t want sunshine. I want adventure. And I’ve wanted to do Route 66 for a long time.”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
“It never seemed to be the right time.” Kathleen kept her reply purposefully vague. “But now it does.”
Liza appeared to be struggling for words. “You’re ignoring one very big problem.”
There were a million problems. It made her dizzy to think of them all, but she was determined to handle each and every one.
She’d beaned an intruder with a skillet. She was confident she could handle anything that came her way, even an uncomfortable set of memories.
“I have a passport, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s right here in my bag.” She closed her fingers around the handle and pulled it a little closer.
Liza glanced from her mother to the bag. “You carry your passport with you?”
“Yes.”
“To the village shop? To the post office?”
“I have it on my person at all times.” Not that she’d traveled anywhere for years, but carrying her passport around made her think she might.
Liza looked aghast. “What if someone snatches your bag?”
“What will they do? Clone my identity? Frankly they’re welcome to it, providing I can have theirs and they don’t suffer from creaking bones.”
Her daughter shook her head. “You don’t just need a passport, Mum. You need a driving license. A road trip across America requires you to have a car and drive it. You don’t drive anymore.”
Kathleen sat up a little straighter. “Then I’ll need to find someone who does.”
4
MARTHA
“Will you at least listen to me?”
“No.” Martha stalked up the path to the house, her bag of library books knocking against her legs. She couldn’t wait to lose herself in a fictional world, which was currently her only escape from the real world. Anxiety swarmed through her. “There is nothing you have to say that I want to hear.”
“I know it’s mostly my fault, but everyone makes mistakes, right?” Steven stumbled as he tried to keep up with her. “And you’ve got to admit you’ve let yourself go a bit. Although your bum does look good in those jeans.”
“I don’t want to see you again.” Martha elongated her body in order to look slimmer and hated herself for doing it. Her jeans were too tight. She should have bought new on
es, but if there was one thing that was tighter than her jeans, it was money.
How had her life turned out like this? And how was she going to get out of this mess?
She was starting to dread leaving the house, and it wasn’t as if home was a sanctuary. Things were almost as bad inside as they were outside.
She wanted to run away, but you needed money to run away.
Steven stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Do you want to know your problem, Martha?”
“No.” She didn’t need help identifying her problems. She could list them easily, thanks to the people around her who never let her forget her shortcomings.
“You expect too much. People are human. We’re not all bloody perfect.”
She fumbled in her bag for her keys.
“Martha, are you even listening?”
“I’ve done all the listening I intend to do. Bye, Steven. Don’t call me.” Proud of her restraint, she slammed the front door and heard her mother call from the kitchen.
“Was that Steven? Invite him in. He could take a look at the pipe in the kitchen. We have a leak.”
Only her mother could put the state of the plumbing above her daughter’s happiness.
“Ask Dad to do it.”
There were many downsides of living with her parents at the age of twenty-four, but being trapped with people who didn’t understand you was the biggest one. Lack of privacy came a close second. There was no space to lick your wounds, or mope with your head under a pillow. No chance of seeking emotional comfort from the TV and a box of chocolates because someone would change the channel and eat half of whatever you were about to put in your mouth.
And there was no way of avoiding an inquisition.
“Your dad is out.” Her mother emerged from the kitchen, a cleaning cloth in her hand and a frown on her face. “And Steven is a plumber. He knows his way around a pipe.”
But very little else.
The last thing she wanted was a conversation with her mother, but their house was small and what she wanted didn’t figure much in anyone’s plans. “He’s gone.”
