by Erin Green
I’m nervous. Eager to begin, and yet my insecurities hold me back from starting the composition.
How ridiculous am I? There’s no one to judge me – the nearest person is some thirty feet away, cleaning his decking – yet my hands shake and my stomach twirls.
Emma’s right. I must be myself and enjoy my time, as brief as it is. No expectations, no demands, no responsibilities.
Within twenty minutes, I’ve made a tentative start. I’ve captured the outline of several large boats in the foreground, and have blocked in the horizon and a number of interesting cottages high up on the craggy hill.
My pencil glides across the page, the paper’s surface providing a comforting feel beneath the edge of my right hand. The graphite lines blur and smooth as I blend them, changing the texture and softening the appearance.
I sit back and ponder.
‘Not bad,’ says a male voice behind me.
I turn with a start. I didn’t realise anyone was in the vicinity.
He stands a foot behind me, casually dressed in deck shoes and faded jeans. He shades his blue eyes from the morning sun as he stares down at my sketch.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you jump.’ His greying hair is closely shaved, like a silverback’s fur.
I instantly apologise for being in his way.
‘No, no . . . I spotted you from the quay. You were so absorbed in your work I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he says, extending his free hand. ‘Dean Harris, nice to meet you.’
‘Ruth Elton, likewise,’ I say, wiping my palms against my trousers before shaking his hand.
‘Your preferred medium, is it?’ he asks, peering at my open hold-all and art pencils.
‘No, I love watercolour, though I’m not very good, to be honest. I haven’t dabbled for a long time.’
‘I’d let others be the judge of that, Ruth.’ He laughs, a deep, rich tone suggesting a younger man.
‘No, seriously. I want to indulge myself whilst on holiday, that’s all.’
‘If you’re looking to exhibit a finished piece, you’ll find me at the Quay Gallery over the way.’ Dean points towards the main street.
‘Thank you, but that’s out of my league.’ I’m humbled, flattered by the very idea. This is obviously his practised spiel to gain customers for his business. You can’t blame him, with an ever-changing footfall of holidaymakers – I’m sure he has to try every tactic to fight off competition.
‘Any time you’re passing, please drop by. With regards to your project – just remember, always complete the composition before finding a new scene on which to focus.’ With that, he sets off along the walkway, chatting to boat owners as he passes.
I return to my sketch, adjusting a line here and there, studying the rigging to get the details right.
The sky is a dazzling blue, not a cloud to be seen, the water laps gently against the sides of the boats and the herring gulls glide overhead.
What more can I ask for?
As I sweep away the eraser debris from my page, I can see Dean laughing heartily with the man who was earlier scrubbing his decking. Both look happy, content with their lot and enjoying a lazy Monday morning.
It must be strange having all the time in the world to navigate your day without demands from others.
I continue to watch their body language, and decide they’re probably friends of old, possibly naughty boys dating back to the school playground.
A pang of jealousy ignites within my chest. I haven’t got that. There’re no friends who remember my younger years, my schooldays or even my craziest moments, though they were few and far between given my strict upbringing.
I’m suddenly aware of warmth at the base of my neck. The midday sun is blazing down, and I forgot to bring my sun screen. I won’t be best pleased if I burn, so I start to pack away my pencils and promise myself that tomorrow I’ll get up extra early, like Benni, and continue my composition.
I’m pleased with this morning’s efforts. The sketch might not be perfect, or anywhere near finished, but I’ve accomplished something in a few hours and enjoyed myself into the bargain. On my trek home, I’m tempted to nip into the art suppliers and price up a basic set of watercolours and an easel. They might offer a package price for a starter set.
Emma
‘I thought it would be brown,’ exclaims Ruth as I peel the lid back to reveal the creamy beige confection. ‘Surely fig ice cream should be brown.’
I don’t answer, knowing the colour is determined by all the ingredients, not just one.
‘Would you like some?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely! It looks like rum and raisin.’
I scoop a roll of ice cream and deliver it in a tiny glass dish alongside a teaspoon.
‘Fig and balsamic vinegar,’ I announce. Ruth’s face is a picture as she cautiously eyes my offering, which has taken all morning to freeze properly. ‘Seriously, it might sound strange, but I promise you, this is a delightful combination.’
Ruth spoons the tiniest amount into her mouth, tasting it gingerly. I’ve seen this reaction so many times when I offer people food. People often taste food mentally prior to actually tasting it; some talk themselves out of even trying. I know exactly what’ll happen in the next sixty seconds.
‘Oh my God, that is gorgeous!’
There it is. All the confirmation I need. Ruth’s subsequent mouthfuls are rapid, and each spoonful is heaped. I watch as she scrapes the tiny glass dish of every smear.
‘More?’
‘Yes please. Who’d have thought balsamic vinegar could taste so lovely in a dessert?’ She hands me the empty dish, then waits impatiently at my elbow like a child wanting to lick a mixing bowl clean. ‘Are you sure there’ll be enough left for Benni?’
‘I’m sure,’ I say, proud that once again my culinary ideas have borne fruit. ‘I’ll dish us each a decent portion then Benni can enjoy the rest later on. Do you want some double cream on top?’
‘Think of the calories,’ stutters Ruth, but she’s almost drooling.
‘Bugger the calories – we’re on holiday!’ I take the remains of the double cream from the fridge and garnish the ice cream with a little extra. Ruth doesn’t protest, but grabs her spoon and tucks in.
This is my pleasure in life. Dreaming up combinations, experimenting with ingredients and creating delights that bring happiness to others. I want to burst with pride as Ruth scrapes her dish clean for a second time.
Benjamina
‘Dan, it’s only Monday! I’ve only been away for two days . . . OK, three if you count travelling down,’ I mutter into my mobile. I’m trying desperately to sound bright and cheery with Ruth and Emma sitting opposite me in the Queen’s Arms. ‘Surely you can cope?’
I pause, listening as my older brother rants on about my selfish behaviour. I’m embarrassed to look in Emma’s direction but I can sense her frown deepening. I should have ignored the call. Kept my phone on silent.
‘No, I’m not coming back. You’ll just have to manage,’ I say, as he finally draws breath. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I need to go. Bye, Dan.’ I tap the screen, cutting his call short, and instantly burst out crying, much to the surprise of Emma and Ruth. Hot, angry tears race down my cheeks, and I frantically dab my eyes with my sleeve, mortified at reacting so emotionally in a public place. We were supposed to be enjoying a lunchtime drink before looking for a quiet restaurant for dinner later on.
‘Hey now, what’s all this?’ soothes Emma, reaching for my hand.
‘Here . . .’ adds Ruth, offering me a tissue, as Emma removes my hand revealing my teary eyes.
I take the tissue, dab my eyes and glance about the pub to see how many customers are staring or remarking on my behaviour. No one seems to have noticed. The crowded bar continues as it was before my phone call.
‘Take a deep breath . . . ha
ve a sip of your drink,’ urges Emma, rubbing my forearm, as I dab at my eyes.
Ruth sits in silence, watching.
I feel such a fool. Who the hell am I kidding? I thought I was grown up and independent; that I could go on holiday amongst strangers and have a good time. I had such a wonderful morning down at the harbour, which left me feeling revived and energised. But all the time, the realities of my life are there in the background, ruining what I’ve chosen to do. Maybe I should feel blessed that I’ve managed to enjoy myself for three days.
Within a few minutes, I feel calmer. I know I can be honest with the others; their expressions show concern for my well-being.
‘I’m so sorry, I should have ignored his call,’ I say, not knowing where to start. ‘He knows exactly how to wind me up.’
‘That’s family for you,’ says Ruth, playing with her gin glass. ‘Anything we can do?’
‘No. I should be used to it by now, but . . .’ I pause, unsure whether to continue or to offer to fetch a fresh round of drinks.
‘Benni, you can tell us if you want to,’ says Emma, giving me a warm smile.
‘My mum’s gone on another bender and . . . apparently, she’s been ranting since the moment I left for the station on Saturday about my selfish behaviour. My brother’s demanding I return home tonight. I don’t want to,’ I say quickly, before I can change my mind.
‘She drinks?’ questions Ruth in a whisper.
‘Yeah, always has. Dan reckons she’s downed a bottle and a half of vodka each day since I left. She’ll be completely sozzled, but why should I cut my holiday short?’
‘You shouldn’t,’ states Emma. ‘Couldn’t your brother call on support from elsewhere . . . someone closer to home?’
‘Phuh! That’ll never happen. It’s as if she’s my responsibility. Usually I’m the one at home, but on this occasion Dan will just have to cope, won’t he?’ I ask anxiously, needing reinforcement. ‘I’ve had to do it on previous occasions, he’s never dashed home to support me. It feels like my punishment for daring to enjoy myself. They know how I’ll react; they know me too well.’
Both women are nodding sympathetically.
‘He’s twenty-eight,’ I continue, ‘he’s not a child, but oh no, Dan’s got better things to do – probably involving gambling until the early hours of the morning in some seedy back room or a pub lock-in. But if Mum needs me, maybe I should go . . .’ My voice cracks as my inner turmoil surfaces alongside my annoyance.
‘Hang on a minute, Benni. Do you deserve this upset?’ asks Emma.
‘No, I don’t. I deserve a decent holiday.’ I sob into a paper serviette. ‘That’s the first call I’ve had in three days . . . Dan didn’t even reply when I texted to let them know I’d arrived safely. I wish they could be happy that I’m doing something in life rather than staying at home.’
‘So let them get on with their drama,’ says Ruth.
‘I agree,’ adds Emma, squeezing my hand before releasing her grip.
‘Better still, switch your phone off for the rest of the holiday. I could be made to feel guilty about leaving my mum in the care of others but I’m not going to let myself. You’re no different to me, Benni – you need time out to enjoy yourself. It isn’t too much to ask, is it?’ says Ruth, in an emphatic tone that seems unlike her. ‘I haven’t called the care home since I arrived. I desperately want to, but I’ve stopped myself. They’ll let me know if I’m needed.’
‘Exactly! You both deserve this. Let others pick up the slack for a while.’ Emma finishes her wine in one mouthful. ‘I say we go back to the cottage and find something to take your mind off the situation.’
‘But what happens if he can’t cope?’ I ask.
‘He’ll cope – like you’ve had to,’ says Emma. ‘Come on, we’re going to cheer you up.’
‘Emma has exactly what you need . . . it’s gorgeous!’ giggles Ruth, getting to her feet and collecting her handbag.
‘You’re both too kind. I don’t deserve this.’
Emma lifts an open palm to stop me.
‘Nonsense. You’re worth it. Now get your stuff. We’ve got a treat waiting at the cottage, and if it doesn’t put a smile on your face, I promise to nip to the shop and make a batch of your favourite flavour.’
I’m intrigued but immensely grateful that fate has delivered two strong women with whom I can share my troubles.
Emma
‘Hello!’ I call, entering the ice cream parlour to find the counter area bare of staff. It’s late, just before closing time, and there are no customers. Half the chairs are turned upside down on the tables. A bucket and submerged mop stand abandoned beside the counter, and a section of tiled floor gleams wetly.
Martin appears in the doorway from the back room.
‘Hello again, sorry I didn’t hear you come in. What can I get you?’ He begins to wash his hands in the tiny stainless-steel sink unit.
‘I thought you were closed.’ I indicate the mop bucket and empty tables.
‘No, not quite. It’s been a quiet kind of day, but there’s still thirty minutes to go until we officially shut up shop. Still enjoying your holiday?’ he adds as he dries his hands.
‘I am. My first time visiting Brixham and I’m impressed with the scenery.’ I’m stalling. I can sense this conversation isn’t going how I intended, and I need to take control before I climb the hill, returning my offerings to the cottage for swift consumption by Benni.
‘Good to hear. I’m a local, born and bred in the area, and I think we forget how beautiful it really is. Did you enjoy the chocolate and chilli ice cream yesterday?’
‘I did, very much. So much so that it got me thinking about other flavoursome combinations, and this morning I was up and out buying fresh produce to create my own.’
‘Honestly?’ Martin’s eyes widen and his mouth gapes as I open my bag and retrieve the small tub of home-made ice cream, which I offer over the glass counter.
‘Fig and balsamic vinegar – it sounds a bit weird . . .’ I wiggle my hand before continuing, ‘but my two housemates have devoured an entire tub between them. It’s my first attempt, but it shows the kind of flavour blending that interests me.’
Martin takes the tub, conjures a small spoon from nowhere and digs it into the ice cream. As he tastes the first mouthful, his eyebrows lift into his hairline and a look of surprise dawns.
‘That . . . is beautiful!’ He continues to scoop greedily, testing and tasting each spoonful noisily. I’m one to vocalise food tasting, but his response outweighs mine any day. I’m mesmerised. ‘Wow! I agree you have a talent for taste.’
‘Thank you, I am rather pleased with the results—’
I didn’t finish my sentence regarding my plan to create others.
‘Sold!’
‘What?’
‘I’ll take as much as you can make. How do you want to work this financially?’
‘Are you serious? Just like that?’
‘We could agree a purchase price or arrange a percentage of sales, whichever you prefer.’
‘You want me to make a fresh batch for sale in here?’
‘That’s exactly what I want.’
One minute he’s sampling my ice cream, the next we’re talking money and I’m staking claim to the cottage’s kitchen for an entire day of ice cream production. Talk about a cottage industry appearing from nowhere!
We settle on a price for two large tubs of ice cream to be delivered as soon as humanly possible and I dash from the ice cream parlour and head straight to the Co-op to purchase fresh ingredients. It’s amazing how a busy mind can eliminate all distractions, even when you’re lugging four heavy shopping bags up a steep hill. The urge to share my success with Ruth and Benni outweighs the painful stitch I have under my left rib.
Ruth
Benni’s emotional reaction earlier
has unsettled me. I make my excuses soon after Emma returns to the cottage and head for the bathroom. I slide the lock across, lean my back against the closed door and breathe deeply.
I didn’t think I would react in this manner. Witnessing Benni’s anxiety about her alcoholic mother has made me jittery about my own responsibilities. Is Mum eating? Sleeping? Taking her medication as she should?
I cross the bathroom, tastefully decorated in blue and white and accessorised with a nautical theme, and turn the shower on full blast despite the fact that I won’t be getting undressed. Hopefully the noise will cover the sound of my phone call; if I have to raise my voice to be heard over the water hopefully Emma and Benni will assume I’m singing. I fold the hand towel in half and place it over the closed loo seat, making it more comfortable, then settle myself and take my mobile from my pocket.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do this for another few days. Earlier I told Benni to switch her phone off, and now look at me. Am I a hypocrite? Or simply a concerned daughter who should have called earlier?
It takes ages for the care home to answer. Is the delay due to a staffing shortage? Or is it unrealistic of me to expect every establishment to answer their phone within the standard three rings stipulated within the banking industry?
‘Hello, Acorn Ridge Care Home . . . how may I help you?’
‘Ah yes, it’s Ruth Elton calling to enquire how my mother, Violet Elton, is getting on,’ I say as calmly as I can despite my anxieties.
‘Thank you, if you hold the line I’ll put you through to the carers.’
A blast of ‘Greensleeves’ fills the hiatus while I’m connected elsewhere.
‘Hello, Ms Elton?’ comes a mild-mannered voice.
‘Yes, speaking.’
‘Hello, I’m Jenny, I’m happy to report that your mum has settled in nicely. She’s slept well each night and has spent most of her time in the lounge enjoying the activities with our other guests. She’s currently in the conservatory having a cup of tea.’
