New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘Ruth!’ calls Emma.

  ‘Yes,’ I shout, returning to my banister position.

  ‘Your mobile’s ringing down here,’ says Emma, appearing at the bottom stair holding my phone aloft.

  I dash down to collect it, recognising the caller’s details: Acorn Ridge.

  ‘Hello?’ Instant concern edges my voice. ‘Ruth Elton here.’ I hold my breath.

  ‘Morning, Ms Elton . . . Mrs Tedds here, from the Acorn Ridge Care Home. How are you?’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I blurt. I can’t answer calmly. I understand the need for social pleasantries, but why would she be calling unless she had something important to tell me? I won’t think her rude, just get straight to it!

  ‘Ms Elton, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but we need to inform you of an incident that has occurred this morning. Your mother, Mrs Elton, can’t be located in her room. Now, we are certain that the external gates are all locked and secure, which means she must be somewhere in the vicinity of the home, we just can’t—’

  ‘What?’ My voice is a squeal; I can’t help it.

  ‘Please, Ms Elton, we understand how distressing this must be, but please be assured we are doing everything we can to locate your mother.’

  ‘When was she last seen?’ I ask as Emma comes to stand next to me.

  ‘At breakfast this morning. She ate a hearty meal of—’

  ‘I don’t need to know what she ate, just where she is.’

  ‘I can assure you we are doing everything in our power to find her. The police have been informed and our staff are currently searching each room hoping to locate her.’

  ‘Police? If she’s indoors, why are the police involved?’

  ‘Ms Elton, it’s a precaution, just in case. There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Worry? Of course I’m going to worry. I’m two hundred miles away, I thought I’d left her in good hands and yet this has happened.’

  ‘Ms Elton, I have no doubt that we’ll be calling you very shortly to say we’ve located your mother. This is purely in the interest of openness; we wouldn’t hide such an incident from a resident’s family.’

  ‘Mrs Tedds, I phoned this morning and was told she was fine and happy. Why would she have wandered off like this?’ My voice cracks with emotion. I want to cry. I should never have left her; this is my own fault for being so damned selfish.

  ‘Ms Elton, Mrs Elton has been the life and soul of the lounge since her arrival. I can assure you that she is as fit and well as can be expected given her condition. She’s obviously taken herself off for a little walk. We will find her, Ms Elton. I promise.’

  I have a wealth of questions but realise that time is of the essence, so I quickly ring off. I need to call Jack.

  Emma stands close by, gently rubbing my back, as I speak to my son. Her face reflects my own concern. My mother is lost; she could be anywhere, facing untold dangers. Alone. Distressed. Frightened.

  ‘Jack, your grandmother’s gone missing. Can you get yourself over to the care home, please, to help find her? I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her.’

  ‘She’ll be fine, Mum. There’s a standard protocol they have to follow when these things happen, but if it makes you feel better, I’ll drive over and give them a hand,’ says Jack, sounding unperturbed.

  Benjamina

  I sit beside the harbour wall, feeling pleased with myself. I didn’t need a taxi to get back from the stables; instead I set a steady pace and walked. I should have continued straight home for a shower, but I needed a bench rest at some point. Here beside the harbour is as good as anywhere.

  The sun is high, the crowds are growing and I can count on one hand, with a digit to spare, the number of times in my life I have felt this way.

  1. The day I made hundreds of chocolate truffles.

  2. The day I manned the charity stall and sold every bag for charity.

  3. The day I left secondary school.

  4. And now, the day I helped muck out a stable.

  A voice inside my head mocks the decade gap between the first three events and the fourth. I silence it by reminding myself that I live a simple life. It’s not a big life filled with complications and dramas, but a simple existence of sleeping, eating and working in which I care for those I love and look out for others in my daily routine. It isn’t much; others possibly wouldn’t want to change places, but it’s my life.

  But is it enough?

  Today I want to be Maddie. I want to be like her more than I’ve wanted to be anything in my life.

  I glance down at my podgy hands resting in the expanse of my lap. Ten puffy fingers, which earlier were wrapped around a shovel handle to flip horse poo and wood shavings. Not a task I’d have imagined would bring satisfaction, but I’m delighted knowing that Bruce has a clean bed on which to lie. It’s no more thrilling than watching the vinegar bottles being systematically filled on the production line, and yet I have never left work with such a buzz in my chest.

  And tomorrow I will be needed again to clean out tonight’s muck. I can’t contain my beaming smile.

  How ridiculous must I look?

  A twenty-five year old sitting on a bench contemplating the delight of returning to a stable for unpaid work of mucking out a horse, which belongs to someone else?

  I look around at the crowds of holidaymakers passing my bench. Families carrying crying babies, toddlers clutching their crabbing buckets and elderly folk arm in arm saunter past. A group of young women strut by in fashionable high wedges and floaty hemlines, revealing tanned shoulders and thighs.

  I’m mesmerised by them.

  If I had legs like those, I’d never be out of shorts, morning, noon or night. Instead, I sit alone on a bench in my elasticated black leggings, a baggy T-shirt enveloping my upper half and, I suspect, a pair of red cheeks complete with a delightful glow due to the continuing sunshine. I’ve been told umpteen times that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but sadly, very few people look past the outer packing to find my warm heart and good intentions.

  I should be more like the girls striding up and down the quayside, eating candyfloss, queuing for a temporary tattoo or enjoying a cream tea at a posh café overlooking the harbour.

  But do I want to do those things?

  I can live without the candyfloss and the temporary tattoo, but I wouldn’t mind their toned, slender thighs. I suspect that my inner beauty could tag alongside the trio, if released from this outer shell.

  What else do I want?

  I want to muck out horses.

  I want to walk up and down hills without needing a bench as a pit stop.

  I want to see a different pair of hands when I look down at my lap.

  An ugly grey fluffy-headed herring gull waddles up and squawks at me. I assume it’s this year’s chick trying to fend for itself in this mad world. I have nothing to offer it. Ironic, given that we’re at the same stage in life – I know how it feels.

  I watch as it pecks unsuccessfully at a chewing gum blob on the pavement, then waddles towards a wooden lolly stick littering the gutter before skipping off towards a discarded chip wrapping.

  The intense sun burns the base of my neck. I need to make a move unless I want to resemble a lobster. Not a look I’m aiming for, especially since my ponytail will leave a strange dividing line on the blistering skin.

  I begin the slow walk towards Rose Cottage.

  Funny how I’ve had my hair long for so many years and yet do nothing with it other than wash and dry it and wear it in a bobble. Emma says I’ve got a fine head of hair, so maybe I should start paying more time and attention to it; have it styled or learn how to create interesting plaits.

  I stop walking and look down at my clothes. My wardrobe would benefit from an overhaul too, perhaps to include more floaty hemlines. That could be another goal on
ce I’ve increased my daily activity.

  Ruth

  I don’t move from the cottage all day. I pace the rooms and the garden with my mobile phone clutched to my side. I can’t sit, eat or even drink the countless cups of coffee Emma makes for me.

  I feel sick.

  I feel sicker knowing that Jack is there and hasn’t resolved matters.

  ‘I’ve checked her room, Mum,’ he told me earlier. ‘There’s nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. Her belongings are laid out on the dressing table – her brushes, her face cream – and that little teddy bear I had as a kid is on her bed. The only thing I couldn’t find was her slippers; the carers think she was wearing those at breakfast time.’ His words were meant to ease my mind, but they didn’t. I’m simply more upset that I’m stuck down here when I’m needed back home. I knew I shouldn’t have taken this bloody holiday.

  ‘Ruth, come and sit down,’ says Benni, who’s returned to the cottage, and is sitting at the patio table with a plate of toast. ‘You’ll tire yourself out and be good for nothing.’

  ‘I feel totally useless, Benni. I need to be doing something, anything.’

  ‘I can see you’ve already packed your suitcases and plonked them in the hallway . . .’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here enjoying myself. I need to go home, I need to find my mother.’

  ‘But if you do that, they’re bound to call you while you’re on the train to say she’s safe and well.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. When Jack was tiny, he wandered off during a Christmas shopping trip. I took my eyes off him for a second and puff he was gone. The knot in my stomach was exactly like this.’ I hold a clenched fist to the centre of my ribs. ‘I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t recall what he was wearing when a shop assistant asked me, and I’d dressed him that morning. I simply lost the plot, went blank, and now, with Mum . . . I couldn’t tell you which slippers I packed for her stay.’

  ‘Slippers don’t matter, Ruth – you do!’ She reaches for my arm and pulls me into the next seat. ‘Please try and eat something.’ She offers me the toast as if it holds magical nutritional powers.

  I duly select a piece and take a bite. The butter is salty, the bread beautiful and doughy in the centre, but the morsel is claggy as I chew.

  ‘Ruth, it isn’t your fault. This is all part of her condition, you understand that, don’t you? It might have happened if you were at home, returning from a day at the bank.’

  I finally swallow the mouthful of toast and shake my head, because she’s wrong.

  ‘No. I phone her three times a day while I’m at work. I’d have known as soon as she didn’t answer. I organise neighbours to nip in at specific times of the day to check on her. I would have been able to give an exact time to the police, whereas the care home haven’t a clue – sometime after breakfast is all they can say.’

  Benni nods reassuringly. Her kind blue eyes offer warmth and friendship.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I realise that you and Emma don’t have to worry about me – this is your holiday – and yet both of you have been great today.’

  ‘That’s what friends do for each other. I can’t imagine either of us simply heading out knowing that you’ve received such bad news. Emma told me what had happened as soon as I arrived back from the stables.’

  ‘I’ve just never had friends outside of the family before. Me and my mum were always reliant upon each other, such a tight little unit that we’ve excluded others from the circle. We should have invited people into our lives really – in hindsight, it would have made certain situations much easier – but you don’t miss what you’ve never had, do you?’ I say, picking at the triangle of bitten toast.

  ‘Not until you’re shown what you’ve been missing,’ whispers Benni, sighing heavily.

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t rely on our Jack,’ I say. ‘He has his own life to live. But I can’t rely on Mum any more either; she’s simply too frail.’

  ‘Oh Ruth, it’s never too late to have new people in your life.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be here, Benni – I should be at home looking after my mother like she looked after me. I’m down here pretending to be enjoying myself on holiday when the truth is, I have responsibilities. I’ve phoned the home every day just to ease my guilt, pretending to you and Emma that I’m fine and dandy when really I’m knotted with guilt inside, worried in case something happens. And now it has!’

  ‘You can be honest with us, Ruth. We understand your concerns; we told you that the other night. I’d love a phone call from home to show they’re missing me or want to know that I’m having a good time. And, after Monday night, I daren’t call them in case the drama has increased and they demand I come home. I pretend I don’t care, but deep down it hurts like crazy. I thought they’d miss me, but sadly it seems not.’

  Benni’s right: her mobile has been in the dining room for the majority of the holiday, and it hasn’t rung since Monday night. It must be heartbreaking for a young woman to think her family don’t care about her. I’m sure they do really – maybe they’re just not affectionate towards each other. Some families aren’t. Maybe my mother thinks I don’t care about her, after I shipped her off to the care home.

  ‘She’s been missing for ten hours,’ I say tearfully. ‘If anything happens to her, I won’t ever forgive myself.’

  ‘Don’t think like that. Nothing is going to happen to her. I’m sure that by this time tomorrow we’ll be laughing about this. When she’s safe and sound, you can continue with your holiday and focus on your painting again. You deserve some time for yourself.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I’m certain,’ Benni says emphatically. ‘Now, how about I give you a hand unpacking both your suitcases?’

  Emma

  ‘I promise, it’s worth the walk,’ says Martin as we ascend the steep incline towards Berry Head.

  I was half expecting him to walk me back to the cottage after our quiet but quick drink in the Sprat and Mackerel. My stomach churns. I feel like a teenager who knows she’ll be late for a parental curfew if she doesn’t go home now. It’s only eight o’clock, sunset is nearing but if I agree to stay our evening will lengthen – and my defences will be lowered. Deep down I know I should suggest we do this another night. Or even play the independent woman of mature years and tell him I have other plans with Ruth and Benni. Instead, I act like a naïve schoolgirl being led towards the unknown.

  ‘Emma?’

  I smile as he extends his arm for me to take. I don’t hesi­tate, linking mine in his. I’m aware of the cheesy smile I’m wearing. I wish I had a little decorum and could refrain from expressing my delight, but what’s life if we can’t share how we feel whilst linking arms with a decent guy? I’ve spent too long being guarded about my emotions, hiding my feelings and pretending to be blasé. And in thirty-nine years, where’s it got me? Childless and solo . . . well, almost. So what’s the harm in showing my pleasure? I’m hardly a slip of a thing being tempted down the wrong path in life.

  We continue along Berry Head Road. My breathing is getting heavier and my legs are shaking, not entirely due to the steady climb but also because of Martin’s proximity.

  Earlier I noticed his neatly trimmed hair and freshly shaved faced. If he chances his luck and plays his cards right, I’ll find him difficult to resist.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, peering down at me.

  I blush. How long has he been watching me? Can I feign a ‘sure thing’, or did my internal monologue register on my face as a coy smirk, giving the game away?

  ‘Fine, never better,’ I say, knowing I’ve never possessed a poker face.

  ‘You muttered something. I didn’t catch what you said . . .’

  I smile, afraid to utter a word. I fear the worst if my tongue and facial features have created a candid partnership to reveal the true workings of my mind. There�
��ll be much embarrassment on my part.

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, the panoramic view from Berry Head is second to none. You can see for miles on a clear night. It’s probably one of my favourite spots for an evening walk.’

  We continue to stride arm in arm. The tarmac road wanes to a concrete pathway on which my kitten heels sound rhythmically. The row of large guest houses is replaced by the sumptuous grounds of a stately hotel, whose entrance drive we walk past.

  ‘And how often do you take this walk?’ I ask, feigning nonchalance.

  ‘Several times a month, mainly . . . no, always on my own.’ His words linger in the space between us as if connecting us shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘How long have you been single?’ I ask, unsure whether his remark was an invitation to ask.

  ‘Five years. She wasn’t happy, so we divorced.’

  ‘And you wanted to remain married?’

  ‘I was happy, I thought we were happy, so it came as a shock, but you can only do so much by yourself, can’t you?’ he says. ‘A relationship is meant to be a two-way street, not just one-way traffic.’

  I nod as flashbacks of my own heartache replay in my head. Simultaneously, a sudden pang seizes my heart. How can wounds be reopened in a millisecond, when time has passed and you imagined they were starting to heal?

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s painful when someone you want doesn’t feel the same as you,’ I say, giving his forearm a gentle squeeze. ‘My last relationship was dictated by his insecurities; he simply wouldn’t allow me to be myself. Always correcting me, trying to overrule my views and opinions – only to sulk and give me the silent treatment when his jealousy overflowed. It makes for such difficulties and ruins everything.’

  Martin looks down at me, his eyes creasing as he gives a weak smile. His pain is clearly etched upon his brow; he’s still coping, still hurting, working through each day.

  ‘But hey, we have to look to the future, don’t we? It doesn’t do to dwell on the past.’ He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving rapidly.

  ‘I agree. So tell me, what’s so great about this place?’ I clumsily change tack, hoping to lift his mood.