New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  The kitchen clock already reads twenty minutes to midnight, but what do I care? I’m doing what makes me happy, and if I don’t get this batch into the freezer much before one o’clock in the morning, who’s to mind? The restaurant manager isn’t going to complain, given that his staff will still be clearing away at that time. As long as the ice cream is frozen and delivered by Monday morning, ready for the wedding on Wednesday, everyone is happy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Saturday 1 September

  Ruth

  I’m up with the lark. We have to pack and clean before we hand over the keys at ten o’clock, and given that we’ll need breakfast before travelling back, we’d best make haste.

  ‘Morning, Benni,’ I say as I reach the bottom stair and find her entering the front door, dressed in black leggings and a baggy T-shirt. ‘Have you been out?’

  It’s only when she looks up that I see she’s not her usual self. Her eyes are red raw, her nose is running uncontrollably and her breath is laboured.

  ‘I thought I’d . . . give jogging a go before I went home.’

  ‘Are you serious? Over the last two weeks you’ve climbed hills every day, mucked out stables and raced through dense woodland to raise the alarm, but today you feel the need to try a little extra?’

  ‘Yep . . .’ she says, panting heavily. ‘I’m dying here, Ruth. If you wouldn’t mind . . . I need to sit down.’

  I stand aside as she hobbles into the dining room and flops into a chair.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, unsure what I’ll do if she faints.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I was worse than this at the stables. I thought if I can just keep the momentum going when I arrive home, there’s a chance I’ll wear out my new trainers, since I haven’t managed to do that in the last fortnight.’

  ‘Such a grand fail, that, along with falling asleep on a busy fishing trawler,’ I say, making my way to the kitchen to start breakfast.

  ‘True, very true. I’m grateful Ziggy saw my true colours, so he probably won’t invite me again.’

  Benni’s taking a shower and I’m clearing away our breakfast things – my waffles turned out nothing like Emma’s – when the doorbell rings. I glance at my watch: 9.30.

  I open the front door half expecting it to be the owners trying their luck and turfing us out before our time. I’m ready to say my piece, given that we’ve cleaned and tidied the place to within an inch of its life. I’m sure many a holidaymaker waltzes out bang on ten leaving it looking like a pigsty.

  It isn’t the owners. It’s Dean.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ he asks, standing sheepishly on the doorstep. ‘I know you’re leaving today.’

  ‘You can, but I haven’t much to say.’

  I stand back, allowing him to pass. His expression is doleful, his greying head lowered, possibly with embarrassment.

  ‘I wanted to explain myself,’ he says. ‘Ruth, I imagine you’re upset, but believe me when I say I did it for the right reasons. I’ve been on my own for a long time, and seeing you painting without a care in the world . . . I recognised that spirit. I know how it feels to paint with such joy and passion, and I wanted to be part of your journey. I even hoped we could strike up a rapport; that perhaps there was a chance of us getting to know each other better. You might call me a silly old goat, whatever ridiculous term best fits, but I need you to know. I like you. I like your style and I wanted to encourage you in any way I could. It sounds ridiculous, I know. I didn’t do it out of spite, and I hope in time you realise that and can accept my apology. The fact that I gave you the money we agreed on proves I wasn’t trying to swindle you.’

  I stand motionless, listening to his words. They sound genu­ine. It sounds like a valid reason.

  ‘You could have been honest, told me all this to start with,’ I say.

  ‘I could have been, should have been, but what’s an old fool to say when a woman a decade his junior is holidaying on her own? I didn’t want to come across as some letchy old guy, make you feel uncomfortable by asking you out.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  It makes sense, but still the manner in which he behaved caused me hurt and meant I didn’t finish the seal painting as I’d hoped.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I appreciate your honesty.’ I turn towards the door, knowing that time is marching on.

  ‘I just wanted to wish you a safe journey and say how sorry I am.’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  I am surprised as anyone that that is true.

  I turn the latch and hold the front door wide. Dean pats my arm on passing but says nothing more.

  Once the door closes, I lean against it and sigh.

  ‘Did he have a valid reason?’ calls Benni from the top of the stairs.

  ‘Yep, and I’m fine with his version, but it doesn’t change my plans. I’m still heading towards my new beginning.’

  ‘Go Ruth!’

  ‘Yeah, go me!’

  Benjamina

  ‘It’s five to ten, Ruth . . . they’ll be here any minute,’ I call from the doorstep of Rose Cottage, keeping an eye on our suitcases stashed by the wrought-iron gate.

  ‘I’m ready. I just wanted to check we hadn’t left anything, though I’m sure they’ll post it on if we have.’

  I watch as two cars slowly draw up the road and stop a short distance away. One is my dad’s car; the other is Ruth’s taxi.

  I feel sad knowing my holiday is ending. Two weeks ago, I trundled up the hill dragging my suitcase, my ponytail sticking to my glowing skin, my elasticated waistband tight and my feet aching. Now, though my messy bun doesn’t look as good as Emma’s version, and my make-up is very subtle, I’ve managed it. My skirt is loose and I’m wearing trainers. And more import­antly, I have a head full of ideas and plans for my new beginning.

  ‘Are you sure my dad can’t drop you anywhere?’ I ask for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I’m sure,’ says Ruth, appearing from the dining room and closing the door firmly behind her. ‘I want one last look at the cove so I can finish the seal painting properly. The driver said he’s prepared to wait, as long as the meter’s running. Have you returned the keys to the safe?’

  ‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Now come here so I can say goodbye; my dad’s waiting to drop me at the station.’

  I step on to the pathway and Ruth joins me, slamming the door to Rose Cottage behind us. I wrap my arms around her slender frame and hug her tight. I don’t really want to let go, but I know I must.

  ‘I’ll give you a ring later in the week, OK?’ I say, eager to keep in touch.

  ‘Please do. We’ll let Emma know the details and we can catch up over lunch sometime.’

  ‘I hope your mum’s on good form when you collect her tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sure she will be. I’ve phoned every morning and there haven’t been any other emergencies.’

  ‘Mind how you go,’ I say, as Ben climbs from his car to greet me.

  ‘Safe journey, Benni . . . see you soon,’ Ruth replies, as the taxi driver opens the boot ready for her bags.

  I take a last look at Rose Cottage, memorising the image: the wrought-iron gate, the rambling roses growing above the bay window, and the pretty lilac paintwork.

  I smile.

  Bye, Rose Cottage, I say silently. I’ve got a funny feeling it won’t be long before my new beginnings truly start.

  ‘Now remember what I said: you’re welcome any time, you hear me,’ says Ben, stroking my cheek before I board the waiting train. ‘I don’t want any excuses; we’re happy for you to visit whenever you’re free.’

  ‘I promise I will. I’ll phone next weekend to make arrangements.’

  ‘And Benni, don’t take any bull from your mum or Dan. Say what you want to say and let them deal with their own issues. Pave yo
ur yellow brick road and be happy.’

  With that, he plants a fatherly kiss on my forehead and helps me up on to the train with my suitcase.

  I step from the bus and walk the length of Redwood Drive practising my opening lines. I’m so consumed by my thoughts that I’m oblivious to the annoying rattle of my suitcase’s plastic wheels.

  I’m lugging my belongings home, but that isn’t the weighty issue causing me to drag my feet. My heart feels heavier with each step. If I chicken out or back down, there’s a good chance I’ll slot straight back into my old world. Breakfast, vinegar factory, home, bed and repeat.

  I must be honest with my family, but most importantly I need to be true to myself. I have a valid reason.

  I want the new me.

  I want a relationship with my dad.

  I want to address my diet and lifestyle habits.

  I want to start enjoying my life.

  I want a horse.

  I pause, stop mid stride and smile.

  I want a new beginning.

  I want to pave my brand-new yellow brick road.

  My pace quickens. I know what I want to achieve, so what the hell is there to fear?

  The rows of houses fade into squat bungalows with adjoining driveways and garage frontages. The road gently descends to a dip prior to a sweeping ascent, and I stop outside our ­bungalow, perfectly positioned in a dip in the road’s landscape. I glance towards the steep climb to my right – never before have I thought of my home as sitting within a deep rut from which I would one day need to escape.

  The bungalow looks unchanged. Dan’s battered Ford stands on the concrete driveway, the jokey window stickers curling, the off-side panel dented and scratched. A sense of déjà vu overwhelms me as I struggle to turn my suitcase sideways and work the plastic wheels into position to manoeuvre past the vehicle.

  Is it really just two weeks since I did this on the outward journey, struggling without assistance?

  I always think it strange that our family enters the bungalow via the rear entrance rather than a front hallway. Something in the bungalow’s planning was arse about face, much like our existence as a dysfunctional family.

  I select the back-door key and unlock the latch.

  I drag my suitcase inside the tiny kitchen and close the door, looking around at the Formica surfaces, the lace net at the window and the sink full of dirty saucepans. The telly blares from the neighbouring lounge.

  Nice to see nothing has changed in my absence: it’s eight o’clock, food is eaten and the telly is on. Nothing ever changes.

  A pair of aged rubber swirls hang from the taps; each has a droplet of water suspended from its lower edge, as if silently weeping.

  Home.

  How great would it be to be thrilled or even a tad excited to be back? But I’m not.

  I leave my suitcase by the back door and make my way through to the lounge. Even before I get there, I know what I’ll see. Mum will be sitting in her armchair, staring at the telly, the remote control resting reassuringly in her right hand. Dan will be stretched out on the sofa by the window, his socks peeled off and abandoned on the floor, either gawping at the box or asleep, snoring inanely.

  I open the door, back in my familiar world, much like Lucy returning through the wardrobe.

  ‘Hi,’ I say brightly.

  ‘Hiya,’ says Mum, her eyes not leaving the illuminated screen.

  ‘Yo,’ mutters Dan, scratching his armpit and briefly glancing in my direction before returning his attention to the TV.

  I stand and wait. The wall clock is the underlying beat signifying that life does exist here, regardless of the impression.

  I count the seconds, slow and steady in my head, a habit from my childhood: one, two, three, four, five . . . twelve, thirteen, fourteen . . . twenty-six, twenty-seven . . .

  Nothing else is said.

  Is this my punishment for not cutting short my holiday to attend their drama?

  Have I really been away for a fortnight? Have I travelled all the way from Brixham by train and bus merely to be greeted like this?

  I stare between the two beings, both fixated on their TV.

  Have my family not noticed that the third person who inhabits the bungalow hasn’t been visible for the last fourteen days?

  ‘Benni?’ mutters Dan, shifting his position on the sofa. ‘Put the kettle on, would ya?’

  If I need a signal, the green light to give me permission to please myself, this is surely it.

  Every sinew in my body wants to rejoice. I reject their lifestyle. I know Tina at the agency will be mighty peeved with me, the manager of the production line miffed at the loss of a decent worker, but I will be elsewhere, severing ties in numerous directions to pursue my new beginning, along with the new me.

  I don’t say a single word. I simply walk through the lounge, heading towards the hallway area and my bedroom. As I close the door after me, I hear my name again.

  I poke my head back around the door jamb.

  ‘Are you not moving your suitcase?’ asks Mum, her eyes still fixed on the TV.

  ‘No, Mum, I’m not.’ I gently close the lounge door, knowing that my time here is done.

  I don’t know why I was nervous about their reaction. They’ll cope just fine without me.

  Ruth

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you quite so soon, but come in, make yourself at home,’ I say, giving Benni a bear hug. She looks exactly as she did some ten hours ago: same suitcase, same attire, though decidedly more tear-stained.

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,’ she says, heaving her case over the doorstep as I shuffle backwards to accommodate her. ‘Are you sure it isn’t a bother? What with your mother and all.’

  ‘Of course it’s not. I don’t collect Mum until tomorrow. You’re welcome to stay in Jack’s old room.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with me calling on you, like this?’

  I interrupt, only to repeat my welcome. It’s obvious she’s self-conscious about dropping in on me, but having spent the last three hours listening to the rhythmical mocking of the mantelpiece clock, I’m happy to see her.

  ‘Top of the stairs, second door on your right . . . go up, make yourself comfy. I’ll pop the kettle on. There’s nothing that a decent brew can’t fix,’ I say, heading towards the kitchen. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘No, thanks, I ate on the train . . . just tea for me.’ She starts to hoist her case up the stairs.

  I fuss about with kettle and cups, find a packet of bourbons, then take the tray into the lounge. The clock is quieter somehow, its ticking less mocking than before, and the room doesn’t feel as cold and empty as it did when I arrived home. That initial moment of putting my key in the door, breathing in the stale air of a fortnight of locked windows, instantly stole my holiday joy.

  Beyond the pimpled ceiling I can hear the muted movement of life. It sounds comforting, secure and welcoming . . . as a home should feel.

  ‘Nice place,’ says Benni, bounding like an energetic pup into the lounge. I’m glad to see her mood has brightened in a matter of minutes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I was born in this house, so I didn’t choose it, but I did decorate it.’ And pay for it, I want to add, but change my mind. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  ‘Anywhere?’ asks Benni, pointing between the sofa and an armchair.

  ‘Of course.’ I frown, unsure of her meaning.

  ‘It’s just that in our house everyone has a specific seat, and woe betide you if you sit in someone else’s chair. I wasn’t sure if one belonged to your mum.’

  ‘Nope, technically they all belong to me,’ I say, though I understand what she means. When I was a small girl, my father used to sit in the armchair next to the fire, but since his death four decades ago, there’ve been no hard and fast
rules – well, not about chairs anyway. I pour the tea to distract myself from memories, good and bad.

  ‘What have you been doing since you got back?’ she asks.

  ‘Not much. I had a busy hour unpacking my case, loading the washing machine and opening the mail – just bills, I’m afraid. And you? How were they?’

  ‘Still watching TV, as they were when I left two weeks ago. They didn’t even ask if I’d had a nice time, can you believe that?’

  I pass her a cup and saucer. She takes the cup, leaving the saucer in my grasp. I return it to the tray as the briefest of smiles dawns upon my face. How could anyone ignore this young woman and allow her to plod to her bedroom to sit alone for an hour and ponder?

  ‘I’ve made a list,’ she says proudly. ‘An official “new beginnings” list.’

  My obvious confusion prompts her to continue.

  ‘I suppose it’s like a bucket list, but maybe the list before the bucket list.’

  ‘OK,’ I laugh. I laugh more when she puts down her cup and begins to reel off each item, counting them on her fingers as she goes.

  ‘I want the new me, but all the time. I want to build a relationship with my dad – though my mum will probably go mad about that. I need to diet and address my lifestyle habits. I want to meet more new people and start enjoying being young before I’m actually old.’ She pauses.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now don’t laugh but if I can achieve all those things, I would like . . . no, I want a horse.’

  ‘You want a horse . . . where did that come from?’

  ‘I’ve grown quite attached since I visited the stables. They’re such lovely creatures.’

  ‘So what’s stopping you from doing all of that?’

  ‘It used to be me,’ she says. ‘But not any more. They don’t realise, but by ignoring me when I arrived home, they’ve given me the biggest wake-up call I could ever ask for.’

  She’s angry; I can see it bubbling up from her boots as she speaks.

  ‘Do you know what, Ruth, I actually felt sorry for them when I was away. I felt awful for enjoying myself by the sea amongst strangers, seeing and doing new things, knowing that my mum and brother were back home in their usual routine. When the reality is that they don’t care a jot what I do or even where I am. Well, they might be satisfied with their lives, but I’m not.’