The next few days stretch into a week, and that week stretches into two. The weather is changing, the sky often patterned with dark grey cloud among the blue, the wind whistling up from the bay, the summer-dry grass soaking up the frequent showers. The wildflowers have faded, and already the trees around the Rockery are starting to shed, their leaves crinkling into flyaway gold and bronze shards.
I’m changing, too, I think. I’ve spent a lot of time walking, and thinking, and reading. Along the cliffs, on the beach, miles along to the old boat shed that nobody seems to use any more. My fitness levels are definitely on the up, and I’ve found myself pondering things my busy brain usually chooses to avoid.
Pondering Kate, and the hole she’s left in our lives – how much she’d love it here, and how much I’d love to be sharing it with her. Pondering Barbara, and her spiky texts and cold veneer, and how much pain she must be hiding beneath it. Pondering my own parents, who I’ve not seen for so long and have no desire to see.
My father was a petty criminal and drug user, and he wasn’t especially good at either. This resulted in him repeatedly getting caught in possession of stolen goods, getting caught with a handbag he’d just liberated from an old lady leaving church, getting caught with enough marijuana to keep the Grateful Dead tour bus happy stuffed into his socks, and getting caught with his ankle in a Rottweiler’s mouth during an attempted burglary. Honestly, he was so inept, he might as well have walked round wearing a stripey shirt, an eye mask, and carrying a bag marked ‘swag.’
My mother was only 16 when she had me, and already on a downward spiral. Her specialty was forging cheques, which seems a quaint crime these days. Martha probably doesn’t even know what a cheque is. My mother, who blessed me with my red hair, was also good at getting caught – for the forgeries, for benefit fraud, and on one glorious occasion for relieving my primary school of its Guide Dogs for the Blind collection box.
The whole of my childhood was chaos. Either chaos at home, or chaos in foster care. I’m not sure which was worse – but I do know that I would probably have been better off if I’d simply been given away at birth. Now, with the adult wisdom I was working hard to attain, I see the tragedy of it all wasn’t just mine – it was theirs as well. Their wasted lives, and lost potential, and constant circling pattern of self-destruction. Self-destruction that almost took me down with them.
When I was old enough, I cut myself off from them. It wasn’t even hard – because they barely noticed me anyway. I sometimes wonder what happened to them, and occasionally have the urge to reach out. Someone – a mutual friend I bumped into in town – told me years ago that my mother had ‘cleaned up her act.’ That she was in counselling, and had a new flat, and would probably love to hear from me.
I’d nodded, and smiled, and got away as fast as I could, taking the long way home to Kate in my paranoia – concerned that someone would be following me, and my escape plan would be foiled. Yeah, I know – it’s all those books I read.
Now, here, in this beautiful place, I have decided that one day, perhaps, I will reach out. That one day, I might actually be grown up enough to put the past behind me, and go and find her. Not, though, today – today I was dealing with my usual problem.
Martha.
Because while the weather was changing, and I was changing, she … wasn’t. Or maybe she was. I just didn’t know – because she barely ever spoke to me. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t being aggressive, or wild, or even defiant. She’s not once smelled of booze, and I haven’t even caught her having a fag in the woods behind the cottage.
Every day, she’s got up on time, and gone to college. Every day, she’s come home, eaten dinner, done homework, and gone to her room to listen to music. Music she doesn’t even play too loud. It’s been a rinse-and-repeat cycle of this since she started college, and bizarrely this behaviour has me almost as worried as when she was swigging vodka from her water bottle and sneaking out to go to The Dump.
I’ve tried to communicate, to cajole, to joke. To get her to go on walks with me, or come for a swim, or out for a pub lunch. Each time, I’ve been closed down. Shut out, with a level of cold politeness that freezes my blood. I’m not used to politeness from Martha. I’m used to screaming and swearing and the ever-present threat that we may end up rolling round on the floor pulling each other’s hair.
This morning, I told her to come straight to the Café after college, instead of home, as we’d been invited to dinner there. The people I’d started to get to know, and who I was thinking of as friends, would all be there – and, well, free food.
She pulled a face at me, then seemed to remind herself that even doing that was giving too much away.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” I’d said, trying to budge her from her indifference.
“If you say I have to come, then I will,” she replied, clutching her backpack and staring at a fascinating spot over my shoulder. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”
“Martha, please don’t be like that!” I’d squeaked.
“Like what? Obedient? I thought that’s what you wanted. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m going to college. I’m getting on with my work. I’m being a good little robot child, just like you asked.”
“That’s not what I wanted, or what I asked … and you know that. Come to the cafe with Lizzie and Nate and Josh, and at least give it all a chance, will you? There’ll be cake!”
I don’t know why I added that. Cake might be a deciding factor in many things, but changing a surly, grief-stricken teenager’s mind isn’t one of them. She didn’t reply – she was too busy slamming the door behind her and leaving the cottage.
So now, as I sit in Paperback Corner in the cafe, I feel nervous. I’m not entirely sure if she’s going to turn up, or if she does, if she’ll speak to me. She’s never rude to the others – in particular, she seems to respond well to Cherie’s particular brand of care – but she doesn’t really interact either. I caught her staring at Surfer Sam’s backside a few days ago, but she’s only human – and he is an especially fine specimen of manhood. When I’d tried to catch her eye and laugh about it afterwards, she gave me the reptile gaze and turned away.
Lizzie and Josh seem to have given up trying to make friends with her, and I can’t say that I blame them. They’re still polite around each other, but there’s no warmth. I know from Laura that Lizzie feels bad for Martha, and wants to help her, but like myself she’s being frozen out. They don’t chat on the bus, and Martha’s ignored her friend request on Facebook – the ultimate teenaged knock-back.
I am flicking through a battered copy of Jamaica Inn as I wait, with 91-year-old Edie May sitting next to me. She is engrossed in the latest Jack Reacher novel, bless her. Edie, I have been discovering, is wonderful company. She was a librarian for years, and has an endless knowledge of books and poetry. Her enthusiasm for literature only seems to be rivalled by her enthusiasm for Strictly Come Dancing, which she is bubbling with excitement about as the latest series is imminent.
Like bookish people the world over, we are happy to sit and read and occasionally chat, not seeing it as a snub if the other person disappears off into another world for a while mid-sentence.
Laura is in the kitchen with Cherie, whisking up something that smells delightful. She’s trying out parts of her autumn and winter menu on us, and I’m happy to be the guinea pig. Becca is here, slumped on a bean bag that she actually brought with her, saying the wooden chairs were ‘some kind of torture device.’
She’s slouched in a corner, Sam next to her, holding her hand and saying something that makes her laugh. She’s due this week, but has convinced herself that ‘Binky’ will be late. It doesn’t seem to be filling her with joy, and I can’t say that I blame her – she’s endured a long, hot summer while the size of a house, and now has some screaming agony to look forward to.
Matt is outside with Frank, doing something rugged and masculine with fence posts and a hammer, and Willow is at home with her mum. Willow’s mum, Lynnie, suffers from early-onset Alzheimer’s, so she can’t always get out. I can only imagine how hard that must be, but it never seems to affect the pink-haired wonder’s mood. She’s always upbeat and cheerful and cracking some weird joke or another.
Scrumpy Joe, who runs a local ‘cider cave’, has come bearing gifts, which are clinking away in a carrier bag as he walks through the door. Midgebo immediately runs over to investigate, clearly disappointed when his frantic sniffing only turns up some large brown bottles.
I glance at my watch, and see that it’s almost half four. That means the college bus should be reaching the village, and the young people should be making their trudge to the cafe.
“Don’t worry, dear,” says Edie, without even appearing to glance up at me, “she’ll be fine. This is the best place for her. Stroppy teenagers are our specialist subject.”
“Really? There aren’t that many of them …”
“Well, when I say teenagers, I mean people who act like them. And that’s including Cherie over yonder, in her time, as well as my beautiful Becca. Stroppy, I tell you. But there’s only so long you can stay angry, or sad, when you live in a place like this, with people like this. You’ll see, you will.”
She’s still not taken her eyes from Jack Reacher, but I try and believe her. Even if she sounds a bit like some kind of West Country Yoda, with her curvy accent and near-mystical pronouncements.
I give up on Jamaica Inn. I’ve read it thirty times already, and I’m too distracted watching the door. As soon as I put it back on the shelf, they arrive – or at least Nate and Lizzie and Josh do.
They pile into the café, an explosion of colour (mainly purple), and chatter, and laughter. Josh is nudging Lizzie, who is giggling, and Nate drops his bag to the floor before bellowing: “Mother! Mother, where art thou? Your only son has returned and he needs cake!”
I have to smile at that one. He’s a 13-year-old-boy. Of course he needs cake. I glance at Lizzie, who has bounced over to say hello. She’s one of those kids who has so much energy she seems to bounce everywhere, as if she’s attached to an invisible pogo stick. I know she’s 16 very soon, and has all the sarcasm to go with that age, but she also seems to be living in a very different world to the other16 year old I know.
I say hi, and don’t even ask. It’s not fair to ask – to put Lizzie in a position where she feels like she has to be Martha’s watchdog.
“Don’t worry, she’s just behind us,” she says anyway. “She was on the bus, but avoided us on the way back. We kept being deliberately slow to annoy her – ha ha, she should have jogged ahead! Anyway, she’ll be here any minute …”
Sure enough, the door swings open, and Martha appears. She’s wrapped up in Kate’s Glastonbury hoodie, which seems to do a constant jig between the two of us, and her long black hair has been whipped around her face by the wind. She nods in our direction, at least acknowledging our existence, before dropping her bag onto the pile and heading for the toilet. Teenagers. You will know them by the trail of their backpacks.
I’m relieved she’s here, but also sad to see her like this. There’s just no joy left in her. No, not joy … she hasn’t had any of that since Kate got ill. There’s no anything left in her. Not even fight – or at least that’s what it feels like to me.
“You need to give her a bit of time,” says Lizzie, patting my hand like she’s my mum. “It’s hard, what she’s been through. And moving here when she didn’t really want to – that takes a lot of getting used to, it makes you feel so angry. And it’s harder for her – at least when my dad died, I still had my Mum. Martha, well, she’s only got –”
She trails off, looking flustered, as she realises that what she was about to say might be construed as vaguely insulting. I laugh, and shake my head to show her I’m not. Insulted, that is.
“Yeah. I know. She’s only got me. I’m doing my best, but … well, you’re right. I need to give her some time.”
Martha emerges from the ladies with slightly more organised hair, and minus the hoodie. Underneath she’s wearing a David Bowie T-shirt that I think is actually mine, but now doesn’t seem to be the time to cause a scene. I’ll just steal it back next time it’s in the wash, which may or may not be within the next year.
Predictably enough, she ignores us, and instead perches herself on a stool by the counter, where she proceeds to read a copy of King Lear. She’s come to the café, straight from college, as I requested, and now she’s doing school work. I can hardly complain, can I?
I try not to stare at her, and look around the room instead. I notice that Midgebo, maybe hoping to make up for the crushing disappointment of the cider bottle stash, has headed for the pile of discarded teenagers’ backpacks. He starts to rummage, burying his furry black nose into the mound of canvas, using his paws to dig as though he’s looking for a bone.
Laura emerges from the kitchen, her face rosy and a three-foot halo of frizzy hair around her face, to see what’s going on.
“Midge! Bad dog!” she says, her heart clearly not in it. It’s almost impossible to chastise Midegbo, he’s so appealing.
The dog looks at her briefly, tongue panting out from his excavations, then goes immediately back to it. Eventually, after an especially determined tunnelling, he emerges with his prize.
A now battered packet of Marlboro Lights.
He runs around the room with them in his mouth, scattering half-bitten cigs all over the place, ragging the packet back and forth like it’s a chew toy. Laura grabs hold of his collar, and tells him repeatedly to drop. He repeatedly ignores her, mashing and shaking the pack until it is showering them both with tobacco and mushed up paper.
Eventually, she manages to wrangle them out of his grip, and is left with the soggy remnants held in her hands. Everyone is watching, most people trying not to laugh.
“I thought he was on the nicotine patches?” says Becca from her bean bag, which is enough to push everyone over the edge.
Everyone except me, of course. And Martha, who is looking on in absolute horror. She notices my expression, and immediately pretends to be engrossed in King Lear again. Lizzie, sitting next to me, obviously sees this silent exchange.
“They were mine!” she says, jumping up to her feet and shouting it to the rooftops. “Those cigarettes – they were mine! I only tried one, and I didn’t like it, and I won’t do it again, but … they were mine, honest!”
Everyone is now looking at Lizzie. Becca is smiling, in a ‘yeah, right’ kind of way. Cherie has emerged from the kitchen to see what the fuss is about, a tea towel slung over a shoulder and hands on her hips. Laura looks strangely proud, considering her daughter’s shock announcement.
Or maybe it’s not so strange, I decide. Because every single person in this room knows – with the possible exception of Nate, who is looking a bit confused – that those cigarettes do not belong to Lizzie. Every single person in this room knows that they actually belong to Martha, and Lizzie was simply engaging in some mis-guided attempt to protect her from my wrath.
Funnily enough, though, I’m not actually feeling that wrathful. I’m actually feeling ever-so-slightly hopeful. Because I am looking at Martha. Who is looking at Lizzie. And actually smiling.