Page 48 of Escape to Starshine Cove
“I don’t know. Just call me Miss Marple, I suppose. And thank you, that was very sweet of you. I’m just a bit confused about how you knew.”
“Maybe we broke into your place and stole your passport,” she replies, “from your go-bag.”
“I don’t have a go-bag,” I say, “I’ve told you several times now, I’m not a Navy SEAL or an undercover CIA operative.”
“That’s what they all say,” she answers, tapping her nose, “your secret’s safe with us.”
Little Betty, elbow deep in dough, adds: “Ignore her, love, she watches too many films. We know because you filled in a form for the rental agreement.”
My rent is £1 a month, but I still have a contract. That, I think, explains it – but does also raise other questions.
“Right. Did you…tell anyone else?”
“We didn’t, my darling,” replies Little Betty reassuringly. “Thought that if you wanted a party, you’d plan one yourself. But you’re part of the village now, and everyone who lives in the village gets a birthday cake on their big day.”
“What? Everyone?”
“Oh yes,” she says, kneading away with vigour, “everyone. We keep all the dates in a notebook. Just a little gesture.”
It might be a little gesture, but it is a lovely one, and somehow not at all surprising. I thank them again, and leave them to their very important work. I have nowhere to be, and a cake to eat.
“What shall we do today, boy?” I ask Larry, as we do a slow circuit of the green. I am now totally accustomed to saying good morning to people, to returning waves, to chatting about the weather. It feels almost normal, and I’m fast approaching the stage where I might even stroll around at night without keeping my door keys clenched in my hand as a make-shift weapon.
“We could go on an adventure,” I say, “maybe head inland for a bit? Go to Somerset maybe, we’ve not done that before, have we?”
It is mid-September and we are being treated to what will probably be the last few glorious days of summery weather. The intense heat of August has been washed away by a week of rain, and now the skies have been left clear and blue, the air calm. It is still absolutely tip-top adventuring weather – but I am feeling the call of the familiar today.
“Or, call me crazy,” I continue, “we could just go home, watch TV, and stay in bed all day…what do you reckon?”
Larry is distracted by chasing a magpie across the green, so I decide for both of us. Netflix and chill it is, except not Netflix, because I don’t have it here. I will have a deliciously lazy day, possibly a Buck’s Fizz or two, and I will maybe head over to the inn for a sneaky Starshine Special before the night is over.
We stock up on a few essential supplies at the Emporium – dog food, crumpets, orange juice, a bottle of Prosecco – before browsing the entertainments section. My little hobbit hole comes complete with a VHS machine and a DVD player, and I spend a fun few minutes choosing before I decide onDirty Dancing,Step UpandTitanic. That should keep me busy. This is shaping up to be the perfect day, in fact.
I chat to Trevor as he rings my basket up, and he nods at the films.
“Busy day planned?” he asks.
“Busy doing nothing,” I reply, gleefully. He looks at me intently, and I half expect him to deduce, using the Power of the Mind, that it is my birthday. I am a tiny bit disappointed when he doesn’t – they just don’t make Druids like they used to.
By the time I get home, the postman has delivered a few cards, which is lovely. Mark has sent me one that has a picture of a Labrador on it, and the words ‘Shit happens – dogs help’; all three of my university gal pals have bothered; and my mum and dad have even remembered. That sounds weird, but sometimes they forget – love them to bits, but they can get so carried away with their sun-soaked retirement that little things like their daughter turning 39 can slip their minds. I give them a quick call, and am blessed by the gods of phone reception – it seems to be better now I’m higher up.
Duty done and cards displayed, I prepare myself a feast of freshly buttered crumpets and birthday cake and Buck’s Fizz. I lay everything out on the little dining table, and sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to myself with gusto. This, I decide, is self-care at its very finest.
I get the video ofDirty Dancing, and it slides into the old machine with a satisfying clunk that reminds me of being much younger. I snuggle beneath the sofa, Larry at my side, glass in hand, crumpets on a plate on my lap, and sigh as Baby starts to talk about the summer of ’63 as she drives towards the family holiday that will change her life. There is something so very comforting about watching a film you’ve already seen 100 times, isn’t there?
I pass the rest of my birthday like this, and wouldn’t have it any other way. The year before, Mark had taken me to a fancy restaurant in Mayfair, where I’d felt uncomfortable for the whole evening. If someone had told me then, amid all that conspicuous wealth and women dripping with diamonds, that I’d spend the next celebration alone apart from a dog, in an attic above a bakery in deepest darkest Dorset, I wouldn’t have been able to imagine how my life would get from point A to point B. I’m still not sure how it’s all happened, but I have to simply accept that it has, and that I am most definitely happier today than I was this time last year.
I watchStep Upnext, still a guilty pleasure, and saveTitanicfor last. I push aside my usual reservations – assessments of how much room there actually was on that floating door, and what a waste it is when Rose throws her priceless Heart of the Ocean necklace into the sea instead of, I don’t know, donating it to charity – and simply go with the flow.
I have had quite a few glasses of Buck’s Fizz by this point, and my breaks to take Larry out for a wee have been getting quite exciting as I traverse the steps to my room. By the time I reach the end sequence, and Rose glides up the staircase in Titanic Heaven to be reunited with Jack, I am ruined – crying so much that I might need a lifeboat myself. It is a good cry, though, a cathartic cry – a letting-go cry that is making me feel better, not worse.
Larry doesn’t quite understand this, and is snuffling at my face, squirming on my lap as he tries to console me.
“It’s okay, boy,” I tell him, stroking his floppy ears, “all is well…”
We are both surprised when the walkie-talkie suddenly flares into life, and I stare at him in confusion as a voice says: “Pub Daddy calling Dr Zhivago, over…”
Larry jumps off my lap and goes to bark at it, which is a completely understandable reaction. I retrieve it from the bookcase, and really hope there isn’t some kind of medical emergency going on somewhere in Starshine Cove – I am not drunk as such, but I definitely wouldn’t drive a car.
