Page 33 of Secrets of Starshine
“As they’re both over eighty, it seems highly unlikely. Quick drink first? Tea or gin?”
“Better stick to tea,” I reply sadly. “Not a good idea to be drunk in charge of sharp objects, especially when they’re near people’s ears.”
We put our feet up on chairs that Connie pulls over, and enjoy a few moments of blessed silence and rest. The music has finished, and I am actually enjoying the peace and quiet. Even Larry, who Ella has left with us while she takes Miranda to the hospital, seems content – curled up in a furry ball beneath Connie’s seat.
Just as I’m finishing up my tea, George arrives, takes in the scene, and says: “Ah. The calm after the storm. I believe there was an impromptu hospital run?”
“Yep!” replies Connie, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Looks like we might get our Christmas baby after all. And Cally here blow-dried her hair first!”
“Well, it’s good to have your priorities straight. James helped me load the care packages into your van, Connie, so you’re good to go. He’s taken your car to the hospital to see how things are progressing.”
I have seen Connie’s car – it is a bright pink Fiat 500 with eyelashes drawn over the front headlights. I smile as I imagine James behind the wheel.
Connie leaves Larry with George, and we head around to the pub car park, where her small white van is waiting for us. It has the words “Cove Café” painted on the side, along with illustrations of sandcastles and seashells, and as vans go is very pretty.
As we drive, she explains that we are only visiting two people for hair purposes, but a few more to drop off packages.
“It’s for the ones who don’t want to come tomorrow, but who we think might appreciate a bit of a cheering up. It’s not much – some cakes from the Betties, quiche and pies from me, chocolates from Trevor, some wine from Jake…just a little bit of a treat, you know?”
I do know, and I think it sounds great. I wonder if, when I get home, I might look into setting up something similar myself for next year. There must be plenty of people who are a bit isolated, maybe a bit fed up, stuck on their own. Just because you live in a city doesn’t mean you can’t get lonely – in fact it’s probably worse, seeing everyone else going about their busy lives when you don’t have anywhere to be. I know enough clients who run their own businesses to maybe be able to pull something together, and I’m turning the idea over in my mind as we drive.
The road wends in and out of the hillside, following winding curves that at some points leave me feeling as though we are driving on air. There hasn’t been any more snow, but the trees and homes we pass are still coated white and gleaming as the last sun of the day shines down. There are glimpses of the sea, of red and gold cliffs that stretch around the coastline, an isolated boat bobbing in the distance.
We drop off four parcels first, and then call off at a detached house perched on the side of the hill for a quick visit with an elderly lady called Josie. Her hair is uneven and straggly with a blunt fringe that bears all the hallmarks of a home hack. I do the best I can to add some volume with layers, and once the dead ends are gone it looks a lot better. Well, in all honesty, it looks a bit like one of the helmets Sam’s Playmobil people used to wear, but she seems delighted with it, which is what matters.
Our final stop is at the home of Ed and Viola, who George mentioned to me earlier. Their bungalow is right at the top of the incline, fronted by a garden that flows down the hillside in gentle terraces. In summer, it must be idyllic, sitting out here and gazing off to infinity. Even at night, I bet it’s something special, looking down on the village and all its magical lights – like being on top of the world.
As we are ushered in, I look around and see a perfectly spotless home that looks as though it’s doubling as a TV set from the eighties. The curtains, the wallpaper, the swirling pattern on the carpets – everything is decades out of date. In fact it’s so out of date it’s probably fashionable again... I even spot an old-fashioned phone with a rotary dial, and a shelving unit that contains CDs and a collection of honest-to-goodness cassette tapes. The TV is housed in a polished wooden unit and comes complete with a massive back – I’d kind of forgotten the time before flat screens.
Ed and Viola themselves must be in their eighties or even nineties, but their only concession to age is the walking cane that Ed is using, and Viola’s plush, well upholstered recliner chair. She tells us it was a Christmas present to herself, laughing as she demonstrates by sitting in it, pressing a button, and pointing delightedly to her legs whooshing up and down. She seems absolutely mesmerised by it.
Once she’s stopped whooshing, and failed to persuade us to have even more tea, I ask if she’d like me to do her hair.
“Oh no, dear,” she replies, looking mildly offended. “I’m quite happy with mine, thank you – I had it permed a couple of weeks ago when we had to go into town for a check-up on my cataracts. It’s himself who needs a tidy up.”
Ed pulls a face, but by this time has clearly learned that the secret to a happy marriage is simply doing what he’s told. He’s already washed it, and sits obediently on a chair with a towel around his shoulders while I start giving him a trim.
“So,” Viola says, peering over my shoulder as I work, “George tells us you might have stayed in Puffin, years ago.”
I look confused, and Ed adds: “That’s one of our cottages, dear. They’re all named after birds, you see?”
“Oh, right! Well, maybe – I don’t remember too much. I know I had a bunk bed and slept in different parts each night. There was a log fire, I think. And seashells, I can picture seashells in the…I want to say in the bathroom?”
“Yes!” Viola says triumphantly. “There was a big mirror in there, and our daughter Louise had collected shells from the beach, and we glued them to the frame. She got bored after that one, and only Puffin had it, so we’re on the right track. Now, from what you’ve told George, we looked it up in our files, and we found three bookings with the name Jones. I’ve got them all, and made some notes!”
“Wow – you still keep files from that far back?” says Connie, looking impressed. Her approach to office work is probably a bit less efficient.
“Oh yes, they’re all in cabinets, out in the garage, arranged by month and year, then alphabetised. Dreadfully unfashionable now, I know, but we never quite got comfortable with computers. These days we have a nice man in Weymouth who sorts all that out for us. Anyway, let me see…”
She walks, very slowly, to a shining dining table, and retrieves a small stack of papers. A few moments pass where she looks for her glasses, finally realises they’re around her neck on a chain, and then she walks just as slowly back.
“So,” she says, after perusing the sheets for a moment, “one of our Joneses from that winter had a dog with them. In fact, I think it was a black Lab, now I come to recall – nice old boy called Wilbur. Was that you?”
“No, we didn’t have a dog,” I reply, working my way around Ed’s fringe. “And I’m amazed you can remember that kind of detail from all those years ago!”
She dismisses the comment with a wave of her hand, and says: “Dear, I’ve reached the stage where that’s the only kind of detail I do remember. Ask me something about 1982 and I’ll be with you quick as a flash – ask me what day of the week it is and you might be waiting a while! Not generally much use, but it does help in situations like this…now, the next set of Joneses had two children with them. And I seem to think they were little boys who were always either kicking a ball or kicking each other. Do you remember them, Ed?”
“I do, love – they’re the ones who broke the standard lamp playing football inside the house, weren’t they?”
