Page 46 of Secrets of Starshine
In that much, at least, I am sincere. Archie is a busy man, and a man who is clearly still grieving for his lost wife – why on earth would he be thinking about me?
“I call bullshit on that one, Mum! You’re a babe, for an old lady, and you two seem to get on really well. All I’m saying is, don’t rule anything out – even if things go wrong, it’s all good for your emotional immune system, isn’t it?”
I narrow my eyes at him, not at all enjoying hearing my own advice thrown back at me.
“My emotional immune system is very robust already, thank you. Anyway. Enough. It’s after nine – off you go. I have a hot date with Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod…”
He pulls a face, and answers: “That film is so lame. Even Christopher Lambert’s gorgeousness doesn’t make up for the rest of it. Okay, last chance – here’s an idea, why don’t you come to the pub instead?”
“Are you kidding? I have everything I need for the perfect night in! Now go!”
He holds his hands up in defeat, and cheekily scoops up a few more Maltesers on his way out. I don’t even have to nag him about putting his big coat on, because it’s been noticeably less cold today and he is only walking a hundred yards. A hundred yards, to a place where I know he will be safe – the perfect compromise.
I haul myself out of the flesh-eating sofa, get a small mound of food and the bottle of fizz, and settle down. I don’t want to think about stuff that hurts my brain, and in time-honoured tradition, the best way to avoid it is to think about something else entirely.
I hit play with the remote control, and immerse myself in the story of an immortal time-travelling hero. I don’t know why I like this film so much – it’s almost as old as me, and hasn’t aged especially well, and I know that technically there are probably far better movies out there. But for some reason, I’ve just always found it incredibly addictive. One of my go-to options when the old mind-palace needs a rest.
I enjoy a very pleasant evening watching it, even if I already know the script, and even if the bit where Queen singWho Wants To Live Foreveralways makes me cry – it’s a really moving part of the film, and then once I’m having a little weep, I get sad about Freddie Mercury as well. It’s quite the rollercoaster. Luckily, I still have half a box of Maltesers left to cheer me up.
After that, I follow time-honoured tradition and watch Jools Holland and various musicians bring in the New Year. I smile when even from my comfy spot on the couch I hear the huge cheers that erupt from the inn, and imagine the inhabitants of Starshine Cove all a bit tipsy, singing the few words toAuld Lang Synethat any of us know.
I briefly toy with the idea of nipping over there, wishing everyone a happy New Year, minesweeping the sandwiches and cake that I know will be on offer – but in the end I decide that I will stay put. I feel safe and content here in this little cottage, and if it’s not broke, why try to fix it?
A few minutes later, my phone beeps, and I feel a little jolt of surprise when I see that a message has landed from my mum. I quickly open it up, and see an image showing a group of bag-piping hedgehogs in kilts, the words “Happy Hogmanay!” written beneath them. That’s it, though – no personal words, no little comment, nothing to suggest that this isn’t just part of a mass send-out to everyone in her contacts.
Huh. She finally gets in touch, after over a week of pure silence, and this is how she does it? It feels like the emotional equivalent of one of those “my mum went to Scotland and all I got was this lousy T-shirt” scenarios.
I find that despite the movie, despite the fizz, despite even the Maltesers, I am now really quite annoyed. I know that she is unaware that I’ve been talking to Ed and Viola, unaware that I am in a bit of a confused state, unaware that I have discovered the things that I have discovered – but somehow I am still angry. She has no idea about the salon closing, or me staying here, or anything at all that is going on in my life – because she chose to duck out of it. Shut me out.
It is not a pleasant feeling, and in truth I am also a little resentful. I have spent my whole life thus far thinking about her, worrying about her, basing most of my decisions around her – and without any apparent difficulty, she’s managed to pretend I don’t exist until now. When she seems to think that hedgehogs in kilts will make everything all right.
Admittedly, they are super cute, but it’s just not enough. In fact it feels worse than nothing. Doesn’t she care how I am? Isn’t she bothered enough to ask how things are going? Did I have a good Christmas? What might next year have in store for me? It seems not.
My little bubble of contentment has been burst, and I half-climb, half-roll out of the sofa’s embrace and stand up. Sam may or may not be coming home soon – there was some talk of going back to Connie’s for an “after show” – and I don’t especially want to inflict this mood on him. I didn’t want to start the new year feeling disgruntled, and if he does happen to walk in, I certainly don’t want him to pick up on it. It’ll just add to his worries about his poor old mum, and that is my worst nightmare.
I clear up my plates, put the leftovers in the fridge, and head upstairs. I put on my PJs and fluffy bed socks, brush my teeth, visit the loo, and climb under the covers. I attempt to calm myself down a bit, do some deep breathing, try to think about nice things like the way my fingers feel in Lottie’s soft fur. I read a chapter of an old paperback of Jilly Cooper’sRivalsthat I found on the cottage bookshelf. I even sing a few Queen songs out loud, because why not?
None of it works. I am still upset. I examine the feeling from every angle, and ultimately come to the conclusion that I’m not being unreasonable – that I have every right to be hurt, and that I have actually been feeling this way for a while now. The Hogmanay hedgehogs just pushed me over the edge.
I sit back up, throw my covers to one side as though it’s all the duvet’s fault, and snatch up my phone from the bedside cabinet.
I see all of the messages I’ve sent her since before Christmas. The way I had to chase her for a whole day to find out the name of Starshine Cove, even though she knew I was driving across the country in snow with her grandson in the car. At the pictures I’ve sent her, the little notes of encouragement I’ve pinged over, the questions about how she’s getting on. The gently phrased message from Christmas Eve, telling her she was hurting my feelings.
This, I realise as I scroll through, has been the most one-sided conversation in the history of humanity. I glare at the hedgehogs, and hit reply.
Hi, Mum. Happy Hogmanay to you, too. In case you were at all interested, I’ve decided to run away to live in a nunnery in Norway. Sam’s planning to emigrate to Australia; he’ll be leaving tomorrow. None of that is true but maybe it’s got your attention? No idea what is going on with you, but I’m really upset. You’re acting like I don’t exist any more, and I don’t think I deserve that. Ed and Viola, the couple who owned the cottage we stayed in when I was little, say hi by the way.
I press send, then breathe, and read it over again, wondering if I’ve been too narky. No, I decide, I haven’t – she is out of order, and I’ve run out of patience with her. I do deserve better, and I’m not going to second guess myself on that. What’s the worst that can happen – she blanks me? Oh yeah. She’s already doing that. I’m sure mentioning Ed and Viola might freak her out, which is possibly a little mean of me, but again, I don’t regret it. I’ve had to live with this weird feeling of uncertainty for so long now, wanting to talk to her, reaching out over and over again and receiving nothing in return. I’ve had enough.
I make a littlehmphnoise to myself, go to the loo again – that’s Prosecco for you – and get back into bed. I carry on reading, trying to clear my mind of all its little road bumps, knowing that I am going to struggle to get to sleep.
I toss and turn for a while, losing track of what I’ve just read and starting paragraphs over and over again, and eventually give up. I switch off the lamp at my side, and stare at the ceiling, waiting until my eyes adjust to the dark. It’s always odd the first night you stay somewhere new, isn’t it? Getting used to the new smells and sights, the positioning of the unfamiliar furniture. The creaks and groans that all houses seem to have, especially old ones like this.
I am physically very tired, but my mind will not switch off. I am tumbling through thought patterns, veering from one half-formed concept to another, worrying at it all like a terrier with a toy in its mouth. Eventually, I reach that stage where I start to get stressed about not being asleep, which of course means that sleep slips even further away from you.
I sigh, and pick up my phone again. It’s almost one am, and predictably there’s no reply from my mum. I give up on the attempts to rest, or read, and decide to get up. I will potter around the house, maybe watch some more TV, maybe even write her a long letter. An old-fashioned one on paper. That might be cathartic, even if I don’t send it.
I put my dressing gown on, and wander over to the window. The fairy lights are all off – they must be on some kind of timer – and the only illumination comes from the moon and stars that are dotted in the black sheet of the sky. It reminds me of the cave, and the stars that spin, so close I can touch them. Maybe that holiday, all those years ago, wasn’t quite the perfect time I thought it was – but that particular memory still shines as bright as the stars themselves. I will hold on to it, and keep it safe, and protect it from the ravages of reality for as long as I can.
