Page 54 of Secrets of Starshine
She is crying openly now, tiny sobs wracking her body, tears flowing from her screwed-up eyes. All these decades later, this memory still has the power to destroy her. No wonder she never liked talking about it.
“The doctors at the hospital said he had an underlying condition that none of us knew about, that he was a bit of a walking time-bomb anyway. That it could have happened at any time. But I never quite believed that. I always knew that it was my fault – that the stress of what I put him through killed him. That I killed your dad, Cally – just because I was having some kind of pathetic early mid-life crisis. After the first heart attack, of course, I told him I would stay – that I’d been stupid, that I loved him, that we’d all be together…but the damage was done, and we lost him. Then…well, you know the rest. I couldn’t forgive myself. I couldn’t get over it. I couldn’t carry on with my own life when I was so ashamed of the way I’d ruined his, and yours.”
Suddenly everything makes so much more sense. The way she shut down after his death. The way she’s struggled so much over the years, living her whole life under the shadow of a black cloud. Being eaten alive by guilt and remorse for a situation she could never possibly apologise for, or fix. It’s all so bloody sad – for him, for her, for me.
This is a lot to take in. A lot to think about. A lot to feel. Too much, in fact.
I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping the floor, and tell her I am going outside for a minute. I know I shouldn’t leave her here alone like this, crying and miserable, but if I stay even a second longer I might say something that I regret – because I am angry, and emotional, and confused, and generally messed up. I need time to calm myself.
I head down the terrace, walk towards the waves. Stare out at a sea that is flat and grey, at gulls that streak white stripes through a dull sky.
I take some deep breaths, then blow on my hands to keep them warm. I can’t stop picturing my dad, and how much pain he suffered, emotionally and physically. I can’t stop picturing my mum, broken and fragile for so many years after. And I can’t stop remembering my own life as a child – bewildered, lost, grieving at the same time I realised there was no food in the house. Going to the shops for cereal, learning how to use the washing machine. The taunts at school because my uniform wasn’t ironed – before I mastered how to do that as well.
It is all just intolerably sad, and I feel burdened by the weight of it.
I hear the door open and close behind me, turn to see her walking towards me. The stairs are slippy, and she treads carefully as she approaches. She is, despite her newfound lust for life, a woman in her seventies.
She stands next to me, makes a littleeeksound as the waves edge closer to our feet. She takes hold of one of my hands, pulls it tight into hers.
“I’m so sorry, Cally,” she says eventually. “About it all. I was sitting in there just after you left, crying, and realising that I was still being selfish…still feeling sorry for myself instead of putting you first. I know this has been hard for you to hear, as well as for me to say. The shame of it all ground me down – and then when you decided to come back here, I couldn’t cope with the thought of you hating me. Can you ever forgive me?”
I squeeze her fingers in return, and reply: “I don’t think it’s a matter of forgiving, Mum. It’s more…having to reassemble things in my head, you know? I just need some time with it all.”
She nods, and answers: “Of course you do. That’s only fair. But I want you to know that I love you, very much, and I always have done.”
There are many scathing comments I could come out with at this point, but I bite my tongue. I am allowed to feel off-balance, upset, overwhelmed – but anything I say right now is likely to be something that I regret. I don’t think for a minute that she killed my dad – he might have had a heart attack at any time, from what she’s said. But the chronology of events plays into a tragic narrative that is hard to look away from, and the consequences of her mistakes have echoed through both of our lives.
“I love you too, Mum,” I say quietly.
It’s the safest option, and despite everything, it is also true.
TWENTY-ONE
I end up driving my mum back to Dorchester, where she and Kenneth are spending the night in a hotel. I did offer them my own little cottage, but it was clear that every moment she spent in Starshine was agony for her. As soon as we were in the car and on the move, she seemed to breathe easier.
“So, how long are you staying for?” she’d asked as we drove. “When do you go home and go back to work?”
“Not for a little while yet, Mum. Like Sam told you, the salon’s getting a refurb. It looks like mid-February now, so I might stay here a bit longer. I’m not sure. I’m experimenting with being relaxed and spontaneous.”
“But why would you want to do that here?” she asks seriously, as though I’d suggested extending a holiday in the burning fires of Mordor rather than a pretty seaside village on the south coast. “You could go anywhere!”
“Well…I like it, is the simple answer, Mum. Sam has his job and he’s saving so he can travel. I have a nice little house. I’ve made friends.”
I feel her scrutiny as I say this, and try not to react. If I ignore her, she might stop.
“Oh, right…anyone special?”
“They’re all special. And maybe, Mum, you’d know more about my life if you hadn’t spent the best part of a month blanking me.”
That shuts her up, at least for a minute. It feels odd, being quizzed by her – especially after the revelations of the last few hours. She has never shown a huge amount of interest in my life, which is fair enough because it’s never been especially interesting, and I am not accustomed to having these kinds of conversations with her.
She is silent for a few moments, and then says: “What’s his name?”
I laugh out loud as we approach her hotel and I park up. I can’t help myself, keen as I am to discourage her interrogation.
“Okay,” I reply, holding my hands up in defeat. “His name is Archie. But it’s no big deal – don’t be shopping for a new hat or anything, all right? It’s…casual. I think. To be honest I don’t really know what it is, but I am enjoying it.”
“Have you got a photo?” she asks, looking delighted – and about ten years younger now we are on safer ground. “And I know you’re right – it’s my own fault that I’ve missed out on all this, but I’d love to make up for lost time! Tell me everything!”
