Page 35 of Secrets of Starshine
There are two more pictures of us – one is just of me, sitting on a bench in the snow, with a tiny dog on my lap. I am kissing her furry head, and know that this is Butch.
The third one is a killer, in all honesty. It seems to have been taken in the pub, which looks different than it does now – darker, somehow, with clunky old furniture and wooden shutters on the windows instead of the current plush red velvet drapes. All three of us are sitting around a table, but we could all be in different worlds.
I am holding a glass with a pink straw in it, gazing hesitantly at the camera, looking nervous, almost afraid. My dad is staring off into the distance, the corners of his mouth turned down, as though he’d literally rather be anywhere else in the entire world. My mum is on a stool, her arms folded defensively across her chest, trying to smile but actually looking angry, frustrated, resentful at being forced to pose for a happy family picture that is clearly a lie.
I stare at myself, and reach out to touch my own innocent little-girl face. I wish I could go back in time and give her a big hug, tell her that everything will be all right in the end. I wish I could tell my dad that I love him. I wish I could talk to my mum at all – because she has disappeared from my life in the blink of an eye.
Maybe, I think, this is why. Maybe this is why she didn’t want me to come here; maybe she knew that I would somehow find out, somehow remember, what our lives together were really like. Maybe she didn’t want to shatter my last illusion.
Too late now, I think, closing the album and pulling myself together. I suck in a deep breath, and tuck my hair behind my ears, and emerge back into the real world. The world where Connie is looking concerned, and Ed and Viola are sharing worried glances, and I am a grown-up. I am not that little girl any more, and I am tough enough to deal with reality. At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Well,” I announce, passing the album back to Ed. “I can certainly see why they didn’t want any copies of those. I just wish I could remember Butch – she looks adorable.”
FIFTEEN
I don’t have much time to mope, which is undoubtedly a good thing. I keep up a brisk and light-hearted conversation with Connie as we drive back down to the village, and keep all of my brooding locked firmly inside. Nobody else deserves to be dragged into my petty internal drama.
By the time we arrive at George’s cottage, night has properly fallen, and the fairy lights greet us in their pretty strands, looping from building to building, from tree to tree, swaying in the breeze. Connie explains that on Christmas Eve, someone in the family always takes the girls out for a treat – on the surface just as a nice thing to do for them, but in adult terms, to give Archie time to get everything shipshape for the big day.
They usually start by getting them to “help” at the café, where Connie is also prepping for the feeding of the five thousand, and then they either go for a walk or a drive – anything to wear them out and give their dad a breather.
Sure enough, as we walk through the door, we are greeted by whoops and yells and two extremely hyper-active little girls racing towards us, followed much more slowly by Lottie. I note that she is sporting a set of Christmas deely boppers, tiny snowmen bobbing around as she meets us. She gives me a look that seems resigned to the indignity of it all, and licks my hand before slouching away again.
Meg and Lilly are swirling around me like a human tornado, talking over each other and jumping up and down. It’s exhausting just watching them.
“Shutup, Meg! Let me ask her!” says Lilly, giving her sister a mild shove.
Meg rallies, and ignores her, and before Lilly can object she blurts out: “Cally, can you do our hair for us? We’re going to McDonald’s!”
I blink, and try not to laugh. She has announced this with all of the grandeur of a girl who has been invited to a masked ball at Buckingham Palace, and who am I to burst the bubble?
Lilly seems torn between retaliating, and waiting for my answer, and settles on the second, looking up at me pleadingly. I hold my hands up and try to walk through into the kitchen, which is like wading through treacle as they stalk me.
Archie is in there, looking vaguely harassed as he holds on to a coffee mug, his hair even wilder than usual. He looks at me and pulls a “what can I do?” face. I completely understand his helplessness – these two are a force of nature.
Connie joins us, frowning, and says: “Apparently we’re going to McDonald’s…me, Sophie, Dan, and Sam. James is still at the hospital with Miranda – no news yet. Do you want to join us, Cally?”
She sounds borderline pleading, but I just don’t have it in me tonight. My brain is working slower than usual, and I feel exhausted – I’ve broken some kind of world record for haircuts today, as well as being mugged on a trip down memory lane. I politely refuse, which disappoints the girls – they recover in approximately ten seconds though, so I’m guessing no permanent damage has been done.
“But can you still do our hair?” asks Lilly, pinning me down with an intense stare. I glance over at Archie, seeking some kind of guidance – they are his children, and it’s up to him. He simply shrugs and says: “Okay, but nothing too weird or wonderful, all right?”
They are delighted, and clap their little hands, and run around the kitchen table in celebration. At this point Connie wisely declares that she’s going over to the café to get started and leaves us to it. George announces, from the living room, that he will join her. I suspect they just want a few minutes’ peace, the rotters.
I look back at the girls, and quickly run through some options in my sluggish mind. I take some comfort from it if truth be told – back on solid ground.
“Do you have a spray?” I ask, looking around the kitchen. “Like, maybe what you’d use to spritz flowers with, but ideally one that doesn’t have any pesticides in it?”
Archie nods enthusiastically, obviously feeling on more solid ground himself now I’ve put something into gardening terms, and disappears off into the utility room. He returns with an empty bottle, which he cleans and refills for me.
“Right then!” I announce firmly to get their attention. “First person to get their bum on a seat gets the first go!”
Meg wins by a fraction of a second – she is small but she is nimble – and I cut off Lilly’s possible protest by adding: “And rule number one of Grandad’s Salon says that anyone who complains gets kicked out!”
She immediately clamps her mouth shut tight, and not a squeak emerges. Archie looks on with a grin, and gives me a thumbs-up behind their back.
I take Meg’s hair out of its ponytail, gently brush it through, and damp it down very slightly with the spray. Braids are easier with dry hair, but I’m using such a fine spray that it will be dry again by the time I get there.
“I’m not washing it,” I explain, “because your hair is perfect already. I’m going to give you a little trim to make it all nice and even, and then I’m going to do some very fancy plaits. Sound good? And before you answer, let me remind you again about rule number one…”
