Page 52 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
I hear her voice, and my own seizes up.
“Hello?” she repeats. “Is there anybody there? Speak now or I’ll be hanging up!”
My mum is—was?—a headteacher, and she uses those years of experience to her advantage. She can be incredibly imposing, even over the phone. I immediately sit up a little taller as soon as she uses her “don’t mess with me” voice.
“Mum?” I whisper. “It’s me.”
“Who is this?” she snaps back. “Is this a joke?”
“No, Mum. It’s Jenny.”
I am greeted with silence, and wonder if she might hang up after all. Charlie and Luke are hovering on either side of me, caught in my spiderweb of tension. Maybe he was wrong, I think—maybe she won’t be happy to see me. Maybe she’s still angry, still disappointed, even after all these years.
“Jenny?” she repeats finally, her tone devoid of her earlier confidence. “Is that really you? Are you all right?” It makes me smile, that question. It makes me realize that whatever else she might be—controlling, infuriating, bossier than Margaret Thatcher on steroids—she is still a mother. And all mothers want to know if their kids are all right. Part of me expected her to go immediately on the offensive, but all I hear is genuine concern.
“Yes, Mum, I’m fine. I... I wanted to come and see you. I have someone I want you to meet. Would that be okay?”
Another pause, a loud bark in the background. For a split second, I think it might be Jem, the springer spaniel I grew up with—then I remind myself that Jem was nine when I left and will be long gone now. I missed the rest of Jem’s life, and so much else besides.
“Yes. That would be okay, Jenny. Where are you?”
“Um... at the end of the path, just out on the road?”
“At the end of our path?”
“Yep.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, come in then—you know how busy that road can get. You’ll cause an accident!”
Ah, I think, smiling resignedly.There she is—my real mum.
Chapter 16
Luke navigates us between the two stone pillars, and we drive slowly along the pathway that leads to Foxgloves. The house itself is surrounded by fields, part of a farm that has been in my father’s family for generations. The trees that line the route are lush and green and heavy, their branches almost touching overhead, their leaves and blossoms swinging against Joy as we progress.
I gaze out of the windows, waiting for the clearing I know is coming up. I glimpse the fields beyond, see the languid chewing of black-and-white cows, the darting of birds overhead. I wonder how many times I have walked, run, skipped, cycled, driven up this exact same road. This is where I learned to ride a bike, where I used to bounce on my pogo stick, where my friends and I would play. Where I snuck out to see Rob... Now I can’t even properly visualize the last time I came down it. I was furious, I was in tears, I was leaving for good. All so very long ago.
As we get closer to the house, Charlie pipes up: “You didn’t tell me you had llamas!”
I follow his gaze and find that, yes, he is correct. Off to the right, enclosed in a paddock, is a small herd of llamas. A surreal thing to find in the Cornish countryside.
“That’s because we didn’t,” I reply. “That was where the milking shed was... They must have relocated it, I suppose.”
We pass the big oak trees at the top of the drive, and I see small wooden boxes tucked into their solid branches, maybe for birds or bats. The heavy metal gate at the top of the lane is open, which is unusual—it was a cardinal sin to leave it like that back in my day.
Luke drives us through, and we park up on a new graveled area that used to house a set of storage sheds.
“Wow, that’s a really pretty house,” says Charlie, gazing through the window.
I suppose it is, now I see it through less familiar eyes. Wherever you grow up is your normal, isn’t it—and for me, it was this place. A square stone farmhouse, ivy climbing over its solid walls; a heavy wooden front door surrounded by hearty vines of wisteria, dripping with lavender flowers. It isn’t huge, but it is imposing. More handsome than pretty, I’d say.
Off to the side lies another field, this one small and wild, swathed in the deep pink of the foxgloves that give the place its name. Behind the house will, I presume, still be the small flower garden that was always my mother’s domain, where she grew roses and hydrangeas and lilies. It is so strange, seeing it again. I suppose it never really left my memory; I just chose not to revisit it very often.
“So,” says Charlie impatiently, “shall we, uh, get out?”
I nod and tell myself it’ll all be fine. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I don’t even try to answer that question; instead I run my hands over my hair and smooth down my T-shirt and suddenlyfeel hideously aware of every crease in my clothing, every tangle in my ponytail, the fact that I’m wearing cut-off denim shorts and flip-flops.
“You look fine,” Luke says, taking hold of my hand and gripping it firmly. “And she won’t care about any of that anyway.”
