Page 5 of Starting Over in Starshine Cove
The noise, the clutter, the mess – it might have driven other people mad, but I always loved it. Now, it’s way too silent. Just me and Dolly, and my singing fish – one of those where you press a button and he comes out with a song. He’s on the wall, and doesDon’t Worry, Be Happyfor me several times a day.
That’s good advice, I decide, as I make my way up the steps that lead from the beach up to the Cove Café. Archie, my brother-in-law, is also the village gardener, and he keeps the place gorgeous. At the moment he has an apprentice, Rose, who is blooming just as brightly as her namesake.
The steps lead up to a terrace, and troughs of flowers are scattered on the stone. Swathes of vividly coloured tulips dance in the breeze by my side – pinks, purples, reds. There are daffodils of every shape and size, more than I ever knew existed. The hanging baskets are trailing overhead, not quite ready to come out and greet the world just yet.
I pause, stroke the velvety curve of a tulip, and look back at the view. As ever, it is breath-taking. I have lived here for a quarter of a century, and I still never get fed up of it.
I walk around the building and onto the green. When I first arrived here, staggering out of Simon’s car with a bleeding scalp wound and desperate for a G&T, I thought it looked like something out of a movie. One of those Hollywood versions of rural England – the neat green, the thatched cottages around it, the pub. It didn’t look real. Too pretty to be true.
Now, it’s very real. I know the people who live in those cottages. I know the people who live in the homes built up into the hillside, and Trevor who runs the village shop, and Jake who owns the pub. I know them all, and I’m part of the fabric of the place. I am Connie who runs the café, and is the chair of the Starshine Cove management committee. I host meetings and formulate plans and raise funds for everything from the communal minibus to our regular cinema nights and our yoga classes. I like to be useful, and for the whole of my life I’ve always had an abundance of energy.
I’m one of those people always on the move, always looking ahead, always busy. In my London life, that often got me into trouble – but here it’s been a blessing. Now, though, for the first time, I feel it ebbing away – I feel like I’m gradually deflating, like a tyre with a slow puncture. I don’t know how much of this is down to simple aging, or if it’s because of the kids leaving, or some toxic mix of both – but I feel like I’m in a state of flux. Everything’s changing, and I’m not sure I like it.
Trevor waves at me from behind his counter. He calls his shop the Emporium, looks like Gandalf, and sells his own herbal teas that claim to help everything from heartbreak to negative auras. I should probably pop in and buy the lot. Maybe take a bath in it.
I wave cheerily back, because that’s what people expect of me, and head into the former Victorian schoolhouse that is now our community centre. I have my office here, and it’s the base for lots of the village activities. We’ve recently started running a crèche for the village parents, and I’m helping out this morning.
My eardrums almost burst as I walk through the doors. There’s music playing, the kind that is the background to the lives of every parent with a small child – in this caseThe Wheels on the Bus. A small group of toddlers is sitting on a colourful mat singing along and following the actions, apart from one littleboy who is hitting himself on the head with a wooden train and laughing each time. That’s boys for you.
There’s a TV set up in one corner, where the slightly older children are watching a show that seems to involve animals who are enlisted in the emergency services. Others are busily playing with blocks and dolls, and one has a plastic toy lawnmower and is running around with it at breakneck speed.
It’s a kaleidoscope of colour and sound, and when you’re not used to it, it feels a bit like someone spiked your morning coffee with magic mushrooms. I head over to the area where the babies are, because why wouldn’t I? There’s Evan, who was born on Christmas day the year before, and is now a delightfully fat little man who has recently started walking. He still does more falling than actual walking, and I remember it so vividly, that stage – when the corners of tables become potentially lethal weapons as they stagger around.
His mum, Miranda, works at the Starshine Inn, and is a very close friend of my oldest son, James. I’ve never quite figured out if they’re more than friends – he is almost twenty-five, and it feels inappropriate to ask. I decided he’d tell me if he wanted to. James was there for Evan’s birth, and even when he was technically still living with me, he spent most of his time with Miranda and the baby. Now he’s moved to Jersey for work, and I know how much Miranda must be missing him – because I’m missing him too.
Ella is sitting on a rocking chair, giving her five-month-old daughter a feed. Her GP surgery is in the same building, so she’s already back at work – taking plenty of breaks to spend time with baby Caterina. She’s named after her husband’s Italian mum, but she is universally known as Kitty. So far she has Ella’s blonde hair, and Jake’s deep brown eyes, and she’s going to be a heart-breaker when she grows up.
That is a long way off, though, and at the moment she is blissfully unaware of anything but the warmth and sustenance of her mother. Ella sees me approach, and gives me the weary smile that new mums always seem to have. The one that says they are happy, but also wondering what the hell they’ve done to their life.
I pull a chair over and lean in to see Kitty’s sweet little face as she starts to drift off to sleep. Ella tidies herself up, sighs, and says: “I was going to whisper, but I reckon if she can sleep with this racket going on, she won’t mind.”
“Here’s hoping,” I say, holding up crossed fingers. “How are you?”
“Apart from feeling like a dairy cow, I’m fine.”
I nod with an understanding smile, and bite back on the reply that all mothers of twins are tempted to make: yeah, try it in duplicate.
Ella studies my face, and I get a slightly prickly feeling on my skin. She’s lived here for less than two years, but she already seems to have the ability to read my mind. I don’t know if it’s a doctor thing or an Ella thing. It’s definitely an annoying thing.
“Why haven’t you been in to discuss your medication?” she asks, frowning slightly.
“Ummm… I’ve been busy. And I’m feeling fine. And I’m sure Trevor has a special tea I can take instead.”
“If you’re planning to go into the Emporium and start talking to Trevor about the menopause, let me know beforehand so I can get the defibrillator ready. He’ll have a heart attack.”
I ponder this, and decide she is right – our Trevor is a gentle soul, and much as he might have a passionate interest in standing stone circles and fertility goddesses, a real-life woman describing her hormonal imbalance would freak him out. I might do it just for fun.
“You seem tired and sad, and I hate that – especially when there’s no need for you to tolerate it,” Ella says, shifting slightly so Kitty can snuggle more comfortably.
“Everyone is tired and sad sometimes, Ella. I’ll deal with it. Stop pushing the drugs on me.”
“I’m offering you HRT patches, Connie, not crack cocaine!”
“Well, maybe that’s where you’re going wrong… and thank you. I don’t mean to be snippy. I know you’re trying to help. And most of the time I genuinely am okay. HRT patches won’t bring my kids back, anyway.”
Or, I silently add, Simon.
Adding it silently, of course, doesn’t stop the Incredible Telepathic Woman next to me from figuring it out.
