Page 19 of Sisters Making Mischief
‘I suppose she knows how everything works and where everything is. She says she feels safe here.’
‘Then that’s all you need to know,’ Isabel said, ‘stay as long as you like. You could help Felix in the bookshop or give me a hand with the stuff in the barn, I’ve got a load of marvellous things from a house clearance. Or you could just relax and get over the festive excitement.’
Festive excitement. There had been precious little of that, in fact the whole thing had been hard work and was gradually turning into a test of my endurance and peace-keeping skills, mixed in with huge meals that at least one person didn’t like. And what about the Christmas decorations?
I felt a surge of new anger. Sod it; Sara knew perfectly well where things went. She’d done it in the past when I’d sprained an ankle.
‘You know what I always say – “this too shall pass.” And then some other BS will come along to take its place,’ Isabel added.
Well, that was true, I knew that.
I wanted to feel angry, properly angry, just for once. For so many years I had put Stephen, the children, grandchildren and my job first. And myself last.
But like most women, I didn’t do anger very well. We hide it in so many ways. Swallowing it down so that other people can express their feelings and we remain the silent peacemakers. Would Stephen have loved me more if I had been more critical? Argued with him? Would John and Sara still think I was a good mother if I had told them what I really thought?
I might be sixty-three, but I surely wasn’t just there to be everyone’s referee and dogsbody. Was I?
I knew exactly how Stephen would have behaved – he would have huffed a bit and left it to me to sort out, probably with some comment about how he expected to be allowed to enjoy a quiet retirement without the benefit of teenage arguments echoing down the stairs. Well suddenly, so did I.
He’d had absolutely no patience with such a thing as a fussy eater.Eat it or stay hungry, had been his motto. The prospect of vegetarianism appearing in our family, of children not wanting parsnips to touch the carrots or sprouts to be picked out of bubble and squeak would not have sat well with him.
‘Be strong,’ Isabel said, interrupting my thoughts.
I’d heard that voice all my life, persuading me into things I wasn’t really sure about, places I didn’t want to go, escapades that had got us both into trouble. And yet she had always won me round, by sheer force of her personality. Her boundlessenthusiasm for festivals, concerts, adventures, and escapades. I had always been the cautious one, longing to be more like her.
She was still talking.
‘You never know how strong you are until there’s no option. Take a break, think of yourself for once. Have a few laughs. Have some fun. You were married to a man who refused to wear T-shirts, who bought John a chemistry set for his second birthday, thought tinned fruit with evaporated milk was the best dessert ever invented and considered central heating the work of the devil. I hope you’ve taken that awful portable gas heater out of your bedroom; I was always worried you were going to blow up or succumb to carbon monoxide poisoning. John and Sara are both fully formed adults now, with mortgages and kids and electricity bills. It’s time you started the next bit.’
‘What next bit?’ I said wearily, wondering if I had any energy left.
‘The rest of your life, you twit.’
7
I had imagined it would be more difficult. Like aMission Impossiblefilm, where there is an insurmountable set of obstacles to get past. Guard dogs and minefields and computer passwords to figure out. In the event, I just told them I was going to visit Aunt Isabel in Brittany for an indeterminate stay, and everyone said ‘okay, great, have a good time.’
Two days later I packed up my car and drove off. Leaving Sara and the girls waving cheerfully on the doorstep. I had wondered if I would regret my decision, but I didn’t. For the first time in years, it seemed as though some burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I was still able to do this, make a choice, do something different, spend my money how I wanted to. Dare I say it, just for a change, put myself first instead of always last?
I caught the overnight ferry from Portsmouth to St Malo, leaving the rain behind and arriving early the following morning to a bright, French day. Even that made me feel better and more positive. I leaned over the edge of the ship’s railing, watching the ferry approaching the quayside while anxious people rushed down the iron staircases to their cars. It felt odd to be doing thison my own, everyone else seemed to have a family or at least a companion.
The air felt fresher too. The sky bigger, and bluer. None of this was probably true, but I felt an unexpected leap of relief that no one was nagging me, asking for anything, or complaining about something. This immediately made me feel anxious all over again, that I was leaving Sara and her daughters to sort themselves out. Although yesterday the three of them had seemed unusually ebullient as they watched me leave.
I had driven a lot in France over the years because Stephen refused to, and I was looking forward to the journey to Isabel’s house, where I was sure I would find the tranquillity I needed. Even if a tiny part of my brain reminded me that Isabel was anything but tranquil.
After the first few miles of jangling nerves, I settled into the journey. I had set directions on my satnav, and it piped up from time to time to encourage me on my way.
I was driving along the rather splendid N176, which apparently also liked to be called the E401, but I soon got used to its tricks. And I felt an unexpected leap of happiness that I was doing this. I was proving to myself that I was just as capable and organised as the next person.
The sun was shining, there wasn’t much traffic and I gradually relaxed as I passed industrial estates, wooded slopes, and the occasional isolated farmhouse. I even thought about putting the radio on but decided against it. I found that if I was listening to the radio in the car, I sometimes needed to turn it down to see better. And that wasn’t something I was prepared to risk in France, where one wrong turn might send me off to Nantes or Bordeaux or any number of towns where I might get completely lost.
The relative quiet and the beautiful scenery were enough entertainment for me then, and by the time I passedLamballe, I was feeling quite relaxed. Despite it reminding me of the unfortunate Princess de Lamballe, favourite of Marie Antoinette, who came to a very unpleasant end.
After a while I turned off onto a new dual carriageway where the traffic was sparse and the scenery changed to broad, flat fields, with still the occasional farm or garage. It felt more familiar now, and my excitement grew with every mile. It felt as though I was heading for a place where I was going to be able to – what did the twins call it? – chill. Chillax. That was a very encouraging thought.
It was wonderful to be doing something different, not just plodding through the weeks, remembering which bin to put out on a Friday, not just cleaning the house and tweaking the garden. This was an adventure.
Perhaps there would be a cassoulet bubbling away in the oven, a basket of delicious bread and salty butter, some rough local wine from their friends’ vineyards. Isabel would hug me and make me welcome. That night I would be sleeping in a quiet, comfortable bedroom, with perhaps just the echoes of the old house timbers creaking contentedly as I slept. Or maybe in one of thegîtes, knowing that no one was going to barge in crying or asking me to settle a dispute.
