I zip up my coat, take a last gulp of wine, and head outside – to explore the place where I last really remember my own dad.
NINE
I stand on the edge of the village green, which is now completely coated in a thick layer of snow. It looks exactly like it did on that photo I found, and I close my eyes for a moment, trying to remember it more clearly. All that really comes back to me are sensations – the wet, cold feel of my woollen mittens after we built a snowman; the luxurious sweetness of hot chocolate and marshmallows; the smell of the freshly baked cookies that I recall being brought around for us to snack on.
And, of course, him – my dad. Just the ghost-feelings that I have left of him, the warmth and security of being around him. He is frozen in time, right here, on this village green – both on film and in my mind.
I wish I could remember him better, that I had more to go on. I wish I’d been able to even talk to someone about him. But in the absence of my mum, there is nobody left to ask – he was an only child, and his parents weren’t around by the time I arrived on the scene. In fact one of the few things I do know is that he married later than his contemporaries, that he was in his fifties when I was born.
When I try very hard to cast my mind back to those earlier days of my childhood, it’s as though I’m seeing the life of a different person entirely – it is hazy, and blurred, and doesn’t even feel real. I remember Starshine Cove far more vividly than I remember the time I had with him afterwards, when he was ill. When he died. Maybe it’s one of those situations where your mind tries to protect you from a painful recollection, or maybe I just needed to concentrate on the present to survive once he’d gone.
My mum’s breakdown – and I see clearly as an adult that that is what she went through – became the driving factor in our lives; it cast a shadow over everything else. I was too young to understand stages of grief, or to question the unfairness of the world. I just knew that when I lost him, in many ways I lost her as well – and I became the grown-up. When you’re dealing with those kinds of pressures, maybe it’s natural that part of you shuts down.
Now I am here, in the place where I once stood with him, and it is bittersweet. I gaze around at the village, at the pretty houses and shops that fringe the green, at the café that I don’t remember being there back then. At the fairy lights that are strung up all around, casting the scene in an ethereal glow. At the windows of homes up on the hillside, scattering gold through the still-falling snow. I see it all, and I imagine being here with him – holding his hand, sitting on his knee, chasing him around with snowballs.
I don’t know how much of it is real, and how much of it is just me filling in the melancholy blanks to make myself feel better.
I continue my stroll around the green, smiling when I start to notice little fairies and pixies scattered about the place – peeping at me from behind bushes; dangling from branches; tucked away in the neat bedding plants that border the green. I lean down, brush the snow away from one of them – a beautiful little thing, obviously hand-made, a creation of wood and shining wings, a mischievous smile painted on her face. I don’t know why, but I am convinced that these were made by somebody’s dad, with a lot of love.
I walk by the Two Betties Bakery, and hope I get to know it more intimately at some point soon, and onward past what looks like an old Victorian school house. The homes come in a variety of shapes and sizes, some of them appearing to be centuries old, and chocolate-box pretty with thatched roofs. Some are less ancient but still aged compared to my own modern semi. They all seem to have gardens, and all of them have Christmas decorations draped over various bushes and trees. Everything is covered in snow now, but I see the sparkle of baubles, the twinkle of lights. It is beyond cute, and I almost feel like I’ve stepped onto a film set – it’s like a movie version of the classic English village, the kind of place where Kate Winslet might live in a rom-com.
I pause outside the darkened glass of the café, which a sign tells me is called The Cove. It’s so quiet on this side of the village – now I’m away from the spilling-out sounds of the party at the inn, there is nothing at all. No traffic, no sirens, nobody having a drunken row on their way home – in fact the only thing I can hear is the sea.
I follow the sound around the side of the café, and find myself at the top of a series of terraces that lead down to the beach. There are tables and chairs, and troughs full of plants, all coated in snow. The terraces flow gently down to the bay, punctuated by wide sets of stone steps.
I stay there at the top for a little while, gazing out at the view, my breath stolen by both the chill coming in from the water, and the absolute mind-blowing beauty of it all. The little cove is horse-shoe shaped, a perfect crescent of beach curving in on itself, all scattered in white. The moonlight is shining onto the waves, yellow ripples shimmering as far as the eye can see. And above it all, the most magnificent night sky – black and crystal clear, endless stars hanging overhead like precious gems.
I wonder if this is one of the places I remember; maybe this is the origin of that one strange tableau I still have in my mind – of stars so close that I could reach up and touch them.
Just in case, I lift up my hand – but all I come back with is a big fat snowflake. Beautiful in its ephemeral way, but definitely not the same as touching the stars.
I get out my phone and take a quick picture of the bay – in no way does it do it justice, but I decide I will send it to my mum, just to let her know we have arrived safely. Once I’m hanging out with the teenagers at the pub car park, at least.
I start to make my way carefully down the stone steps, my boots crunching on snow as I go. It’s still at that delightful stage, this snow – the stage where it is thick and clean and hasn’t yet turned to slush or ice. Once that’s happened, I’ll probably be hobbling around like an old woman scared of breaking a hip.
As I near the last flight of the steps, I notice that I am not entirely alone. There is a silhouetted figure sitting at the bottom, staring out at the sea. I freeze for a moment, all my urban survival instincts kicking in as I do a quick threat assessment. I am very much in the wilderness here, with no phone signal – I should probably turn back and head for the pub.
Then again, I think, as I stare at the still and silent outline, it does seem to be wearing a pirate hat – a jaunty three-cornered one that is now half-white from the snow. For a moment it looks eerily as though this could be a real pirate – the bay, the moonlight, the sound of the waves. There is no sign of a tall-masted ghost ship sailing on the horizon, though, so the odds are it’s actually someone from the party at the pub – and the kind of person who dresses up to celebrate a kids’ birthday probably isn’t the kind of person who means me any harm.
I carry on walking down, and quite clearly scare the living daylights out of him as I say hello. He startles, and stares up at me, and finally replies: “Sorry! I didn’t know there was anyone out here…”
He is a big man, even sitting down. I can tell that he is tall, and burly – not overweight, just big in the way of people who play sport or do outdoorsy jobs that involve lifting and digging. A rugby-playing builder maybe. His pirate hat is complemented by a fantastically realistic long-hair-and-beard get-up, and I can see one of those floppy white shirts peeking out from beneath his coat. He is perched on the final step, a big pile of twigs at his feet.
“I’m guessing you were at the party,” I say, standing before him. “At the pub.”
“How did you figure that out?” he replies, grinning and revealing front teeth that have been painted black. Or at least I presume they have.
“I have a sixth sense for these things. I saw your hat.”
“Ah. Well, I think sight is one of the regular senses, but you’re right. It’s actually my daughter’s birthday party. She’s four today.”
“Meg, right? She was fast asleep with a Golden Retriever when I left a bit ago.”
“That sounds like her. I’m Archie, by the way – are you staying at the inn?”
As he speaks, he clears a patch of the step he is sitting on of snow, and gestures for me to sit down. I do, even though I risk freezing my backside off – because this man seems sad, despite the pirate costume, despite the party. He doesn’t have the mood of someone who is celebrating.
“I’m Cally. And no, I’m not staying at the inn…well, long story, but coming here was all a bit impromptu. I met a lady called Connie, though, who said she’s going to find us somewhere to stay.”
