He guides the light around, casting it against the walls, and each time the same thing happens – flares of colour, sparkling and glittering, dancing before my eyes. I see gleaming greens, and purples that seem to pulsate, and swirls of silver and gold.
As he points the phone back up to the ceiling, I look up at the stars twinkling above our heads. I raise my arms, and spin. I spin and spin and spin until I am dizzy, almost drunk on both the motion and the unexpected treasure around me. It is like being in Aladdin’s cave, surrounded by precious secrets.
I am laughing as I spin, and when I finally stop, I am giddy, delighted – unbalanced in the very best of ways – feeling that simple joy of the head-rush, the way that children do. It’s as though I am a little girl again, carefree and hopeful, the weight of the intervening decades washed away by the beauty of it all. For just a few moments, I am liberated from all the burdens of adulthood, by the years that I have lived, and I see the world around me for what it can sometimes be – magical.
Archie reaches out to steady me, placing his hands on my shoulders, and I look up at him, smiling and breathless.
“This is it!” I say. “This is the place…I suppose maybe my dad picked me up and twirled me around, so I could touch the stars…oh Archie, I’m so happy…and maybe a little bit sick as well…”
He laughs, and our eyes meet, and for just a moment I think I see the stars reflected in his pupils. We are smiling, and still, and silent – and then we both seem to realise, at exactly the same time, how intimate this is. That his hands are still on my shoulders. That our faces are only inches apart.
We both take a step back, and become adults again.
“I’d better get back for the girls…” he murmurs, and I nod, perhaps a little too vigorously.
“And I’d better get back so I can lie awake in bed and worry about Sam, then pretend to be asleep when I hear him get home.”
“Ah,” he says, as we make our way out of the cave and back onto the beach. “I have so much to look forward to.”
As we walk back up the wooden stairs, I ask: “What is it, that makes the cave shine like that? Some kind of geological thing?”
“I suppose so. Someone did tell me once, but my brain shut down when they started using words that sounded like the answers onUniversity Challenge. I just know that it’s beautiful, and that’s enough for me.”
I weigh up this answer, and decide that I love it. So much of life is mundane – the daily rituals of working and eating and putting the bins out and doing the dishes – and it would probably do us all some good to simply accept a few beautiful mysteries in our world. They are rare and precious, and should be cherished.
As we walk back, Archie tells me about a local artist called Daisy Campbell, who makes jewellery from the stones that fall from the cave walls. She’s apparently on a trip to Australia that keeps getting extended, but she has a home and a studio in the village.
“Oooh, how glamorous,” I reply, a little note of yearning in my voice. “Being a globe-trotting jewellery designer with a studio at the end of the world…that’s a lot more exotic than working in a hair salon in Liverpool.”
“Well, we can’t all be rocket scientists or super-spies or brain surgeons, can we? Some of us need to be ordinary. Some of us find our place in a garden holding a shovel, or in a salon holding a hair dryer. Maybe, in our own small way, we’re bringing a little bit of light into people’s lives as well.”
“You’re right,” I say, nodding. “I mean, you don’t want somebody with a PhD when your toilet’s blocked, do you? You want a plumber. Us ordinary folk keep the world running, in my case one blow-dry at a time. That’s a good way of looking at it…what happens to the snowmen?”
I ask this, admittedly unexpectedly, because we are walking around the edge of the green, and I see them. It is cold and frosty tonight, so they will probably survive – but I am pathetically invested in not seeing them wither and die.
Archie follows my gaze, and adjusts with admirable speed. I suppose he’s used to it with the girls.
“Ah, are you worried about them melting and looking all abandoned?”
I nod, a tiny bit embarrassed.
“Well, don’t be. Lots of photos were taken on the day to preserve them for posterity – we usually print them out and do a little exhibition in the village hall – and I keep an eye on the weather. As soon as it starts to reach potential puddles of sadness stage, I’ll go out, collect the bits and bobs, and quietly clear them away. I try and do it at night so nobody cries.”
This is, of course, a tremendously sensitive way to go about it, and I find myself smiling. Ordinary people like Archie don’t just keep the world running – they make it extraordinary in so many unexpected ways.
We stop outside George’s house, and I see from the living room lights that he is already at home. I picture him in his armchair with a cup of tea, and Lottie in front of the fireplace, and realise that I am looking forward to joining him, sitting with him, chatting about our days, about life, the universe and everything, in a way I never got to do with my own father – but now, thanks to this place, and these people, I feel that little bit closer to him.
“Thank you,” I say simply, as Archie hovers by my side. “For tonight. It was…special.”
His face creases into a warm smile, and he replies: “You’re very welcome.”
FOURTEEN
I am up bright and early the next morning, gathering up my hairdressing tools and looking forward to a festive day of fun. It will be nice to be working again, to be doing something I understand and feel confident about. I think the whole thing with my mum has knocked me for six in more ways than I really understand – I have felt like a useless loose end ever since she left. It’s not just that I have too much free time, but also that she seems too busy to even bother speaking to me now. I am hurt, and confused, and I also miss her. Being busy today will be good for me.
I am trying to relax, and accept the more casual approach to life that my current circumstances have gifted me with, but it isn’t easy – I still like to have something to do. Especially today.
When Sam was little, Christmas Eve was one of my favourite times of the year – sometimes the sense of anticipation and the excitement of the day before was even better than the big day itself. Mum would come and sleep over at ours, so she could be there when he opened his presents. This year, it will be different – and that, I tell myself, is not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe I need a bit of different.
