I nod, and say goodnight, but my mind has already left the building – I am planning and scheming and mentally compiling packing lists. I don’t think he believes me, but we are going – we’re going to find that place in the photos. The place where every memory I have of it is perfect. The place where I last remember my dad being happy and whole, our family being happy and whole. The place that might help me feel like that again.
“You okay?” he adds, pausing in the doorway.
“I’m fine,” I say, waving him off. “Just thinking. You know I always look weird when I’m thinking. Go to bed. And Sam? I love you.”
He grins, and gives me absolutely the best reply: “I know.”
SEVEN
Radio Roulette was the best part of my day, I think. Since then – since that blissful moment of certainty and excitement – it’s all been a bit wonky.
Even before that, I suppose the signs were there. The day had, after all, started with my mum ignoring my messages about the holiday we went on all those years ago, and with Sam refusing to get out of bed.
He had assumed, quite reasonably, that it was just the booze talking the night before. He didn’t actually expect to be woken up by his mother at stupid o’clock, telling him to rise and shine and start packing. His response was to burrow under his covers and tell me to go away, though not quite as politely.
I’d resorted to threatening to pack for him myself, which got a response at least – he is very particular about his outfits, and I knew he wouldn’t trust me to do such an important job on his behalf. When he said I was welcome to go without him, I pulled out the big guns – and told him that was fine, but there was no food in the house and I’d change the wi-fi pass code before I left. That resulted in a slow, surly crawl into the day, with him angry and tired and basically behaving like a four-year-old on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
I didn’t care – I knew it would pass, and I was energised. After studying the pictures in the album some more, I’d come to the conclusion that we’d been to Dorset. It was the fossil that gave it away – Dorset, the internet told me (I hadn’t changed the wi-fi pass code, obviously, because I don’t actually know how to do that) came complete with an internationally renowned Jurassic Coast, rich with fossils.
It wasn’t much to go on but it felt right. I just had a vibe, an instinct, a gut response that told me that I should head in that direction. My life is not normally based on things as amorphous as instinct and gut – it is usually based on lists and timetables and being organised – but everything has changed now. Now, I don’t have to worry about Mum, and I don’t have a job to be at, and I actually have the freedom to go a little crazy. Admittedly, a road trip in the UK isn’t exactly life-changing – but it is most definitely not what I’d been expecting to do today. It felt scary and liberating all at the same time.
I’d loaded up the car, said farewell to the abandoned Christmas tree, and popped notes through the neighbours’ doors saying we’d be away for a while. Even after I’d done all that, I still wasn’t totally sure – until Queen piped up on the radio and told me that I needed to break free.
That high kept me going for a good hour or so, despite Sam’s sulking. In fact he only brightened up when we first stopped off for food in a pretty little town in Wiltshire. We’d sat in a café with bacon butties and coffee, both of us trying and failing to contact my mother.
I was beginning to get frustrated with her, which is not an unusual feeling. I have spent a long time looking after her, and she has often been a bewildering woman. Now, she is simply silent, at a time when it would be very useful to talk to her. I know she hates discussing anything to do with my dad, anything about that sad part of our lives, but I had hoped that her new-found joie de vivre might have changed that.
In the absence of any further actual information, I’d looked up various hotels in the area that we could hopefully stay at for the night, but was so disappointed by the idea of doing that – of giving up. I had hoped so much to find the mysterious place in the photos, and the concept of failing left me with a sour taste in my mouth.
We arrived at a town called Dorchester just after six, by which time it was pitch black and the snow was starting to fall thick and fast. I’d checked the weather before we set off, but made a schoolgirl error – I’d checked it for where we lived, not where we were heading to. Sam made the most of that, rallying from his stupor to snipe at me.
“We can stay here,” he’d said, peering out of the car window. “This place at least resembles civilisation.”
“There’s more to civilisation that finding somewhere with a Costa, Sam,” I’d replied. “And we can go a bit further tonight, I think. Try your gran again.”
He’d glared at me, put on his earphones, and retreated back into silence as he dialled and I drove.
“No answer,” he said, “again. Look, Mum, I know you’re having some kind of menopausal breakdown or whatever—”
“I am not, Sam. I’m just trying to make Christmas magical again!”
“Yeah. Well. If your idea of magical is living in a car and freezing your tits off, then congratulations – you’ve nailed it!”
After that he’d closed his eyes and dismissed me from his world, leaving me feeling alone and sad and, most of all, stupid. He was right, really – what was I thinking? This whole idea was reckless and impulsive and just plain wrong. This is what happens when you listen to your instincts. And Queen songs.
Eventually, I was too overwhelmed to drive any more. The weather was scary, the roads were either busy or terrifyingly narrow, and I had no clue where I was going.
Now I am here, in a layby off the main road, holding my hands in front of my over-worked heating vents, watching cars stream past me. They all know where they’re going, I assume. Maybe they are dashing home for family dinners, or going on dates, or heading to spa resorts. Whatever they’re doing, it can’t be as pathetic as this. I am the Queen of Useless.
I glance at Sam, and can tell from his breathing that he is asleep. I gaze at him for a moment, seeing the face of a much younger version of him, and that is enough to finish me off. I feel a lump in my throat, and a sting in my eyes, and I start to cry. Everything in my life is changing, too fast, too furious, too…everything. I’d been content enough, slightly harassed, always on the edge of frazzled, but I had purpose and I had a plan. Now I have neither of those things – at least not in any way that matters. I have driven halfway across the country on some stupid mission, and I can’t even do that properly.
The only thing for it, I decide, swiping away the tears and hating myself for being the kind of woman who cries in the face of adversity, is to find a hotel, get some rest, and head back home tomorrow. I will buy some more decorations for the huge tree, and I will find something to fill my days, and I will stop being so silly. This isn’t good for me, and it certainly doesn’t seem to be good for Sam. It is not, in any way, shape or form, remotely magical.
I have come so far, but to go any further would be plain idiotic. I tell myself that I have not failed, that I am not useless, that I have at least tried – but none of it rings true. I am absolutely rubbish at giving pep talks to myself.
I take some deep breaths, and check the packet of biscuits I keep for emergencies in one of the cubby holes in the car door. It is empty, the wrapper crinkling forlornly as I glare at it. I must have had more emergencies than I remember, I suppose.
I turn off the engine, and get my phone, intending to look for some kind of overnight lodging where Sam can ignore me in the comfort of a centrally heated room. As I type in my pass code – predictably enough Sam’s birthday – I see that there is a message from my mother: She Who Has Remained Silent All Bloody Day.
