I look at my phone, see that it is not quite six a.m. I stretch and clamber out of the covers. My bare feet hit one of the plastic boxes for a game called Overwatch, the corner digging into my sole. I put on my slippers and pick my way across the obstacle course to the landing.
Downstairs, I make coffee on auto-pilot. I treat myself to a fancy pod-based mocha, and a dollop of squirty cream on top. I sit with it at the dining table and look around at the kitchen. It’s tidier these days – the table is clear of everything other than the fruit bowl and a copy ofHello!magazine I was reading the night before. Guilty pleasures.
Not so very long ago, this table was always covered in stuff. Textbooks, chargers, notepads – the detritus of my wonderfully feral children. My eyes go to the huge fridge in the corner, the one I always used to call my external hard drive because it was covered in appointment cards and to-do lists and scraps of Very Important Paper.
If fridges could talk – and I kind of wish they could right now – this one would have a few tales to tell. When the kids were small, there were always brightly coloured invitations to partiesat soft play centres, school letters, pictures they’d drawn. It was chaotic but joyous at the same time, the mess of our lives.
Now, there are some photos, a postcard from James, and a reminder that I need to go for a smear test. Not so joyous.
One of the pictures shows us all together – me, Simon, James and the twins, Dan and Sophie. The twins were fourteen, and the shot was taken at Disneyland Paris. They thought they were too old for Disney, but Mickey Mouse has a way of shaving the years off everyone. They lost their pretend cool as soon as they saw Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, its towers looming behind us in the picture. We’re all smiling, drunk on Disney, queasy from rollercoasters, all wearing giant mouse ears.
That was our last family holiday together. We didn’t know that at the time – nobody ever does, do they? We take it all for granted – enjoy ourselves, and then start planning the next one. Always assuming that there will be a next one. That’s probably a good thing. You can’t go through life expecting the worst to happen – at least that’s what I tell myself. Most of the time, I manage to trick myself – but underneath, there’s always that layer of fear. Of waiting for a phone call that changes everything.
Simon died a few months after that photo was taken. My beautiful, beloved man – my saviour. The father of my children, the love of my life. My best friend. On mornings like this, I don’t know how I have survived so long without him.
I have done okay, I tell myself. I have not only survived; I have lived. The café is doing well, I have friends, I have my father-in-law, George, and my brother-in-law, Archie. We’re linked forever, because the car crash that claimed Simon also took Sandy, his sister. We’ve helped each other through it, and we’ve raised our children, and we’ve shared our strengths and our tears.
But now, everything feels so damn bleak. James is working in Jersey, which is a whole ocean away, and three weeks ago Sophieand Dan went off to start the next phase of their lives. Dan is studying medicine in Liverpool, and Sophie is at catering college in London. They have new friends and subsidised bars and fresh places to explore – they are living in big, brash cities instead of this tiny village where they grew up. They are loving it, and I am happy for them.
I’m happy for them, but right now I am sad for myself. Does that make me a bad person? Does that make me a terrible mother? Is it wicked that a tiny part of me hoped they’d want to come home? It is, I suspect – but I can’t help it. I was okay when they first left – I was as excited as they were, and to start with they messaged and called all the time. My phone was forever pinging as a new photo landed. I suspect they were worried about leaving me, too, but now I’ve done too good a job of convincing them that I’m okay.
I’m not okay, I decide. At least I’m not okay this morning. This morning, I am brittle and sad and grey. My empty nest is closing in on me, and I am choking on how lonely I feel. I have been a mother for a very long time. I am still a mother, but my babies are all grown up, and nobody needs me anymore. I feel useless, a waste of space – a person without a point.
I know this will pass. I know it is not only the kids leaving – it is a combination of that, of missing Simon like I’d miss my own heart, and the sneaky joys of the menopause. A toxic brew, but one that I know will blow away like a cloud on a sunny day. Until the next time, anyway.
I stare at that photo from Disneyland. Simon’s mouse ears are wonky, and his grin makes him look like a child trapped inside a grown man’s body.
“I know what you’d say.” I speak out loud. “You’d say ‘Constance Llewellyn, stop feeling sorry for yourself, put on some Dolly Parton, and dance around the kitchen.’ That was always your answer to everything.”
He always used to say I looked like Dolly, which I take as a compliment. I nod, finishing my coffee. I have a squirty cream moustache on my upper lip that I decide to leave there. I open Spotify on my phone, and find9 to 5, smiling as the opening chords play out their familiar dum-dum-dum-dum-dum rhythm.
The music kicks in, or maybe it’s the coffee – I’ve poured myself a cup of ignition, and suddenly I am full of energy. I dance and twirl and clap my hands, singing along at the top of my voice. I shimmy around the kitchen island, and use a spatula as a microphone, and play air piano on the dining table. My hair is flying, and my heart is pumping, and I am smiling.
I feel a million times better by the time I finish, and I make a solemn vow to myself: I will be more Dolly.
TWO
Spring, the present day
It is the second week in March, and the village is starting to come alive after its winter hibernation. The holiday cottages that skirt the edge of the green are booked, the Starshine Inn is getting busy, and the weather is playing with us all. Yesterday was grey and wet, but today is bright and sunny, the air filled with a hint of the warmth to come.
Once Easter arrives, it will get even busier, and I will be back to opening the café every day – but for now, I am making the most of my time off.
I got up early, and came down to the beach for a walk. Maybe, I think, as I gaze out at the glimmering blue waves, I should get a dog. My father-in-law, George, lost his Golden Retriever, Lottie, at Christmas, and I know he misses her. He’s determined not to get a replacement, though, because as he says, he’s ‘knocking ninety and it wouldn’t be fair’.
I could get one, though, for us all to share. Maybe another retriever, or a little spaniel, or a stray that needs a new home. I could take it to work with me, and have something to cuddle at night. I’d definitely be the kind of dog owner that lets their dogsleep on the bed, though with my current spate of nocturnal hot flushes and restless nights, any dog with half a brain would stick to its basket.
My friend Ella, the village GP, has a little dog called Larry. They found each other when she first arrived here, and they’ve been a double act ever since. He looks like a lamb crossed with a Wookiee that was shrunk in the wash. He is the kind of dog who makes people laugh just by existing.
It’s gorgeous down here on the sand, the sound of the water hissing in and out, the seagulls calling, the sun reflecting from the sea. It would be even more gorgeous if I had a pal to throw sticks for, and I decide that a dog really would be a great idea.
I’ve adapted to the kids being away – them coming home for Christmas helped, and I’ve finally stopped sleeping in their beds. But it’s still not great, if I’m being honest. I have a busy life; I am rich in friendship and family ties and community. I have a place here, a place where I am needed and liked and loved. I know all of this, but I don’t always feel it. Sometimes I just feel lonely.
Maybe that will change with time – I hope so, because in an ideal world, my precious babies will finish their education and fly. They will spread their wings and take off, into their own worlds and their own lives. This is one of the ironies of parenting: if you do your job well enough, your children are confident enough to leave you behind.
I stroll along the bay, my only company a solitary mum carrying a baby on her chest in a papoose. I wave at her, and smile as I take in her unbrushed hair and tired eyes. Those days seem a million years ago now, but I do remember how hard it is – how it feels like the fatigue and the chaos are never going to end. Then in the blink of an eye, they’re at little school, then high school, then gone.
When my eldest, James, went to uni, I still had the other two at home. Now they’ve left as well, it’s harder to deal with.It makes me feel weedy, which I don’t like very much at all. It would, of course, all be different if Simon was still here. If I had a partner in crime. Someone to hold me at night, even if I was having a hot flush. Someone to go on these walks with, to watch Netflix with – it’s the little things I miss. Our house was always noisy – despite Simon saying when we first met that he liked peace and quiet, he seemed to love the opposite as well.
