Daniel’s looking approvingly at my outfit, even though I’m absorbed in snivelling into a tissue right this second. It was actually my idea to combine my old band t-shirts with the waistcoats and the now gorgeously tailored and turned-up Oxford bags (thanks to Daniel and his clever sewing machine skills). I’ve ditched the brogues – too clumpy for summer and too smooth-soled for safely navigating the steep, cobbled streets of Clove Lore. Instead I’m in my trusty old Converse, the white high-tops I’ve had for years, and I threw on an old grey The Cranberries t-shirt to complete the look.
‘I’ve got something for you, for the journey,’ Daniel says, producing some ancient cassettes I instantly recognise. Mix tapes I made for him on Mum and Dad’s clunky old stereo when we were just kids. ‘Going through all your old t-shirts reminded me of these. Thought they might keep you calm on your epic drive.’
That was a definite wobble in his voice as he handed them over. He’s as sentimental about these things as I am. I scan my teenage handwriting on the cassette and smile at the playlist: emo favourites from fifteen years ago alongside songs my parents loved by The Cure, Blondie, and Gary Numan. By the time I was in sixth form their taste had rubbed off on me and now they’re an indelible part of my life’s soundtrack.
I rest the tapes on the dashboard where I’ll be able to reach them as I drive and I pull Daniel in for one last hug. He can’t meet my eyes when we pull apart and luckily Dad’s here now, hurrying me along, but also not wanting to say goodbye.
‘You’d better get going. You’ve got everything?’ He gives his big blue bakery van a pat and says, ‘She’s full of diesel. That’ll get you to at least Bristol, I reckon.’ He gulps a bit and glances inside the back of the van. ‘I’ve secured the sacks. Just don’t take any sharp bends at speed or you’ll end up covered in flour.’
I glance inside too. He’s given me the last of the bakery’s flour, eggs and sugar, and there’s a ginormous tub of marge in there beside my suitcase. I’ve got a bookshop café to run, remember?
That fact’s been weighing on my mind at nights because the only thing I was ever any good at baking was Grandad’s scone recipe – handy if you’re running a café in Devon – but I’ve only ever made a dozen at a time before and those were just for Gran and her pals to eat. I imagine I’ll have to make far bigger batches than that at the bookshop… or will I? It’s all a mystery until I get there and see what footfall’s like. Maybe I won’t get a single customer all fortnight. On the bright side, I’ll have plenty scones to live off.
‘Take this,’ Dad says, just as Mum joins him, still in her pyjamas. She slips under his arm. Dad hands over a scuffed, floury notebook. ‘My dad’s recipes, the ones we used in the bakery. They’re all in there, in case you want to branch out. Scones are on page three.’ I watch Dad’s chest heave a bit at that. I’ve never seen this little book before and I clutch it to myself.
‘I’ll take good care of it,’ I promise. That sets Mum off sniffing into Dad’s shirt sleeve.
I’m too nervous about the drive ahead to cry any more so I give everyone a tight hug and say my farewells with a cold feeling of dread in my stomach. It was hard enough saying goodbye to Gran yesterday at New Start Village. Thankfully it was cut short by the two o’clock mojitos coming round on a trolley and the whole place erupting to the sound of Wham!’s ‘Club Tropicana’ over the speakers. The last I saw of her she was snaking through the recreation room door in a very slow conga, flirtatiously telling one of her pals – Kenny Simpson who used to run the post office – to mind where he was putting his hands.
I manage to get my seatbelt done even though my hands are shaking and I slam the van door shut. Dad shouts in the open driver’s window, ‘Mind you don’t get any egg wash down the sides of your scones or you won’t get an even rise.’
Daniel’s got his fingertips steepled over his wobbling bottom lip and my voice cracks when I shout out, ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ over the noisy engine.
I pull away, waving an arm out the window, too nervous of crashing to glimpse back in the mirror at my little family blowing kisses and calling out, ‘Good luck!’ from the pavement outside the little bakery that is now no longer my home.
Chapter Seven
Palm trees!There were palm trees everywhere, all along the coast. And every now and then I’d catch a glimpse out the corner of my eye of something glittering. Turns out it was the sea, and Iswearit was a tropical turquoise shade. I’ve never seen anything like it (it’s an hour and a half’s drive to the coast from Marygreen, and the Scottish water’s always a sensible navy or slate grey). This part of the world is something else.
I can safely say I was beginning to enjoy the drive at last as I hit Devon and turned down towards the coast, even if my nerves were still rattling from the congested carriageways and drivers roaring past me and beeping angrily because poor old Diane really can’t go much over sixty. Oh, that’s what I named Dad’s van, around about Penrith when the motorway madness was kicking in.
I really feel like Diane and me have bonded now, after all the singing along to Daniel’s mix tapes and that half hour where I cried over the steering wheel in a Wolverhampton lay-by and a nice police lady made me jump when she banged on the window and asked me if I was all right.
She checked my driver’s licence and looked me over like I had two heads and eventually gave me some tissues and poured me some tea from her Thermos. It was a momentary blip, I told her; I was emotional because this was a big day for me for all sorts of reasons. I was leaving home for the first time and determined to prove myself making a go of running a shop I’d never even set foot in, and I’d made a promise to myself to get stuck in to village life and meet new people and stop holding back from trying new things and even though I was nervous about cashing up at night alone I’d try my best and… that’s when I’d stopped wittering. The police officer was giving me a weary look like she regretted stopping for me, so I smiled and told her I’d be OK from there.
The sight of her waving me off and giving me a flash of blue lights as I joined the slow lane again really got my head straight for the rest of the drive, and now here I am. In Devon. And it’s pissing it down.
I don’t know where the sun went but I haven’t seen it since around about the time I learned there was an actual place called Westward Ho! with an actual exclamation mark. That’s where I stopped for chips and scoffed them in a Tesco Express car park because I was ready to pass out with hunger. I don’t know what that place name’s all about but I love it. More places could use punctuation for added drama. Milton Keynes? has a ring to it, and three little dots could really build some anticipation for visitors to Yorkshire’s Thornton-le… Beans.
Anyway now I’m here, still sitting in Diane and I can’t seem to peel my hands from her wheel somehow. The rain is pelting off the windscreen and it’s suddenly gone quite dark even though it’s only three in the afternoon. Diane’s wipers couldn’t cope with the downpour so I turned her engine off.
We’re straddling two parking spaces in this National Trust car park; she’s just that wide, what can I say? I hope it doesn’t get us a ticket.
The sea wall’s blocking the view of what must be a rainy harbour or beach. Over the noise of the rain beating on the windscreen I can just about hear the sounds of a fierce tide sloshing across rocks.
I know I’ve got to find the bookshop where Mr de Marisco, the owner, said he’d be waiting for me but he was expecting me about, oh, at least two hours ago, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got annoyed and wandered off to get some lunch at last.
From my limited experience with bookish types – well, OK, with Mack – I know they can be cerebral and brooding and don’t like to be kept waiting or to be distracted from whatever their pet project is that day.
I suppose itwasnice of Mack to forward me the email from the bookshop owner with the arrival arrangements. I had told him not to contact me again so at least he’s not being vindictive or anything.
I didn’t report him in the end. Knowing he’s on campus shitting himself every time his inbox blinks with a message from his old mate the Chancellor is enough closure for me to be getting on with for now. So, why can’t I get out of the van?
When I see I don’t have a signal on my phone to ring Gran and tell her I’ve made it, the relief at getting here in one piece gives way to a sudden sense of my extreme remoteness from my family and I feel the prickle of tears.
I’ve never been this far from home and from Daniel. Part of me is wishing myself back there and into my pyjamas. Then I think of the boxes lying packed up in what, come Monday, is no longer my childhood bedroom. Three cardboard boxes of books, a Perspex star award, and some worn old clothes doesn’t seem like much to show for a life.
I try not to think of the removals lorry that’ll be pulling up on Monday morning, and how Dad will probably cry when he gives away the keys to his father’s bakery and I won’t be there to comfort my parents. My brain almost said ‘when they need me most,’ but actually, that’s simply not true. My folks have got each other and a new home and holidays to look forward to and Gran’s got all her mates around her, and Daniel’s off conquering the world of nursing and keeping his unruly trainee in check. And I’ve got… well… I look over my shoulder into the dark recesses of Diane’s back seats… I’ve got a sack of flour, a humungous tub of marge, two dozen eggs, a suitcase of old clothes and Grandad’s recipe book. Oh no, here come the tears again.
