‘Do you recognise this bloke, Dad? Alexi Thorne? The one that’s dancing with Izz? He was her boyfriend, but because he was already married, he had to leave Wheaton.’
We should head inside, but my feet, like Lucy’s it seems, are planted by the vehicle. Lucy’s still fussing with those smelly dogs anyway.
Tommy peers at Fern’s screen, already lifting his shoulders for a grumpy shrug.
‘Nope, never seen him.’
Fern slumps in her seat. ‘Grandpa would have known him.’
‘Reckon he would have.’
‘People don’t just disappear,’ my niece throws in, and I snap round to face her.
‘Don’t be getting ideas, you two,’ I say, and I’m amazed to hear Brash agreeing.
‘Never prod a sleeping dog,’ he says.
This is the most I’ve ever heard him say. Even down The Salutation with his mutts sleeping at his feet he keeps his face in his pint, barely even speaking to the other old-timer farmers.
Fern doesn’t have time to say her goodbyes as Brash lets the handbrake off, nearly taking Lucy’s dog-patting arm with him as they go.
‘So that’s Fern’s dad?’ Lucy says as we watch them sputtering into the darkness, exhaust fumes in the air.
‘That old thing definitely wouldn’t pass its emissions test,’ I say, wafting the stink away.
‘Fern’s taken a real shine to Izz,’ Lucy adds, and we make our way back along the frosty path into the cottage.
‘She has, hasn’t she? I worry, though.’
‘What?’ Lucy frowns, and I lock us in for the night. The kitchen is warm and sweet-scented and there are two new gingerbread houses fully decorated on the table.
‘I don’t know. That all Fern’s romanticising will get to Izz, dredge up old feelings she’d gotten over years ago. You saw her crying tonight.’
‘Do you ever really get over a badly broken heart?’ says Lucy, making me stop in my tracks to the den where the pizza boxes need clearing away.
I turn to my niece, who seems suddenly stricken.
‘Lucy?’
She’s silent, hanging her head.
‘You can talk to me about Craig, you know? You can talk to me about anything.’
‘I know,’ she says, and I think we’re about to hug when she swerves for the pizza boxes and fusses around with them.
Evidently, we’re not talking tonight either.
Once she’s in bed and I can hear the soft sounds of her scrolling through Instagram reels on her phone behind her closed door, I consider her words.
Do you ever get over a badly broken heart, even if it was decades ago? Are we destined to always carry a candle for that special person we just can’t get over? I think of my John – quiet, loyal, patient John. It’s not ardent love I feel when I think of him. What’s left of him when I really search my feelings? Not much. Only there’s a pang of regret for the years we wasted pottering around this cottage together, living with Mum and Dad, and him trying to hide how much he wanted to have kids until it all got too much for him. We weren’t exactly unhappy, but we certainly weren’thappyhappy either.
Then there’s Don. I definitely have the badly broken heart thing covered with him, but I can’t say I’m doing any heavy-duty pining for him. Far from it. Even if I did spend the whole of last Christmas and all of January hiding in front of the telly thinking my life was over. I wouldn’t even open the door if he showed up right this second. I’ve literally nothing I want or need to say to him.
What I’m left with from that escapade is the embarrassment, the feeling of having taken a risk, going against all my inhibitions screaming at me not to, and ending up making a complete fool of myself. That’s what smarts the worst. Don was probably my last chance at something lasting.
Nowthatmakes me sad, but if I’m pining for anyone at all, it’s the old Margi of my fifties. Bold and brave and mouthy. The Margi who took weekends away at the drop of a hat with Izz. Margi the force to be reckoned with. Always dressed to the nines to the extent the village would stare, all heels and tight pants. Chin-up, boobs-out Margi. Nowshewas really something.
I miss her the way Izz probably misses her Alexi.
