‘Making something?’
‘Just thinking really.’
‘Couldn’t you come inside and think with me?’ I ask lightly.
‘I’m all right.’I’d rather be out here alone,is what he means. It’s hard not to feel rejected – but maybe it’s me who’s being needy? He only wants a bit of space, I tell myself, like all those times I’ve gone to the library early, simply to be alone.
‘Oh, I thought that was lost years ago!’ My gaze lands on the smooth stick he carved, when we’d just met. OurCarly + Frank Foreverdriftwood. It’s sitting there on the bench in the dim glow of my old anglepoise lamp. I reach for it and trace its smooth curves with a finger.
‘Yeah. It was in a box of old stuff.’
‘Oh, right. A box of junk?’ My chest tightens.
Frank nods, and I set it back down, realising now that I could cry. It’s only a stick, for goodness’ sake. Maybe I should take it and throw it for a dog on the beach, as it obviously means nothing!
‘Night then,’ I say quickly, and head back into the house. Let him hide away out there with the earwigs and spiders, and let Eddie resist communicating with me, bar the absolute minimum. He’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t ‘need’ any more visits from us at the moment.
He doesn’t needanythingand, seemingly, Frank doesn’t either. Bella and Ana are living their lives, fiercely independent – and of course that’s great. I wouldn’t wantthem to be any other way. But still, it’s strange to realise that no one wants or needs anything from me now. As if I don’t matter. As if I might as well be a piece of driftwood myself, floating away in the sea.
There’s nothing inThe Empty-Nester’s Handbookabout that.
Chapter Sixteen
April
The days grow brighter and warmer and the daffodils come out, punctuating my borders with splashes of butter yellow. Scottish winters can be bitter and linger on for way too long. So I’m usually happy and grateful when spring finally shows its face. But this time, everything is different. Seven weeks have passed since Eddie’s baby announcement and there’s still a terrible feeling of distance between Frank and me.
One evening I sense my heart growing heavy as I march home from work along the seafront. On my back, my rucksack contains a selection of 20p books I picked out for Dad, plus some groceries for him, and his prescription that I collected at lunchtime.
I turn into our street and spot Frank’s old banger parked outside our house. It doesn’t mean he’s back from work, as he often walks to Dev’s garage; it’s just on the edge of town. But now the light from our living room window tells me that Frank is definitely home.
I stop suddenly as my heart seems to snag. Kilmory Cottage has always felt like home, even when there was barely enough room in the living room for us all to sit comfortably. I thought I’d love it even more, when Frank and I finally had the place to ourselves. But something’s changed, and now it feels hollow. Empty, really. I can hardly bear it.
Dad’s expecting a visit this evening. Normally, I’d pop home for a quick cuppa first, and a catch-up with Frank, but now it hits me that I don’t want to do that.
I don’t want to see my own husband.
Another chilly reception is more than I can stand tonight. So instead of popping into the house, I climb into my own car, parked next to his, and I drive away.
I pull up at Dad’s rather stark modern block at the edge of a smaller town than ours, seven miles along the coast. It’s the home he shared with Maggie, the woman he left Mum for when I was a teenager – and who left him three years ago. Dad won’t let me have keys to his flat. ‘What would you need them for?’ he asked, radiating surprise and suspicion in case – what exactly? I let myself in while he’s sleeping and rummage through his private things?
‘Just in case something happens, Dad,’ I explained. But no – nothing will ever happen to Kenny Munro, and why on earth would I worry? At eighty-four he’sfineliving almost exclusively on tinned soups and stews, apart from the meals I make him, as has been the situation since Maggie walked out.
Things had been tricky between us in the early years. Naturally, my loyalty had been to Mum rather than Dad’s new, younger and more glamorous girlfriend. But over theyears I discovered how kind and sweet Maggie was, and how she’d loved Dad absolutely – until she’d had enough.
‘I’m sorry, Carly,’ she told me tearfully. ‘I can’t cope with him anymore.’ I felt sorry for Dad, finding himself suddenly alone, but unable to admit that he was in any way hurt or upset. They’d been together for over three decades and yet he’d seemed more perturbed when a seagull had crapped on his living room window. But I understood why Maggie had left. It was Dad who’d bought this place, so she walked out with nothing. And, actually, I admired her courage.
Now Dad buzzes me in, and I carry up the shopping he always insists he doesn’t need, but which I always bring, in addition to ingredients for dinner. ‘What’s all this?’ he exclaims.
‘Just a few bits,’ I say, unpacking it in his tiny galley kitchen.
‘All this food! How will I get through it all?’
We’re talking a small selection of fruit and some posh vintage Cheddar, which he loves – although he only buys himself value-range industrial cheese, and only then when it’s reduced.
‘I’m sure you’ll manage. And I was in the shop anyway, Dad.’
‘Hmm. Well, that’s up to you,’ he says grudgingly, and I can’t help noting the lack of thanks as I quickly wipe away a spillage of something sticky on the worktop. His somewhat functional flat has grown increasingly musty and unloved since Maggie’s departure, despite my best efforts to clean it without him noticing.I can do it! Why d’you think I can’t take care of myself?However, I cansee why he fell for this place. The living room’s sliding glass door leads onto a balcony, offering a spectacular view over the marina, and the sight of the bobbing boats and the glittering sea beyond is soothing, even in Dad’s presence.
