I’m reminded of all the times we argued when Iris was a learner driver and I was in the passenger seat. She wasn’t good at taking advice and, looking back, I realize I gave far too much of it. On top of that, I was a terribly nervous passenger, even though Iris has always been cautious and confident at the wheel. We were often at loggerheads. Ash did the whole accompanied driving thing much better than I did.
I tell myself not to criticize Iris. But she stalls the car.
‘Do you want me to drive?’ I regret the words – and the remonstrative tone – as soon as the sentence flies out of my mouth.
‘Knock yourself out,’ Iris says, pulling up the handbrake, flinging off her seatbelt and leaping out of the car.
We’re in the middle of the road, but I intercept my criticism this time. We change seats. I berate myself for messing up what I wanted to be a lovely mother-daughter day. I was hoping for some quality time together. I also intended to ask Iris about the Rohypnol, probing gently so that she wouldn’t shut me out. But that looks out of the question now.
On the next hill, the car shudders and slows, even as I press the accelerator to the floor. When it stalls this time, it confirms there’s a problem with the car, not with Iris’s driving.
‘What do you think?’ I say, turning to her. ‘Should we go back and get my car instead?’
‘Whatever,’ Iris mumbles. Then she amends her answer. ‘If you go back, we may as well stay at home.’
‘Oh, Iris. I’m sorry,’ I say.
I start the car. It seems to fare better now that the road has evened out, but there are a few hills to go before I get to the beach. I visualize the route ahead of me, all the way to the beach. The steepest hills are behind us. I should really turn back and head home, but I want to keep going. I’m not ready to admit defeat, even though the car is threatening to do just that. And I haven’t lost hope that Iris might come round, that she might confide in me about the incident she referred to involving the date-rape drug.
Iris said someone she knew had been drugged. Ash is right. It has to be Olivia. As soon as he shared his suspicions with me, it made sense. Liv’s aloofness. The way she seems to have lost her sparkle. According to Ash, Olly said – or at least intimated – that Liv had been sexually assaulted at a party. Did Olly mean she was raped? And, if so, was she drugged and raped?
It doesn’t bear thinking about. And perhaps Iris won’t want to think about it. She may well refuse to tell me anything. That’s OK. As long as she knows she can come to me if she needs to. I’m not sure if she trusts me to do my very best for her. After all, my best was nowhere near good enough last time.
When the video of Iris went viral, I realized just how hard it is to protect our children in today’s world. Our kids have to navigate their way through many of the same dangers as we did – puberty, sexuality and sexual identity, eating disorders, substance abuse, addiction, peer pressure, academic pressure, social pressure, depression, anxiety. But these issues seem to have been elevated to a much higher level. And the internet has played a role in that as well as throwing new issues into the mix for good measure – social media, social isolation, cyberbullying, technology addiction, fake news.
Our parents warned us not to talk to strangers, to look both ways before crossing the road, to talk to an adult if we were bullied at school. They talked to us about the birds and the bees. They gave us the tools we needed to work our way through life, avoiding most of the potholes. How can we, as adults and as parents, do this in turn for our children? How can we warn them about their use of smartphones when we ourselves didn’t have them growing up? Both Olly and Iris are Gen Z kids. By definition, Zoomers have grown up with social media and the internet. My children know far more about digital technology than I do. How can anything I say be credible? We didn’t have the date-rape drug when I was growing up either. Yet another problem our children’s generation has to deal with. It’s not tools I need to be giving my kids; it’s weapons. And it’s not potholes they need to avoid; it’s craters.
I steal a glance at my daughter. She has put on sunglasses and has twisted round in her seat so that her back is turned to me and she’s looking out of the window on her side. She shows no signs of thawing yet.
We go through Braunton, technically a village, although it’s more like a town in size. Another two and a half miles to go. We turn left at the traffic lights and exit the village, onto the coastal road. As we round a bend and the long, sandy beach comes into view, I start to relax. Nearly there now. Iris’s car makes it all the way without shuddering or stalling again. I park in the Saunton Sands car park and Iris gets Cheddar out of the boot.
I scrape my hair back from my face and tie it up with a scrunchie from around my wrist as the wind propels us along the beach. It must be around low tide – the sea is a long way out and, in silence, we head towards it.
When the kids were little, Ash and I used to bring them here. We’d picnic and take them for a paddle. Even in July and August, when North Devon is bursting with holidaymakers, you can find a quiet spot somewhere along the three-and-a-half-mile stretch of golden sand.
I’ve come here several times in more recent years, of course, when Olly and Iris were still kids, with Daniel and Margo. We’d usually come during the summer, when colourful beach huts are lined up against the dunes, holidaymakers and locals alike queue in their swimming costumes for Mr Whippys at the ice-cream vans, the beach is dotted with sunbathers and windbreakers, and the sea is manned by lifeguards. But we’ve come once or twice during the off-season, on days like today, for walks along the beach, from Baggy Point towards Crow Point, generally turning back long before we reach it. It’s been a while, though. We haven’t come to the beach at all this year, I realize now.
I breathe the brackish air deep into my lungs, and look all around me at the stunning panoramic views. There’s only a smattering of dog walkers along the beach and a handful of surfers braving the cold water. I’m struck by the expanse of the beach at low tide with so few people around. I’ve been spending far too much time in my own head – either worrying about my family or lost in fictional worlds for my job. I feel as if I’m reconnecting with nature.
Iris turns to me, grinning. I take this to mean that she’s feeling the same thing and that, hopefully, I’m forgiven.
‘Thanks for this, Iris,’ I say. ‘It was a great idea to come here.’
‘You can thank me if Ringo gets us back home again,’ she says.
‘Ringo?’
‘Yeah, my car. Olly’s idea.’
‘It was Olly’s idea to name your car Ringo?’
‘No, he just said I should give it a name. I chose Ringo.’
‘As in Ringo the Twingo?’
‘Exactly,’ Iris says and grins again.
We both laugh uproariously. I’m not sure when I last heard Iris laugh like this. I laugh so much my tummy hurts. It’s not even that funny. But it’s as if I can finally release months and months of tension. Harry Tomlinson is dead and I’m starting to believe this is the end of our problems, the end of everything we’ve been through, especially Iris.
