She spun round so Alison could check the back of her jeans.
‘No, you’re fine,’ Alison reassured her, resisting the urge to correct Rosie’s grammar and tell her she’d actually beensittingon the doorstep. All those years of teaching, she supposed. Hard habit to break but not a very likeable one, especially as she hardly spoke with perfect grammar herself, despite her writing skills. She unlocked the front door and switched on the hallway light. ‘Go on in. I’ll put the kettle on. You still haven’t said why you’re here.’
‘Well, why do you think?’ Rosie held up a carrier bag and shook it. ‘Your birthday cards! Belated happy birthday, Ali!’
Alison paused in the act of hanging up her coat and stared at her. ‘You never came all this way just to bring me those!’
‘What else was I supposed to do? We felt awful. We thought you’d be at your mam and dad’s last weekend, so we all left your cards there, and then you didn’t turn up, so… Hey, you’ve got pressies too. There’s even one in there from Mam and Dad. Mind you, I wouldn’t like to guess what it is. You know what Mam’s like.’
She grinned and Alison grinned back. She adored her cousin and always felt cheerier in her presence. At forty-three, Rosie was nineteen years younger than Alison, and was a lively, bubbly woman with a glorious mop of thick, wavy strawberry-blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders, and large, heavily made-up blue eyes that usually twinkled with humour. Despite the weather she was wearing tight jeans, trendy trainers and a denim jacket.
Alison, whose own fine light-brown hair wouldn’t know what a wave was, usually kept her style simple by putting it in a ponytail or a bun, and her eyes, although blue like most of her family’s, were pale like her dad’s and uncle’s, rather than the vibrant blue Rosie and her brother boasted. At five foot three she was an inch taller than Rosie, but while the younger woman’s curves were in proportion, Alison was most definitely pear-shaped. Her flat chest and broad hips had been the bane of her life.
In short, Alison had every reason to envy her cousin but didn’t. She couldn’t muster a single negative thought about her.
When Rosie was born Alison had been at university, though still living at home, and she’d been all too keen to babysit for extra money. She’d watched her cousin grow up, and for most of the time she’d been fond of her – apart from the tricky teenage years when Rosie had really got on Alison’s nerves for a while.
When Alison became a mum herself, it was Rosie’s turn to babysit as soon as she was old enough. Alison would get home from wherever she’d been – usually with her husband, Drew – and while he’d wander into the living room to give them space, she’d sit in the kitchen and listen to Rosie’s latest news, her joys, her woes, her worries and secrets. And Alison began confiding in Rosie, too, and discovered her cousin had become a good listener.
Over the years, Alison had come to feel that Rosie was the sister she would have loved to have. Having her as a cousin was the second-best thing.
Impulsively she threw her arms around Rosie and hugged her.
Rosie blinked. ‘Bloody hell, what’s up with you?’
‘I’ve missed you, and it’s so good of you to come all this way to bring my birthday cards.’
‘I’m a saint, me.’ Rosie gave her a worried look. ‘Are you okay, Ali?’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Alison hurried through to the kitchen where she immediately flicked the light and the kettle on and pulled two mugs from the cupboard. ‘Isn’t the weather miserable? Bloody drizzle all afternoon. Sick to death of grey skies, aren’t you?’
‘Well, you can’t expect anything else in January,’ Rosie pointed out, sitting at the table. ‘Never sunbathed in the New Year in my life. Ooh, your kitchen’s lovely and warm.’ She gazed around, an appreciative look on her face. ‘I do love your house.’
‘Are you still at your mam and dad’s or have you gone back to the caravan?’ Alison queried.
‘Still at Mam and Dad’s.’ Rosie wrinkled her nose. ‘Park doesn’t open again until 1 February. Bit of a pain but there you go.’
‘Oh, of course. I don’t know how you cope in a caravan through the winter,’ Alison said, shivering at the thought of it. ‘You know, I’ve offered before but I’ll say it again. I’ve got a spare room. You can always come and live here with me, you know. I’m sure you could get a job locally. You’d be very welcome.’
‘Aw, I know, and it’s really good of you, but I’ve spent enough time away from Kelsea Sands. I don’t want to leave again. Besides, I’ve had enough of living in a city, thanks all the same. Twenty years in Sheffield with Craig was enough. Too far from the sea for my liking. And the Humber.’
Alison nodded. Twenty years had been more than enough for her, too. She’d missed Rosie so much during those years, even though they’d spoken on the phone regularly and visited each other at least once a month. Of course, they both had other friends, but it wasn’t the same. She’d been relieved when Rosie came home, although sad for her that her long-term relationship had ended.
‘I’m hardly far from the Humber myself,’ she pointed out. ‘And it’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the sea.’ It was the one thing she’d insisted upon when they’d bought this house. She’d wanted a view of the river, and this new estate on the site of an old dock had been the perfect compromise if she couldn’t live in Kelsea Sands.
‘Yeah, but you know what I mean.’
Alison nodded, understanding. The air was different in a city. Any city. You could breathe properly in Kelsea Sands. Given the choice, she knew where she’d rather be, and if it hadn’t been for Drew’s job in the west of the city, and the heavy traffic going across the River Hull at rush hour every morning and evening, she’d have insisted that they buy in the village, or at least as close to it as possible.
Her heart lay in the countryside of Holderness and always would. This remote area of East Yorkshire, edged on one side by the North Sea and by the Yorkshire Wolds on the other, with the Humber Estuary marking its southern boundary, was the only place she ever felt truly at home.
Even so, she didn’t like to think of Rosie staying in a caravan, as nice as it was. Not in winter. Tide’s Reach Caravan Park was open eleven months of the year, so its residents were sent packing on 31 December and not allowed back until January was over. Something to do with its licensing conditions, according to Gavin Hewson, who owned it.
Since Rosie had broken up with Craig four years ago, she’d spent every January at her parents’ house, just across the road from the park. They’d offered to let her live there permanently, but she’d refused. She’d rather have her own space, even if it was a caravan. Still, it was handy to have a permanent address, and they clearly didn’t mind her using theirs.
‘Them next door but one from you have still got their Christmas decs up! Have you noticed? Bad luck, that,’ Rosie said, nodding knowingly. ‘Should have taken them down on Monday at the latest, and here we are on Friday. Wouldn’t like to be in their shoes. Hey, you’re a bit late home from work, aren’t you?’ she added, glancing at the clock on the wall as Alison handed her a mug of tea, strong with two sugars, just as she liked it.
The clock was shaped like a chicken and Alison had bought it about thirty years ago when she’d had a sudden and inexplicable desire to decorate her kitchen like a rural farmhouse. All the other things from that era had long since been replaced with something more suited to a home on a reasonably modern city estate, but the chicken clock had stayed. Alison couldn’t really say why.
