She found this stilted monosyllabic communication easier. It got the interaction over quicker and didn’t invite any of her mother’s bullshit, which had the habit of living in her mind for days.
Tawrie sat on the side of her bed and pulled on fresh cotton socks and her work sneakers, comfy enough to see her through the day.
‘I’ll let you get on then.’ Her mother turned and walked slowly back down the stairs, heading no doubt to her bedroom on the half landing next to the bathroom. Handy for when she needed to vomit, which she did frequently. Or if one of her ‘guests’ needed to pee, which also happened a lot.
Tawrie stared at her mother’s back. Her buzzcut made her head look small, her neck frail, and Tawrie was reminded of an image: her mother with a little meat on her bones, hair in a thick, tousled mess piled up on top of her head, and eyes that had life behind them.
Her phone pinged and she read the text. It was from Connie.
YOU ON YOUR WAY OR WHAT?
Her cousin was, as ever, succinct.
A quick glance at the clock and she realised with a quickening to her pulse that she was running a little behind schedule. And just like that the serenity and joy that had filled her after her morning dip were elbowed out of the way by the demands of life.
COMING RIGHT NOW, she replied, then shoved her phone in her jeans pocket, grabbed her hoodie, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.
‘See you later, Nan.’
‘Where you going?’
She did her best to control the twitch of irritation under her left eye. ‘I’m going to work. Where I go every morning.’
‘Course you are!’ Freda chuckled. ‘Give Con a big kiss from her nanny!’
‘Yep.’ It felt easier to agree than explain how planting a smacker on her cousin’s face during a busy service would not really cut it.
Having negotiated the twisting steps that led from the front terrace to the lower street level, she did her best to run down Fore Street, which was already filling up with meandering early-bird visitors who cluttered up the pavements and snapped shots on theirphones as the sun peeked over the harbour wall, littering the surface of the sea with diamonds. It seemed they had all the time in the world as she dodged them, sidestepping couples as they pottered arm in arm. She had to get to the café! The fact that Connie had texted meant she was already feeling a little snowed under. Gaynor would be in by now, but, much as they loved her, although she arrived at seven sharp, she didn’t actually get going until at least eleven. And to put it politely, even then her pace wasn’t exactly lightning.
‘Cheer up, Taw, might never happen!’
Distracted, she looked up to see Needle sweeping the pavement in front of the King William pub. Needle had been in Connie’s year at school and was one of those characters who had always been around. In the winter he laid carpet for a bloke with a van out Barnstaple way, but in the summer he worked shifts at the pub, holding court at the sticky bar, serving warm pints that got slopped over the ancient flagstones, sneaking gravy-flavoured treats to any four-legged visitors, intervening if things got a little heated on quiz night, and making snide comments about cocktails to anyone who dared ask for a slice of lemon, as if that was too fancy.
‘All right, Needle.’
Pushing her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie, she slowed but kept moving; there was no time to stop and chat and his greeting was familiar. She had long ago accepted that her resting face was not exactly perky.
‘You missed a cracking night last night; your mother was hilarious!’ he wheezed.
‘I bet.’
She felt the bloom of embarrassment spread over her chest and throat and her gut jumped with all the dire possibilities of what this comment might mean. Too often had she witnessed her mother’shilariousantics: singing loudly out of key to the packed pub,backing music optional. Flashing her breasts at a passing coach full of OAPs on a jolly to the seaside. Picking a fight with a large seagull who’d had the audacity to try to steal one of her chips. Urinating over the drain, not five minutes from home. Snogging the face off any number of men as they slid down the wall ...
‘Give that cousin of yours my love.’ He leaned on his broom.
She ignored him.
His words gave some explanation for her mother’s look and demeanour earlier. Not that any of this was a shock. The bar at the King William – or the King Billy, as it was known – was one of the many establishments her mother graced with her presence. Sitting on a stool with her handbag on the bar, Annalee no longer had to ask for a drink; a mere raise of her eyebrow and point of her finger was all the instruction needed. While she tottered outside to smoke, Needle and other willing hosts would top up her glass, which would be waiting for her when she retook her seat. Annalee Gunn, ‘such a laugh’, ‘a right old giggle’, ‘up for anything’, ‘fun’.
A drunk.
Nine-year-0ld Tawrie and her nan were sitting on the bench on the wraparound porch of their house. It was without a doubt her favourite time of the day, when the fire-red sun set over the harbour. She had nestled back on the floral cushion and placed her feet in her nan’s plump lap and run her fingers over the crêpey skin on her arm, liking the way it wrinkled and moved under the pressure.
‘What’s the best place you have ever lived, Nan?’
The woman’s laugh was hearty and Tawrie felt her shake and jiggle beneath her. This is what they had always done: shared easy chatter, talking about nothing much, passing the time, happy.
‘Well, that’s easy peasy. This place, this house.’
