‘I am. Get real, Mum. I’m twenty-three. You can’t tell me what to do. I’m going with Chelsea. She works at the café in the summer. Says she’s got some friends down there she’ll meet up with tonight.’
‘I thought you didn’t like going out drinking.’
‘Jeez. Lighten up, will you? I’m going to a pub which is barely half a mile away, in a seaside town in Dorset. It’s hardly theAyia Napa strip.’ Frida heaved herself out of the deck chair and flounced off.
Johnny sat down in silence.
Callie concentrated on sipping her tea. ‘Didn’t handle that well, did I?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment. My experience of young women is restricted to Jess, and I don’t think she’s typical.’
‘Not sure anyone in your family is typical.’
Johnny didn’t respond.
‘Sorry. That was rude.’
‘Is everything all right, Callie? Has something happened?’
Callie ignored him, supplying the obvious answer. ‘I worry about her.’ She gripped her hot mug, finding comfort in its heat. Even here, in the sheltered garden, the wind was brisk.
‘I don’t think she’ll come to any harm in The Old Harbour. She’s still young. Finding her feet.’
‘Then it’s about time she found them. At her age I’d been working for two years and owned a house.’ Callie screwed her eyes shut. She knew she was being unreasonable but couldn’t snap out of her mood.
‘Things are different for young people these days,’ Johnny said, mildly. ‘They mature later.’ He hesitated and then went on. ‘I feel I should warn you about something.’
Callie snapped her focus onto him. What had he to warn her about?
‘Frida and I have been having a fairly intense discussion about journalism. Apparently, Lucie Wiscombe came into the café today. She got chatting to Frida about her plans and about the advice I gave her.’
‘Advice?’ The word came out on a sort of squeak. Callie slid herself more upright, frowning. ‘What advice?’
‘On the evening of the play Lucie and I discussed paths into the career, courses and so on. South Western Universityin Exeter runs a highly rated degree and conversion degree in journalism. Lucie’s probably going for that seeing as it’s local. She got talking to Frida about it and enthused her with the idea. Frida came home bubbling with excitement. We ended up chatting about my experiences in the job and she’s mustard keen to do the same as Lucie.’
Callie glared at him, trying to take it all in. ‘Are you saying Frida wants to do a degree in journalism?’ she asked stupidly. ‘InExeter?’She huffed out a disbelieving laugh. ‘But it’s hardly local for Frida. Not to mention she has a job. She may consider it boring and staffed by geriatrics but it’s secure and pays well.’
‘Ah.’ Johnny looked down, uneasy. ‘It’s not my place to say but I also ought to warn you that Frida’s considering putting in her notice.’
‘What?’ Callie exploded.
‘She’s thinking about trying through clearing to get a place at South Western.’
‘How?’ Callie spluttered. ‘Why?What?Where’s she going to live? How’s she going to support herself?’
Johnny was struggling for words. ‘I suppose in the way students usually do. A student loan, or a part-time job.’ He stared at her. ‘I’m sorry. I was trying to help. I thought you wanted her to find her vocation, her direction in life?’
‘Yes, but not like this! She’s only been here five seconds and already her whole life is planned out. Before she came here, she’d never even considered journalism. And she’s already dropped out from one degree course. What if she does that again? It’ll take the rest of her life to pay off the debts. Or, more likely, I’ll have to work until I’m bloody seventy and do it for her!’
‘What if she doesn’t drop out? What if she makes a success of it?’
Callie surged to her feet. She’d had enough. She’d had all she could stand of the Starlings and their middle-class confident assumptions that money wasn’t an issue, that debt wasn’t something to fret about, that you could do anything you liked if you desired it enough. She knew, from bitter experience, that wanting something wasn’t the same as making it happen.
‘You haven’t a clue.’ She pointed a furious finger at him. ‘You know nothing about us. How we live. How we’ve had to scrimp and save. We’re not the sort of people who can just throw in jobs on a whim. We have mortgages and bills to pay. Responsibilities. You knownothingabout any of that. Dreams aren’t for the likes of us.’
And, after that remarkably silly speech, she tossed her mug to the ground and ran off to find her daughter.
Twenty-Six
