Act 1 - Chapter one
Driving along the coastalroad adjacent to Seagull Bay, Pippa felt a wave of nostalgia as she inhaled the fresh salty sea breeze blowing in through the inch-wide gap in her car window. The bay was famous for seagulls in their hundreds nesting on the cliff faces on either side of it, and some of them flew alongside her car squawking excitedly.
She’d left her apartment in Ireland the previous evening to travel through the night and arrive in her hometown early the next morning. Tired, her concentration was wavering as she fought to suppress the emotions that had been building inside over the last few days.
Pippa passed a road sign showing a layby was coming up ahead, and she took the opportunity for a quick pit stop. Tears were brimming on her lower lashes, making it almost impossible to drive another metre safely, let alone the final mile left of her journey. She hadn’t been home for almost two years and she had no intention of turning up an emotional wreck.
As soon as her little Mini came to a standstill, Pippa turned off the engine and rooted in her handbag for the pocket-sized pack of tissues she always kept for moments like this. She pulled one from the small plastic sleeve and dabbed away the tears ready to spill onto her cheeks from in the corners of her eyes, whilst sniffing away a sob.
She turned her head and looked across at Ginger her beloved golden retriever, sitting in the passenger seat, named after the wonderful gingerbread her mother used to bake and sell in their family-owned pub and hotel, right up until her passing just three years ago.
The name seemed inappropriate when Ginger was a puppy, as his fur was snowy-white, but as he’d gotten older, it had turned into a rich golden tan colour. Now it was perfect.
Ginger tilted his head sideways, studying Pippa with dark brown dewy eyes and made a small whimpering noise, as if sympathising with his sad mistress. Pippa reached across and rubbed the soft, short fur on her pet’s warm ears and the tightness in her chest eased slightly.
‘I’m okay boy...really I am.’
Ginger turned his head and licked the inside of Pippa’s wrist.
Pippa drew in a long, jittery breath. Was she? Was she okay? This was the first time she’d been home in such a long time. She loved her childhood home dearly, but ever since her mother’s passing, she had found it difficult to go back there. It was haunted by her mother’s absence, even though her father had taken to filling every wall with photographs of her beautiful mother.
Yet, instead of the photographs making Pippa celebrate the love she had for her mother, they were a constant reminder to her of how much she missed her.
Pippa kept just one photo of her mother on display in her Irish apartment, yet three years on from losing her beloved mother, her eyes still avoided it at all costs. She still found it much too painful to be reminded of her loss.
Pippa had moved to Ireland two years ago, and it had been one of the hardest decisions of her life. She hated the fact that she’d moved so far away from her father, but she was comforted by the fact she hadn’t totally abandoned him. Her Aunt Morgan who had worked with her parents her entire life was there. Her father ran the family and pet orientated pub while Aunt Morgan oversaw the accounts and helped with the hotel side of the business.
Her aunt had always lived close to the pub, and in the last weeks of her mother’s illness, her aunt had dutifully moved into the spare bedroom to help care for her. She just never left.
The pub had been their home for as long as Pippa could remember. Her bedroom had always been at the back, with dual aspect windows, while her brother preferred the bedroom next to the family bathroom. The spare bedroom was slightly smaller than the other bedrooms, but it was the warmest and cosiest being next to where the boiler tank was kept. With a sloping ceiling that had a skylight window, it was the perfect room to see the stars whilst lying in bed at night.
After her mother’s passing, Aunt Morgan had insisted in staying on and offering her help with early morning deliveries and whatnot on behalf of her grieving bother-in-law. Pippa had taken comfort and felt far less guilty about her move to Ireland, knowing the rock of the family was there 24/7 to aid her father. With her weekly video calls back home, her aunt was never too far away. She got to catch up with both of them at the same time.
Returning to her childhood home and knowing her mother wouldn’t be there was an emotional battle. That was why her visits home were few and far between. It was the letter that had drawn her his time.
Pippa reached into her bag, withdrew an envelope, and sat motionless whilst she stared at the familiar cursive writing. The letter had dropped onto her doormat just days ago, and it had been the catalyst for her emotional upheaval and recent periodic tears from the moment she’d read the second paragraph.
Since receiving it, Pippa had been walking around a ghost of herself. Its contents still shocked her, but after the shattering news had sunk in, she’d immediately booked a ferry ticket back to the small coastal town she’d grown up in. Now she was back in England and just a mile from Seagull Bay.
She needed to pull herself together. Her father needed her. That was the sole reason for coming back home. She pulled the letter out from inside the envelope, unfolded it, and read it again for the umpteenth time.
My dearest Pippa,
I’ve tried to get hold of you on the phone, but you are as elusive as always and you know how I feel about leaving one of those darn voice mails or texts, so I’ve gone old school and put pen to paper. I can picture you winkling up your nose just like you used to do as a little girl at receiving a letter instead of an email or text, but quite frankly, I think personal matters of such magnitude should be delivered in a more intimate way. Hence the letter.
I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your father was diagnosed with the early stages of vascular dementia just after you left for Ireland. I don’t want you to go into panic mode because he was immediately prescribed tablets that are slowing down the disease, but I need to make you aware his condition is still slowly deteriorating.
He didn’t, and still doesn’t want you to know about the diagnoses. You know how stubborn he can be, but please don’t fret. Like I said, it’s progressing slowly, but I have noticed a difference with his forgetfulness these last few weeks.
For now, I’ve commandeered my friend’s son to help out in the pub, which thankfully coincided with one of your father’s arthritis flare-ups, so your father will be none the wiser. However, this extra help is only temporary, as my friend’s son has his own business to tend to.
I suppose by now you have guessed why I am writing to you, and why I’m dumping this shocking news on you. Your father and I need help running the pub until I can persuade him to retire and sell up, or until I can hire someone else. The part-time cook we have is leaving and as I’m already dealing with the hotel and administration side of the business, I know I’m going to struggle. With the limited use of my legs, I’m already restricted with what I can physically do to help with the hotel and the catering, and I don’t want the business to suffer.
I really hate to lumber this on you my dear Pippa, but with your brother serving overseas and with you thankfully being able to work from anywhere as long as you have your laptop and a Wi-Fi connection, your father and I could really use your support. At least until I can persuade the old boy it’s time to throw in the towel, retire and sell up. If that fails, just until I can hire someone long-term.
When you come back home, or should I say if you decide to come back—whatever you do, do not let him know I asked you for your help, and don’t let on you know about his condition either.
You don’t have to answer with a handwritten letter, lol, a text will do. I’m not averse to reading them.
