My feet are cold. Mum warned me not to dip my feet in the sea (which, I mean, obviously -- it's March and it did snow a little last week), but I did it anyway. I haven't done it in ages. Now I'm trying to dry them off with just my hands and the sand before I can put my shoes back on.
I had to get out of the house. It's been three weeks since dad's funeral but mum still cries at least a few times a day. I don't know what triggers it and mum tends to want to be alone until she's calmed down, so I took a walk.
My little sister Katie is taking care of the house, and James, our older brother, is dealing with dad's affairs. I'm sort of a loose part just now. All 3 of us came home for the funeral but Katie and James are leaving tonight. Since I work from home I said I'd stay a little longer.
I breathe in the sea air and dig my fingers into the sand. The cold is starting to become painful in my fingers and toes but I don't care. This is my last real chance to wallow.
My dad was a good guy but he was also quite distant. I guess it was just the generational gap -- his parents were a bit more reserved, so showing emotion was difficult for him. As a result our family was a bit scarce on the expressing feelings front. I can count on one hand the number of times my dad said the words 'I love you' and I don't need any hands to count the number of times he ever cried (well, in front of us anyway).
I'm just remembering the last time we were at the beach when I'm pulled out of my thoughts by a food truck engine pulling up at the railings by the road. Partlesy beach is tiny, and with the tide almost in I'm pretty close.
A guy around my age gets out of the van and locks up. He's tall and well built. I can't really see him -- it's only 5pm but it's already getting darker -- but I can see he has his hair scraped into a bun. I don't recognise him, though.
When I realise I have to squint to see him in the fading light, I decide it's time to go home. I pull my socks and shoes back on, though my feet are still damp, and leave the beach.
The atmosphere in the house is much better when I get back. Everyone is sat around the telly, and it looks quite cosy and normal, until you see dad's empty spot on the couch. It's always roasting in this house, as well, which makes my finger-tips tingle.
"Becs, you're just in time for
Top Gun
. It's movie night on channel four!" Mum calls out, beconing me to the couch.
"There's a snack van at the beach," I tell them, shucking off my jacket and shoes in the hall.
"In March?" James chuckles. He has a tub of Haagen-Dazs and a dessert spoon resting on the arm of his chair. I know that mum will have begged him to use a teaspoon and put the ice-cream in a bowl before eventually giving up and rolling her eyes at him.
"Yeah, it's a dessert van. A young guy with long, dark hair locked it up, but it wasn't open."
"Oh, that must be Nick's son, Ben," mum chimes in.
"Do we know them?" Katie asks. Everyone knows everyone in Partlesy (I mean, our primary school only had 80 pupils). If someone in the family knows Ben, then we all will.
"You'll have seen Nick around -- he's Pat and Alec's son." Mum says as I sit beside her on the couch. Pat and Alec run the local ice cream shop, which has a queue around the block from April to September but little else the rest of the year.
"You probably won't know Ben, though," mum carries on. "Nick and Ben's mum -- oh gosh, what was her name? Nasty woman, anyway. They were just out of high school when she got pregnant. They married within a few months and things were fine for a while. Apparently, she was unhappy, though. Well, she ran away with Ben when he was only three -- didn't leave a note or anything. Nick had to follow them to London and then stayed to be close to Ben. It was the scandal of the nineties here."
"I thought the scandal of the nineties was when that petition got started to allow nudists on Partlesy beach?" James asks, using his spoon as a pointer.
"My word, you're right," mum looks thoughtfully into the distance, a small shudder going through her body at the thought.
"What are they doing opening a snack van in March?" Katie asks. She's sitting on the floor at mum's feet, while mum absently plays with her hair, like a little cat. I have a feeling that's more for mum's benefit than Katie's, though.
"Oh, they've had it for a few years, actually. It sells Pat's ice cream, and they travel around. I think they have a couple of them," mum trails off when James shushes her.
Top Gun
has started and just like that, the subject is dropped.
************
"Ah, Becca, thank the Lord, I was just about to come and find you," mum shuts the front door behind her. "You remember Amy, from next door? Well she's got tonsilitis, the poor thing -- she's only six, as well."
"Oh, right, that's terrible," I say. Honestly, I'm trying to catch up. I've only just woken up and come down for a cup of tea. It's mid-May now and I gave up the lease on my flat in London last month. It turns out I quite like living in Partlesy and my mum is always busy, so I'm mostly home alone. Mum convinced me she likes the company and frankly I could use the lower rent to help save up for a flat deposit.
"She needs something to help with the pain and she's asked for some of Pat's ice cream. I can't go because I told Sheila that I'd help set up for the primary school's car boot sale, and I've only got ten minutes to get there, now!"
Mum suddenly descends into a flurry of activity, grabbing bits and bobs from the kitchen and living room and piling them at the door. And I'm still trying to catch up.
"Wait, so what do you need from me?"
Mum tsks. "Just a wee tub of Pat's ice cream. I think vanilla will do but I didn't ask. I don't think Amy will be fussy in any case, she can barely talk!"
"Okie doke. What time does Pat's open?"
"Oh, they don't open until twelve, so you'll have to go to the snack van, love. It's probably faster, anyway. The quicker the better, to be honest."
"I don't think anyone's ever died from tonsilitis, mum," I try to calm her a little, but then again what do I know? I'm not even certain I know what tonsilitis is.
I sit on the bottom stair and grab my walking shoes since they're closest and go to tuck in my leggings, when mum stops me.
"You're not going like that, surely?"
I look up at her perplexed. "It's a two minute walk. What do you expect me to wear?"
Mum looks suddenly flustered and at once I'm suspicious. This is coming from a woman who dared me to wear my jammies into Tesco once. "Mum, what's going on?"
"Nothing!" She exclaims, her voice going all shrill. "Nothing, it's just-"
"Just what?"
"Ben's working today and it would be nice if he didn't have to see your scraggly leggings, is all."
I stare at her, mouth open. "Mum, are you trying to set me up with Ben?"
"You've not had a boyfriend in
years,"
mum tells me as though I'm not aware. She's never been pushy, so I'll put this down to her being worried about me. I'd be worried, too, now that I think of it -- I barely go out and, she's right, I haven't so much as spoken to a man in over a year.
