Page 15 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘She’s worried about you,’ Kat persisted. ‘We know how short life is. Don’t you think maybe it’s time for you two to reconcile?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m angry. At life, at the man who took Brontë from me, with myself, and I’m still angry at Mum. It’s not fair. She lost me when I was twenty-three through being an irresponsible mother. And even though I did everything I could to support my own daughter, I lost her at twenty-three anyway. How is that fair?’

‘It isn’t, Mags. None of it is. But keeping Mum out of your life won’t change that.’

‘She sent me a text yesterday asking to meet,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t reply.’

My relationship with my mother through my teenage years had only survived by a thread. After the reaction I got from her when I told her I was pregnant with Brontë, I cut ties altogether. I’d been better off without her. Now we only saw each other sporadically, usually at Kat’s instigation.

I had a vision of Mum crying during her granddaughter’s funeral and all I could think of was that she’d advised me to have the pregnancy terminated. If I’d listened to her, Brontë would never have existed.

‘She bought a car a few months ago, you know,’ Kat added. ‘A Mini. Brand new. So I think she might have got on top of her finances.’

‘Better late than never,’ I said, refusing to be drawn.

‘Think about it, okay?’ she begged. ‘She has two daughters. It would be nice for her to see both of them now and again.’

I fell silent, shutting down the topic. Neither of us had a relationship with our dad. His choice. He’d pulled further and further away from us after leaving the family home. By the time Brontë was born he’d moved to Galway. I’d let him know the details of Brontë’s funeral, but he hadn’t attended. At least Mum had been there, I supposed.

I pulled Brontë’s book onto my lap. Instantly I felt a connection with her. I traced a fingertip across the cover illustrations, imagining her concentrating, her brow furrowed as she drew them. What had she written on these pages? Where had she wanted to go, what had she wanted to see, to experience?

‘Are you going to open it?’ said Kat, reading my mind.

‘I will,’ I said with a sad smile. ‘But these pages contain her plans for the future. When I’ve read this notebook, she’ll never be able to share anything new with me again.’

Suddenly my heart thundered as an idea began to form. A crazy, spontaneous idea that was about as far away from anything I’d normally contemplate as possible. Maybe I didn’t have to go away without Brontë. Maybe there was a way to take her with me, for me to stay connected. Here was an itinerary all mapped out, one full of the places that Brontë had wanted to visit.

‘Hey.’ Kat put her hand on mine. ‘If you’ve changed your mind about reading it, I understand.’

My eyes skimmed over Brontë’s illustrations of palm trees and sunglasses, dolphins and turtles, kangaroos and cocktails …

‘I think you’re right about me needing a holiday,’ I said.

I could see a hundred doctors and would put money on all of them telling me I needed to take some time out. But could I leave home with all its memories of Brontë behind me? In this house, I could conjure her up so easily.

Except, if I followed this itinerary, I wouldn’t be leaving her behind. Brontë could be my guide, and that way we’d be in it together. I wouldn’t lose her; I could make new memories that she would become a part of.

‘Brontë will never have this adventure, but I could,’ I said.

‘What are you talking about?’ She frowned.

‘Her gap-year trip.’ Goosebumps ran down my spine. ‘I could do it for her, follow the footsteps she’s already set out for me. I haven’t been travelling for twenty-four years. It’ll do me good to get out of my comfort zone.’

‘Maggie, the comfort zone is exactly where you should be right now,’ Kat said, horrified. ‘I won’t be able to hop on my bike and be with you in ten minutes if you’re on the other side of the world.’

‘You told me to be spontaneous!’ I protested.

‘Two weeks in Greece would tick that box. There’s no need to take on a young person’s gap-year adventure. We’re talking rucksacks and hostels and shared bathrooms. You’ll hate it.’

Part of me knew she was right. But a bigger part of me had something to prove. To Anna: that I could take a break and return as the ideal candidate to sit on the ShopSwift board. To Kat: that there was more to me than work. And most importantly, to my darling Brontë: that her gap-year adventure mattered to me.

‘For the first time in my adult life I don’t have a goal,’ I said quietly. ‘This book in my hands would give me that. And I can’t think of a better way to honour Brontë’s life.’

We stared at each other.

Every holiday I’d been on since Brontë had been born had been carefully researched, planned around what I knew she’d like. This one was no different, except that the planning had been done by her instead of me. And there was no one I trusted more than my daughter.

‘Me neither.’ Kat brushed a tear from her cheek. ‘If you’re sure you want to do this, I’ll support you. I’m proud of you, Mags.’