AllFreeNovel
Share Us
We hadn’t exactly defined what we were truly discussing, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to be defined with a word, like a medical term from a textbook. Somewhere, somebody probably had a whole vocabulary for what I felt and none of it would be flattering. Mum already had her suspicions of something malign based on certain unexplained events in my childhood.
‘Yes, it is. Does it get easier with… age?’ I grimaced at the indiscretion.
The multitudinous lines on the old lady’s brow deepened thoughtfully. ‘I don’t remember it ever being difficult. Think of it as a gift. Scott wrote books. I cook. What will you do?’
I clutched the bundle of keys in my coat pocket and stumbled slightly on the roots of a tree. I had never arrived at that conclusion before – harmonising the two things into one. But it made sense. It meant there was a good, or better, reason to keep trying, to not give up.
‘One day, I’m going to visit…’ I hadn’t the words to express my wish and my feelings weren’t readily packaged into neat verbal statements. Perhaps I had more in common with missionaries who ventured out with only spiritual needs to fulfil. ‘I like photography,’ I said instead. ‘It’s my hobby. I’d like it to be more than that.’
‘Then it shall be, shan’t it? Us dreamers must never stop hoping.’ She held out her hand.
I held it gingerly; the bones under the translucent skin were strong, though.
‘Good luck,’ the stranger said.
‘Thank you,’ I said, with genuine gratitude.
I wished I had the chance to share our experiences over a cup of tea and a piece of cake. I would have liked to have known what she meant by a gift, because I’d never considered frequent daydreaming a talent or skilled activity, more of a childish and inconsequential distraction which sometimes caught and dropped me unawares into a scene that was equally as vivid, if not more so, as a book or a film. I had created this longing within me to be somewhere else in time and I was somewhat disconcerted by its growing insidiousness. However, the unexpected conversation had boosted my mood and for once I didn’t scowl when I checked my watch.
?
During the drive from castle to hotel, I concentrated on firing up my work persona. Never an easy task, as I’d yet to establish a resilient one.
Most days I manifested a pleasing facade, a shell that masked my inner voices. The brief excursions to the castle at Ashby-de-la-Zouch helped exercise my body, and wandering mind, and I often ventured out before the start of a late shift on the understanding my idiosyncratic daydreaming had to stay within the confines of that castle after I left it.
The hotel car park was half-empty, and I squared up the cranky Fiesta I shared with Mum next to an executive saloon. Turning off the engine, I stared up at the modern building, which was sadly devoid of any form of architectural beauty – I’d once snapped a few shots, hoping the camera might find something elusive that my eyes had failed to see. The failure supported the argumentative point that a photographer wasn’t always the best interpreter of a subject. What the architect envisaged in the concrete moulding and geometric fenestrations was not what I reflected upon when I paused to contemplate the hotel’s exterior. The building had a purpose, something useful, unlike ruined castles.
I applied a layer of gloss to my chapped lips. Appearances were everything. I was the first person to greet guests when they entered the foyer.
Every day was the same, or so it felt. For some idiotic reason, I’d chosen the job thinking I would meet people, which I did, and had assumed that through the varied human interactions and small talk I would be immersed in the world outside of the small town. The reality was different. I met plenty of people, but only fleetingly. How was it possible to widen horizons when accosted by crumpled suits, tired eyes, irritated mannerisms and polite indifference to my equally fake charms? I said hello and goodbye to countless bodies walking past the reception desk, dished out the same pat replies to complaints, and only, it seemed, occasionally dealt with the kind of crisis that made a day exciting. Seriously, had room twenty-six ever had a flushing loo?
I tried hard, if only because my work was appraised and judged, and failure was not an option. Today, however, was one of those days when I drifted off, didn’t smile enough, and was too slow dealing with a massive queue of receipt lovers. From the outset of the job, I hadn’t anticipated the volume of business clients; I preferred honeymooners and quaint old couples. Daily, I adopted the polished fake smile, and worked the queue of suits grasping credit cards, expensive mobile phones and leather briefcases.
At midnight I drove home, yawning, and parked outside the pleasant semi-detached house my parents had bought when I was a toddler. I tiptoed into the draughty hallway. Occasionally Dad was the designated welcomer waiting up for my arrival; usually it was Mum munching on biscuits, wrapped in one of the hotel’s towelling robes, watching a late night romcom.
‘Hot chocolate, Robyn?’ Mum asked, without stirring from the settee. ‘Kettle’s not long boiled.’
Greeting my mother with a tired smile of gratitude, I stood propped against the doorframe, resting my head on the flaked woodwork. ‘No, thanks. I’m beat.’
Mum rubbed her eyes. ‘Dad was too. Crawled up there after tea. Long day for him.’
Dad and I often went days barely seeing each other. Then, he would have a spell off work, and he would be the one to greet me, or make lunch when I came off an early shift. The arrangement had its ups and downs, occasions when our body clocks worked against them, and we aimed grouchy barbs at each other. Given the way she was stretched out on the dimpled cushion, Mum must have fallen asleep there. She worked a couple of days a week in a corner shop, carefully rearranging the tin and jar labels on the shelves to face forward. Mum’s lips were puckered. Something was about to be said, and it was probably best to wait for the recollection to emerge.
‘Yvette rang. Pub tomorrow night. She can pick you up.’
I lowered my eyes.
She straightened up. ‘Darling, don’t do that. It’s got to stop, this moping around. If he’s there, ignore him.’
And her. Sally. ‘Easier said than done.’ I puffed out my weary cheeks. ‘He’s all over her.’
Craig, the ex, the amicable splitter, who had suggested we went our separate ways, then appeared within days at the pub with Sally. Our mutual friends, mostly from school days, had wisely not taken sides. Yvette was the exception. She understood how hurt I had been by the underhand method of “moving on”, and continued to support me through the weeks that followed.
‘Don’t give up your friends just because you share the same ones,’ Yvette had said, handing out tissues in fat bundles.
My mum had agreed. ‘Make him see what he’s missed out on,’ she had said. ‘I’ve heard Sally works her way through men like a bowling ball.’
However, three months on, the relationship was steadfast, glued by the commitment Craig and I had failed to create over our two years of dating. And it was simply dating; nothing had come of any plans to live together, nor had we changed the habits of our lives.
