Slow shilly-shally steps down through the village towards the sandy cove. My mind deliberating over what I need to spill; all I can afford to leave out. It feels so odd now – how did I ever exist in that life before Cornwall? A story of two distinct people; or is it? Maybe it’s not so removed. Can anyone ever be totally detached from their past? My mouldable brain still reflects the past trodden pathways carved so deeply. New neural pathways for new experiences exist; yet the gentle foliage is not sufficient to disguise old dirty tracks. Several times, this week alone, I’ve woken in the early hours; my skin damp and hot, my heart running on overtime, my mind subservient to old templates.
Now, as I amble towards The Wheal, I think back to last week, when I decided to clear out the spare room. It had been nagging at me for a while and we could do with the space. I opened the door and cautiously peeked in before being transported back in time, face to face with two crates crammed with A4 ring binders. Each binder bursting with legal document after court order after personal statement after antagonistic solicitors’ letters. Thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of absolutely pointless court orders and legal representation. They take your money but they don’t tell you these orders are often not worth the paper they’re typed on. Why did I bother going through a divorce? I knew it would never be the end.
I quicken my step, thinking of how I needlessly fed the fat pockets of so-called family solicitors and honourable barristers. Poor Gloria had popped her head around the door to catch me humping stuffed black bin liners that I’d emptied the crates into down to one of the outhouses. I’d promised her the liners didn’t contain amputated limbs, but they may as well have.
I arrive at the entrance to the pub, knowing Bea and Ruan are waiting inside for me to spill the beans. When I agreed to come, I’d forgotten Jack would be at football training. I’ve sent him a couple of texts and he hasn’t as yet replied. I push worrying thoughts from my mind as I enter. I duck my head ever so slightly to avoid the battered Mind the Beam sign. Drifting between oak-beamed low ceilings is the scent of onions, homemade pastry comforts and what smells like some kind of casserole, making my stomach groan. Nooks and crannies everywhere are already filling up for the night; the atmosphere dances with the usual buzz of local chatter.
I spot Ruan, casually leaning over the pumps chatting to Ted, the owner; he’ll be there a while. Bea has found her favourite table tucked away in the corner with a view onto the road through the leaded-light window. I zigzag through the tables to her, tapping Ruan on the back and acknowledging Ted as I pass, hoping this will serve as a reminder to Ruan to stop chatting and hurry up with our drinks. They both give me a nod, before continuing with what I’m guessing to be idle chatter.
I’m feeling jittery, knowing I’m to disclose fragments of my past; after last night, I no longer have a choice in this. I’m about to open one of the locked doors in my mind; behind it is a dark room with a fading fire. The pungent smell of smoulder, blocking my airways, stifling my breath. I’d rather throw a cloak over, smother it, but I can’t. It will simply catch alight again. Whilst smouldering embers are manageable, what comes next may not be. I know you’re out there. It’s not just the building evidence, it’s also my super-sensitive sixth sense. I can almost smell you getting closer.
I kiss Bea on her cold cheek. ‘You got here quickly. Did you come across the fields or something?’ She smells of honest salt air; the human contact is comforting.
Her full lips upturn. ‘Ha, you know me, when on a promise of alcohol. Got here just in time to bag our favourite seat…’ she searches the room ‘… in case anyone else had plans for it.’ She reminds me of a small child.
I rub my icy hands together. ‘So I see. Well done, you. I must admit I could kill for a drink tonight.’
She takes my hand, rubbing it between hers, then blowing on it, as I used to do to Jack. ‘Are you dead?’ she asks me. ‘You’re colder than me. Cold hands, warm heart, that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘Or bad circulation,’ I offer.
‘I prefer warm heart, Eve. You keep it at bay, but I see it, every day.’ She smiles affectionately. ‘A hard day for you?’ She lets my hand go and places her elbows on the table to rest her face in her hands.
A sigh escapes me. ‘You could say that. I seem to be having quite a few of them lately.’ I look out of the window as my words run out on me. I can’t quite fathom what to say next. What’s wrong with me? I’m behaving like a teenager who has something awful to divulge to her parents. I’m supposed to be an adult, for God’s sake. But my brain has just left the party and walked out of the door.
She lifts and tilts her head. ‘You do look ever so tired, Eve, if you don’t mind me saying.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s fine. I recognise I’m looking a little rough at the moment.’ I smile at her. ‘And some have already pointed this out to me this week.’
‘No. No, I didn’t say rough.’
‘No, you didn’t, but only because you’re too polite, this time. Anyway, you didn’t need to. Unfortunately, we have mirrors in our house.’ We smile at each other.
‘How’s that adorable boy of yours? I do love him; he’s so gorgeous.’ She tactfully changes the subject.
I smile impulsively, thinking of him. ‘Still being a pain in the arse in the mornings; still leaving his gear all over his floor for Mum to pick up. Other than that, he’s mostly lovely.’
‘Matt still does that, probably because he had a mum like you. Doing everything for him,’ she adds.
‘Probably.’ I nod.
‘Oh, well, if that’s his only vice, you’re doing pretty well, I’d say.’
Briefly, I think of Milly again. It seems I might have been right, from what Ruan has revealed. The day we met, I was sure she had been smoking weed. ‘Except for being glued to his mobile twenty-four-seven, it is really.’ I don’t say I’m concerned by how secretive he seems to be with his mobile recently. Slightly angling it away from my view, rarely separated from it. This business with Milly hasn’t helped. Ruan has made further shocking online discoveries looking into self-harming behaviours. Even when we think our children are safely behind the locked doors of home, in their eyes, in their thoughts, they can be anywhere in the world, connecting to dangerous parasites. And then, there’s you, on the hunt.
‘Oh, that’s normal, isn’t it? My nieces and nephews are just the same. My brother’s always going on about it. Constantly scrolling, flicking, texting.’
‘Hmm, the problem is, it’s an accepted part of the world they live in. What do you do? If you ban them, you make them freaks, but it’s so difficult when you’re exposed daily to the damage it can do.’
We exchange a look. ‘So, what do you do? What’s the advice?’ she enquires.
‘I tell him, or nag him as he’d tell you, the same as other parents have to, in the hope that at some point the penny will drop. Usually while he’s transfixed on his game. Silly as it sounds, it’s the best time to get anything through to them, whilst they’re super-focused on something, you know, in a trance state almost. I drop little snippets of information at him, then walk away before he’s time to disagree. I live in hope that at some point he’ll use it. Anyway, as you’ve probably already worked out, it’s the least of my worries at the moment.’ I hope.
Moments pass between us; two close individuals, with a sudden gawking gap between them. Bea shifts in her seat and pretends to adjust her cosy cardigan. Ruan always teases her; it’s supposed to be me who wears the cardigans. He says I’m at risk of damaging years of valuable stereotyping by not wearing them. It’s exactly why I think I can’t bring myself to, as if I did I would also be required to wear loafers and be peering at people above my half-moon spectacles. Then I’d need to keep enquiring, how does that make you feel?
Bea’s attention is now somewhere else over my shoulder. She turns back to me, whilst lowering her head. ‘You see that guy over there.’ She nods in the direction over my right shoulder. ‘Him, quick, look now. Quick, Eve, he’s going. Quickly. Quick, you’re going to miss him!’ She’s not the most discreet, so I ignore her and turn slowly so as not to be blatantly rude. But too slowly evidently, as I only catch a calf, an ankle and some form of trendy shoe-like trainer as the rest of the body escapes the opening door. We’re hit by a cold rush of air as the person in question exits, sending a chill through my muscles.