I’m on the train heading south to the seaside. It’s Mother’s Day on Sunday, so I’m staying with Mum and spending the day with Nanna Beth. It’s only the second time I’ve been home since I moved – the last flying visit having to fit in around Nanna Beth’s chess tournament. I hadn’t factored in the cost of train journeys when I said I’d be back to visit as often as I could. But I speak to Nanna Beth on the phone all the time, and she’s still swapping Instagram photos with me. She’s developed a bit of a following: I showed her how to add hashtags to her posts, and it turns out there’s a whole world of elderly people out there sharing their photos. Who knew? Jav keeps joking there’s a book in it. She’s following her, and now her grandma in Mumbai and Nanna Beth are Instagram friends too.
Nanna Beth’s got a bit of an eye – I’m scrolling through her photos as we rumble out of the edges of London, past tired old buildings and graffiti-covered industrial units. The train stops and I snap a photo of a faded ghost sign and share it. Nanna B loves them.
The train pulls into Bournemouth and it feels like stepping into a pair of comfy old slippers after a long day in heels. I can smell the sea in the air and the sky stretches out huge in that way you only get at the seaside. I don’t even have to think about where I’m going, which is such a relief after the constant map-checking that characterises my London life. I’m still trying to find my way around the city. But here – home – my feet carry me along the road towards the prom and I turn left at the end, crossing over to walk along the pavement beside the edge of the little stony cliff that drops down to the beach path. It takes half an hour, but I’m not in any rush. Every step I take, every breath of salty air I breathe in, I feel like I’m unwinding. I hadn’t realised how much I missed being by the seaside.
I turn left and walk up the little street where Mum lives now. There’s a row of doorbells, and her name’s there, on a faded sticker. I push the buzzer and there’s a pause before the front door clicks open automatically to allow me in.
‘I could have been a mass murderer,’ I say, as she opens the door to her flat and kisses me on the cheek. She’s dyed her hair a dark burgundy-red and cut it into a jaw-length bob. It emphasises her high cheekbones and makes her look ridiculously young for her age.
‘Sorry I can’t stay. I have to rush. I’ve got rehearsal at twelve.’
Mum’s opening words aren’t the usual ‘Darling! It’s lovely to see you!’ that a daughter might expect. It’s just as well I’m used to her. But she’s always been a bit – well, lacking in the traditional maternal side of things. She was amazing if I needed a costume in the school play, mind you. She bustles past, giving me a vague kiss on the cheek, and taking the flowers I’m holding.
‘For me? You shouldn’t have. Thanks, lovely.’
She sniffs them and tosses them aside on the table by the front door, and picks up her keys.
‘Pop them in water for me, will you? I won’t be back until after the performance because we’ve got loads to do to prep, but you’ll be okay with Nanna Beth, won’t you? There’s probably something in the fridge for dinner if you have a look.’
And she’s gone.
Growing up I got the distinct impression my mum would have been happier if she’d had Gen as a daughter. I was boring and bookish. Gen was like Mum – a rainbow of drama and glamour who made everyone look when she walked into the room. I didn’t doubt for a second that she loved me, but she was always slightly disappointed that I wasn’t as exciting as she’d hoped. She wanted a mini me, a second chance at fame. She was always desperate to hear how Gen was getting on.
‘That could’ve been me, you know, if it hadn’t been for parenthood getting in the way,’ she’d say, unthinkingly. I guess I have learned some acting skills from her – the ability to remain impassive in situations like that, for one.
‘Don’t worry yourself, lovey,’ Nanna Beth would always say. ‘She doesn’t realise what she’s saying. She loves you very much.’
I look around the flat Mum’s been renting since I’ve moved out. It’s five floors up on a side road near the promenade, and the walls are painted a dull, uninspiring grey. She’s covered them with posters from Vaudeville shows, huge colourful ones with high-kicking dancers festooned with feathers and glittering, tiny outfits. There are boxes stacked up against one wall.
I look at my reflection in the huge full-length mirror. I’m wearing a grey pinafore, a green cardigan and red shoes. I look about five. I can almost hear Becky’s voice in my head, making a comment about the hidden psychological meaning behind the outfit I’m wearing. She’s obsessed with power dressing and the effect of clothes at the moment, and I realise that dressing like a child on a trip home to see my mother is probably quite telling.
But I don’t dwell on it, because she’s disappeared for the day and I’m off to the sheltered housing place to see Nanna Beth. I run a brush over my hair and leave my overnight bag on the sofa. I’m about to head out the door when I think I’d probably better check there is something to eat in the fridge.
A dried-up lemon, an empty pack of low-fat butter substitute, a cracked, ancient piece of cheddar, and a bottle of Evian. I decide I’ll pick something up on the way back.
I head out of Mum’s flat and towards the seafront and the sheltered accommodation complex where Nanna Beth lives now. It gives me a pang when I walk past the street where her old house stands – there’s a new family living there, all Grandpa’s roses pulled up out of the front garden and a car parking spot tarmacked in their place. But my heart lifts when I see the brightly painted sign for Boscombe View. There’s a couple of people in the garden, bickering happily over some wooden planters, holding a trowel each. It felt like the right place for Nanna as soon as we set eyes on it. I look across the car park, and she’s standing at the window of her little apartment, waving through the glass.
‘Darling,’ Nanna Beth is at the door. She beckons me inside. Since I was there last, they’ve hung all her old pictures on the walls, and she’s somehow managed to make the little sitting room feel completely like home. The green velvet sofa is up against the back wall, with the imitation painting of Constable’s ‘The Hay Wain’ framed above it. The mantelpiece is crowded with photographs of me, Mum, Grandpa and Nanna Beth herself, and various great-aunts and second cousins I met as a child but don’t really remember, but who are oddly familiar after years of their photos surrounding me.
‘Sit down. You must be tired out after that journey,’ Nanna Beth says.
I do as I’m told, and listen as she gently potters around in the little kitchen at the end of the hall. I can hear the kettle going on and the sounds of her warming the teapot. The familiar clunk of the biscuit tin she’s owned forever opening up, and the rustle of aluminium foil being taken off a plate of ham sandwiches she’ll have made up earlier.
‘Here we are,’ she says as she returns with a tray.
We settle down with food and tea. It feels warm and safe, the way it always has. I look up at a photo of Grandpa in his gardening cardigan, a spade in his hand.
‘He’d be proud of you, you know that.’ Nanna follows my gaze. ‘It takes a lot of courage to follow your dream, you know. So how’s it going?’
I think for a moment. I’ve been in the job for over two months now, and I still feel like I’m finding my feet. ‘Okay. Ish.’
‘Bit of a change to working for Neil, I expect,’ she says, with a chuckle. We’d met at work and sort of fallen together. There were definite pluses and minuses to working for your partner. I can’t really think what the pluses were. The minuses were that when I found out he was sleeping with Claire from accounts, it was pretty hard to maintain a civil working environment. God, it doesn’t matter how hard this new job is or how much of a learning curve I’m on (and right now it feels like I’m never going to get the hang of it) anything had to be better than working in that environment.
‘It’s so … fast.’ I try and explain what it’s like, but it’s hard. ‘And then so slow. It’s like trying to herd cats, getting a book from start to finish.’
‘Still enjoying it though? I bet you’ve got them all under control,’ she says, and I think of Jav, who I’d left on Friday evening working on the final proofs of a book that was already a month late. It had to be finished quickly, because it was nominated for romance of the year in one of the glossy magazines, and the books editor had been on the phone asking hopefully if there were finished copies available. Jav had managed to stall her, and she’d messaged me at midnight to say she’d finally got things sorted out. Publishing is a lot like being a swan. You look very sleek and posh from the outside, but there’s an awful lot of furious paddling going on underneath. And a lot of mud.
‘I’m getting there,’ I say, after a pause. She raises an eyebrow and looks at me over the top of her teacup.
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day. You’ve found a new house, and you’re settling into a new life. Any other interesting news you want to share?’
‘Becky’s had a promotion. And Gen’s up for a role in the new Cameron Mackintosh show at the Apollo. If she gets that, she’s really going places.’
‘Gen’s going places, no matter what.’ Nanna smiles fondly. She’s always had a soft spot for Gen. I think she sees Mum in her.
‘What’s happening with Mum?’ I ask. ‘You know she’s hopeless at keeping in touch.’ The only thing I’d heard from her recently was that she didn’t get the cruise ship work she’d been hoping for.
‘Well, she’s met some bloke from the theatre who’s doing some sort of pyramid selling thing, and she’s convinced that she’s going to make her fortune.’
‘Again?’ I say, realising that must be why the sitting room of Mum’s flat was stacked with cardboard boxes.
‘Again,’ she says and our eyes meet. ‘You know your mum; she’s a sucker for a get-rich scheme and even more for a man with a good line of patter.’
I nod. Nanna settles back on her new chair – it’s an upright one with an extending footrest, and sturdy arm supports. She puts a cushion on her lap and pats it. A moment later, as if summoned, Phoebe, her calico cat, appears. She hops onto Nanna’s lap with a chirrup.
Nanna switches on the television. ‘You don’t mind if I just turn on the news? I want to see what’s happening.’
She and Grandpa said this after every lunch. Sandwiches and soup at twelve-thirty, a sit-down, the news on, and one or other of them would doze off for quarter of an hour then act surprised, as if it didn’t happen like clockwork every afternoon. It is nice that, even a year on from Grandpa’s death, she is still doing the same little routines. It makes me feel safe, somehow. I eat another sandwich – they’re sliced into little triangles, a throwback from when I was little and I used to ask for them that way in my packed lunch. Nanna watches the news, intently. She’s always been fascinated by politics and mutters under her breath when a clip of Prime Minister’s Questions appears on the screen. I suppress a smile, and drink my tea.
Sure enough, ten minutes later she’s dozed off. I take the plates and cups through to the tiny kitchen and wash them in the sink. She’s already rinsed off the aluminium foil and left it to dry on the draining board – she’s from the generation of make do and mend. I go back through to the sitting room and she’s snoring gently. It’s only then that I realise that she looks so much older, all of a sudden. But it can’t have just happened. I suppose going away and coming back has brought it into relief. A knot of anxiety twists in my stomach at the thought of losing her and I hold on to the back of the sofa, gripping the edge of it with my fingers until my knuckles whiten.
‘Dear me,’ she says, waking with a start. ‘I must have dropped off.’
I laugh, and the moment is broken.
‘Let’s go to the community centre,’ she says, ‘and I’ll introduce you to Cyril, my new friend. He’s setting up a mindfulness circle – used to be a bit of an old hippy, if you ask me. He’s very nice.’
I look at her sideways. ‘Oh yes?’
‘Shush. He’s just a friend. I’m far too old for that sort of thing.’ She levers herself out of the armchair.
We walk to the community centre, which I recognise from Nanna’s Instagram photographs. It’s funny piecing it all together – makes me realise how much she must enjoy seeing the photos of my life in London. I resolve to take more. I’ve been slacking off a bit, because life seems to have been nothing but the commute to work, slaving over a hot desk all day, commuting home again, collapsing in front of Netflix, and then bed.
‘This is Cyril,’ Nanna Beth says, having taken me straight over to a man once we arrive at the centre.
I can see he was probably quite handsome in his day. He’s got a kind face, and is dressed in a soft houndstooth checked shirt and a smart navy blue sweater.
‘Ah, Jess, I’ve heard all about you. I’m a bit of a fan.’
‘You are?’ I say, surprised.
‘I am. Anyone who brings a smile to Beth’s face the way you do must be a pretty good sort, in my opinion.’
I look sideways at Nanna Beth and realise with amusement that she’s gone a little bit pink. She ducks her head, laughing, and says, ‘Oh, Cyril, you are a charmer.’
Cyril chuckles, sounding pleased with himself – but not in a smarmy way. It’s nice for her to have something good in her life after all those years of looking after Grandpa with his dementia.
‘I’m going to take Jess for a walk along the prom, and get an ice cream. You’re never too old for an ice cream with your nanna, are you,’ she says, squeezing my arm. I shake my head.
‘Do you want to join us?’
‘Ice cream, in March?’ Cyril shakes his head and does a mock shiver. It’s sunny outside, but there’s still a definite chill in the air. But ice cream on the prom is our thing, and we’ve always done it no matter what the weather. ‘Absolutely not. I’m sure you two girls have lots to catch up on, and I’ve got plenty to be going on with here.’
I swear if he could have had a cartoon twinkle in his eye, he would have. Nanna positively skips out of the community centre on my arm. I can’t help wondering if I’ll be as sprightly as she is at seventy-nine.
It occurs to me as we’re wandering along the prom with ice cream cones, admiring the massed plantings of daffodils in their huge pots by the shelters, that Nanna’s got a more interesting love life going on than I do. Something Sophie said the other day comes back to me – she pointed out in the bar the other day that I needed to get back on the horse. I said I’d think about it. And as I stand in the queue waiting for ice creams, I do. Maybe I should take the plunge and try dating again. It can’t do any harm, can it? We’ve got a half-populated Tinder profile sitting there. Maybe – ugh. I grimace. I can’t face the dick pics and the endless stream of weirdos sending messages. I’ve heard so many horror stories.
‘No nice young men on the scene?’ Nanna asks, looking at me over her glasses. It’s as if she can read my mind.
I shake my head.
‘None.’
‘The trouble with you, lovey, is you’ve got a streak of your mother in you.’
I step back, stunned. Mum and I couldn’t be more different. ‘Me? And Mum?’
‘Both old romantics, the pair of you. She’s always dreamed that someone’s going to come and sweep her off her feet, take her away from all this. That’s why she’s addicted to the drama of being on stage. And you’re the same in your own way – hooked on those romantic films.’
I look at her, feeling my brows gathering in a frown of confusion.
‘I don’t think I’m like Mum at all,’ I say, then eat some more ice cream and think about what she’s said. I like it better when Nanna and I talk about day-to-day stuff, when she doesn’t make me confront unpleasant realities. Today it’s as if someone’s taken her filter off. Maybe it’s an age thing.
‘I definitely don’t want someone to sweep me off my feet,’ I say, firmly. ‘I’ve seen more than enough of that with Mum. She’s been swept off her feet by so many dodgy con artists that I’m surprised she even knows whether she’s the right way up or not.’
‘No, but you’d like a nice happy ever after, wouldn’t you?’
I let my guard down a little at that. ‘A bit,’ I concede.
‘What about that nice Alex boy, then? I can’t help noticing you’re spending a lot of time with him.’
‘As friends, Nanna. That’s all.’
She gives me an old-fashioned look. ‘Just friends?’
‘Definitely. It’s nice to have someone showing me London – that’s it.’
‘Hrmm,’ she says, and then changes the subject, in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t believe me for a second.