Do You Really Want to Yurt Me?

Just last night, Freya had pulled Monty down to the bottom of the garden and not so subtly suggested he start pulling his discarded projects out of the loft and putting them on eBay. Regan could benefit from extra violin tuition judging by the last week’s concert, Felix’s school trip kept rearing its ugly head on the ParentPay website. She didn’t want her children to go without because their father might fancy making probiotic yoghurt again. Or because you can’t face up to things either, whispered the little voice in her head.

He’d started to say something about his parents and she’d cut him short. No loans. He was a grown man. It was time to start behaving like one.

Her erstwhile assistant Fallon flounced into the shop in a cloud of tonka bean and myrrh, fresh from a flirting session with the chap who sold upcycled ‘art’ a few shops up the cobbled lane.

‘OMG. Total tomb in here. It’s buzzing everywhere else.’

Freya resisted making a narky comment about hubcap sconces. ‘Just nipping out for a second.’

‘I thought you wanted to stock-take.’

She opened her mouth, about to launch into an oft-rehearsed speech. Freya wanted a lot of things. Financial stability. A job that afforded more creativity than exploiting unicorns and Star Wars characters. A son who didn’t have to worry about whether or not he could have a fun wee trip with his school friends. Peace on earth. She bit her tongue.

‘Back in a mo.’

She wove her way through the crowds, past the four-hundred-odd competing vendors, and made a quick stop at her guilty pleasure, the Himalayan Coffee Man stall. (Guilty, because she’d given Monty a right earful about spending money on ridiculously overpriced coffees the other day.) Her pace slowed as she reached Camden Canal, found a bench and pulled out her phone. They were off camping tomorrow and they would have fun if it killed her.

M – if you can’t find pound, please could you finishing packing? Most stuff in roof box already … These for back of the car. NB: leave room for dog.

Sleeping bags (airing in Regan’s room)

Inflater thingy that plugs into car (shed)

Tent pegs (Think they somehow got mixed up with Christmas decorations, check red box by tree stand)

Ground cloth

Fly sheet (the waterproof thing that goes on top)

Folding camping chairs (not the blue one, it’s broken)

Knives (the one with the brown handle and the one with the jagged edge)

Playing cards

Spatula (the one that gets right under the pancakes)

Cool boxes (air please, and if there’s mould in them make sure you wipe with the non-toxic spray not bleach)

Get children to pack BEFORE they hit Netflix otherwise no bargaining chip.

One onesie each – but not the ones Nanna B gave them this last Christmas. xxF

Freya stared at the email before pressing send. It didn’t read quite as jauntily as she’d hoped. Frankly it was downright bossy, but she knew how Monty’s brain worked. Attention span of a gnat when it came to things like packing. Her mind drifted to her feminista tank-top collection. One slogan in particular pinged out. I’m not with him, he’s with me. It hadn’t been selling all that well either. Was she crushing Monty with the weight of her dreams at the expense of his? She looked at the phone again and tacked on a quick:

PS – make sure you take a portrait of yourself! Fxx

‘I don’t want to go to school!’ Luna pushed her bowl of cereal away, her accompanying wail leaving no doubt as to how she felt about the matter.

‘C’mon Booboo. There’s rules about this sort of thing.’ Izzy shifted tack. ‘Can’t have you turning out a surf bum like your old moms, eh? Anyway, I’ve gotta go out and find a new way to keep you in Honey Nut Loops, yeah?’

Luna pulled Bonzer up onto her lap, her little eyebrows scrunching up tight. ‘I liked our old life.’

Izzy had too. Once.

‘I know Looney. But life comes in all different shapes and sizes and we’re trying on a new one. C’mon. Bonzer loves walking to school.’

‘No he doesn’t! He hates it too.’ Izzy’s daughter blinked away her tears, the tightly cuddled, increasingly large Bonzer masking the bulk of her expression. ‘The other kids won’t make friends with me.’

Izzy’s heart contracted. Sugar.

She knew that feeling. Thanks to her own mother’s wandering ways, she’d been in more than her share of new schools. She’d played the chameleon to make things easier, hence the weird accent. It had worked to an extent, but she hadn’t wanted that life for Luna. It was one of the reasons why she’d set up the surf school. Best-laid plans and all that.

She gave her head a scrub, trying to clear away yesteryear so that she could focus on the here and now.

School.

Mrs Jones, the head teacher at Luna’s new school, had seemed lovely; an experienced, Welsh earth-mother who’d welcomed Luna with open arms.

‘You can tell the other pupils all about what Hawaii is like. I don’t think we’ve ever had a child who’s lived on an island in the Pacific before, how exciting!’

Izzy had convinced herself that the wonderful Mrs Jones and Luna’s equally nice teacher would make everything all right, while she went about the increasingly urgent task of finding a job.

Izzy swept her daughter’s curls to one side and planted a kiss on her forehead.

‘Sometimes it takes a little while to make friends, Boo Boo. They’ll love you every bit as much as I do.’ They wouldn’t. ‘Just give it a bit more time.’

‘One of the boys laughed at the way I said tomato at lunch time,’ Luna sniffed, burying her head in Bonzer’s ample fluff.

Song lyrics wafted across Izzy’s brain, ‘You say tom-ay-to, I say tom-ah-to …’

‘He’s probably just jealous. You’re a world traveller and he probably hasn’t even been to Cardiff.’ She resisted the temptation to hurl insults at the little blighter. Mocking her daughter. How very dare he?

‘I don’t wanna go.’ Luna’s bottom lip was still projecting into the room but Izzy could sense her daughter’s resolve waning.

‘Here baby. Why don’t you wear this?’ She handed her a ratty old tutu. Luckily it fitted over the insipid grey uniform.

Luna tugged it on then gave her hand a squeeze. They still held hands. Izzy was already scared for the day when she might not want to any more. ‘Are we poor?’

‘Poor? Us? No. Why do you ask?’ They weren’t actually. They were simply living … thriftily. It was important. She’d been given a couple of unexpected gifts in life – a savings account she hadn’t realized her mother had been keeping for her and, of course, Ash Cottage from the father she’d never met. Izzy tried not to think about how long the money her mother had left her would last, but it wouldn’t be for ever. She’d never been one to think about the future. Other people did that. She was more of an in-the-moment kinda gal, but this time there was no getting away from it: she’d have to get a job.

‘Some of the kids were saying because we moved from Hawaii to here it must mean that we’re poor.’

Izzy looked out of the window and laughed. Today was a rare sunny day. Apart from the insanely beautiful May bank holiday with Charlotte and the gang (chocolate cake would never be the same again), they’d pretty much enjoyed grey, drizzly, British seaside weather every day. Not that they were anywhere near the sea. The village itself was perfectly serviceable, but heaven knew why her mother and father had picked it. It was near absolutely nothing. Perhaps that had been the point. On Maui everything felt close. In a good way. The twenty-mile drive to Cardiff – or ten to the sea – seemed crazy long after living on an island you could circumnavigate in under two hours. Or maybe it was the constant fear that her van would break down and they’d be stranded. Friendless. With no one to call. She thought of Freya’s invite to go camping and Emily’s regular check-ins. No one within one hundred miles, anyway.

Her daughter was still looking at her expectantly.

‘I can see where they’re coming from, Booboo. Hawaii was pretty amazing, but they’ve got castles here. And … umm … other things. We’re good. Don’t you worry about that.’

‘Then why did we move?’

It was a good question. And one she really didn’t want to answer.

‘To be near friends.’ It wasn’t entirely a lie.

‘But … Auntie Emms lives in London and Freya does too and Charlotte’s getting divorced.’

Izzy squatted down and swept her daughter’s hair away from her eyes. ‘You don’t miss much, do you? Look, just because Charlotte’s getting a divorce doesn’t mean we aren’t going to see her again. In fact we’ll probably see more of her.’

‘Good.’ Izzy grinned. ‘Bonzer likes her.’ She scooped up Bonzer with a grunt and patted his huge paw on Izzy’s cheek. ‘Bonzer loves ice cream.’

‘Well, isn’t that lucky?’ Izzy pulled them both in for a cuddle. ‘There just happens to be an ice cream shop on the way home from school.’

‘Still don’t wanna go.’

‘Loons.’ Izzy held up her hand and showed four fingers. ‘School breaks up in this many. If you finish the rest of the week, how about we jump into the van and drive up to meet Freya and Charlotte on their crazy wild camping trip?

Luna’s blue eyes lit up instantly. ‘Really? Can we bring Bonzer?’

‘Of course we can!’ Izzy crossed her fingers behind her back, desperately trying to remember if Freya had said he was welcome. His incarceration at Sittingstone Castle had led to meeting Charlotte’s new mentor, Lady Venetia, but losing Looney for the two hours before the dowager countess had discovered both child and dog asleep in the castle kennels had scared the living daylights out of her. No chance she was going through that again. If the worst came to the worst, she’d stick Bonzer in a pair of cargoes and vest and pretend he was her husband.

‘Yay!’ Luna jumped up and down, her long, coiled hair flying around her head like a whirling dervish.

‘Right, time to get dressed!’

As Luna ran upstairs to her room, Izzy spied the letter she’d tucked behind the fruit bowl, away from little girl eyes. Every time she caught a glimpse of it she shrank a little, knowing the longer she ignored it, the worse things might be. Or better. There was always a possibility.

She looked around her at the cottage, its patches of peeling plaster, its lack of central heating, the damp that seemed to permeate the whole house even though summer had well and truly arrived.

It hadn’t even occurred to her to sell it as, apart from a small savings account, this was all she had left of her mum (and dad), but how on earth could she have known it was going to be like this?

She should’ve sold it the second she found out about it and moved to Bristol instead. Tantalizingly close, just across the mouth of the Severn River, and yet, oh so far.

She’d been so busy the past few months. Packing up what she could afford to bring on the plane. Selling or Craigslisting the rest. Answering the barrage of emails from Emily as best she could. Wishing Nr Cardiff was Nr-er to Bristol, or that Cardiff wasn’t so insanely far away from London. Why couldn’t her parents have had an affair in Brighton? Bloomsbury. Paris, even. They’d both been artistic types. What was the allure of Nr Cardiff?

The romance of penury? The fact it was so cold that bed was the only place to get cosy? The mould?

Who knew? Her mother’s tastes had always eluded her, and too late Izzy had realized the millions of questions she should have asked her before she’d died. At least her father had thought of her in his will. She’d done her best to make the flint stone cottage seem the tiniest bit like their simple but perfect beach house they’d left behind in Hawaii, all the while trying to ignore the growing fear that the mould she smelt (and saw) was toxic.

That. And, of course, The Other Thing. She nudged the letter out from between the bowl and the wall, eyes glued as it fell open, the name of the hospital and the department in bright blue lettering at the top of the page, glowing like a neon sign.

Oncology Department

She could hear Emily’s voice in her head, ‘Deal with it. Now!’

Bonzer batted at her chest. It was like he knew.

Izzy shoved the letter in the pocket of her cut-off jeans. She’d look at it later.

‘Wait. What? Who?’ Emily was properly regretting taking Callum’s call. His love life was definitely not an emergency. The fact he wanted her to move out, however, was.

‘A boy-friend.’ Callum said it really slowly, as if she were a thicko. Then, ‘He’s called Ernesto. He’s Spanish.’ Callum made a trill of his tongue wrapped up with a click of the fingers and an Olé!

‘Bueno,’ she said flatly, then, ‘I thought you were in Vienna today.’

‘Yes indeed. We met at the Regenbogen parade. He’s a musician. That’s why we need your room. So he can set up his studio.’

Puta madre. Trust Callum to have his ‘some enchanted evening’ with Barcelona’s answer to Moby. If she’d gone on his Euro Pride Tour with him as requested, she’d very likely not be in this mess. On the flipside, if she’d gone she’d no doubt be in some sort of other mess. Her mother had recently friended her on Facebook and Twitter, marking a dramatic curtailment to her already half-assed #lovinglife presence on social media. Which is why she’d stayed home and done double shifts. Yesterday, after her mother ‘waved’, she’d taken an ironic panorama of the dim sum across the street to a sign outside the hospital warning people about viral gastroenteritis. Her mother had rung immediately and told her not to bother, there was a better place down the road with far better dumplings.

All that genius … wasted.

‘You’ll like him,’ Callum gushed. ‘I can’t wait for you two to meet.’

As he yammered on about the perfect place in Soho to eat because he thought meeting at the flat would be awkward all things considered, she shook the phone, praying something, anything, would magically change the fact that Callum was dumping her by FaceTime. Why couldn’t he have text-dumped her like a normal person? Not that it was really dumping seeing as they were only friends, but … even so …

Sigh. She should’ve answered more of those WhatsApp things from the girls. Then she’d have gained some ‘bitch about Callum’ credits.

She stomped down the road to her appointment. How was she going to find somewhere new to live by the end of the month?

There was always her parents’ place. The basement ‘granny flat’ was kept in pristine condition for her inevitable return to care for them in their dotage like a good little spinster daughter.

‘You’ll really like him, Emms. Ernesto’s …’ Callum went all doe-eyed. Gross. Men over six foot tall should never go dewy over anyone or anything. Except, perhaps, puppies. She gave out the odd free card for puppies. Even though she’d never want one herself, obviously. It would die of loneliness. A bit like her, she supposed.

‘Emms? A little feedback would be nice.’ Callum was openly plaintive.

She tried to rustle up some enthusiasm but couldn’t. Instead she decided to rub in just how completely unfair this all was. ‘Soo … you need me out by the end of July? If I’m working and packing, how much time does that leave us for Brighton?’

Callum put on his apology face. It needed work. ‘About Brighton … Ernesto’s never been and with only the one room booked—’

She made a screeching noise. ‘No. Please. I get it.’ Emily didn’t need Callum to spell it out. Boyfriend trumped flatmate. Ex-flatmate. Whatever.

‘You okay, Emms?’

Oh, now he cared.

‘Brilliant. I’m on my way to a meeting. Better go.

‘Emmzzzz. C’mon, baby. I know there’s some hurt going on in there.’

‘What do you want me to say? That I’m devastated? Okay, I’m devastated - happy?’

‘Emmmmzzz.’

This was becoming plain irritating.

‘What? You’ve met me. I’m not going to cry. I don’t have feelings.’ She had loads of feelings. She just didn’t want to show them. ‘I’ll leave my boa for you on the kitchen table. Make good use of it.’

Callum began protesting and placating and everything else that she found freaking annoying. Bloody overemotional gay man. Why had she ever thought he was the ying to her Cristina Yang? And still he jabbered on.

Maybe she’d go and see Izzy.

Emily thought about their last text exchange.

Emz! Reeeeeeks of mould in here. There’re big, dark stains on the ceilings.

Thought it was the dog.

Bonzer has his moments, but he’s not pooping on the ceiling … yet! Any chance you could come out with a Petri dish or something sometime? It’d be a shame to die before … you know … it’s time to die. Love to Callum. xx

A shudder ran down Emily’s spine. Euuurgh. Wales. Thank god ‘gay time’ moved at an exponential rate of knots and the standard two-year relationship could be boiled down to a fortnight. She would stay in one of the on-call rooms. Callum’s whole ‘I’ve met the love of my life’ thing would blow over soon enough.

‘Got another call coming in. Have a great time! Kisses to Ernesto!’ No one in their right mind would’ve thought she sounded sincere.

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