Summer at the Lakeside Cabin

*

So at the age of thirty-two, I’m finally doing the grown-up thing of living with a guy! It feels unsettling yet quite exhilarating all at once.

It’s Saturday morning and I’m trying to get unpacked. But the boxes I’m tackling are full of Mum’s belongings – stuff I kept after clearing the house to put it up for sale – and I keep snagging on memories of my life with her. Everything I pull out seems to have a special meaning attached to it.

Toby, who’s getting ready to go into work, pops his head round the bedroom door, holding the house phone aloft. ‘It’s Joan.’

Panicking, I shake my head, miming to him to tell her I’m out. Joan will want me to talk about Mum and I just can’t face all that.

But Toby says, ‘Yeah, she’s here. Hang on a second, Joan.’

He hands me the phone with a frown. So obviously, I have to take it.

I close my eyes and take a big, bolstering breath. ‘Hi, Joan. Lovely to hear from you!’

Her warm voice on the other end, asking me how I’ve been and when I’m going to come down and visit, squeezes my heart painfully. Joan and Mum were such great friends. The memories of spending happy times together, the three of us, immediately start crowding in, and I feel the familiar clench of panic in my chest. With my free hand, I pull my cardigan tighter around me. It’s a dark maroon colour, a loose, waterfall design, with shiny maroon buttons. Toby hates it but it’s really comfy.

Joan asks about Toby and I tell her it’s his thirtieth birthday next month and I’m planning to surprise him with a romantic break away.

‘You could both come down and stay with me,’ she says. ‘Use my place as a base to explore Surrey.’ Then she laughs. ‘Hardly romantic, though.’

‘Oh, no, we couldn’t impose on you like that.’

She sighs. ‘It’s just a shame I don’t have a spare room. Ooh, I know! Why don’t you stay at Clemmy’s place, the two of you? Now, that would be very romantic!’

‘Clemmy’s place?’

‘Yes, didn’t I tell you? I definitely mentioned it to Maureen. Your mum always quite fancied the idea of glamorous camping.’

‘Glamping?’ I ask. ‘Yes, she did, didn’t she?’

‘I wish Maureen could have seen this place.’ Joan sighs. ‘She’d have loved it.’

My throat tightens. Mum and I talked about going glamping together but we never got round to it. If only I’d realised my precious time with her was limited …

Joan clears her throat. ‘Anyway, yes, Clemmy and that lovely fiancé of hers, Ryan, have opened the most glorious glamping site on the banks of a lake. It’s completely idyllic and the tents are magnificent. You’d really think you were staying in a five-star hotel!’

‘Sounds lovely.’

Clemmy is Joan’s niece and was one of my best friends at university, although we’ve sadly lost touch in the years since we left. She went back to live in Surrey, near Joan, and I returned to Manchester. I’m intrigued by the idea of the glamping site but, however much I love Joan, I don’t think spending time with her during our romantic break would be the best thing to do. She would want to talk about Mum and, quite frankly, that’s the last thing I want.

Why would I need to when I have all my lovely memories of Mum locked away inside?

And anyway, this romantic break away is going to be a special time, just for Toby and me. We’d finally have time to talk – really talk – about our future together. The magazine with my story printed in it had arrived, which was really exciting, but I’d purposely not told Toby. I was going to present it to him when we were away on holiday and he finally had the time to read it!

Glamping in Surrey is a nice idea but not for us right now …

I don’t like disappointing Joan, though, so I tell her I’ll think about it.

In all the whirl of moving house, I haven’t even thought where to take Toby for his birthday. But it’s June already. I need to make a decision!

I get back to the unpacking, thoughts of Greece – or maybe Italy – flitting through my head; Toby and I, perfectly relaxed, languishing on a hot sandy beach somewhere, next to a sun-sparkled sea …

I’m currently tackling a box that was up in Mum’s loft and looks as if it hasn’t been opened since we moved there more than a quarter of a century ago. I brush a cobweb from the front of my cardigan as a musty smell rises from the contents of the box – old books, mostly romance fiction with rather garish covers. Mum loved reading and never liked parting with her books. She was ruthless about clutter and was always boxing up stuff like clothes, shoes, old handbags and jewellery for the charity shop. But books were different. She held on to those. I’ve kept some of her favourites but I’ve carted so many off to the charity shop already.

I’m about to seal the box up again and mark it ‘charity’, when I spot something wedged down the side of the box. I pull it out.

A handbag.

It’s a cheap-looking bag. Glossy pink plastic with a gold-coloured clasp and a long narrow strap. Appliquéd onto the front is a pink and gold pony with big eyes and a flowing mane. I can’t imagine Mum would ever use something like that herself. It’s definitely not her style. But someone clearly loved it because it’s scuffed around the edges and well-used.

Was it mine when I was a teenager?

It’s so distinctive, I would surely remember it. But I don’t.

Opening the clasp, I find it’s empty, apart from an ancient-looking bus ticket and a lipstick in ‘shell pink’. There’s a pocket inside, though, and I can feel there’s something in there. Carefully unzipping it, I draw out a folded-up envelope.

Smoothing it out, I’m disappointed to find that it’s empty. Whatever letter was in there, which might have brought a clue as to the owner of the bag, has long gone. But there’s an address on the front of it that makes the breath catch in my throat.

Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green, Surrey.

I’ve never been to Appley Green. But I know it for one very important reason.

Mum told me it was the place where I was born.

I asked her once if she knew anything about my birth parents and where I came from. I must have been about sixteen at the time. She was ironing a shirt at the time. It’s funny how you remember the little details. Mum looked across at me and, for a moment, I thought she wasn’t going to answer me. Then she shook her head. ‘Sorry, love. All I know is that you were born in a village called Appley Green, not far from where we lived in Surrey, and your mother couldn’t look after you so she put you up for adoption. I wish I could tell you more but …’

‘So you don’t know anything at all about my … real mother?’

She got really flushed when I asked her that. The iron slipped and she burned her hand and had to dash through to the tap in the kitchen to run cold water over it.

I felt bad because actually, she was my ‘real mum’. The other woman, who had had nothing at all to do with my upbringing, was only my ‘birth mother’.

After that, I never asked again. I suppose I didn’t want Mum to think she might some day lose me to my biological mother.

The name, Appley Green, stayed in my mind, though. I have an image in my head of what the village looks like, although it’s probably not like that at all. I searched for a photograph of my birthplace online once but I drew a blank.

I glance at the date on the old bus ticket I found in the bag.

July 15th 1990.

I was born in 1987 so I would have been three years old when this ticket was issued.

I stare at the envelope. It obviously held some sort of advertising letter because it’s simply addressed to ‘The Householder’. No name to give me a clue. My eye focuses on the village name. Of course it’s pure coincidence that I was born in Appley Green and there it is, typewritten, on this envelope. But it still sends a little tingle of curiosity through me. The owner of the bag must have lived at Maple Tree House, Acomb Drive, Appley Green.

Maybe they still do …

I turn the envelope over, and scrawled on the back of it, in child-like writing, is our old address in Surrey. I always remember it because Mum used to laugh about the name. Our street was apparently called ‘Bog Houses’, and Mum used to say it was a lot more picturesque than it sounded.

There it is, on the back of the envelope, presumably scribbled down by the owner of the handbag.

3 Bog Houses, Chappel-Hedges, Surrey.

So many questions are tumbling through my head.

Who did the bag belong to?

How did it end up in Mum’s loft?

And why did Mum – who was so meticulous about getting rid of clutter – carefully box it up and keep it for all these years?

CHAPTER FIVE

The words on the blog site jump out at me.

*

Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping, near Appley Green, Surrey

Live in luxury while getting back to nature at our

beautiful lakeside glamping site!

*

Going online to find out more about Clemmy’s glamping site, I wasn’t prepared for what I would see.

But there it is, in bold black letters.

The nearest village to Clemmy’s site is … Appley Green.

I sit back, my head whirling. How weird is that?

A little zing of excitement rushed through me when I spotted the name of the village, and my heart is now bumping along at a fair old rate. From my perch on the bed, I stare at Clemmy’s website on my laptop for a long time, wondering if it might be some sort of a sign.

Glamping in a gorgeous setting could be the ideal holiday for us. Toby and I could go down there and have a lovely time together. And it would be the perfect opportunity to see Appley Green for myself and catch up with Clemmy.

I don’t usually believe in signs.

But finding the handbag with the address in it? And now this a few days later?

The glamping site looks gorgeous.

The three dwellings, well spaced across an acre of grass leading down to the lake, are nothing like the tent we took with us on camping holidays when I was little. They’re spacious and elegant, the cream-coloured canvas sweeping up into two dramatic peaks, giving them the look of a Bedouin tent in the desert. Toby would be sure to love them.

Inside, Clemmy has worked miracles with the space. She always did have a great eye for design. No expense has been spared on the canopied beds, and the soft furnishings are to die for. There’s a gorgeous bedroom and a separate living area with a big squashy sofa, all done up in creams and golds. Then there’s a shower room with loo, and even a little kitchen with all mod cons. Plus a gorgeous log burner for when the nights are cool.

A photo of an elegantly dressed couple catches my eye. They’re sitting at a little table for two, just outside their tent, clinking champagne glasses and laughing. Candlelight flickers on the table and there’s a rustic blue jug filled with hedgerow blooms. In the background, the setting sun streaks the horizon in glorious reds and pinks as the beautiful couple toast their future together.

There are lots more photos of the surrounding area, too.

The lakeside setting is glorious and it’s clear there will be ample places to explore – from the sophisticated boutique hotel a short walk from the glamping site, to the long swathe of forest glimpsed on the far side of the lake. Toby and I could go for long walks with a picnic and, if it’s warm enough, we can swim in the lake.

I stare at the two words, Appley Green, until they start to blur into one.

The oddest feeling is growing inside me, adding very frisky butterflies to my churning stomach. It feels as if everything is happening for a reason and I’m being led towards something that could be life-changing.

It only takes five minutes to book it.

Sunday to Sunday. The second week in July. Just a few weeks away.

We’re going glamping!

*

‘Do they have Wi-Fi?’ asks Toby when I tell him we’re all booked.

‘Of course. They’ll have everything you could possibly want. Including me.’ I snuggle up to him with a flirty smile. Actually, I’ve no idea about the Wi-Fi. I’ll have to check with Clemmy.

‘Sounds lovely,’ he says, smiling and kissing my forehead. ‘Let me pay for it, though. I earn far more than you.’

‘But I want it to be my treat.’

‘Yes, but it’s the thought that counts. Don’t bankrupt yourself. At least let me pay a bit towards it.’

I feel a twinge of uneasiness.

It sounds like Toby’s imagining five-star luxury, or at least somewhere more expensive than a glamping trip. Perhaps I should book a hotel break instead?

Am I being selfish, taking Toby there because part of me is really curious to see Appley Green?

Then I think of the pictures on Clemmy’s website. When Toby sees how special it is, he’ll love it, I’m sure. It will be something a little bit different that he’ll always remember when thinking of his thirtieth birthday.

What could be more romantic, after all, than eating dinner under the stars, at that pretty little table with its glowing candles and fresh wild flowers. Listening to the sounds of the countryside, watching the sun go down and planning adventures for the next day.

Clemmy’s glamping site looks like the perfect setting for romance.

What could possibly go wrong?

*

The following morning, I’m dozing after the alarm has gone off, when I have the weird nightmare once again.

Afterwards, my eyes spring open in alarm and I find I’ve been clenching my fists so tightly there are red nail marks on my palms.

Technically, they’re not nightmares because I’m never actually asleep when I have them. It’s more of a flashback, really.

And it’s always the same.

It’s dark. I’m running along a narrow lane with tall hedges on either side, and terror has me gripped in its clutches. I don’t know what I’m afraid of but there’s a frenzy of panic inside me and I’m crying – huge gasping sobs that hurt as the icy night air blasts my throat. It’s winter. Snow is clinging to the hedges, and their ghostly shapes as I blunder past are like an army of sinister snowmen.

Looking back along the lane, I peer desperately into the pitch black, searching for something. I’m crying for the thing I’ve dropped. But all the time, I’m moving further and further away from it, against my will, along that spooky lane …

More than the panic and the fear, it’s the feeling of heartbreaking loss that lingers longest when the images start to fade.

Eyes open now, I stare into the early morning gloom, thinking about the pink plastic handbag I found in Mum’s box the day before. Slipping out of bed, I take it out of my bedside drawer and, trying not to disturb Toby, I cross to my case that’s lying open on the floor, partially packed, and I slide it in, under some clothes.

Could there be a link between my recurring flashback and that mysterious pink bag? I need to take it with me …

CHAPTER SIX

On the morning of our departure, as luck would have it, the stock markets decide to plummet.

It’s hardly the Wall Street Crash, but it’s dramatic enough to etch a permanent groove above Toby’s nose as he sits in his study, urgently discussing the repercussions with his colleagues in the office.

I knock on the door as noon approaches. Toby’s ear is still welded to his phone.

‘Shall I pack for you?’ I ask, feeling guilty for interrupting such high-level discussions.

He turns and looks at me blankly.

Then he says in a really stern voice, ‘Bloody hell, no, that would be an absolute travesty.’

I blink at him, confused for a second. I suppose he thinks I’d pack all the wrong things. Then I realise he’s still talking to his colleague.

Sighing, I slink out of the room and leave him to it.

I told Clemmy we’d be there by three and she said she’d have a picnic basket with afternoon tea waiting for us. But my vision of lounging on a rug in the sunshine with Toby, enjoying home-baked scones with jam and cream and Earl Grey tea, looks like it might not happen after all.

At last, at just after four, we hit the road in Toby’s Fiesta.

It’s not exactly the relaxing journey down I’d envisaged as Toby is constantly on the car Bluetooth, talking to the office. But I don’t mind too much. It means I can indulge in a spot of daydreaming, staring out of the passenger window, enjoying the scenery and looking forward to arriving at what will be our lovely home for the next seven days.

I’d thought about asking Toby if we should invite Rosalind along and maybe some of the boys if they wanted to come. But I sensed Toby would probably want it to be just us.

We go round to Rosalind’s every week for Sunday lunch and it’s pretty chaotic, with kids running around and everyone talking over each other. Toby hates it, but to me, it’s a sort of celebration. It reminds me of Christmas.

Every Christmas Eve, Mum used to invite the neighbours and her friends from the call centre where she worked for a bit of a party. It was the one time in the year we had folk round and Mum really pushed the boat out. The house was bursting with people and laughter, Christmas music and big aluminium platters of festive food.

Even as a little kid, I looked forward to that party on Christmas Eve more than the big day itself. I’d love a big family one day …

I glance across at Toby with affection and catch his eye. His stern brow smoothes out and he smiles at me, before returning to the vexing world of market slumps.

Eventually, he winds up the conversation then turns and beams at me. ‘After a day like today, this is just what I need. Some no-holds-barred pampering in a luxurious setting.’ He sighs and rolls his shoulders in anticipation of the relaxation ahead.

I stare at him in alarm.

Why didn’t I at least think to bring a bottle of supermarket champagne?

I clear my throat. ‘Listen, Toby, I … er … there’s something you need to know. This place we’re going to—’

He shakes his head firmly. ‘Stop right there! You said you wanted it to be a surprise, and I’m absolutely fine with that.’ He smiles across at me and my heart flips. He looks so handsome with his fair hair flopping over his forehead.

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts, Daisy. Just tell me where to go when we get to – Appley Green, is it?’ He grins. ‘And for goodness’ sake, stop looking so worried. I’m sure I’ll love it, wherever it is. In fact, I know I will – as long as you’re there with me.’

He pats my knee and I relax slightly. Perhaps he won’t be disappointed after all. Spotting a signpost, a little thrill of anticipation – mixed with a degree of trepidation – zips through me as it hits me that we’re travelling nearer my place of birth with every mile. I lived down there for the first four years of my life. Would anything spark a memory?

I’m not even thinking about Maple Tree House, though.

I’ve tried to imagine myself knocking on the front door. But I can’t for the life of me think what I’d say if someone actually answered it.

Did you used to know my adoptive mum, Maureen Cooper?

Is this your handbag?

Do you know anyone round here who had a baby thirty-two years ago and gave her up for adoption?

I break out into a sweaty panic every time I think about it.

So I’ve decided the best thing to do is to just enjoy the holiday with Toby and put searching for my birth mum out of my mind.

I can obviously check out the area and maybe even visit the village of Appley Green and have a look around.

But as for walking up to the front door of Maple Tree House?

Absolutely no way …

CHAPTER SEVEN

My heart is hammering as we draw near our destination – for two reasons.

With signs for ‘Clemmy’s Lakeside Glamping’ popping up here and there, I’m wondering when the penny will drop and Toby will guess that’s where we’re going.

And I can’t stop peering at all the dwellings we’re passing, wondering if any of them are Maple Tree House. I’m trying not to look because we’re here for Toby’s birthday treat and I’m feeling a little guilty that I have an ulterior motive for choosing the glamping site for our holiday.

I haven’t told Toby about finding the handbag with the Appley Green address inside it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rachel. I’m hugging it to myself for now, processing it all in my own head before I tell anyone else about it.

I had no idea how I’d feel when I actually got here.

I think I vaguely imagined that I’d go to Appley Green and have a look around, marvelling that it was here I began life. I even pictured locating Maple Tree House and knocking on the front door, although I’d ruled that out. Beyond that, I hadn’t really thought.

But now that I’m here, everything is suddenly scarily real. There’s a drive in me to find my birth mum that wasn’t there before. Did I really imagine that just visiting Appley Green would satisfy my curiosity and I’d be able to return to Manchester content simply to have seen the place where I was born?

But alongside the desire to discover where I came from is a deep, gnawing guilt. I can’t help feeling that in contemplating searching for my birth mum, I’m betraying the woman who, to all intents and purposes, was my mum. How would she have felt if she’d known I was thinking of following my curiosity to its natural end?

Driving through Appley Green itself is the weirdest feeling. My head feels as if it’s floating away from my body and there’s a buzzing in my ears as if I might be about to faint. I stare at the faces of the women walking along the high street, looking especially at the middle-aged women, going about their normal business on an ordinary Sunday morning in Appley Green.

Any one of these women could be my birth mother!

I want to tell Toby. But something is stopping me.

I think I’m worried that, if I tell anyone, it will all become overwhelmingly real and then there’ll be no going back. I’ll have to go with it and search for the truth.

But that’s where my biggest fear of all lies.

Because what if I search for the truth and it’s not the fairy tale I want? What if my birth mother had me adopted simply because she didn’t want me?

What if I turn up on her doorstep and she rejects me all over again?

‘Daisy?’ Toby sounds tense. ‘Earth to Daisy.’

I swing round. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘You need to direct me. I spotted a sign for a Michelin-starred manor house hotel back there if that’s any help?’ He looks at me hopefully and my heart sinks.

‘Try next left.’ I point at a looming sign announcing ‘Glamping’ in bold letters.

Toby looks at the sign and chuckles. ‘You and your little jokes.’ He shakes his head at me as if he’s the patient adult and I’m the naughty, wayward child. ‘So?’ He glances over expectantly, as if at any moment I’m going to shout, ‘Hah! Had you fooled! No, of course we’re not going glamping for a week. Not when there’s a posh manor house hotel with a couple of Michelin stars and an award-winning spa back there!’

This is awful.

What was I thinking, booking something that really is just one step up from a Boy-Scouts-round-the-campfire-back-to-nature sort of trip? I suppose I was carried away with how romantic the photos looked.

‘Toby, turn left, please. This is the surprise.’

He looks startled, and having been about to drive straight past the turn-off, brakes suddenly and turns off. Then he drives slowly along the narrow road, looking from left to right as if he can’t quite believe where he is.