Who I Am Read online

  ‘Yeah, he’s a pisshead basically,’ she cups her mouth with a delicate hand. ‘Excuse my language,’ she says, ‘but, he always has been – a drunk. You’ve heard of it then, can’t say I ever had before. Could hardly even pronounce it, never mind understand it. The doctor tried to say, it isn’t always caused by the booze, but we both understood, in Dad’s case, it was. I’m gob-smacked you’ve even heard of it.’

  ‘Only because we had a talk on the long term effects of alcohol last year. Think they were trying to dry some of the students out. Warn them off with a list of potential deadly outcomes. Wasting their time, obviously. I don’t really understand the full ins and outs of it, other than it’s a really cruel illness, as dementia always is. I’m so sorry, that’s really tough on you too.’

  ‘Hmm. Like I said, it’s his own fault. But anyhow that’s where my money went. All of it. But what was I to do?’

  ‘What about your mum?’ Words I wished I could rein back in on noticing her physically congeal.

  ‘Dead.’ She says.

  I gasp out loud before I can stop myself, then grab her hand and squeeze, words failing me.

  ‘Same way, before you ask.’ She gives a reciprocal squeeze then releases my hand, to place the moisturiser back in the basket next to her. ‘Not the Korsakoffs stuff, but still a… drunk, amongst other stuff. Again, all her own doing.’

  Despite now feeling completely sober, I feel my legs quiver. ‘Look, I appreciate you hardly know me, so please tell me if I’m offending you. But the three of us,’ I nod towards the bathroom door, ‘me, Clara and Jo, we share a house in Stockbridge, Daddy rents it for us, then we share the rent. My bedroom is huge, plenty big enough for two and I’ve a spare bed already in there, you could always share with me, until you sort yourself out at least.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No, you don’t need to say anything, not just yet. Have a think about it. I’m off back home tomorrow, won’t be back until January, so you’ve some time to mull it over. Please don’t feel obliged or anything though, it’s only a thought.’ I pick up our bags and hand her hers as we walk towards the exit door. ‘You have my mobile number so let me know, any time.’ The raucous laughter hits us as we push at the door, joyfulness and drunken exchanges circling the domed ceiling. I pull her back before we reach our table. ‘Please tell me – I haven’t offended you, been a little too forward. I didn’t mean to be. I only want to help if I can.’

  Newly perfectly painted lips turn upwards. ‘No, of course you haven’t,’ she reassures me, ‘but obviously, I’ll need to think it over. It’s very sweet of you but I like to pay my way usually and it’s all a bit embarrassing. I’ve always been a believer, nothing is free in life, everything comes with a price list. Something Dad did teach me.’

  ‘Accept good friendships, Cam, they shouldn’t come at a cost. I know we’ve only just met but like you said, feels more like we’ve known each other for ages. If I can help you, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

  ‘Thanks Andi, I’ll think about it, promise.’ She rubs my arm.

  Maybe, I’ve lifted some of the weight sitting incongruently on a petite frame. Life can be so unfair sometimes, so cruel and as Grandma always told me, there but for the grace of God go I.

  6

  Falmouth 2017

  Andi

  It’s only 10.10 when I swing the car through the front gates, pressing the control I keep in the door pocket, they open and I sneak through. Understanding the growing list of tasks I need to address today is enough to persuade me to turn back around and disappear. I’ve still to finish my article for the magazine, with an ideal deadline cutting me off at 16.00 today, I shouldn’t have gone for coffee. I love our home, graced with wonderful outlooks across the Fal Estuary and beyond, my dream home. Perched on top of the banks near our small community of Flushing, we sit in surveillance of the more stretched out town of Falmouth. But more lately, I’m always anxious about being here. That perpetual jittery feeling, at the thought of being home alone.

  Unlocking the oiled oak door, I pad in through the airy reception hall. A slight quiver slithers over me as my footsteps echo around the empty silence. I scamper through to the open plan kitchen and dining area, where a 360 degree wood burner is suspended from the ceiling. The dreaded breakfast crockery eyes me from the across the room, piled uncertainly high on the walnut kitchen workbench, am I becoming a slob too? Diverting my gaze away to the glass bi-fold doors, I spot Paul outside, tending to the pool, and a feeling of relief washes over me. I’m not entirely alone. I fold back the doors separating us, and offer him coffee. Anything to avoid what I need to get on with and some non-intrusive human contact, it’s reassurance I’m seeking – everything is normal? Carol has already called me since my abrupt departure from the restaurant, I didn’t take the call.

  Walking back through the kitchen, I bump into the protruding dining chair, the loose papers for my article float to the floor and I step over them. Originally when I took on the role as a freelance features writer, it was my intention to be based in London but that was before I met Kyle. Back then still in my twenties, Cornwall for me was only ever meant to be somewhere I escaped to, a few months was all it was ever going to be, sufficient time to lay low, clear my mind. Come to terms with the loss of friends and anyone I could refer to as family. But then I decided to top up my English degree with a certificate in journalism. Which is when I met Kyle, who was taking a year out after his graduation with a business marketing degree to pursue his love for recreational photography.

  Then, beyond even my hopes, I landed a position with a Health and Beauty Magazine whilst my training and qualifying continued. Apparently, only because of my first class honours degree, impressive work examples and the long list of work placements I achieved in Edinburgh during undergraduate times. Now, my reputation seems to work for itself, I still write for the same magazine and also for a Cornish magazine, focussed on the county’s tourism. In truth, I don’t need to work, Kyle earns sufficient for us all, being a marketing executive for a well known brand name in London.

  Absent minded, I make coffee, then saunter back out to the terrace to find Paul. We engage in the usual small town banter before I return to the kitchen to mix myself a small salad, squeeze fresh orange juice and rummage through the drawers for any elusive paracetamol. Where are the blasted things? Surely I haven’t got through four packets in a week? Then I remember I’ve some next to my bed, my breakfast from this morning. This then is my new routine, wake, water, tablets, get up. Children, breakfast, school, kill time, avoid work, children, dinner, bed. I’m stuck on a carousel of life and I wonder sometimes if this is what I intended? Has everything been worth it? Or did what happen change why I did all this in the first place?

  I’m pondering this as I tread my way upstairs in pursuit of pain relief, I’ve never been the same, how could I be? Stepping into our bedroom, I realise – Christ, I haven’t made the bed, in fact, I haven’t even opened the blinds. Quickly, I pad over to the outsized window dodging the beating I’m giving myself and press for the blinds to retract. Stepping backwards as the punishing rays penetrate my eyes. It takes a few moments to regain focus before peering out to the estuary, where the tranquil, glistening waters become more of a huge, teal blue tank of water. A small fishing boat rocks gently against a once brightly coloured buoy, now weather and life beaten. I squint to observe the small figure carelessly slung back on the deck, is he trying to escape too, stealing a moments reflection, peace and quiet from the daily white noise, hum of life? Does he feel as alone as I do, despite the people? My family. My husband. Does he have something dark lurking in the shadows?

  Turning away, I spot the paracetamol at the same time as the silver laptop thrown haphazardly on the unmade iridescent silvery blue sheets. Could it have been a dream in the hazy early hours of this morning? The alcohol, blurring my mind? How many did I guzzle, half a bottle, a bottle, and a half? Subconsciously, I touch my head, overly warm and thumping. Breaking t
hrough the foil backing of the pills, I tread back down the spiralling stone steps to the hallway. In the kitchen, I make my way to the fridge to fill a glass with cold water and ice, placing it back on the side next to the orange juice, catching sight of the Sauvignon Blanc from last night. Instantly, I’m hit by a flood of relief. An almost calm, beginning at the top then gently trickling its way through me – it can’t be long to go. I glance at the clock, it’s 12.05. I mean, it’s basically lunch time, if I lived on the continent it would be obligatory to partake in a petite something or other; un verre du vin. It even sounds more civilised said like that. The thought of it alone offers a window of respite.

  I begin to argue with myself, contemplating a refreshing pick me up, visualising, tasting, inhaling gentle passion fruit and elderflower. I wonder if Paul might fancy one too? A nice glass of something cold in the heat of the day. Despite knowing full well he won’t, he’s told me before, he has to drive for his living. He must think I’m some kind of desperate lush. I hover in the kitchen, swaying from flip-flop to flip-flop, I can’t – it’s far too early and drinking alone too, really? How did this happen? Before, I’d only really ever drink at weekends with Kyle, then the occasional social week night, then the infrequent social lunch date, then the odd week night alone. Still, it’s not as if I wake in the morning reaching for the spirits, then, I would have a problem. I could happily give it up completely, if I wanted to, I just don’t want to at the moment. It’s really not a problem.

  I think back to last week at the school gates, it wasn’t so much that I smelt of drink, that’s the best thing about vodka. But I was particularly aware of being over chatty, attempting to compensate for furry words. Too smiley. Then later the guilt, the shame, the face of my beautiful children – they deserve better. No more daytime drinking, no more unnecessary indulgences. I swig back the glass of water with the pills. Until tonight, night time is fine, acceptable, even if I’ll be alone. But then there’s that look on Kyle’s face, etched on my mind, the moment he held the empty bottle of Vodka up on ceremony along with several empty wine bottles, attending to the recycling last Sunday. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. Sometimes the silence is worse, says more than any words could deliver. The way he then checked each bottle, surely not, surely they can’t all be empty, perhaps she’s discarded them in error. She can’t possibly have drunk all these by herself. I walked away, feeling my cheeks redden, pretending I hadn’t noticed.

  Pottering back outside armed with resolve and my researched articles, I position the umbrella over the table, shielding the bright rays. A welcome gentle breeze cools my skin but before long it begins to irritate, attempting to read and juggle curling single sheets of A4 paper, pushing at my patience. Reluctantly, I decide to fetch my laptop. Back up on the landing, I glance into Dotty’s room as I pass, ‘and they say boys are the messy ones,’ I mutter. I can’t bear it, and the cleaner will be here tomorrow, I close the door and carry on, biting down on my teeth to distract from what feels like an utterly chaotic household.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, I stare at the flat silver laptop. What if I didn’t imagine it? I know what I saw. I reach out, grasping the cool metal, pulling it to me, opening it up as if something may jump out and grab me. I reboot and wait, it seems to take forever to respond. The more I think of it, something must have woken me in the early hours of this morning, what made me stir? That fox type screech? Then, I’d lain for a while listening, almost rigid, before the other feelings, guilt, sadness, anger, despondency kicked in. Before reaching for my mobile to check the time. What was the noise outside that woke me? Other than the fox thing? I’m sure whatever it was made me physically jump. Sounded a bit like metal clanking against something? My laptop springs into life and moments later I locate the little blue bird icon to access my Twitter account.

  Two days ago I began to promote for my next article for Cornwall Lives, asking followers to vote for their favourite coastal eatery, as always, people have been extremely generous, retweeting my request over and over. I’d set up a poll and votes were being placed by the hour. After discovering that tweet in the early hours, not quite trusting my eyes, I took a step further to determine its purpose. Gritty eyes informed me, a restaurant near Mylor Harbour had received their vote, violently throwing me back to an old haunt of years gone by, undergraduate years, somewhere I’d since given a wide birth.

  The words sitting next to the vote read, remember this one, – one of our favourites. Maybe it was a coincidence, the place, the name, the profile photo, nothing specific really, maybe I had this wrong. Nothing unusual even in the comment, I mean, of course it’s a favourite – or else they wouldn’t have voted for it. With shaky hands, I then clicked on the tweeter’s profile, there on the header was Edinburgh Castle, I’d recognise it any time. What the hell? My heart thumped through my camisole, an overwhelming urge to vomit consumed me, I’d swallowed hard to keep the liquid contents down before casting the laptop afloat on the bed. But now, scanning through my account, the tweet, the vote itself – has been deleted. I flick to my followers, they’ve unfollowed me too. Did I imagine it then? Was I experiencing a drunken hallucination? A moment of paranoia? Or was it only a vulgar coincidence and now they’ve changed their mind?

  Or maybe she sent it to spook me?

  Remind me of what I did?

  But how could she have done?

  She’s dead.

  7

  Edinburgh 1999

  Camilla

  I’m dawdling down Princes Street, swimming against currents of festive busy bodies, loaded with bags, high on atmosphere. Squeezing my bag tightly to me as if somehow it prevents the harsh wind from cutting me in half. That’s it then, my last few notes blown, deservedly expended on a Christmas present. From me, to me. I’ll wrap it when I get home, try and resist until the big day. Home, can I even call it this? It hardly shares any resemblance to the homes I devour on TV, the homes I read about, the homes I’m becoming more and more aware of. If I breathe in carefully, I can almost smell them, notes of neroli, pink pepper and orange flower. But, for now, it’s no more than somewhere I return to sleep; I lay my hat but it’s definitely not my home. A grotty little shack where my parents lived, now it’s just my dad, Mam is dead but Dad’s still there, unfortunately. At least until the council find him the home they’ve been promising over and over. I think they’re also anxious about the meaning of Korsakoff’s, blank faces, for one and all. It’s all very well dishing out these fancy labels, but half the world doesn’t know how to deal with them. Pass this one on, I expect they say. Still, when I checked yesterday, they did promise his allocation is imminent. Good flipping riddance.

  I steal a peep into my bag, manoeuvring the tissue for some reassurance of my little glittery number from Jenners. More of an investment than an indulgence, if I’m to successfully remove myself from this life sooner rather than later. The guilt didn’t last for long either, I’d intended to spend the last of the money from Dad’s pension on Christmas Day food, but my visit to the supermarket on Rose Street persuaded me otherwise. As I loitered in the doorway battling with my umbrella, feet soaked through, on grey slushy discoloured tiles the reflection of Jenners window beckoned me. Glitter, red bows, sheer glamour. Blow the food, I thought. I’ve been told enough times as a hopeful bairn, it’s just another day, nothin’ special like, about Christmas Day. Danna go getting ya hopes up, missy. So, why change family traditions now?

  I take my life into my hands running across the busy Princes Street to reach the German market, rattling the loose change in my pocket. Just enough left for a wee coffee. Put up wooden stalls light the way with seasonal lanterns and candles, hand made Christmas baubles, and wooden figurines, as I lace my way through the crowds. Couples everywhere, linked arms, children swathed in woollen layers, treading through sludge in fur boots, with pink noses and Nordic bobble hats. The air pungent with bagels, schnitzel, frankfurters and Aberdeen Angus, Christmas cheer dulcet tones. Twelve months ago, I�
��d have felt lonely but now I’ve filled that seeping hole with hope and sheer bloodied determination. I will not let myself down. I’ve a new found bounce in each deliberate step.

  Heading towards the illuminated big wheel, shadowed only by the Scott Monument, I listen to the screams of delight and a feeling of warmth drips slowly through, resting low in my belly. Andi. I know she’s my answer, for one thing, she can afford to help me out, it’s of no consequence to her. And I do deserve this after all, everyone needs a little helping hand from time to time. I squeeze past a couple sharing a chocolate smothered crepe to finally reach the Aulde Reekie coffee shack. He’s there, Elliot, charming the customers with such ease and apparent genuine warmth. I’m not sure how he manages it. Being at the beck and call for the menial whims of customers. I’m not complaining, he always makes me feel better, even when I’ve been holding on by the tips of my fingers. Over these few years, he’s always been there.

  This is where I first met him, behind his stall, tall, dark, handsome, all the clichés, warm, funny, everything, except… We hit it off right from the start, neither of us keen to talk about our backgrounds, perhaps him even more so than me. Could it be possible his past is worse than mine? Surely not, anyway, we have an unspoken agreement to only talk about the here and now, we talk a lot, laugh a lot and spend a fair deal of time together. Really, he’s my best friend. I may be his, though neither of us really know anything about each other. It’s perfect, almost. I’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s asked me to marry him, if it wasn’t for my deal to myself… things could be so different. I care for him more than I’ll ever admit, but his aspirations are so meagre, he’s happy with his lot, scraping by, he has his art and his writing to fill his heart. It’s not enough for me. I can’t afford to let my mind go there even if we are perfect together – he has no prospects, no future.