sitting on the beach watching the sun go down.
Mum spends lots of time lying on the sofa or the floor. She also has headaches and hot flushes (power surges, she calls them). She’s crumbling fast. I go to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription, taking a short cut through Trewyn Gardens where dead leaves are running like rats.
We don’t see Eugene any more. He was our postie at Peregrine Cottage. We have a post-woman now. Her name is Leah. I wait for her every morning. She’s very pretty with short purple hair.
Daddy has written to me at last. He’s back from wherever and has sent me a ten pound note and a family tree, sort of: his father was called Hartley Stevens, born in St Ives, in 1900 , and his mother, née – that means born – Molly Jackson, was born in Penzance. Daddy was named Jackson after her. He had no brothers or sisters and his father died when he was twenty-two and his mother when he was thirty, before I was born. No other information. Not very helpful really. More like a twig than a tree.
‘Mum, may I telephone Daddy today?’
‘What for?’
‘To thank him for the money.’
She hangs around while I dial the number and I feel inhibited talking to him.
‘Hi, Daddy, it’s me.’
‘Who is it? Is this my little honeybun? Gussie, how are you sweetie?’ He makes me feel like I’m about five. I like it, rather.
‘I got your letter Daddy. Thank you for the money and the information. But I thought you had cousins here. What are their names?’
‘No Guss, not cousins, more like second cousins twice removed or something, very very distant relations. Almost out of sight.’
‘Oh, but everyone is called Stevens here. Almost everyone. Apart from the ones called Symons and one or two others.’
‘Sorry sweets, can’t remember names. Gussie, got to go now, have to see a man about a movie.’
Yeah, yeah. You’re a great help. Thanks for nothing, Daddy.
There’s an invitation in the post. It’s Brett’s birthday on Sunday and we are both invited round to his house at lunchtime. Brilliant! What can I give him? I don’t know his taste in anything. I know he likes birds. I think I’ll get him a book token. As Mum says: You Can’t Go Wrong with a Book Token.
Mum doesn’t think she’ll be well enough to drive to Brett’s. Her back. She says it hurts too much. She is looking peaky, I admit. Brett lives in Carbis Bay, a suburb of St Ives, on the way to Peregrine Point. It’s too far for me to walk.
‘See how I feel after my next physio,’ she says.
‘When is that?’
‘Friday.’
I make her a cup of peppermint tea and smile winningly.
That night I pray for her back to be better.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WE’RE GOING! THANK you God.
Brett’s parents live in a large bungalow just off the main road, with a distant view of the sea. They’ve got a barbie going, with burgers and sausages. Brett greets us and introduces us to his parents. His dad is a Science and Maths teacher and his mum is an English teacher, except she hasn’t found work here yet. She is very pretty and much younger than my mum, but then everyone’s mum is younger than mine. I’ve met his dad before at Hayle, birdwatching. He’s young too, younger than Daddy and very Aussie with blond spiky hair, long baggy shorts and a loose T-shirt with UNI OF NSW splashed across the front. He looks a bit like the cricketer, Shane Warne. His name is Steve.
There’s a garden with a few trees and hanging from each tree are loads of bird feeders. These people are seriously into birds: they provide peanuts, sunflower seeds, balls of fat and seeds, half coconut shells, apples, maize, the lot. You name it, they’ve got it. It’s bird heaven: birdbath, bird table, pond for insects to evolve in – everything a little bird could chirp for. Brett’s mum, she tells me to call her Hayley, says they only rented the house because it had a pond and a large garden.
The two boys I saw Brett with outside the library are here and two girls
Mum spends lots of time lying on the sofa or the floor. She also has headaches and hot flushes (power surges, she calls them). She’s crumbling fast. I go to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription, taking a short cut through Trewyn Gardens where dead leaves are running like rats.
We don’t see Eugene any more. He was our postie at Peregrine Cottage. We have a post-woman now. Her name is Leah. I wait for her every morning. She’s very pretty with short purple hair.
Daddy has written to me at last. He’s back from wherever and has sent me a ten pound note and a family tree, sort of: his father was called Hartley Stevens, born in St Ives, in 1900 , and his mother, née – that means born – Molly Jackson, was born in Penzance. Daddy was named Jackson after her. He had no brothers or sisters and his father died when he was twenty-two and his mother when he was thirty, before I was born. No other information. Not very helpful really. More like a twig than a tree.
‘Mum, may I telephone Daddy today?’
‘What for?’
‘To thank him for the money.’
She hangs around while I dial the number and I feel inhibited talking to him.
‘Hi, Daddy, it’s me.’
‘Who is it? Is this my little honeybun? Gussie, how are you sweetie?’ He makes me feel like I’m about five. I like it, rather.
‘I got your letter Daddy. Thank you for the money and the information. But I thought you had cousins here. What are their names?’
‘No Guss, not cousins, more like second cousins twice removed or something, very very distant relations. Almost out of sight.’
‘Oh, but everyone is called Stevens here. Almost everyone. Apart from the ones called Symons and one or two others.’
‘Sorry sweets, can’t remember names. Gussie, got to go now, have to see a man about a movie.’
Yeah, yeah. You’re a great help. Thanks for nothing, Daddy.
There’s an invitation in the post. It’s Brett’s birthday on Sunday and we are both invited round to his house at lunchtime. Brilliant! What can I give him? I don’t know his taste in anything. I know he likes birds. I think I’ll get him a book token. As Mum says: You Can’t Go Wrong with a Book Token.
Mum doesn’t think she’ll be well enough to drive to Brett’s. Her back. She says it hurts too much. She is looking peaky, I admit. Brett lives in Carbis Bay, a suburb of St Ives, on the way to Peregrine Point. It’s too far for me to walk.
‘See how I feel after my next physio,’ she says.
‘When is that?’
‘Friday.’
I make her a cup of peppermint tea and smile winningly.
That night I pray for her back to be better.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WE’RE GOING! THANK you God.
Brett’s parents live in a large bungalow just off the main road, with a distant view of the sea. They’ve got a barbie going, with burgers and sausages. Brett greets us and introduces us to his parents. His dad is a Science and Maths teacher and his mum is an English teacher, except she hasn’t found work here yet. She is very pretty and much younger than my mum, but then everyone’s mum is younger than mine. I’ve met his dad before at Hayle, birdwatching. He’s young too, younger than Daddy and very Aussie with blond spiky hair, long baggy shorts and a loose T-shirt with UNI OF NSW splashed across the front. He looks a bit like the cricketer, Shane Warne. His name is Steve.
There’s a garden with a few trees and hanging from each tree are loads of bird feeders. These people are seriously into birds: they provide peanuts, sunflower seeds, balls of fat and seeds, half coconut shells, apples, maize, the lot. You name it, they’ve got it. It’s bird heaven: birdbath, bird table, pond for insects to evolve in – everything a little bird could chirp for. Brett’s mum, she tells me to call her Hayley, says they only rented the house because it had a pond and a large garden.
The two boys I saw Brett with outside the library are here and two girls
Similar Books
