My father looks in pretty good shape for his fifty-something years. He still has a full head of black hair, and carries his suitcase with ease, despite it looking rather large for an overnight stay. I notice he chose not to use the wheelbarrow left on the other side of the causeway to help with luggage. I suspect it’s a different kind of handout he’s after from Nana. Dad’s back is a bit hunched from years of sitting at a piano, and his suit seems to be hanging off him a little, as though life has made him shrink. I notice that he’s dressed as if he were attending a funeral, not a family birthday, and I watch as he stops before reaching the front door, trying to compose himself like a piece of music that doesn’t wish to be written.
He knows – just as we all do – that Nana intends to leave this house to a female relative. She inherited it from her mother, whose dying wish was that Seaglass would always belong to women in the Darker family. The decision to skip a generation caused my father great upset from the moment he knew about it. Dad never wanted Seaglass, he just needed money to keep his orchestra together. He would have sold this place years ago were it up to him. Nana has been bankrolling my father’s ambitions since he was a child, but no matter how much she gives him, it is never enough. I head downstairs to see him, even though I know he’d rather not see me. I never leave me alone with myself for too long; I can’t be trusted.
Poppins is already at the door, and Nana opens it before my dad has the opportunity to knock. Nana’s face lights up when she sees who it is, a genuine smile revealing neat white teeth, still sharp enough to bite.
‘Hello, Frank.’
‘Mother,’ he says, with an odd little nod. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Is it? Perhaps you should try visiting more often?’ There is a twinkle in her eye but we all know that she means it. Being alone never used to make Nana feel lonely, but the things and people we miss can change with age.
Dad doesn’t reply. Subjects that sting are best avoided when you’ve already been stung too often. Instead, he glances at the wall of clocks, puts down his case, and hangs his coat on the stand. He’s worn the same thick, black woollen coat for years, not because he can’t afford a new one, but because my father has always been a creature of habit.
‘Don’t forget to punch in,’ Nana says, blocking his path as he attempts to head into the lounge. This house used to be his home, and childhood homes are haunted by all variety of ghosts for people like my dad. The big man soon behaves like a small boy.
The clocks covering the walls in the hall are all different sizes, colours and designs. There are big clocks, small clocks, round clocks, square clocks, digital clocks, cuckoo clocks, musical clocks, pendulum clocks, novelty clocks, and even a vintage wall-mounted hourglass, containing sand from Blacksand Bay. The clock nearest the front door is one of Nana’s favourites. It’s an antique wooden punch clock from an old Cornish factory, originally used by staff to clock on and off. My dad sighs. He is a man who pre-empts most challenges with defeat. He takes a card with his name on from the tiny ancient cubbyhole, slots it into the clock, punches the time on it, then puts it back.
‘Happy now?’ he says.
‘Ecstatic,’ Nana replies with another smile. ‘Family traditions become increasingly important the older you get; they hold us together when we’ve spent too long apart. If you check your card, you’ll see it’s been a while since my only child paid me a visit.’
This is a familiar family dance and we all know the steps.
Nana doesn’t need to nag me to punch in. I love all of her little quirks and traditions, even the unconventional ones. But I’m used to her eccentric behaviour; unlike the rest of the family, I visit Nana all the time. When we’re done with the unusual arrival rituals, we head into the lounge.
If you can imagine a room filled with mismatching retro furniture, a 1950s jukebox, pastel-coloured sofas, comfy armchairs, shelves filled with so many books they have started to bend in the middle from the weight of them all, enormous windows with sea views, a huge open fireplace, and turquoise wallpaper covered in hand-painted birds and elderflower blossoms, then you can picture the lounge at Seaglass. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.
Nana holds up a bottle of Scotch from the brass drinks trolley in the corner. I shake my head – it’s a bit early for me – but Dad nods, then makes a fuss of Poppins while the whisky is being poured. He is the only whisky drinker in our family, everyone else hates the stuff. Nana mixes herself a mojito, plucking some mint leaves, then bashing the ice with an ancient-looking rolling pin before adding a generous glug of rum. I marvel at the Darker family’s version of casual drinks. There is no humble sherry in this house, not even in a trifle.