‘She’s got a point,’ said Maggie.
‘Don’t gang up on me! I’m doing my best here!’
Romany leant into her and gave her a little squeeze. ‘Only teasing,’ she said.
Was it good enough, though, her best stab at single parenting? It was a question that Angie asked herself regularly, measuring herself up against her view of a perfect mother （and father for that matter）。 She invariably found herself lacking, but that had to be normal, didn’t it? Not many people considered themselves flawless in that regard, she was sure. Having no role model made things a little bit trickier, but at least she had, from experience, a pretty clear idea of what a parent was not supposed to do.
They made their way over a bridge and up an increasingly narrow street. The shop windows seemed to be mainly filled with cheap jet jewellery and skulls. Halfway up, they came across an odd photographer’s shop. The window displayed sepia prints of families in Victorian costume. Angie thought they were antiques for sale at first but when, her curiosity piqued, she looked a little closer, she realised that they were actually modern-day photographs.
‘Romey, look at these,’ she called out.
Romany, who was walking a couple of paces ahead with Maggie, turned round and looked across.
‘You can get dressed up in costumes and have your photo done,’ Angie said, inexplicably taken with the idea. ‘Look!’
‘You can,’ replied Romany. ‘But why would you? Who wants a photo of themselves dressed like that?’
Angie looked again. She thought the pictures of people looking solemnly at the camera in fake crinolines and top hats were funny, but maybe not. Then she realised all the images had a man in them, domineering and commanding in a soldier’s costume or dressed as the stern father figure. It seemed to round the shot off somehow, even though that did not align with her own views of what a family should be. It was only social conditioning that made her think that, she knew, or perhaps it was because the photographs reflected a distant past that she recognised from Sunday night period TV in which every family had a husband.
Romany was probably right, as usual. Having their photo taken in those costumes was a terrible idea, like buying a sombrero or a sarong on holiday – perfect in its home environment but less well suited to yours. And anyway, the three of them would make for a very sorry little family grouping. Maggie wasn’t even family.
Angie left the shop behind and followed the others, moving slightly more quickly to catch them up.
Around the next bend they found the foot of crooked stone steps that led up to the Abbey. There was a stream of people climbing up one side and descending the other. Angie wasn’t sure which group looked more exhausted.
Maggie and Romany were standing at the bottom and staring upwards, as if it were a mountaineering challenge.
‘Are we going up?’ Angie asked them.
‘Oh, I think we must,’ said Maggie. ‘Can’t come to Whitby and not see the graveyard.’
‘Race you to the top!’ said Romany and then she set off at speed, weaving in and out of other people as if she had a train to catch. A look passed between Angie and Maggie that suggested that a more sedate pace of ascent would be in order.
They began steadily, side by side, Angie congratulating herself as they climbed on what a nice day she had chosen for their trip, and considering where they might get some lunch, but by the time they were halfway up, her conversation fell away as she focused on just putting one foot in front of another. She had thought she was quite fit but clearly, she had been deluded. This was seriously hard work and as she puffed her way up, she resolved to do something about her general cardiovascular health.
Eventually, the top of the steps appeared and with it St Mary’s church, and beyond that the remains of the Abbey, looming darkly across the skyline despite the sunshine. Romany was waiting for them, reclining on a wall like a fashion model, her long legs spread out in front of her.
‘You took your time,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here for ages. Did you count the steps?’
‘I had all on just getting up them,’ replied Angie wheezily. ‘I really must go back to that Zumba class.’
‘I did. There are one hundred and ninety-nine,’ Romany said with an air of triumph.
‘That’s what I got too,’ said Maggie.
Angie looked at the pair of them and shook her head. ‘I sometimes wonder if you’re actually Maggie’s kid, not mine,’ she said to her daughter. ‘I mean, who counts steps?’