‘You were right earlier. My kids are a chip off the old block,’ I say. ‘But my block, not yours.’
I watch his tail lights until he’s out of sight, and then I sit down heavily on the porch steps, winded. Leaning my head against the post, I close my eyes and listen to the high-pitched laughter and yells of the boys over in the neighbours’ yard.
I am the canopy over their heads, the ground beneath their feet, the soft pile of leaves to land on. I am their forest. I am their home.
Cleo
12 February
Salvation Island
KYLIE MINOGUE WILL LOOK EIGHTEEN FOR EVER
My mum has commanded the high seas to allow her safe passage, and the ocean has obeyed her bidding. I watch her climb from the boat in a far more dignified style than I could ever hope to manage and stride briskly up the sands towards me, waving one arm madly over her head in greeting. I half run towards her, feeling like six-year-old me at the end of the school day, desperate to hurl myself into her reassuring arms.
‘Mum,’ I say, rocking back and forth as I hug her tight enough to cut her circulation off.
‘Well,’ she says, shaking sea spray from her hair when I let go. ‘That was a bit of a faff.’
I laugh because that’s so typically my mother. When I came over here on the boat I thought I was going to die. Mum found it a bit of a faff. Tom always jokes that Mum and Emma Thompson must have been separated at birth because they have that same brisk, no-nonsense way about them that makes you feel comforted and protected and utterly sheepish simultaneously. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like my mum. Except maybe the physics teacher who called my eldest sister lazy, one parents evening, and received a public dressing-down for his trouble. Mr Jenkins aside, she’s universally acknowledged as all-round marvellous.
‘Come on, then,’ she says, linking her arm through mine, making light work of her backpack. ‘Show me the sights.’
‘Sure you wouldn’t rather go straight to the lodge?’
She shoots me a look under her salt-and-pepper fringe. ‘Plenty of time for that later.’
I glance at my watch. We can walk up to the village for a while before dusk.
‘G&T in the pub?’ I suggest.
Her eyes light up. ‘Lead the way.’
‘Let me guess,’ Mum says, unbuttoning her coat. ‘Delta?’
‘What gave it away?’ Delta skims a look down at the shock of black hair poking out from the cocooned baby in her arms. His tiny profile is peaceful in sleep, dark lashes and rosebud lips. ‘This guy?’
‘I’d heard he was the cutest baby in all the world.’ Mum smiles, her eyes on the baby. ‘And so he is.’
Barney surveys us from behind the bar. ‘My turn to guess now,’ he says, tapping his fingertips on the edge of the drip tray. ‘You look like a woman in need of a …’ he tips his head to one side, thinking, ‘French 75.’
Most people would be largely unfamiliar with Barney’s extensive cocktail repertoire. My mother, however, is not most people.
‘Heavy on the gin, easy on the lemon juice,’ she agrees.
Barney all but punches the air. ‘Naturally.’
And there she goes. Delta immediately on side, Barney sensing a cocktail ally. She’s an effortless Pied Piper, gathering friends and fans in her wake. It feels strange seeing Mum here on Salvation, as if my two worlds have nudged against each other, overlapping just enough to allow her to cross over.
‘Do you knit, Helen?’ Delta asks when she brings Mum’s drink across to our table beside the fire. It’s quiet in here this afternoon, in the post-lunch lull.
‘Badly,’ Mum says, which is a lie because she knits much better than I do.
‘You should bring your ma to group next week.’ Delta passes me the baby as she flops beside me. ‘I swear he gets heavier by the hour, every day’s an arms day at baby gym.’
‘Michelle Obama’s got nothing on you,’ I say. I clink glasses with Mum. ‘Barney’s cocktails are the best on the island,’ I tell her, as I watch her take her first sip. Barney does a bad job of pretending not to watch too, and an even worse job of not hanging out to hear her verdict.
‘Ooh, isn’t that heavenly,’ Mum says, looking over her shoulder at Barney with a nod.
I’m not certain, but I think Barney Doyle, supercool barman of the world, is blushing.
‘Another one to add to my list for when I can ever bloody drink again,’ Delta sighs.
‘I had a glass of champagne every day when I was nursing my four,’ Mum says. ‘Doctor’s orders.’