The Butterfly Storm (14 page)

A slightly dirty Toyota Corolla is not what I imagined Robert would drive. I thought a shiny new Land
Rover would be more his taste. He’s uprooted himself from the city only to find himself stuck in the
country. I might be doing him a great injustice but that’s my first impression. Maybe it’s something to
do with his worryingly neat nails.

‘She’s looking better, isn’t she?’ he asks, heaving my suitcase into the boot.

‘Much better.’

On the back seat of the car there’s a box of tissues and a UK road map. An air freshener dangles
from the rear-view mirror and a pair of sunglasses and a packet of sugar-free gum are in the central
holder.

We’d both said goodbye to Mum and left her with our promise to visit on Sunday. I wonder what
I’m going to do on my own for the next two days.

‘Did you get a chance to talk to her?’ Robert asks, turning on the engine.

‘About what?’

He pauses for a moment. ‘I guess you’ve both got a lot of things to sort out.’

‘Let’s just say we talked.’

‘But you sorted things out?’

‘A hospital’s hardly the place to talk properly.’

We pull out of the car park and head in the opposite direction to the Travelodge. Robert puts his
glasses on and drives with both hands clamped to the wheel. I’m glad his attention is on the road and
not me.

‘I said she’d be okay about you staying, though,’ he says. ‘She’ll be glad to have you
about for a while after years in Greece. I’m very lucky having both my children living close
by.’

‘And your grandchildren too,’ I calmly reply.

‘Only Vicky’s newborn. The other two are in London with their mother.’

‘Oh, they’re not your daughter’s?’

‘No, Ben’s.’ He glances in the mirror before pulling into the outside lane to overtake a lorry. ‘He’s
got a son and daughter.’

I can’t picture Ben as a father. He seemed so single. I want to ask why they’re in London
while Ben’s in Norfolk with his Dad. ‘How long does it take to get to Marshton?’ I ask
instead.

‘About forty-five minutes.’

Not what I was hoping for.

‘It’s a lovely drive mind,’ he says, turning on the radio. He tunes it into a classical music station and
I lean back against the headrest.

Our conversation dissolves into silence and I watch the countryside pass by as we head towards the
coast. Everywhere looks green, the grass and the trees, patchworked with yellow from the harvest. It is
refreshing after the dryness of Greece, and the flat landscape is a novelty compared to the mountainous
backdrop of
O Kipos
.

The sign for Marshton appears at the top of a gentle incline on a road that barely allows two cars to
pass side by side. Robert slows to a crawl. Straight in front where the road curves sharply to the left is
The Globe
, a cream-fronted pub next to a great expanse of green leading up to the church. Picnic tables
filled with families enjoying the sunshine dot the grassy area to the side. It’s like a living
watercolour.

‘There she is,’ Robert says. The pub is timber-framed and has a hand-painted sign hanging above
the door. Red and yellow flowers fill window boxes along the ledges of the leaded windows.
The wooden door is ajar but I can see only darkness inside because of the late afternoon
sun.

‘I fell in love with it the first time I came to Marshton.’

‘You must get tons of holidaymakers,’ I say. We dart past a row of flint cottages and head out of the
heart of the village towards an open road lined with tall hedges.

‘Can you blame them? Horse-riding and sailing is big business. And we’re only a fifteen-minute walk
from the sea.’ He could write the holiday brochure. Robert brakes and we swing sharply on to a muddy
lane obscured by trees, before bouncing through an open gateway. ‘Here we are,’ he says, parking next
to a new Mini.

Mum wasn’t kidding when she said it was different from our old terraced house on Hazel Road. I get
out of the car and take a deep breath of fresh air. Mum’s cottage is built of flint. It’s almost identical
to the row of cottages we passed, except it’s detached and stands in the middle of a well
cared for garden. The front of the house looks like a face, with a wooden front door in the
centre and windows either side, top and bottom. An attic window breaks up the red roof.
I stop and listen to the birds singing and the breeze rustling through the trees. Robert
crunches across the gravel, dragging my suitcase behind him. ‘It’s a bit better than the
Travelodge.’

Since being in Greece, I hadn’t given a thought to where Mum was living, in Norfolk was all I knew.
I had no preconceptions of what her home was like. I hadn’t thought about it because at the time it
didn’t matter; I had my life and it was far removed from hers. The distance we’d created between us
before I’d gone to Greece only intensified as the months and years passed. This is Mum’s home and not
mine and that’s an odd feeling.

‘Come on, I’ll show you around,’ Robert says. I wonder if he feels anywhere near as awkward as I do
or if he hides it well. Maybe he’s enjoying looking after ‘Leila’s daughter’.

I follow him up the stone path to the front door. There’s a wooden plaque on the wall that says
Salt
Cottage
.

‘Unusual name,’ I say.

Robert unlocks the door. ‘After the salt marshes near Blakeney.’

It’s cool and dark in the square hallway. Wooden floorboards disappear beneath the doors on both
sides of the hall. I can’t help thinking it’s a big house for one person. The kitchen is as
light as the hallway is dark and there’s a pile of unopened letters on the kitchen table.
Sun streams through the wide window. It’s bright but stuffy with the door and windows
shut.

‘The milk’s okay,’ Robert says, closing the fridge door. The American-style fridge that always looked
too big in our old kitchen looks at home here. ‘There’s powdered milk in one of the cupboards if you
prefer that. Coffee and sugar here,’ he points to the terracotta jars on the wooden work surface. ‘Shall I
show you your room?’ He makes for the hallway.

‘No, it’s fine, I can sort myself out.’ I want to explore, but on my own.

‘Leila’s room is at the front. You’re in the spare room at the back. It’s got great views.’ He fiddles
with his wedding band. ‘Let’s get some air in here,’ he says.

He takes the keys from his jeans pocket and unlocks the back door before handing them to
me. However lovely the rest of the house might be, I suddenly see its true selling point.
I follow Robert out into the sunshine, down a couple of steps and on to grass speckled
with daisies. The lawn finishes at a weathered fence overlooking a field of horses and a
further patchwork of fields sloping towards a wooded hill. The sun, still high in the sky,
penetrates every area of the garden. Further down, on the right-hand side beneath the
shade of trees, is a patio area with a brick barbeque and a green wrought-iron table and
chairs.

‘Leila’s had some great parties out here,’ Robert says with a smile.

There’s too much history here that I’m not a part of. I retreat to the kitchen and start opening
cupboards to see where Mum keeps the glasses and plates. When I look up, Robert is standing in the
doorway with his hands on his hips, blocking the view and sunlight, watching me. He looks at home,
as if his silhouette belongs in the kitchen doorway. I’m the trespasser. It’s an unfamiliar
house, filled with familiar things and memories – like the clay leaf I moulded and shaped,
painted and glazed in an art class and proudly gave to Mum who used it as her favourite
ashtray. She still has it, sitting on the kitchen windowsill with teabags and coffee grounds on
it.

‘I’m sure Leila would want you to make yourself at home,’ he finally says. ‘Remember to
water the plants in here and the bathroom and Leila always double locks the front door at
night.’

I open my bag and hunt for my mobile. ‘I need to phone Alekos.’

‘Alekos?’ He frowns.

‘My boyfriend. In Greece. I should phone him before it gets too late.’

We both stand and watch each other for a moment, my fingers poised to dial.

‘Oh. Oh, okay. I’d better get off anyway. See how busy it is.’ He makes his way out of the kitchen
and through the hallway to the front door. I follow him, step by slow step.

‘Thanks for the lift.’

‘My pleasure.’ He opens the door and turns to me. ‘I think you’ll do her a world of good being here.’
He pauses. ‘You’ll come to the pub for a meal tonight, won’t you?’

‘I hadn’t really thought…’

‘Come down about half eight, it’s on me.’

‘You don’t have to, I’m quite happy…’

He holds one hand up. ‘No arguments – it’s the least I can do.’

He’s full of the right things to say that makes it truly difficult to refuse. I may well end up heading
down to the pub but I’d like it to be my choice. He crunches his retreat across the gravel. I feel odd
waving goodbye from a strange doorstep.

‘By the way,’ he calls, before getting in his car. ‘I don’t think there’s any reception in the house. Try
the lane.’

There’s no reception in the house, the garden or the lane. I wander up and down, holding my mobile
out in front of me, then towards the sky, waiting for even one bar of reception to appear. I try the
neighbouring field and pad across the soft sandy soil while corn stalks scratch my ankles. About twenty
paces in and I have success. I let it ring.

‘
Ela
.’

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Can I phone you back?’ He shouts to make himself heard above the noise in the background. It
doesn’t sound like the restaurant.

‘If you have to.’

What am I supposed to do? Wait for him here to call back and cut my legs to pieces on the corn
stubble in the process? He must be on the beach at that volleyball game. Is that why he was so
reluctant to come with me because he’d miss out on the volleyball matches? It’s hot enough here to be
lounging on a beach. I fancy swimming in the sea, cooling down, floating in the shallows. There’s quite
a view from this field. I can’t see the sea, although I swear I can taste a slight saltiness
in the air. I can see the farm at the end of the lane and up the field towards a church.
Down in a dip, Mum’s cottage is half hidden by the foliage clinging to the walls and the
trees surrounding the garden. There’s not another house in sight, just like the garden in
Greece; the view stretches endlessly to the horizon, but it feels bigger there, more rugged,
mountainous. Here it is peaceful and quiet. Empty. That rarely happens at
Estiatorio O
Kipos
.

I take a look in every room of Mum’s house, even her bedroom. It’s as if Mum’s lifted her bedroom
from Hazel Road and put it straight into
Salt Cottage
. The colour, the bedspread, the layout is
identical, only there’s more space. Everywhere reminds me of her. The dressing table is cluttered with
perfumes, creams, make-up, books and photos. There’s a black-and-white photo stuck to the mirror
of me on a swing and another of my grandparents, the edges curled yellow with age.
The
Handmaid’s Tale
by Margaret Atwood lies open on the bedside table, next to a half-filled glass of
water. I don’t open the wardrobe or chest of drawers. I leave everything untouched, even the
unmade bed, particularly when I notice the second glass of water on the other bedside
table.

I’m impressed by the way the towels complement the colour scheme in the bathroom. They never
used to. There were always too many colours, too many ideas going on in our old house. The
downstairs study surprises me too. It’s sophisticated, with wooden floorboards, an open fireplace
and black-and-white photographs adorning white walls. Maybe the house is not too big;
I’d forgotten she works from home. It’s something we’ve not talked about. The same way
I kept my life in Greece to myself, Mum never divulged what she was up to either, and
what I had learnt was via Candy. Her laptop sits on the black-stained desk in front of the
window. I wonder how much work she gets done with a view like this. The room opposite
the bathroom and next to the spare room is very different from the stark, business-like
study below. It must be Mum’s workroom. It’s filled with light and colour. The window
is large and curtain-less and sunshine pours across the honey-yellow walls. Sketches and
plans of weddings and parties are strewn across the large worktable in the centre of the
room, and apart from a leather armchair next to the window and a bookshelf, there are only
flowers filling the space: dried and fresh arrangements. The smell is potent and heady in the
heat.

I tiptoe from the room and close the door softly behind me. Devoid of any real statement, the spare
bedroom is inviting. Mum’s personality is only mildly stamped on it by the choice of blinds instead of
curtains and the artistic nude on the wall. The chocolate brown bedspread and mushroom-coloured
walls is toned down for Mum. This would be my room if I’d grown up here. I’d have overlooked the
garden, just as I did in Hazel Road, but to a view that stretches towards a hill and not on to another
red brick house.

Even with the windows open it’s quiet. I put the radio on in the kitchen to fill the silence. A power
shower, fresh clothes and a brush of mascara later and I’m in the mood to head down to the pub. I
don’t feel like cooking for just myself or trying to turn slightly green potatoes and frozen sausages into
something appetising.

It’s a warm, sticky evening, as if the earlier breeze has been sucked from the sky. I leave
Salt
Cottage
and turn my back on the sunset and make my way along the lane to the road.
The windows of the flint cottages are flung wide open. Smoke spirals into the sky from
behind the last cottage and distant voices sound loud in the stillness. The barbeque smell is
enticing and my mouth waters at the thought of a meal being cooked for me. I follow the road
round the corner and the village opens up. A group of kids are playing rounders on the
green and the people filling the picnic tables to the side of the pub have spilled on to the
grass.