Page 69 of The Women at Ocean's End

‘It’s time to think about more than just…’

‘I have and I can’t see any way of making things right, not now, not ever… Too much has happened, I’ve…’ Dotty wiped a tear from her cheek. She wanted more than anything to have Heather in her life, properly, but the fact was, she’d pushed her away from the day she was born; she had no right now to try and claw her way back into her daughter’s life.

‘She’d want to know that you are sober.’ Chipo put down the watering can, took a box of tissues from the narrow desk that faced a wall filled with Post-it notes and scraps of paper that must all be important in their own way.

‘I’m not so sure she would,’ Dotty said and then she put up her hand to stop Chipo from saying any more. ‘Look, she’s not a child, she’s a grown woman with a successful business, and even if I’d been a half-decent mother, the way I’ve treated her these last few years has been…’ She looked to the floor, examined her shoes as if they were the most interesting thing on the planet. She’d been a horrible drunk, that was the truth of it. On the one hand, waiting for Heather’s call each week – the highlight of her week, if she was honest – and then, once they started to talk, she’d find something to fault about her daughter. Anything, it didn’t really matter what it was; on one occasion, she remembered starting an argument about The Beatles, on another, she’d gone on and on about the fact that Heather had never given her a grandchild. God, she wanted to die now with the stabs of guilt that pushed into her stomach at the memories of those times.

‘Dotty, she might not be a child, but she’ll always be your child,’ Chipo stated. She poured two glasses of water from the jug between them and placed one before Dotty and one on the small table next to her own chair. ‘And I don’t want to upset you, but none of us will go on forever. How do you think she’ll feel when you’re gone?’ Chipo had a way of being direct but somehow her words were softened by the kindness in her eyes. ‘You see? She will carry this gulf with her that you could easily fill by reaching out and talking to her. You can fix it now, before it’s too late… if you’re brave enough…’

‘Easy for you to say.’ Dotty bent forward for a sip of water; surely she was not the only one who occasionally wished that someone would substitute the water in the jug with a splash of vodka and white.

‘You are getting the chance to make things right, here, take it, Dotty,’ Chipo said softly.

‘I…’ Dotty waited for a minute, tried to regroup. She’d said it all before and Chipo had an answer to every single reason why she shouldn’t contact Heather. She pushed even more for Dotty to make her peace with Constance, but at this stage, it was far too late for that. Constance could be dead for all she knew now and, even if she was still alive, Dotty was probably the last person she’d want to hear from. ‘I just can’t…’

‘You can, I know you can.’ Chipo sighed, but she was not someone who could be thwarted easily. She’d told Dotty once about how she had made the journey from her home in Zimbabwe to the United Kingdom as if to warn Dotty that she would not be put off if she set her mind to something.

‘They won’t want to hear from me,’ Dotty said simply, because maybe, aside from blaming herself and burying the guilt of a lifetime wasted, maybe that was her biggest fear now.

‘Maybe they won’t, but unless you actually knock on their doors, how will you ever know?’

‘I can’t just…’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look, it’s all very well for you here, telling me I need to do this or I need to do that, but you don’t understand what went on… all those years ago and now…’

‘Okay, good point, I don’t know what went on and I’ve asked enough times to know you’re not going to tell me anyway, but maybe…’ Chipo sat back, as if wracking her brains for some way round this impasse. ‘Maybe you could write them both a letter.’

‘Both of them?’ Dotty felt a little indignant now. She hadn’t mentioned Constance today, maybe she’d hoped that Constance had slipped through the cracks somehow.

‘Yes, both of them. I have a feeling that your friend, Clarissa? Was it? No, no, that’s not right…’

‘Constance,’ Dotty said in defeat.

‘Yes, it all began with Constance, I think. If you can just put it into a letter this week, you don’t have to post it, but you need to set it straight somehow, will you do that much for now?’

‘I suppose…’ Dotty said, because it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do during the day anyway.

Outside the clinic, Dotty spotted a taxi. She was about to call it over, because really, the buses at this time of day, you couldn’t depend on them. And the bus stop nearest her house was just outside the corner shop that had once been where she’d bought most of her off-licence supplies. It was expensive avoiding passing by it, but Carmelita, who knew a thing or two about these things, said it wouldn’t be forever.

It was Carmelita who’d eventually talked her into rehab. Twenty-eight days in a place that was little better than a hostel with mandatory one-to-ones and a group hug every other day. Dotty chuckled every time she thought about it. God alone knew how she made it through it. Liver disease, it wouldn’t kill her, but that wasn’t the point, was it? It was a wake-up call, too close to home to ignore it.

Just as she was getting into the cab she spotted the stationery shop across the road. She stood back, let a very pregnant-looking woman with far too many shopping bags have the cab and walked to the nearby crossing.

She hadn’t been in a stationery shop in years; actually, before now, she’d thought they weren’t a thing any more. This place was very posh. It smelled of fresh lavender and citrus, as if someone spent their whole time rubbing leaves and rind together. There were biros that cost over a thousand pounds and the fanciest notepaper that looked as if it belonged on the walls of Kensington Palace rather than folded up in an envelope. She settled on a set of long pages and matching envelopes. She’d definitely need long pages, she wasn’t so sure that she needed a watermark with puffins and sea moss, but it couldn’t hurt. She liked the colour, a silvery blue; it reminded her of the mottled skies above Pin Hill Island. The assistant wrapped up her purchases and took a good chunk of her weekly pension for what was, at the end of the day, just paper after all. As she walked towards the door she saw a stand with a beautiful golden pen. No price tag. Never a good sign.

‘Ah, the Mont Blanc…’ The assistant almost trotted from behind the cash register.Must be on commission, Dotty thought. ‘An investment piece. The perfect gift.’ She eyed the paper bag in Dotty’s hand. ‘Do you think, maybe…’ She was leaning towards the cabinet, taking a little silver key from her pocket, when Dotty felt as if a tiny copper penny dropped through a slot in her brain.

‘No. I already have one of those at home, thanks,’ she said and, suddenly, she knew exactly what she was going to do with those letters for Heather and Constance.

46

Heather

‘Heather,’ Jay Larkin called from the hall and then pushed open the door to the kitchen. He’d called to enquire about Constance, probably. Heather wasn’t sure she’d be fit for visitors at this hour, she’d only just opened her eyes for a few minutes earlier when she’d drifted off to sleep once more.

‘Hi Jay, oh, you’re bearing gifts, I see.’ She nodded to the parcel in his hand.

‘Oh, yeah, for you.’ He placed the oblong box on the kitchen table.

‘For me? Strange, I wasn’t expecting anything,’ she said, lifting up the box and inspecting the packaging for a second before turning back to switch on the kettle. ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

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