Say Hello and Wave Goodbye Page 3

  You’re an idiot! snaps the Beccabird. Fancy putting yourself in such a vulnerable position ! You might never leave this house! For once I agree with her, no one even knows I’m here.

  I let out a sigh of relief when he carries on walking past me and yanks the front door open again, whips the bobble hat from his head and shakes it vigorously outside.

  ‘Sorry! Plaster gets everywhere.’ He pulls the bobble hat back over his curls. ‘If it gets in my hair, I’ll never get it out.’

  I believe him. I also feel really stupid and wonder if he noticed me flinching as he walked by. His hair is the curliest that I’ve ever seen on a man. Tight, corkscrew curls that grow outwards from his head, seemingly at right angles. And his hair is so red – which is a surprise because he doesn’t have the skin of a ginger. His complexion is honey coloured, not pale and freckled as I would have expected. I wonder if he dyes his hair.

  ‘Righto! Follow me.’ He strides off down the long, narrow hallway towards the back of the house and I trot behind him and we go through a half-glazed door into the kitchen.

  The kitchen is a complete surprise; I was expecting a small old-fashioned scullery but the room is large with wooden cabinets running the length of the room on each side. They look as if they’ve been made from reclaimed timber and the white tiled worktops give it an old fashioned, cosy feel.

  ‘I did this room first – can’t be without a kitchen. ’

  He bends down to tickle the ears of a dog that I hadn’t noticed was there. A pointy nosed dachshund looks up at me and sniffs the air.

  ‘This is Sausage,’ Flynn says. ‘I should probably have told you I’ve a dog because he has the run of the house. Well, apart from your room. So if you’re a dog hater you’d better leave now.’ He says it defiantly and I detect the hint of an Irish accent.

  ‘No, you’re alright, I like dogs,’ I say as I bend down and stroke Sausage’s ears. They’re soft and velvety and I think how nice it must be to have a little dog trotting about the place.

  ‘Good.’ Flynn straightens up. ‘Because you wouldn’t believe the fuss that some arseholes have made when they’ve seen him. Right, parlour next – should probably have shown you that first.’ Parlour? I follow him back the way we came and wonder if I’ve dropped through that wormhole into the eighteenth century again.

  The lounge - or parlour - looks straight across to The George. It’s warm and cosy and dominated by a huge four-seater, brown velvet sofa that you could disappear into for days. The cushions are baggy and rumpled and look decidedly comfortable. A seventies style swivel chair covered in cracked and worn brown leather nestles in the corner by the window. The space above the mantelpiece – which does have a fire in it – is dominated by a massive, million-inch television. It’s lovely. If only Emily’s house were like this I’d move in tomorrow.

  You are moving in tomorrow , the Beccabird reminds me.

  ‘Righto, up we go.’ Flynn spins on his heel, strides out of the room and takes the stairs two at a time. I scuttle after him and jog up behind him following his backside which is inches from my face. We emerge onto a very narrow landing and almost immediately turn left into a bedroom. It’s a big room and runs the length of the front of the house. There’s an iron bedstead at one end and a massive, old fashioned wardrobe that a family of five could probably live in at the other.

  ‘There’s not much furniture I’m afraid, but if you’ve your own bits and bobs you’re welcome to bring them with you.’

  I walk across the room and look out of the window; I can see straight down into The George’s bar.

  ‘I’ve not long finished this room so it’s all freshly done. The carpet’s old but I’ve cleaned it.’

  I look down at the floor; the carpet is old fashioned and faded; dusky pink roses on a pale cream background. I love it.

  ‘There’s only a shared bathroom I’m afraid. But I’m a man; in and out in five minutes so you’d have it mostly to yourself.’

  I smile up at him.

  What should I do?

  Live with Emily! screams the Beccabird. It’s safer! She’s a woman .

  He doesn’t seem like an axe murderer.

  They never do! the Beccabird yells.

  I know whatever I do it’ll be the wrong choice; it always is.

  ‘So, what do you think? Are you interested?’ Flynn folds his arms and his massive frame fills the doorway.

  Run! shrieks the Beccabird. Escape while you still can!

  ‘I love it,’ I say. ‘When can I move in?’

  Chapter Three

  I bottled it in the end and sent Emily a message, told her that I had a family emergency and I wouldn’t be moving to Frogham after all. I fully intended doing the decent thing and ringing her in person to apologise but then I thought, well, I’m not likely to see her again, so sod it. She never even replied so that just shows how icy she is. Unless she knew I was lying of course, which is quite possible because I’m a terrible liar, even when I text.

  So that’s two people to avoid now; Jonathan and Emily. But I’m not too worried, Frogham’s a big town, so what are the chances, eh?

  I moved all of my worldly goods into Flynn’s house the very next day and have been busily nesting for the past week and it already feels like home. I haven’t seen much of Flynn - he helped me carry my stuff up the stairs, gave me a key and went out and has hardly been back since. He’s spending most of this week at his partner’s house and quite often stays over so I won’t even see that much of him and Sausage, so really, the house is like my own! I can’t quite believe how lucky I am –perhaps I’ve landed on my feet at last. I haven’t had such a lovely place to live in since, well, seven years ago.

  I’ve arranged a few throws and bits and pieces around my room and it feels lovely and cosy, I absolutely love it. I bought myself some gorgeous scented candles to put on the windowsill - although obviously I won’t light them because I’m a tiny bit accident prone.

  Understatement! cackles the Beccabird.

  Shut up. There won’t be any lighted candle accidents at all because I’m definitely not going to light them, not even if I’ve had a few drinks because I’m not having any drinks at all in here; I’m going to keep the drinking of alcohol for social occasions only and as I rarely go out it won’t be a problem. I shall leave the candles on the windowsill for show only and sniff them and occasionally dust them in a totally safe manner.

  I must admit that I’m a bit surprised about Flynn, though. Well, more than a bit surprised, if I’m honest, I’m shocked - his partner, who’s a flight attendant, is called Steve. Yes, Steve ! It honestly never crossed my mind that Flynn was gay – I was totally shocked because I didn’t get that vibe from him at all.

  Homophobe! screeches the Beccabird.

  I am so not a homophobe and my gaydar is usually pretty spot on but I didn’t have the slightest suspicion about Flynn. Although thinking about it maybe the dyed red hair is a bit of a giveaway, your average guy doesn’t usually go for that sort of look. Also, I suppose if you think about it a dachshund is a bit of a giveaway too – a great big hunk of a man like Flynn with a teeny-weeny sausage dog.

  Yep, now I come to think about it I can’t see how I missed it really.

  Of course, Flynn being gay makes everything even better because I don’t have to waste time wondering if I’m going to end up fancying him and making everything awkward when he doesn’t fancy me back. And let’s face it; I would have fancied him because he is seriously hot , in fact if I’m completely honest I did fancy him a bit already but I don’t now, obviously. So the fact that he’s gay has done me a major favour; none of that unrequited love nonsense and now we can be proper mates and perhaps really good friends.

  I quite like the idea of having a gay best friend; we can go shopping together and help each other choose makeup and clothes. I can imagine cosy nights in front of the telly with face packs on and we could do each other’s nails and stuff, maybe watch Doris Day films together and...


  Stop! shrieks the Beccabird.Will you never learn?

  Probably not. Anyway, enough of that. Today I’m going to visit Mum and Dad, I haven’t seen them for quite a few months and now I’m back in Frogham there’s really no excuse because they only live just over half an hour away. I can see lots more of them and I’m totally looking forward to that. Just as soon as I finish this third cup of tea I’ll get showered and dressed. Probably. Unless I have another cup of tea.

  It’s so peaceful sitting here in the conservatory in my pyjamas with just the radio for company, I could stay here all day and just wallow. Flynn never even showed me the conservatory when I looked around – I never realised that he had one. He uses it as a dining room and there’s a lovely oak table and chairs with a comfy rocking chair in the corner that looks out onto the garden, which is where I’m sitting now. It’s not much of a garden – a patio of chipped and broken paving slabs and a patch of scrubby grass – but Flynn did say he was working from the inside out so I’m sure when he gets around to it the garden will be as stunning as the rest of the house.

  Eating my breakfast in the rocking chair has become my morning routine, although that’ll have to change when I go back to work because I never get up early enough to eat breakfast, but for now I’m making the most of it. At my last house share I ate most of my meals sitting on the bed in my bedroom with a tray on my lap, so this is complete luxury and I have to keep pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

  According to my weather app it’s only three degrees outside but from in here it looks gorgeous, the sky is a clear blue and I can feel the warmth of the sun as it’s magnified through the conservatory glass. Bliss.

  The sound of the front door opening makes me jump; Flynn must be back. God, I hope he goes straight upstairs and doesn’t come in here and catch me loafing around in my pyjamas; it’s nearly half past eleven so he’ll think I’m a complete slob. The sound of heavy footsteps heading my way confirms that he’s definitely going to see me so I quickly check my pyjama top to make sure the buttons are done up and I’m not exposing myself. I hastily rub my index finger over my front teeth.

  Flynn appears in the doorway and beams at me. ‘Top ‘o the morning to you!’

  ‘Morning.’ I smile and hope I haven’t got toast all over my teeth.

  Shouldn’t be so lazy, smirks the Beccabird. Should have got dressed.

  Flynn clomps into the conservatory and stands and looks out over the garden. Sausage trots in behind him and comes over and settles himself on top of my feet.

  ‘Grand day out there, you settling in okay?’

  ‘Fab,’ I say, meaning it. ‘It’s just perfect, more than I could ever have hoped for. You have a lovely house.’

  Flynn looks pleased. ‘Thank you, I’m glad you like it. So have you a few more days off until you start your new job?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I take a slurp of my tea. ‘I start Monday. I’m going to visit my parents this afternoon while I’ve got the time to spare.’

  ‘Live local, do they?’

  ‘Just outside Frogley-by-Sea.’

  ‘Nice,’ Flynn says, nodding. ‘Me mam and dad have always fancied moving to Frogley-by-Sea.’

  ‘Really?’ I say in surprise., ‘Bit of a long way from Ireland, I should think.’

  ‘Ireland?’ He gives me a puzzled look. ‘They don’t live in Ireland, they live in Frogham.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say in surprise. ‘I assumed they lived in Ireland with you being Irish.’

  ‘I’m not Irish, Frogham born and bred, that’s me. Me mam and dad are Irish but they’ve been here for donkey’s years.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, I just assumed. From your accent you know.’ If top o’ the morning isn’t Irish I don’t know what is.

  Flynn bursts into loud booming laughter and I wonder what’s so funny.

  ‘No, I’m not the slightest bit Irish. I just have this weird habit of picking up accents. I can’t help it. When I visit me mam and dad the accent gets worse for a few days. If I go to Spain I start speaking English with a Spanish accent. Most of the time I don’t even know I’m doing it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Flynn stretches and yawns, showing his well-muscled arms at their best. ‘I’ll probably start talking like you when you’ve been here for a while. Be a proper bumpkin.’ He laughs and goes out to the kitchen shouting over his shoulder, ‘I’m putting the kettle on, d’you want another brew?’

  ‘No thanks,’ I say as I get up. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’

  ‘Righto,’ he bellows, nearly bursting my eardrums as I pass by him to go back upstairs.

  Bumpkin? Bloody cheek.

  I stomp up the stairs. I don’t really sound like a bumpkin, do I?

  Ooh are , says the Beccabird.

  ✽✽✽

  The car rattles along the familiar road to Mum and Dad’s house, the hedges and trees on either side of the road are overgrown and making me feel as if I’m in a leafy tunnel. It’s a long time since I’ve done the journey from Frogham but in a way it feels like yesterday. It’ll be nice to see more of them now, cutting myself off from Jonathan was all very well but it meant that I cut myself off from them too. That’s going to change from now on.

  Not too much has changed since I lived here as a child; there’s still the same breath-taking view of Frogley Bay from the front of the house but now the view of nearby Frogley-by-Sea, which was once surrounded by fields, shows the distant outline of new build houses. I wonder how long it will be before Frogley-by-Sea merges with the little hamlet where Mum and Dad live. There are still open fields in front of their house but I know that it’s only a matter of time; I’m sure that one day in the future I’ll arrive here and there’ll be a land for sale board erected. That’s progress, I suppose.

  I will definitely be coming home more often. I can totally relax and be myself with Mum and Dad and I don’t have to worry about what I say. They know everything and they’ve never blamed me; even though they should.

  You know why you haven’t visited very much , says the Beccabird, It’s your guilty conscience.

  Honestly, I’m allowed no peace from that bloody bird.

  As I get out of the car and walk through the back door into the kitchen I’m greeted by the delicious smell of lemon muffins. The years melt away as the familiar smell transports me straight back to my childhood; Mum always seemed to be baking and Michael and I would spend hours playing in the fields and gambolling on the beach. The days seemed to go on forever and the sun always seemed to be shining back then, life was so much simpler then or maybe it just seems that way.

  Mum doesn’t bake so much these days – she says her and Dad are fat enough but she’ll have been busy making cakes in expectation of my visit and I know they’ll be enough for twenty people and no doubt I’ll be taking a batch home with me.

  As soon as Mum sees me in the doorway, she pulls her full-length apron- where does she even buy them? - over her head, hangs it on the hook on the back of the larder door and comes over and pulls me into a warm hug.

  ‘You feel thin – have you lost weight?’ she says with a frown as she stands back and holds my hands to look me up and down. She says this every time.

  ‘I wish,’ I say. ‘Put it on more like. And now I’m going to have to eat loads of your cakes and get even fatter.’

  Dad appears from the living room with his glasses propped on the top of his head; I’ve disturbed his daily newspaper reading routine- he takes The Times, The Daily Mail and The Sun and reads every single one, cover to cover, every day, except for Sundays when he has a day off.

  As soon as Mum lets me go he comes over and wraps me in a bear hug and I breathe in the familiar smell of Old Spice and extra strong mints.

  ‘Come on, let the girl breathe and let her sit down.’ Mum bustles around putting mugs and plates on the table. ‘Anyone would think you hadn’t seen her for years.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Dad lets go of me and pulls one of the worn pine chairs out from und
er the table to sit on. ‘Must be six months since we’ve seen you.’ He sits down heavily before taking a muffin from the plate Mum’s just put on the table. He turns the muffin around and examines it and then takes an enormous bite.

  ‘I came at Christmas which isn’t even three months ago.’ I sit down opposite him. ‘Or have you forgotten?’

  ‘Did you? Can’t remember, must be going senile.’ He winks at me as he shoves the rest of the muffin into his mouth.

  ‘Well I live a lot closer now so you’ll be seeing so much of me you’ll be desperate for a bit of peace.’

  ‘We’ll just pretend we’re out, won’t answer the door,’ Dad says, his mouth full of muffin.

  ‘Just shut up and stop winding her up – she’s got a busy life; she hasn’t got all day to sit and read the papers like you do. And don’t speak with your mouth full, it’s disgusting.’ Mum pours tea into a huge pottery mug and passes it to me. ‘How’re your new digs working out?’

  ‘Oh my God, it’s lush. I’ve never lived in such a nice place.’

  Mum smiles tightly .

  ‘Except for here of course,’ I hurriedly add. ‘There’s nowhere as nice as home.’ Mum smiles a proper smile; crisis averted.

  I fill them in on where the house is and how I’ve been making my bedroom cosy and comfy. I don’t mention the candles because they’ll only fret.

  ‘You could have your own place, you know.’ Dad says when I’ve finished.

  I sigh, we have this conversation every time I visit and I know he means well but I can’t accept any more of their help.

  ‘I’m saving hard Dad, another six months and I’ll have enough for a deposit.’

  ‘You could buy your own place now if you’d let us help you.’

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I don’t know how many times we’ve had this conversation and it’s not that I’m not grateful because I am but I want to do this on my own. You’ve given me far too much already.’

  And you lost it all! shouts the Beccabird, Because you’re an idiot.