The Summer Seekers Page 4

  “We’re not fussing. We’re here to look after you, and to—” To make you think about the future. Liza stopped.

  “And to what? Persuade me to wear an emergency buzzer? I’m not doing it, Liza.”

  “Mum—” She caught Sean’s warning glance but ignored it. Maybe the subject was best raised right now, so that they had the whole weekend to discuss details. “This has been a shock for all of us, and it’s time to face some difficult truths. Things need to change.”

  Sean turned away with a shake of his head, but her mother was nodding.

  “Things do have to change. Being hit over the head has brought me to my senses.”

  Liza felt a rush of relief. Her mother was going to be reasonable. Turned out she wasn’t the only sensible person in the room.

  “I’m pleased you feel that way,” she said. “I have brochures in the car, so all we have to do now is plan. And we have all weekend for that.”

  “Brochures? You mean travel brochures?”

  “For residential homes. We can—”

  “Why would you bring those?”

  “Because you can’t stay here any longer, Mum. You admitted things have to change.”

  “They do. And I’m in the process of formulating a plan I will share with you when I’m sure of the details. But I won’t be going into a residential home. That isn’t what I want.”

  Was her mother saying she wanted to come and live with them in London?

  Liza swallowed and forced herself to ask the question. “What is it that you want?”

  “Adventure.” Kathleen slapped her hand on the table, setting cups rattling. “I want another adventure. I was the original Summer Seeker and I miss those days terribly. Who knows how many summers I have left? I intend to make the most of this one.”

  “But Mum—” Oh this was ridiculous. “You’re going to be eighty-one at the end of this year.”

  Her mother sat up a little straighter and her eyes gleamed. “All the more reason not to waste another moment.”

  3

  KATHLEEN

  Kathleen woke with a pounding headache. For a moment as she drifted between sleep and wakefulness she thought she was back in Africa suffering from malaria. It had been a miserable experience, and not one she was in a hurry to relive.

  Struggling awake she sat up, felt the bandage on her head and remembered everything.

  The drunk man dressed in black.

  The police.

  Popeye missing.

  Her head.

  The headache wasn’t malaria, but a result of her self-inflicted injury. Which, thinking about it, was a great deal more exciting.

  Since Brian died, it had felt as if someone had pressed Pause on her life. She’d been living here in her safe little world, moored in a harbor instead of heading boldly out to sea.

  Liza didn’t want her in the harbor, she wanted her in dry dock. She wanted her safely shut away in a place where no harm could come to her.

  Her daughter’s intentions were good, but the thought of selling the home she loved had brought Kathleen to the edge of panic. She’d been so horrified by the idea that she’d blurted out that wild statement about wanting adventure.

  Liza’s expression of shock wasn’t something any of them were likely to forget in a hurry.

  She’d obviously thought that the bang on the head had affected her mother’s thinking.

  Mum? Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Are you dizzy? Do you know what day it is?

  Yes, she knew what day it was. It was the day to make a few decisions.

  She eased herself out of bed, ignoring the aches in her limbs, and took painkillers for her headache. From her bedroom window she could see the ocean in the distance and had a sudden yearning to be skimming the waves in a catamaran with salt air stinging her face. She’d once spent a month sailing the Mediterranean as part of a flotilla. She’d spent most of the time barefoot, her skin burnt from the hot sun, and her hair stiff from seawater. Most of all she remembered feeling alive and free.

  She wanted to feel that way again. It wasn’t age dependent, surely?

  Was Liza right? Was she being stubborn? Unrealistic? What did she expect at eighty years old? Did she really think she was going to dance barefoot across the sand and haul in a sail? Drink tequila in Mexico?

  Those days were behind her, although she still had the memories and the evidence of the life she’d once lived.

  The house was silent and she walked into the room that had been her study for all the years she’d lived here. The walls were lined with maps. Africa. Australia. The Middle East. America. The whole world was right there in front of her, tempting her.

  How she missed exploring. She missed the bustle of the airport, the scents and sounds of a new country, the excitement of discovery. She missed sharing it with people. Go here, see this, do this. The Summer Seekers had been her baby. Her show.

  What use was her experience to anyone now? She’d thought she might write a book about her travels, but it turned out that writing about it had been nowhere near as exciting as doing it. She’d scribbled a couple of chapters and then abandoned them, bored with sitting and drowning in a sea of nostalgia. She didn’t want to write, she wanted to do.

  It had been eight years since she’d last traveled out of the country, a sedate trip to Vienna to celebrate their wedding anniversary. They’d eaten Sachertorte, richly chocolatey and unquestionably indulgent. Flavors had been one of the pleasures of exploring new countries. Flavors were memories for Kathleen. When she smelled spices, she was transported to the palm-fringed beaches of Goa. The soft sizzle of garlic in olive oil made her think of long, slow summers in Tuscany.

  She’d always had a passion for adventure. For travel. She hadn’t paused long enough to let life settle on her.

  She stood in front of the map of North America, marked with the historic Route 66.

  That particular road trip had long been on her wish list. She would have taken the trip many years back were it not for the fact that it ended in California. California was a big place, of course, but still it was too uncomfortable.

  Thinking about California made her think of the letters. She reached out to open the drawer in her desk, but then snatched her hand back.

  It was far too late now. You couldn’t change history. All she could do was look at the maps and the photographs and dream.

  She looked at the box files, bulging with maps and notes.

  Selling this place wouldn’t just mean selling her home, it would mean leaving her past. Her house wasn’t stuffed full of meaningless objects, it was full of pieces of her life. Everything came with meaning and memory attached.

  She locked the door of the study, and returned to the bedroom where she hid the key in a drawer.

  That man breaking into her house had made her evaluate her life.

  Yes, she was vulnerable, but so was every human being. Most didn’t realize it, of course. Most people believed they were in control of everything that happened to them and perhaps it took age and long experience to know that life could deliver blows you never could have deflected, not even with a skillet.

  She’d never let fear stop her living. Instead she’d made the most of every moment, dealing with trouble as it came her way. If anything she’d been reckless.

  She was no longer reckless, but nor was she ready to live out her days in a room with a call button.

  A restless feeling stirred inside her. Excitement. Anticipation. A thirst for adventure. Lately it had been absent and it was reassuring to know she was still capable of feeling it. It gave her an energy and a drive that was much needed.

  She walked to the bathroom and removed the bandage from her head. Enough of that.

  She scrubbed at the dried blood and cleaned herself up as best she could, deciding that washing her hair probably wouldn’t
be the wisest move right now. She tried not to look directly at her reflection. In her mind she was youthful, but the mirror mocked her attempts at self-deception.

  Turning away, she dressed as quickly as her body would allow and walked down to the kitchen. She was disappointed to find no signs of Popeye. She was ridiculously fond of the cat, and not entirely because he expected very little of her.

  She’d always been an early riser and she began the day with strong coffee. The sun was shining, so she carried her cup to the small marble-topped table she’d had shipped from Italy. The moment she stepped outside, her mood lifted.

  It promised to be a perfect day, the air filled with the scent of flowers and a sweet chorus of birdsong.

  This moment with her coffee was a brief respite before what she knew would be a difficult weekend. She excelled at some things, but parenting wasn’t one of them. She’d been forty when she’d married, and Liza had been born nine months later. Of all the adventures Kathleen had faced, nothing had frightened her more than the thought of being a mother and having someone emotionally dependent on her.

  She didn’t fit the template that many used to measure parental performance. She’d missed almost every sports day, had never attended a ballet class and had treated parent teacher conferences as optional. She had read to her daughter, although she’d always favored travel books over fiction. She’d wanted her to understand how big the world was, and she took some credit for the fact that Liza had achieved top grades in geography. But it was also true that the first time Liza had put two words together it had been to say “Mummy gone.”

  Kathleen had always struggled to balance her own needs with society’s expectations.

  And now she found herself in that position again. Someone of her advanced years wasn’t supposed to have a sense of adventure.

  What was she supposed to do? Sell her home and move into residential accommodation to please her daughter? Protect herself and not move from her chair until her heart gave up?

  In the sixties she’d smoked marijuana and danced to rock and roll.

  When had she become so careful?

  She finished her coffee and bent down to tug up a weed growing between the paving slabs. The garden was her pride and joy, but keeping it tidy was an endless task. She could pay someone, but she didn’t like having strangers in her home. She wanted to be able to drink her morning coffee in her nightdress.

  The sun was already hot and she lifted her face and soaked up its warmth. Sunshine always made her want to travel.

  “Mum?” Liza’s voice came from the kitchen door. “You’re awake early. You couldn’t sleep?”

  “I slept perfectly.” Kathleen decided not to mention the headache. “You?”

  “Yes.”

  Kathleen could see that was a lie. There were dark shadows under her daughter’s eyes and she looked exhausted. Poor Liza. She’d always been so serious, weighed down by her sense of responsibility and devoted to keeping everyone’s lives on what she considered to be a safe track.

  Kathleen had occasionally lamented the fact that her daughter seemed not to have inherited even a sliver of her own adventurous spirit. When Liza was six years old, Kathleen had wondered if it was healthy for a child to be so biddable. She’d half hoped to see at least a tiny hint of rebellion in the teenage years, but Liza had remained steady and reliable, an adult before her time, vaguely reproachful of her mother’s slightly unconventional antics. She hadn’t died her hair pink, drunk herself into a stupor or, to the best of Kathleen’s knowledge, kissed an unsuitable boy. It seemed to her mother that Liza lived a life regrettably lacking in daring.

  But there was no doubt that she was caring and selfless. More selfless than Kathleen had been.

  Kathleen had told herself that by pursuing her own passions she was setting an example to her child but if anything her experiences had caused her daughter to become more careful not less.

  And here she was causing her anxiety yet again.

  Liza put her coffee down on the table. “You removed the bandage.”

  “It was annoying me. And the wound will heal better exposed to the air.” Kathleen pressed her fingertips to her head. “They had to shave some of my hair. I look like something from a horror movie.”

  Liza shook her head. “You look good. You always do.”

  Kathleen felt guilty for wishing she could have had a few more moments alone with her coffee and the birds.

  Her daughter had dropped everything to drive here through hideous Friday traffic. No mother could have a more attentive daughter.

  “How are the girls doing?”

  “I don’t know. It’s too early to call them. They never emerge until midmorning. It’s not the easiest age. I assume they’re alive, or I would have heard something.” Liza sat down opposite her mother and lifted her face to the sun. She was wearing navy linen trousers with a tailored white shirt, an outfit that would have taken her from the classroom to a parent-teacher conference. Her shoes had a small heel and her hair hung smooth and sleek to her shoulders. Everything about Liza was safe and controlled from her attitude to her dress to the way she lived her life.

  “You worry too much about them. Things have a way of turning out fine if you leave them.”

  “I prefer to take a more hands-on approach than you.” Liza colored. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  It was so unlike her careful daughter to be unguarded in her remarks that Kathleen took heart. There was spirit there, even if it was rarely permitted to see the light. If only she could encourage more of it.

  “Never apologize for saying what’s on your mind. It’s true that I wasn’t a hands-on parent. I did leave you, frequently, although you were with your father. You were never unsafe. I could say that it was my job—and that would be true—but it’s also true that I needed to travel.”

  “Why? What was missing at home?”

  Kathleen wished her daughter had overslept. Of the conversational topics she avoided, emotions were right up there with religion and politics. She didn’t talk about her feelings, and she didn’t talk about the past. Liza knew that. There were some things better kept private. Kathleen had learned to protect herself and was far too old to change. “It was complicated. But it had everything to do with me, not you.”

  Liza put her coffee down. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “You think I was selfish. You think I’m selfish now by not agreeing to go into a residential home.”

  “I’m worried, that’s all. I love you, Mum.”

  Kathleen squirmed. Why did Liza say things like that?

  “I know you do.” She saw something flicker in her daughter’s eyes. Disappointment? Resignation?

  “I understand that it isn’t easy to leave somewhere you love, but I want you to be safe.”

  “What if that isn’t what I want for myself?”

  “You don’t want to be safe?” Liza gently brushed away a bee that was hovering around the table. “That’s the strangest thing I ever heard.”

  “I’m saying that there are other things more important than safety.”

  “Like what?”

  How could she explain? “Happiness. Adventure. Excitement.”

  “Surely tackling an intruder is more than enough adventure and excitement for a while?”

  “That wasn’t an adventure, it was a wake-up call.”

  “Exactly. It was a painful reminder that living in this house by yourself is impractical, but of course we’ll support whatever you want to do.” Liza sounded tired and Kathleen could see her mentally adding to her already-bulging to-do list. Keep an eye on mother.

  There would be regular phone calls and twice-monthly visits and another worry to add to the many that already kept her daughter awake at night.

  Kathleen wondered how to free her daughter of the crushing sense of responsibility she f
elt for those around her.

  “I’m not your responsibility, Liza.”

  “Mum—”

  “I’m willing to live with the consequences of the decisions I make. I’ve always valued independence—you know that. I’m sure many people considered me selfish traveling the world when I had a young child at home, and maybe I was, but it was my job and I loved it. The Summer Seekers was part of me. Is it selfish to sometimes put your own needs first? I don’t think so. I was a mother, but not only a mother. A wife, but not only a wife. And of course, if I’d been a man, no one would have questioned it. The rules were always different for men, although I hope that’s changing now. Progress.”

  “I don’t look at it the way you do. I’m part of a family.”

  “Family can be your priority without you waiting on them hand and foot.” She expected her daughter to argue with her and defend the way she lived her life, but instead Liza slumped a little.

  “I know. And I don’t know how it got to be this way. I think it’s because it’s simpler to do things myself because then they get done.”

  “And if things don’t get done, what’s the worst that can happen?”

  “I end up unraveling the mess, which is usually more work than if I’d done it in the first place.” Liza finished her coffee. “Let’s not have this conversation.”

  Given that the conversation was starting to veer toward the personal, something Kathleen made a point of avoiding, she readily agreed. There was an awkward silence. “I hear Sean in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll make breakfast.” They spoke at the same time and Liza stood up quickly, knocking the table and sending the remains of Kathleen’s coffee sloshing onto the table. She paused, seemed about to say something and then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

  Kathleen stared after her for a moment feeling frustration and regret.

  She’d thought that her travels would make her daughter more independent and in a way that had been the case. Liza had learned to cook and care for the home. She’d provided the cozy warmth that Kathleen hadn’t. What was lacking was emotional independence. Liza had become insecure and clingy when Kathleen had returned from her trips.