I slide open the side of Lottie, my red and white camper van, and am greeted with a great wall of brown cardboard boxes. The suitcases, holdalls and bags have all been transported up to the flat in the last eight trips, and now I have the boxes to start on. I stare at them. I’m sure they’ve quadrupled in number since I stacked them in there last night.
Last night, he was out like I’d asked him to be so I could move the boxes into Lottie ready for today’s trip, but I wasn’t sure how long he’d stay out or if he’d be back to try to convince me to give us another chance, so I had shifted boxes without really noticing their number or weight. There were still some left in our flat, which is why I didn’t want to tell him to leave me alone. I’d have to arrange a time to go and get the rest. Now, I don’t really understand how I have so much stuff. It’s not as if I have lots of clothes and shoes and bags, and the like. I took no furniture, I took no appliances, I left them all for him back at the flat, and yet … I have what seems like a million boxes.
They can’t all be work-related. I read the words on the boxes as if I didn’t label them myself: ‘Tools’, ‘Old Tools’, ‘Wire’, ‘Polishers’, ‘Finishers’, ‘Rollers, Barrel Roller, etc.’, ‘Journals, Books, Swatches, etc.’, ‘Finished Pieces’, ‘Toolboxes’, ‘Findings’, ‘Beads’, ‘Resins, Glues’, ‘Samplers’, ‘Texturisers’. Maybe because I’d worked at Karina’s Jewels for so long and I had a lot of my regularly used tools there and my other stuff at home, I didn’t notice how much work stuff I’d accumulated.
I’m a jewellery maker, much to the upset and disapproval of my mother. With a good political science degree I was obviously on the road destined for Parliament, final stop Prime Minister. I had a different path to tread, though. We’d frequently rowed about it over the years (and I’m sure she still holds out hope for my great political career to emerge) but nothing gave me joy like making jewellery. From coming up with the initial design to handing over or displaying the finished piece, my job gave me real pleasure. My true love, though, was reloving people’s old jewellery.
Nothing was sadder than jewellery that languished in a drawer or box, mostly forgotten, partially unloved, because it didn’t fit into someone’s life. I made people want to love their jewellery again. Unwanted things that used to be precious, could be precious again, were my speciality. I would do my best to make the jewellery fit the person’s life, make them look at it again and see that they could love it, they did want it, they didn’t want to forget it existed because for a time it wasn’t quite up to scratch.
I sit on the edge of Lottie’s footrest, momentarily defeated by the number of boxes I have to unload, by the task ahead of me. I have to start again. Establish my business down here, find new clients, set up my workshop, open my shop, all while living with my mother. I’d lived with her when I left my flat, and for the months before that, but I’d always known it was temporary so I could endure it. This is permanent. I close my eyes, allow the ebb and flow of the sea to wash over me. I can do this. I know I can. I need to believe that. It’d be easier, of course, with him. But, I can do this. Because I have to.
‘How about we break with tradition this year and I kiss Smitty under the mistletoe first?’ Seth asked.
We had all arrived separately at the Social Sciences department’s end of term party in the dining hall, with me turning up last. Our department always went all out for their parties and waited until everyone had officially left so they could hire the dining hall and make it look spectacular. As soon as I walked in the door, Dylan and Seth both descended upon me – Seth was holding mistletoe. I looked from one to the other.
It wasn’t as if I was going out with either of them, or that either of them didn’t have girlfriends because I wasn’t and they did. But for the last two Christmases, whenever they spotted mistletoe, I was their first port of call.
‘How about we don’t make this a tradition which could be seen as Smitty being a bit “free” with her affections around two men who have girlfriends?’ I replied. Girlfriends who were probably in this very room, glaring at me.
Dylan snaked his hand around my waist, tugged me towards his body and kissed me full on the mouth, as he’d been doing for the last two Christmases, before anyone could say anything else. His lips, tasting of the rum-laced punch he’d obviously been drinking, lingered on mine. This was about to turn into a proper, full-on kiss where he would push his tongue into my mouth, he’d pull me closer to him and we’d forget anyo—. Abruptly, Dylan stepped away. As always his kiss was enough to tease me but not enough to promise me anything.
‘You are such a git,’ Seth complained. ‘You don’t even have mistletoe.’
‘I’ve got mistletoe in my heart,’ Dylan replied. He focused on me with his enormous black-brown eyes and I knew he was about to finish with his latest girlfriend. He always gave me that look, said something like that, when he was about to dump someone – it’s not like anything had ever happened between us, or that he’d make a move once he was free, he just did this to let me know what he was thinking. And the only time he ever kissed me properly was at Christmas.
‘Happy Christmas, Smitty,’ Seth said. ‘I’m still here, you know?’ he was actually saying.
I managed to tear my eyes away from Dylan, refocused on Seth. ‘Happy Christmas, Seth,’ I replied.
He held up the mistletoe, its white fruit unusually plump and large against its long, slender oval-shaped leaves. ‘Any chance?’ he asked. I hadn’t even got my coat off or unwound my scarf.
I glanced at Dylan. He stared down at his feet, prodding at something invisible on the floor as though he wasn’t bothered, his body language plainly broadcasting how bothered he was. I wasn’t the one going out with someone else, I was single and able to kiss whoever I liked – no matter how chaste it really was. Seth, though … The mere idea of him and me bugged Dylan. He hadn’t been bothered when I’d been out with or slept with other men, even with friends of his, but when it came to Seth, his jealousy was clear and evident.
‘If you want to,’ I told him.
Seth nodded in understanding. ‘Next year,’ he said. He tossed his mistletoe on to the buffet table, between the pile of greasy mini sausages and the large crystal punchbowl. ‘I’ll make sure that I get my kiss in first.’
Mum hasn’t brought much stuff with her. ‘I only really need my clothes and my photographs,’ she’d said, and she was as good as her word.
Considering her house in Otley was crammed with enough ornaments and knick-knacks to keep a small charity shop well stocked for a year or two, and she’d never shown any inclination to get rid of them, I was impressed that she really only brought her photo albums, clothes and beauty items. ‘I won’t take up much space,’ she’d said during the conversation where I asked her to move in with me. That’s how she tells it to anyone who’ll listen – she even tells that to me and I was there for the conversation. ‘Clemency was moving and she couldn’t do it on her own, so she asked me to come with her. She’s my only child, so I couldn’t say no.’ What really happened was this:
‘Mum, I know the timing could be better but I’m moving. I’ve got one more week to complete at work and then I’m going to tie up everything here and move to Brighton. Well, Hove, actually. That’s where the flat I’ve found is. It’s near enough to Brighton. I’ve got a workshop down there, too.’ I decided to tell Mum I’d also got a shop space another time – too much information gave her too much to worry about and too much to mither me about.
‘Oh, that sounds like a fantastic idea, Clemency. I’ll get your uncle Colin to look after the house and I’ll come with you. Thank you for suggesting it.’
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Don’t say, “what”.’
‘Wha— I don’t understand what you’ve just said.’
‘Or maybe Nancy and Sienna could move in?’ she said to herself. ‘They’ll need a bigger space, I won’t need to charge them rent and they’re family so I know they’ll take care of the place. Or maybe I shouldn’t involve family? Maybe I should just look at renting it out through an agency.’
‘What are you saying to me, Mother?’
‘Your uncle Colin can help out. When are you going?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘Perfect. That’s plenty of time to pack and have an estate agent value the place with a view to selling or renting.’
‘But I’m moving on my own.’ (I’m still not sure if I said that out loud.)
‘This is perfect, Clemency. I won’t take up much space. Just my photographs and personal belongings and clothes. I was wondering what I would do with myself now. I don’t want to be here any more. Too many memories, especially from the last few months. But you’ve solved that problem for me.’
And created a whole world of problems for me. Mum and me in confined spaces, with nothing much to do … It is a bad combination.
‘Clemency? Is that you?’ Mum calls. I heft the first box through the front door. There are eighty-seven steps and three sets of doors between Lottie and this flat. I only noticed that while wrestling my way here with this box labelled ‘Tools’.
‘Who else is it going to be?’ I call back.
‘A simple “yes” will suffice,’ she replies.
‘What is it that you want, Mum?’ I ask. Down the long wide corridor with large block, parquet flooring in a rich honey-coloured wood, I follow the sound of Mum’s voice until I find her, in the second bedroom. Her bedroom. This was going to be my work-at-home place. It didn’t have the sea views of the other rooms, but it had an en suite shower and loo, space for a desk as well as a (guest) bed and, most importantly, a large amount of wall space to pin up my designs and have a shelving unit to keep all the tools and materials – wire, beads, findings, bottle tops, trays, glues, resins, cords, etc., etc., etc. – I used at home.
‘Yes, Mum?’ I say. ‘How can I help you?’ I have sprinkled positivity, the type of sunshine drenching the outside world, into my voice because this is all going to work out. Everything is going to be fine. To make sure it is, I need to stay positive no matter what is sent to try me.
‘This room is going to be fine for me,’ she says.
‘That’s great,’ I say.
‘There isn’t much natural light, though,’ she adds, in case I get too comfortable with doing something almost right.
‘I know. This side of the building overlooks the internal courtyard and because there are other parts of the building on all four sides, not much light comes in. Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ she says.
Mum has eyes that are so blue they appear translucent in certain lights. When I was younger I was convinced she could use her eyes to hypnotise people into staying still, staying silent, while she said something important or cutting. I’m not one hundred per cent convinced she can’t do that now because she is fixing them on me while she opens her mouth to speak. I want to turn away, to leave before I hear something that will be negative and draining; which will nibble away at the positivity I have been building up, but I can’t move.
‘Clemency, about what I said earlier,’ Mum starts. She sighs and steps towards me. ‘Don’t take everything to heart so much.’ She presses her hand on to my shoulder, reassures me with that touch that I am being oversensitive and what she said about the end of my relationship was completely justified.
Dylan stood beside me, our heads close together while someone took a picture of us in our black and purple gowns. I had a mortar board on my head, the tassel constantly hung just low enough to be an irritating distraction at the corner of my eye. The other distraction at the corner of my peripheral vision was Mum, glaring at me because, in her mind, merely standing next to a male was enough to impregnate me. ‘We made it, eh, Smitty?’ Dylan said.
I took my camera back from the person who’d snapped the shot, thanked them. ‘Yes. Although it looked doubtful at times.’
‘Don’t just disappear now it’s over, OK?’ he said.
‘If anyone’s going to do a disappearing act it’ll be you, don’t you think?’ I replied. ‘Speaking of disappearing acts, what happened to Seth? I saw him in the ceremony but I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Maybe he finally got the message,’ Dylan mumbled.
‘What message would that be?’ I asked. ‘And can you clue me in on it?’
‘Come on now, Smitty,’ he said.
‘No, you come on, Dylan. I’ve finished college, am I allowed to sleep with Seth now? Or is that still against the rules of being your mate?’
‘Smitty … me and you …’
‘Are mates, that’s abundantly clear.’
‘It’s not that simple. Before you, I’ve never been friends with a girl without it being either purely sexual or purely platonic. It’s both with you. And the longer we’re mates, the more I feel for you. It’s more than sex and more than just frienship with you.’
‘Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,’ I said in response.
Unexpectedly he stepped forward, our bodies now so close they almost touched. My breathing became quick and shallow; the pupils of his eyes dilated as he began to breathe quickly too. ‘I’d love to kiss you,’ he said, his gaze linked to mine, ‘but I think your mum would probably lay me out with one punch. Meet me later? I’ve got a family meal, but come over to my house around ten o’clock?’
‘I can’t. Mum and Dad are taking me home after this. We’re all packed up. We’ve got a family thing over in Otley. My cousin’s having problems, too, Mum wants to get back for her.’
‘Can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘Are you going to come back any time soon?’
‘Do you actually ever listen to a word I say? I told you, I’ve got a summer job, working six days a week so I can save up for my course to train to become a silversmith and jeweller. You can come and see me?’
‘Will your mum smack me if I kiss you now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your dad won’t stop her?’
‘Nope.’
‘All right. I’ll come over to see you.’
I knew he wouldn’t. I desperately wanted him to, but I knew he wouldn’t. It was easier for us both to pretend that he would.
Mum’s stopped hypnotising me with her stare. She’s instead focused on the butterfly pendant I wear around my neck. It is large and fashioned from silver, and one of the first things I made after I qualified as a silversmith. The pendant represents a lot of things to Mum, not only the fact I took no notice when it came to her career advice, but also that I still have an obsession with butterflies. And that obsession, to Mum, is hurtful. ‘Try not to be so sensitive,’ I should say to her. Instead, I tuck it away under my T-shirt, out of her sight, out of her mind.
Now the butterfly is hidden away, she goes back to admonishing me while rubbing my shoulder. ‘Clemency, you should know by now that you mustn’t be so touchy about things,’ Mum tells me. ‘You should try to grow a thicker skin, so you aren’t so sensitive.’
‘OK,’ I say to her, because it’s easier than explaining that while I have normal skin like everyone else, I spend a lot of time pretending the snide comments, the sly digs and the outright vicious remarks about not knowing who my ‘real’ parents are don’t bother me. Mum doesn’t realise that I spend my life feigning the existence of a thick, impenetrable outer layer so that I can be seen to be able to ‘take a joke’, ‘not be so sensitive’, ‘not take everything to heart’. She has no idea that for years I would cry alone because no one understood that every comment made me feel worthless and made me believe that those snipes were true.
And anyway, all this talk about not being oversensitive would be more credible if it wasn’t coming from the woman who can’t even bear to hear the word ‘adoption’, let alone talk about it in relation to her only daughter. That’s why she has ‘issues’ with my butterfly obsession – it’s a reminder of the fact I’m not biologically hers.
‘Clemency,’ she says, before I shut the door behind myself.
‘Yes, Mum?’ I reply tiredly. There’s only so much I can take, only so much the positivity I’ve stretched over this new start can handle before it peels away, and starts flapping about uselessly like unsecured tarpaulin in the wind.
‘Your father would have loved it here,’ she says. ‘He adored the sea. He always wanted to live by the sea again before … He would have been so proud of you.’ She smiles. ‘Even more proud of you than he was.’
I nod. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I mumble, and leave.
I don’t need her to tell me Dad was proud of me. I knew he was. He told me so all the time. Right up until he died.