I have only been to Cornwall once since Bonnie was born. I drove there when she was five months old and she screamed the entire way. Upon arrival my mother refused to hold her and asked me to leave after just forty-five minutes. I don’t know what I am expecting this time, but I am in a better place than I was. I want my mother to see that.
Bonnie is extremely excited about going on a train. I am petrified we will run out of snacks, that she will get bored and have a meltdown for the entire five-hour journey to Truro, or that we will get there and my mother will be dead, and that Bonnie will be traumatised for life. But, I am also of the mind that it is important she knows who her grandmother is. I keep having sad thoughts of one day Bonnie not wanting to see me, and her keeping her children away from me because I’m not very nice. I believe that would upset me very much. So on the off chance that is making my mother even sadder than her natural state, I am going to give this a try.
I have loaded an iPad with around a day’s worth of kids’ television shows, and I have an interiors magazine for myself. I love to read, but I’m not sure there is anything more glorious than daydreaming whilst looking out of the window on a train. The rolling countryside, the constant brrr of the engines. I am quite excited by the prospect of it.
I have a bagful of snacks for Bonnie, and a few crudités and dips for myself. I even got myself a small packet of Twiglets as a special treat.
‘Can I sit by the window?’ Bonnie asks me, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of it. I agree, hoping that no one comes on and takes the other two seats at the table. Bonnie chooses the backward-facing seat, and I am pleased as I am in the mood to look forward. She bounces around on her feet. I should tell her to stop, but it’s very sweet to see her so excited.
‘Can we go on trains more often?’ she asks me, as we roll out of the station and she gazes at the tracks like she is passing over a magical land.
‘Maybe,’ I say, wondering where we will go.
I text my mother.
Mum, I am on my way to Cornwall and will be stopping in with Bonnie. We won’t be staying, I have a hotel organised. We will be seeing you around 2pm.
I had wondered if I would tell my mother at all that we were coming, but as the train rolls on, I feel it is for the best. I’m not sure she would like to be surprised, and maybe with a little notice she will prepare herself in some way. Get dressed. Clean the litter trays. The text marks as ‘read’ immediately, but no reply comes through.
I found a hotel with a family room. Two rooms adjacent, connected by a bathroom. Bonnie and I have never spent a night away together before. Who knows how it will go. I rest my head against the window and watch her. Her face is squashed against the glass and I see her pupils zipping from side to side as she tries to keep up with the view.
‘Mummy, Mummy, look, a cow,’ she screeches in delight as she spots one in a field. ‘Moooo,’ she shouts in its direction, as if it might hear her. It makes me laugh. We are an hour in before she asks for either the iPad or a snack. Experience and excitement being all the entertainment she needed until then. I open my packet of Twiglets lengthways and put it onto the table. We share them. She then watches a few episodes of Peppa Pig. I barely take my eyes off her while she does.
‘I think trains make me sleepy,’ she says, rubbing her eyes. I tell her she can sleep, and after watching her not find a comfortable position, I take the aisle seat next to her, and have her lie down, resting her head on my lap. I stroke her hair until her eyes close, and she doesn’t wake up again until around thirty minutes before we arrive in Cornwall. It’s my favourite five hours I have ever spent with my daughter.
‘Why does Granny live so far away?’ Bonnie asks as we make our way out of the station. Thinking of her grandma as some mythical creature that she presumes will be like her other granny and play with her for hours and feed her endless treats. I’ve never told her otherwise. Her enthusiasm about this meeting is frightening me.
‘Bonnie, there is something you need to know,’ I say, kneeling down to her. ‘Mummy’s mummy isn’t like other grannies, OK? Sometimes she is very sad, and that means she might not want to play, OK?’
‘She won’t play with me?’ she asks me, looking disappointed.
‘Well she might, but if she doesn’t want to then that’s OK. OK? Granny June might be feeling sad because she isn’t well, OK?’
I stand back up, and we wait in line for a taxi. That went OK, I think. I don’t want to frighten her before she even sees my mother.
‘OK,’ Bonnie replies. ‘A bit like you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You get ill, and you don’t want to play either.’
I kneel back down.
‘I’m not ill, Bonnie.’
‘Then why don’t you ever play with me?’
I don’t know if it’s the sea air, the anticipation of seeing my mum, or the fact that I have realised my mistakes just in time, but I put my arms around her and start to cry.
‘I love you,’ I tell her. Promising myself I will do better. ‘And I am sorry.’
‘Where you going?’ a taxi driver yells out of his window.
‘Come on, Bon Bon,’ I say, getting her in and doing up her seat belt. ‘Let’s go and see Granny June.’
I grew up in a pretty stone terrace on a nice street in Truro. Soon after I went to university in Falmouth, my mother sold it and bought a small ugly house on a dismal street about ten minutes away. People talk about living in Cornwall like it is heaven on earth, and it can be. My mother, however, chose to live in an ugly part of it even though she had the choice not to. She has always done things like that. As if it all adds to her trauma, giving herself full permission to wallow in it.
‘Actually, can you take a left instead?’ I say to the driver, as I give him the address of the house I used to live in. ‘I want to show you something,’ I tell Bonnie. She seems excited by that. I feel nervous. As we pull up, I ask the taxi driver to wait for us. He reminds me there will be a waiting charge, and I agree to whatever it is. This is important.
‘Look Bonnie, that’s it. That’s the house I lived in when I was a little girl.’
Bonnie runs up to the gate. ‘In there?’ she asks for confirmation, and I nod. ‘Who did you live there with?’
‘My mummy and daddy of course.’
She stares at the front door. She’s obviously quite confused by the concept of parts of your life happening in different places and houses. I’ve never really talked to her about any of this. I mean, she’s three and a half, it’s only in the last six months that she’s truly started to grasp the English language.
‘Where is your daddy?’ The question I guess I should have anticipated.
‘He got sick, and he died. Died means he isn’t around anymore.’
‘Oh. You lived with your mummy and daddy in this house?’
‘Yes, that window up there was my bedroom.’ That makes her smile. ‘I just wanted you to see it.’
‘Yellow is my favourite colour,’ she says, noticing the front door. This shatters my heart into a thousand pieces. My dad painted the door yellow himself, it was my favourite colour too. By the looks of things, no one has touched it up since. To think his very hands did it makes my eyes fill up again. I miss him so much. I can just imagine me bursting out of that door, bunches in my hair, my school uniform on. Him chasing me with the car keys, ready to drive me to school. We’d sing songs all the way there, and all the way home. We were so happy. All of us, even Mum back then. Or at least she could pretend to be. I suppose you never can know what is around the corner. An illness, either mental or physical. One can strike at any time, tearing a family apart. Tearing a life apart.
‘Come on, let’s go. You ready?’
‘Yes,’ she says, happily coming back to the car with me. I look back to the house. I imagine my dad at the door. ‘Bye Dad,’ I say quietly. ‘I love you.’
I text my mother as the taxi is pulling up.
We will be there in 2 minutes.
I give her a few moments, then it’s marked as ‘read’. She’s still alive. The worst-case scenario will not happen, at least not today. It is safe to take Bonnie to the front door.
I knock gently but there is no answer. I knock again.
‘Is Granny June not home?’ Bonnie asks me.
‘No, she’ll be home. Maybe she’s asleep.’ I bang a little harder. Still nothing.
‘Mum, Mum,’ I shout through the letter box, a strong smell of cat piss hitting me in the face. I see through the house, and that the back door is open. I can get around the side. I’m feeling really nervous now. This seemed like such a good idea. I send another text just to be sure.
Mum, Bonnie and I are at the door can you let us in.
Again it’s marked as ‘read’. She’s alive. We wait a few minutes, but she doesn’t come.
‘Come with me, Bonnie,’ I say, walking to the side of the house, and down the path that leads to the back garden. It’s a mess and very overgrown. There is a small fence that I lift Bonnie over. It takes a little negotiation with my dress – I wore a cotton version today, it has a small floral print. Soon we are both on the garden side. I lead the way, holding Bonnie’s soft little hand.
‘Is Granny June home?’ Bonnie asks, nervously.
‘Yes, don’t worry. She’s just in the garden,’ I tell her reassuringly.
When we get to the garden, I tell Bonnie to stop while I peek around the corner to see what my mother is doing. She is sitting on a chair in the middle of the garden, the sun directly on her. Seeing her gives me a fright. She’s never exactly looked well, but this is a lot to take in. She is enormously fat, spread over the chair with ounces of flesh hanging over each side. There is a cat on her lap, and one by her feet. Her phone is resting on her knee. In the three years since I’ve seen her she has at least doubled in size. She is wearing green shorts and a white t-shirt. Her hair is dirty and long, more grey than black now. Her arms are wider than my thighs. She has a thick beard.
I remind myself that her appearance is not a reason to turn away. I pick Bonnie up and approach her.
‘Mum?’ I say gently. Not wanting to startle her. ‘Hello.’
Bonnie pushes her face into my neck as if she doesn’t want to look. My mother slowly turns her head in my direction. She says nothing.
‘I brought Bonnie to see you,’ I say, Bonnie peeks out, but is too afraid to show her whole face. My mother stares at her. It’s a little menacing.
‘I don’t want you here,’ she says, softly but with undertones of aggression.
‘OK Mum, we just wanted to make sure you were alright,’ I say, gently. ‘Can Bonnie see one of the cats?’
She looks at the one on her lap. I put Bonnie down. ‘It’s OK, go stroke the cat,’ I tell her, but she is too frightened to go near my mother. I go first and stroke it. Despite hating cats only a little less than I hate rodents. Soon Bonnie finds the confidence and comes over. As she strokes it, the cat begins to purr heavily. This makes Bonnie smile.
‘See, it’s OK,’ I say to her. ‘You both love cats,’ I say to my mother, wondering if this might be something they can connect with. She turns her face away and says nothing. She shuffles in her chair. Causing the cat to get off and run into the garden. Bonnie chases it.
‘Mum, I know it’s hard for you, but I’d really appreciate it if you could at least say something to Bonnie. She’s your only granddaughter.’
‘Did I ask you to have her?’ she says, looking at me now. Her once pretty brown eyes now hidden with heavy lids. She turns away again, and I take her in. She is responsible for so much of my pain. So much of my anger. So much of my feeling of displacement, my inability to ask people for help, my belief that solitude is my safest place. Seeing her like this, I know she isn’t well, but she was cruel before any of this. She had one job and she failed me. Why am I here? In a second so many things become clear.
‘Bye Mum,’ I say, boldly. Feeling like I have achieved all I need to achieve from this. ‘I’m going Mum, and I’m not going to come back. My heart will always be open to you but only if yours opens to me too. If that doesn’t happen, then this is the last time you will see me, or Bonnie.’
She turns her head to the centre. Still not far enough to look at me. She stares into the garden. Not in the direction of Bonnie. Her shoulders come up slowly, then she drops them down. Telling me she doesn’t even care.
I lean in. She pulls her face away from me.
‘I didn’t ask you to come,’ she says.
‘No, you didn’t.’ I step in front of her, forcing her to look at me. ‘You failed me, and I will not do the same to Bonnie.’
I give her a couple of seconds, just in case she has anything to say. Nothing.
She blows air out of her nostrils like a bull and turns her head away from me again.
‘Bonnie, come on, it’s time to go,’ I call.
Bonnie runs over to me. ‘The cat licked my arm,’ she says, very happy about it. I take her hand. ‘Why are we going?’ she asks me.
‘Because Granny June doesn’t want us here,’ I say, not wanting her living with any false hope about who my mother could be in her life.
‘She doesn’t want us here?’ Bonnie asks, letting go of my hand and walking over to the chair. ‘That’s not very nice,’ she says to my mother, but she is also ignored. ‘My other granny is nicer than you. She gives me biscuits when I go to her house.’
My mother turns quickly to look at her. I wonder what she will say. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she hisses like a cat at Bonnie. It frightens her. I scoop up my little girl, and she pushes her sweet face into the nape of my neck. I remain still for a few moments, forcing my mother to acknowledge the affection that exists between me and my daughter.
‘Up yours, Mum,’ I say, before we leave. This time I add a finger.
Out at the front of the house, I feel an odd sense of relief. Like I closed a door, and can now keep walking down a much brighter corridor. Like the rest of my life has just started.
‘Right, how about we go get fish and chips and eat them on the beach?’ I say to Bonnie, wanting to distract her from what just happened.
‘YES,’ she screeches joyously.
As we sit at the beach, on the bench that is dedicated to my dad, Bonnie eats her fish and chips out of the paper that is resting on her lap.
‘Yummy,’ she says. So happy.
A text message from Liam comes in.
Just checking in, are you guys OK? I’ve been worried.
We’re fine. It went as expected with Mum. Let’s call it closure shall we?
I’m proud of you, Rubes.
Thanks. Hey, maybe we can have dinner Monday night, when we are back. 8pm at my house?
Sure, but isn’t that a bit late for Bonnie?
Who said anything about Bonnie being there?
I put my phone on silent and drop it back into my bag.
‘Do you want one of my chips, Mummy?’ Bonnie asks me. I tell her no. We sit for a few moments. Her eating, me staring out to sea. The smell of the vinegar makes my tummy rumble.
‘OK, maybe just one,’ I say, taking a big, fat chip that is all soggy and soft.
It really is delicious.
Lauren Pearce – Instagram post
@OfficialLP
The picture is of two little girls. Both blonde. They are in a park in pretty summer dresses. Their arms wrapped around each other, they are smiling and look full of joy.
The caption reads:
Excuse my radio silence, I’ve had a lot on my mind ;) One is how I can get through life being more my authentic self. In the past few weeks I have read so many judgements from strangers about who I am. So little of it is true. There is something I have never shared publicly, because I have been too afraid to be identified by it. I realise now that was wrong. This picture is of me and my sister Verity. Verity died when I was five. She was two years older than me and she was the best big sister in the world. Her death was an accident and it shook my family and damaged us all in ways that may never be fixed. I’ve found talking about Verity impossible for my whole life. Until now. If I don’t admit and accept that her death is a part of who I am then I will never be happy. I’ve tried to pin my identity to other things – my body, a marriage, fame. But none of that was real. What is real is that I think about her every day. I remember the way she smelt, the softness of her skin, the texture of her hair, the sound of her laugh. I remind myself so much of her that I can’t cope with the way that I look. I want to be happier within myself, and that will come by accepting her death, and not trying to hide it for fear of it hurting me even more. This is the first day of my new life. A life where I accept myself for all that I am, and I don’t deny myself my truth.
I am Lauren Pearce. I am sad and often afraid. I must ask for help. I am stronger than I think. I am in control of my life, and with the right people around me, I can get through anything. I miss my sister, I want to be happy. Oh, and I am single (wink wink). Who are you?