A Place to Call Home

There’s always something odd about returning to the familiar, thought Pauline. Something that makes it look slightly out of focus, makes it feel a bit disjointed, makes the sounds echo a little more. She wondered how long you had to be away for that to apply. Obviously just a day trip wouldn’t have the effect, nor probably a weekend. But she had been away for three weeks now, and the truth was, the Tiverton Lodge Hotel had started to become the new familiar. She had become one of those who kindly told newcomers where things were, and nodded knowingly when Harriet the receptionist rolled her eyes ever so slightly at the mention of the manager, who was a good sort but had his ways. 

     The truth was, Pauline had never much liked coming home from holiday. When she was a child, she’d often thrown quite a tantrum about it. Even later on in life it gave her a depressed heavy feeling. Yes, even if the holiday hadn’t been that wonderful, though there was something that dragged you down especially at the thought that a holiday had been let you down. Still, at some point on the journey home it became slightly rose-tinted.

     She had to admit herself that there was rarely anything deep or profound or lasting about it. Usually, within a couple of days she was perfectly happy (well, as near to it as anyone was ever likely to get) back home. Her husband Robert was always very good about things like stopping the paper delivery and checking the fridge before their departure, so she knew she had no need to worry about coming home to a barrier of old news or the smell of rancid milk that had the capacity for permeating plastic. Everything, looked at practically, would be fine. Well, of course you could never be 100% sure about that. She had once read an anecdote (one of those that are supposed to be funny but strike a slightly too familiar note) about someone who rang home in their absence to check that their home was still there, and though she had never actually done it, she could understand those who did. 

     Anyway, this time she knew that Robert would have been seeing to everything at 20, Willow Way, perfectly well in her absence. Though they weren’t the kind of couple who lived in each others’ pockets, it had still seemed wrong to take a holiday without him. But he had persuaded her that she needed a break – she still hadn’t properly got over that bad bout of flu, and had what he called a “stressed look” about her. Women were “supposed” to be offended by being told they looked tired or stressed, but she knew he meant well, and anyway, it was true. She had been stressed, she admitted. She wished she had never volunteered for that committee to save the local Sixth Form, even though it was a good cause and they had been successful. She wasn’t made for committees.

     “I can’t take a holiday myself at the moment, though goodness knows I’ll probably need one before too long, the way things are at work,” he said, but in that breezy way that indicated he loved it when things were “happening” and thrived on it. She knew he loved his work as an environmental health officer, and was the enemy of vermin and flytippers across the county. “But why don’t you take the chance? You know how you always loved your childhood holidays in Suffolk – well, there’s this wonderful spa hotel not far up the coast from Lowestoft – Tiverton Lodge, it’s called. You have a proper break there, love.”

     And she had. Well, the first couple of days she had felt a bit uneasy, but then she had realised that though it was an upmarket spa hotel (the kind that didn’t need to tell you it was upmarket) everyone was very friendly and not at all snobbish, and though the spa treatments were free, nobody minded if you weren’t interested in them. At first she thought she wasn’t, and she couldn’t imagine being covered in mud would do anyone much good, physically or mentally, and hot stones sounded more like torture, but discovered that aromatherapy and even (though she would never like the term!) wellness walks could be decidedly pleasurable. It was one of those hotels that managed to combine the best of old-fashioned and modern. It was cosy, but not with a cluttered musty cosiness, and clean and light, but not with a cleanness and lightness that were sterile and soulless. Her room was lovely, and as a keen reader, she was especially pleased it had both a decent light (which could be dimmed if you so chose) and a comfortable armchair, though often she read on the balcony, looking out across the grounds. She was determined not to spend all her time at the Hotel, nice as it was, and took drives out into the Suffolk countryside, admiring the broad soft spectrums of the clouds and the light that had always drawn artists to the county. She visited quaint market towns and strolled along seaside piers, and sat in little churches where that selfsame light was filtered through stained glass, dappling the aisle. 

     “Why don’t you stay another week?” Robert asked her.

     But tempted as she was, she decided not to. She knew the dangers. Leaving the haven of Tiverton Lodge would be hard enough as it was, and given another week – well, it was time to go back to reality. She had looked at her reflection in the mirror with some satisfaction that morning. She didn’t look stressed any more!

     Still, it was good to be home? Wasn’t it? Or at any rate, it soon would be. There was no point to comparing the rather insipid light with those glorious clouds and skies. And as for yearning for a balcony, well, her mother, not unkindly, had told her that was silly when she was ten years old, and it was just as silly now. 

     She was surprised to see that the day’s post had been picked up, and was on the little table in the hallway, the one with the landline phone they hardly ever used. She knew it must be that day’s, as it bore the previous day’s postmark, legible for once. Robert started work early, and generally speaking, the post came late. Still, it was hardly a matter of any importance, especially as it only seemed to be an invitation to get a new credit card. She wondered in passing why he hadn’t binned it immediately, given his opinion of such things, then she remembered one of his funny little sayings, “It isn’t even worth throwing in the bin!” Yes, she thought, when you’d been away from someone, you find yourself wanting to hear their little idiosyncratic sayings instead of getting a bit exasperated at them. Maybe that was no bad test of if you truly loved someone!

     The lounge smelt fresh – not with that slightly stale smell that starts to invade the cleanest home if it’s left absent for any period of time. There was a bunch of fresh flowers in the crystal glass vase that Robert’s sister had given them for their crystal anniversary – how long ago that seemed now! Pauline knew that unlike some materials, glass didn’t develop a patina or “improve” with age, but if it survived, it still seemed to take on a particular kind of sparkle. Freesias, she thought. That makes a nice change! They tended to be rather conventional in their choice of flowers, often, depending on the season, picking some roses or tulips from their own garden, though Robert had a weakness for irises, and Pauline liked bluebells. But freesias – that was something new. She couldn’t quite make her mind up whether she liked the scent or not. Still, the aromatherapy had made her a lot more broad-minded on the subject of scents. She had a lovely little pack of complimentary products, and some more she had bought – some as presents, others for herself! Oh, a bath with them right now would feel so good! She thought longingly of the wave pool at Tiverton Lodge. Perhaps she should have had that extra week there. 

     Well, I can’t go back now, she decided. Best I unpack. There was something symbolic about unpacking. But she’d sit down and have a drink first. One of the herbal teas she’d brought back. She smiled as she saw a jar of instant coffee on the kitchen counter. Robert was, he freely admitted it himself, a coffee snob, who had gently teased her about her willingness to be content with Nescafe. But she felt a little twinge. Had he been so tired that he couldn’t be bothered putting the coffee percolator on? While she was being spoilt at Tiverton Lodge?   There was water in the kettle, and it boiled more quickly than it should have done. But it only dawned on her after a few minutes. She shook her head, a little puzzled. But she decided that the explanation of that, like the explanation of the post was glaringly obvious. For some reason Robert had either left later than usual or made a trip home. It was hardly rocket science, not in Miss Marple territory! 

     It was true the lemon grass tea didn’t seem to taste as good as it had at Tiverton Lodge, but then herbal tea wasn’t made to be served in mugs, was it? She must get some of those glass cups. They suited the delicate taste far more, and you could swirl it round in them, turn it into a real experience. 

     Putting her mug down on the coffee table to let her tea cool a little, she noticed the newspaper and frowned a little. She and Robert were both classic “wishy washy liberals”, but this paper was decidedly right-leaning! One of her pet hates in fact, and not just on account of its politics. Still, one of the lessons that had been oh so gently imparted on the Wellness Walks was that you should always open your mind to different opinions and though of course you should stick to your principles, there was always a place for flexibility, or at least for seeing the others’ point of view. Fair enough. But she still wished Robert, without even the benefit of a Wellness Walk, hadn’t gone quite so far. Of course, she wouldn’t make an issue of it. Or maybe as a joke. 

     It dawned on her that somehow “home” (she involuntarily put inverted commas around it) was both too big and too small after Tiverton Lodge. It was far bigger than her room had been, that comfortable room with the balcony. But it was far smaller than the hotel itself. Come on, she thought. Drink your tea, have your bath, and you’ll soon feel fine, and by tomorrow this weird feeling will have gone altogether. It’s not as if it’s the first time you’ve felt it. 

     Such consoling thoughts were just beginning (she told herself) to take some effect, when she heard the footsteps upstairs. They were neither the footsteps of someone trying not to be heard nor those of someone determined to be heard. Now if she had heard voices, Pauline would, at least temporarily, not panicked. Anyone, every someone careful like Robert could accidentally leave a radio or a TV on. Maybe he had one on for company, she would have thought, maybe he was lonely without me! That would have been a feeling that made her feel both guilty and glad. 

     But at the moment she wasn’t interested in such hypotheses. Someone was in the house, and it obviously wasn’t Robert. That somebody, to judge by their footsteps, felt quite at home and unfazed. And they were coming downstairs. It was a woman. Younger than Pauline, and managing, somehow, to be heavily made-up and fresh-faced at the same time. She was wearing burgundy crop trousers and a pale pink sweatshirt. Though she didn’t make a big deal of it, Pauline had never liked pink. She was certainly not your stereotype of a burglar. There was something half-familiar about her, but Pauline wondered if she would have been able to place her, even if she were thinking more clearly. She saved her the bother. “Hello, Pauline. I’m Isabel.” It was the voice that cinched it, even though she hadn’t heard her voice before. She had heard Robert complain about her voice, “Like a five year old trying to sound husky, and boy does it get on my nerves.” She was a colleague of his. “Robert talked about changing the locks,” she said, “But I said no, that’s not CIVILISED. You have to have time to collect your things. Pauline, you must have known! He’s been doing his best, but the way you over-complicate everything, the way you’re – pardon my French – so damned worthy and do-gooding. How you got yourself into a wool over the sixth form when you don’t even have any kids and never will, and half the students there would much prefer to go to the technical college in,” (she named the nearest big town) “anyway. Yes, let’s be CIVILISED about this. Neither of us is a bad person. But I’m right for Robert and you’re not, not any longer. He was put out when you didn’t want to stay another week at that hotel place, I said, best get it over and done with!”

     It was curious how very calm Pauline felt. And not because she wanted to be CIVILISED. It would have been almost a relief to feel an overpowering urge to scratch Isabel’s eyes out. She had not unpacked. One of her holdalls was still in the car. She had only taken out one packet of teabags, and they could stay. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said. It was not a request, it was a statement. It was already another woman’s bathroom. Though they were, presumably, in the cupboard, she felt the presence of Isabel’s cosmetics. She saw that the eco-friendly air-fresheners she had favoured had been replaced by an unpretentious aerosol can. 

     When she had relieved herself (and though she told herself it was absurd, she hated doing that with a stranger in the house. Or no, she wouldn’t have minded with a stranger in the house) she took her holdall out to the car. Isabel held the door for her. She did not hold out her hand for her keys, though Pauline suspected it wasn’t being CIVILISED, she would see to it that the locks were changed now. “I told you it’s fine to pick up your bits and pieces,” she said. Pauline ignored her. They did not bid each other farewell.

     Still with that surreal sense of calmness, she started the engine. Her mother had always told her they should get the house in joint names, but she had never wanted to take an issue of it. And after all, Robert was the major earner. I ought to bitterly regret the fact that we didn’t get round to it, she thought. 

     She drove carefully, and knew exactly where she was going. And what she was going to do. She had enough money. Well, at least for a week, and she wasn’t going to look beyond that. She had a sudden thought of rewinding a film. An hour and a half later she was pulling her car into the grounds of Tiverton Lodge. She hadn’t been away long enough for it to seem unfamiliar, of course! She smiled benevolently at some new guests, presumably they’d come that morning, and went up to the reception desk, glad to see that Harriet, her favourite eye-roller, was on duty. “Pauline!” she exclaimed.

     “You know what? I like it so much here that I’m going to treat myself to another week here!”

     Pauline waited for the script she had worked on in her mind in the car to play out. But there was a look of consternation on Harriet’s face. “Pauline, I’m so sorry! We have a block booking, and there aren’t any rooms free!”

     “It doesn’t have to be my old one,” she said, realising just how desperate her voice sounded.

     “But we don’t have ANY rooms free! Oh dear, this is such an awkward situation – listen, I know the receptionist at Marlow House, and it’s only about half an hour’s drive away. I’m pretty sure they do have room. And it’s a lovely hotel.  Let me make a phone call for you.”

     Pauline heard herself muttering that it would be fine. As she stumbled out of the reception area, lugging the bags that she had brought in without a second thought, the bitter acid gush of betrayal washed over her, and she wept. But it was not Robert’s betrayal that hurt the most and that she felt she would never cope with. Somehow she knew that Harriet would be rolling her eyes, and performing that act she had so admired of keeping her thoughts to herself and yet letting everyone know what they were. She surmised those thoughts might be along the lines of the old cliché that you’d think some people didn’t have a home to go to.

     And now it was true.