aquatic specimen – was set in pride of place on the mantelpiece, giving the bulky, brown-glazed fireplace an almost altar-like status. Rosie loved getting updates about the places he saw and the people he met. She always pored over the latest shots, taking in the sun-bleached, shoulder-length hair and weathered face; the laughing eyes of her school friend staring right at her.
The windowsills and shelves were crowded with ornaments, the chairs and sofa in the sitting room were piled with hand-embroidered cushions, and nick-knacks crowded the top of the television, each holding a special memory of someone dear to them. It was a busy house, full of love, and Rosie was, as ever, grateful and happy to be a part of it.
The house had been her haven throughout her teens, a source of the warmth and cosiness that wasn’t apparent in her own home. Her dad was not the demonstrative type. He was never mean or unkind, but it was as if he parented with a sense of embarrassment, going through the motions, like he had read a book on how to be a dad but lacked the softer skills, the spontaneity. She figured that was because he carried the guilt of whatever it was he had done to drive her mum away. This and the fact that he was a Roy and not a Damien or a Brett.
He now lived on the outskirts of Exeter with his partner, Shona, who was a little odd, like him, but in a different way. They were big into ballroom dancing. Shona dragged him around the country with her feather and net creations nestling in the boot. Rosie smiled to think of him in sequins and shiny, shiny shoes.
‘We need to start afresh...’ She was eighteen, just, when he had said that and he left, making it obvious that it wasn’t ‘we’ that needed to start afresh but him. Rosie wasn’t quite ready to be abandoned, even though she said she was. She lied to make it easier for him, knowing it was going to be harder for her, but she also knew that sometimes that was what you had to do. In her experience, everyone left her eventually.
Her dad used to mention Laurel’s departure as if it was incidental, as if this might lessen the blow. Something of interest, certainly, but not the life-changing event that it was. He simply lumped it together with other days that stood out in his memory. Maybe that made it bearable for him, but for her it was almost comical. ‘Do you remember that Pete Sampras win in straight sets? 6-4, 6-2, 6-4 – a bloody walkover, fantastic! And what about the day your mum did a runner after having you? Just picked up her coat and off she trotted. Who wants a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ is what she wanted to say. ‘What did you say to her, Dad? What did you do?’ But she never found the confidence.
Life at Highthorne was very different. It was safe, predictable and warm.
She smiled at the sight of the two large white vans parked on the driveway, feeling a flicker of pride at the Tipcott name emblazoned on the sides. She may have been a Tipcott for only twelve years, but this was her family, her daughters’ heritage, and it thrilled her.
She pushed on the side door of the yard.
‘Only me!’ she called out as she walked into the large office space that backed onto the storeroom, where the walls beneath the corrugated roof were lined with racking and shelves. It was an Aladdin’s cave, holding all manner of tools, paint, plasterboard and odds and ends that her father-in-law was confident they would need one day. He was a stickler for organisation. Salvaged doors leant against the wall, three deep and in height order. Boxes of various sizes and old ice-cream containers were adorned with sticky labels giving the measurements and inventories of what lay within. Plastic drawers sat in portable frames, stacked all the way up to the ceiling and carefully labelled with descriptions like Butterfly Rawl . She was sure the contents were a lot less pretty than they sounded. A fine layer of sawdust covered the floor and the whole place smelt of
The windowsills and shelves were crowded with ornaments, the chairs and sofa in the sitting room were piled with hand-embroidered cushions, and nick-knacks crowded the top of the television, each holding a special memory of someone dear to them. It was a busy house, full of love, and Rosie was, as ever, grateful and happy to be a part of it.
The house had been her haven throughout her teens, a source of the warmth and cosiness that wasn’t apparent in her own home. Her dad was not the demonstrative type. He was never mean or unkind, but it was as if he parented with a sense of embarrassment, going through the motions, like he had read a book on how to be a dad but lacked the softer skills, the spontaneity. She figured that was because he carried the guilt of whatever it was he had done to drive her mum away. This and the fact that he was a Roy and not a Damien or a Brett.
He now lived on the outskirts of Exeter with his partner, Shona, who was a little odd, like him, but in a different way. They were big into ballroom dancing. Shona dragged him around the country with her feather and net creations nestling in the boot. Rosie smiled to think of him in sequins and shiny, shiny shoes.
‘We need to start afresh...’ She was eighteen, just, when he had said that and he left, making it obvious that it wasn’t ‘we’ that needed to start afresh but him. Rosie wasn’t quite ready to be abandoned, even though she said she was. She lied to make it easier for him, knowing it was going to be harder for her, but she also knew that sometimes that was what you had to do. In her experience, everyone left her eventually.
Her dad used to mention Laurel’s departure as if it was incidental, as if this might lessen the blow. Something of interest, certainly, but not the life-changing event that it was. He simply lumped it together with other days that stood out in his memory. Maybe that made it bearable for him, but for her it was almost comical. ‘Do you remember that Pete Sampras win in straight sets? 6-4, 6-2, 6-4 – a bloody walkover, fantastic! And what about the day your mum did a runner after having you? Just picked up her coat and off she trotted. Who wants a cup of tea?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ is what she wanted to say. ‘What did you say to her, Dad? What did you do?’ But she never found the confidence.
Life at Highthorne was very different. It was safe, predictable and warm.
She smiled at the sight of the two large white vans parked on the driveway, feeling a flicker of pride at the Tipcott name emblazoned on the sides. She may have been a Tipcott for only twelve years, but this was her family, her daughters’ heritage, and it thrilled her.
She pushed on the side door of the yard.
‘Only me!’ she called out as she walked into the large office space that backed onto the storeroom, where the walls beneath the corrugated roof were lined with racking and shelves. It was an Aladdin’s cave, holding all manner of tools, paint, plasterboard and odds and ends that her father-in-law was confident they would need one day. He was a stickler for organisation. Salvaged doors leant against the wall, three deep and in height order. Boxes of various sizes and old ice-cream containers were adorned with sticky labels giving the measurements and inventories of what lay within. Plastic drawers sat in portable frames, stacked all the way up to the ceiling and carefully labelled with descriptions like Butterfly Rawl . She was sure the contents were a lot less pretty than they sounded. A fine layer of sawdust covered the floor and the whole place smelt of
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