Who knows where the time goes?by Jenny Palmer, a glass of port

 

 Who knows where the time goes?

I’m watching an episode of ‘Michael Portillo in Portugal.’ It was a good series - one of his best. He’s covered the architecture, history, food, and culture of the country and has been to all the major cities: Porto, Aveiro, Sintra. Now he’s in Ericeira and is talking about the day the King went into exile after the Republican revolution in 1910. It suddenly dawns on me. I recognize that place, It’s the town where I spent a beach holiday with my boyfriend some fifty-five years ago; the place where I almost drowned.

On the Sunday morning after the Michael Portillo programme, I am lying in bed listening to Broadcasting House. As a feelgood item, they interview someone about his life as a surfer. He mentions a holiday in Ericeira which he took before it became a world surfing reserve. I don’t immediately recognize his voice, but the timing and the details fit. Could it be him? If so, it’s an amazing coincidence to have been thinking about the holiday the night before and to hear his voice on the radio the following day.

When these things happen, I put them down to synchronicity rather than fate. Like when I’m writing a story, I’ll be in the middle of typing a sentence and the very word that I’m typing will come up on the radio at exactly that time. It seems to happen when your consciousness is attuned to everything that is happening around you, when you’re in tune with yourself and the world. So why is that holiday in Ericeira coming back into my consciousness, I wonder?

There was one way to find out if we were talking about the same holiday. A quick search on Google could provide the answer. My ex had indeed written an article about a surfing holiday in Portugal in the 70s, when his surfboard had gone missing, and I was named as the girlfriend. I read it through a couple of times. It was him, but I barely recognised his description of me.

For a start, I was not a fluent French speaker. I could read the language well enough but struggled to make myself understood. German had been my foreign language. It was true I had long hair. Didn’t everybody? But I would hardly have called myself a hippie. I’d spent the previous six months working as a clerk in an insurance office in Gant’s Hill and was keen to find a more suitable career that fitted my qualifications. I was intent on dropping in, not dropping out. And I hardly every wore denim or used drugs, apart from the odd joint.

As for the holiday, I had no recollection of hitching to Portugal. It wasn’t that I was against hitching. The year before I had hitchhiked back from Greece on my own after an aborted holiday but how would you do that with a surfboard? Nor did I have any memory of spending the night in a park in Madrid and getting hauled off to a police station. And I was quite sure we were never spat at or had stones thrown at us. It would have put me off travelling for life. I put it down to his vivid imagination.

My own memories of the holiday were limited. It was in 1971. We were on the point of moving from London to Canterbury. He was the surfer. I, on the other hand, was a novice swimmer. We’d travelled by train to Madrid and then to Lisbon. The surfboard had gone missing somewhere in transit. Somehow or other we’d ended up in Ericeira, a small fishing port with a seaside community. Without a surfboard, there was nothing much to do but go for walks or lounge around on the beach. And I wasn’t a fan of beach holidays.

What I remembered most about the holiday was the ferocity of the Atlantic Ocean. I’d just learnt to swim and was reluctant to go into the water. I’d only ever been in the sea in Cornwall. There, the waves lapped right up onto the beach, and you could walk in slowly. Here, there was a ledge at the water’s edge and then a sudden drop into deep water. And there was an undercurrent I discovered, once I’d plunged in.

My boyfriend was back on the beach guarding our possessions. There were loads of kids swimming up and down parallel to the shore. I swam around for a while. It was when it came to getting out that my problems began. I just couldn’t get a foothold onto the ledge. The more I tried, the worse it got. The waves kept dragging me back into the ocean. I tried to hold back the panic. There was no point in shouting out for help. I couldn’t see any sign of a lifeguard.  Eventually I managed to scramble back onto dry land, staggered up the beach and collapsed onto my towel. I don’t even know if I said anything. I was too embarrassed. But I didn’t go into the sea again, at least not on that holiday. Years later, I heard tell of someone who had died on the coast of Portugal because of the Atlantic riptide. I realized then I’d had a lucky escape.

We broke up several months after the holiday and went our separate ways. He went back to his hometown in Cornwall, and I moved to Ramsgate to start my new career, teaching English to foreign students. That led on to me living and working abroad, which was something I had always wanted to do.

After reading his article, I toyed with the idea of contacting my ex. I wanted to let him know that my memories of the holiday were completely different to his. But it was such a long time ago. What would be the point? When we’d been together, we were different people. It had been a crucial time in both our lives when we’d been finding our feet. There was no point in raking it all up. The holiday had been a turning point. We were already on different paths. Perhaps we always had been.

 abou tht author

 Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of CaféLit book each year.

Saturay Sample: WHo WE Choose to be by Gillian Silerthorn, mineral water

 

Foreword

 

 

Who We Choose to Be started with writing down my thoughts, recording memories and reflecting on getting older, and this soon became cathartic. Being honest privately on paper it dawned on me how often we are afraid to be truthful.

 

My journey has led me to the overwhelming realisation that my happiness, growth, and peace can only come from a place of sobriety. But as we all ultimately must go through the same – be it love or loss, and deciding who we choose to be from those lessons we learn – I'm hoping you can relate, and that it may help in some small way.

 

 

 

 

Love

 

 

 

You Can’t Love Them All

Every day for a year now you've wondered if you could have done things differently and every morning you stare out at the ocean.

            You wake and get yourself a cup of tea. Climbing back into bed, you know anything is possible; you have no responsibilities. She died a year ago. You loved her and wanted her to be happy. Propped up against a pile of pillows and cushions, you go over and over the past, thinking of the people who have passed through your life. You won't let another day slip by.

 

The water in the fountain was stagnant, not a flower in sight in the once beautiful garden. You remember how your father would come in shaking from the hours working on the beds and lawn. "Let's get this old place into shape," you'd say to your mother. You'd clean, tidy, fill skips full of junk, buy cupboards of food, racks of wine, party hats, then it could be like before when everyone came, singing into the night, waking with wine stains on your teeth.

            Back then there was planning. You don't even have to go out now if you don't want to; if you need something you can order it on the internet and get it delivered. Who would have thought your life could change so dramatically from working, organising, caring for parents – to nothing. But it's what you wanted, you believe you’re happy, you’ll just think it all through one more time.
            The day you moved in you had never been so joyful. A new beginning. It would be one long holiday. You'd pop back to Hampshire and visit her regularly, now she has full-time care in her own home. That's what you wanted, that's what she wanted; she must be allowed to stay in her own home. Kevin would wake and disturb your thoughts. "What shall we do today?" he'd ask. You'd want to scream, "Just be!" but instead you'd tell him you'd decide later. He continues, “We could surf? Meant to be great little clean waves today. Or fancy getting some breakfast in Marazion? We could go on the motorbikes." You'd go downstairs to get another tea; this could be a good day, but you didn't move here to be under constant pressure to fill your days with something, always something.

            You know there were no arguments last night or you would have that feeling of dread, then horror and disbelief as the memories slowly came back, then the planning, justifying your words. How did he remember it? How do you remember it? Those mornings all you could think was, Oh God, why aren't you still asleep, blissfully unaware? knowing the day would be ruined by the drunken words from the night before.

            Apart from Kevin, there is only one other from the past you think about; you know you and he wouldn't have been happy forever but the moment you saw each other in the seedy night club, you wanted to be together, you believed no one could keep you apart. A few hours snatched here and there, swimming in Frensham Ponds, checking into cheap B&Bs in the afternoon, telling the landlady that you would be leaving before she awoke as you had an early train to catch. When you didn't have the money or luck to find a B&B it was back against the wall, under the bridge, bare feet gripping the soil like the girls in the movies. He didn't care that your breasts had stretch marks and blue veins and your nipples were brown and wide from the pregnancy; he thought you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He didn't care you were carrying another man's baby, that wasn't a problem to him, he told you the baby was both of yours.

            He left you. You didn't leave him. You would have stayed that way forever, but a few hours when your mother babysat wasn't enough. The day he phoned to tell you he was married your heart broke, but you told your mother that you felt sorry for him, sad for him, he must be unhappy, and it was your fault as you had never loved him. This is what your mum wanted to hear. She would never believe you, her daughter, could love a man like him. It was best to leave her with her delusions. You were just friends, 'a good friend', as your mum would say to your dad.

            "Peter, my dear, that boy has kept her sane. He's helped her through a tough time. Being pregnant and single isn't easy at seventeen. She was already three months gone when she met him. I'm afraid she's thrown her life away."

 

When you first had suspicions and took a test you could see the answer much too clearly, but if you jiggle the pregnancy test around you get a different result; the perfect blue line becomes hazy. "Look Frankie, I’m not pregnant, let's go out, it's okay." After all, the first reading must be wrong, as a month ago the family GP had explained, "Don't worry, Edna, a lot of girls like your Gill miss periods for a couple of months."

            Another month or two later, when you awoke in your parents’ house to agonising back pain, you let yourself believe it was a kidney infection. Listening in to the phone call on the spare phone to the doctor you heard, “Bring her down, Edna, and stop worrying. We'll see her right away."

            The locum doctor examined you. "Could you be pregnant, Gill?" It was your mother who answered, "Oh no, Doctor, that's impossible." The room started to spin. You remember tapping the doctor's arm to get her attention, nodding yes, but hoping somehow your mother didn't have to know, as she was sitting in the adjoining room with the door ajar.

            The doctor left both rooms and there was silence. She came back with a male doctor. "Gill, I want a second opinion," she said. The male doctor was rubbing his hands together asking again if you could be pregnant. You didn't answer. He looked at you with annoyance and got on with the internal. “Have we not been careful? I'd say you're five months pregnant. You must have known, you must have felt it kick. I'd say five and a half months." Lying there humiliated all you said was, "You know best, you're the expert, now may I put my knickers back on?"

            You started crying, yesterday's mascara blackening your cheeks. The doctor turned to your mother. "There's no guarantee that we can terminate the pregnancy; it's probably too late. She's been very irresponsible. It's probably best to get it adopted.” He went on as though you were invisible. "It could be dangerous. I'd say she's at least five months. I don't think a surgeon would undertake—" You cut him off, crying, screaming, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up! It's my baby, it's got nothing to do with you, you stupid old fossil. I've had enough of listening to you! You've told us three fucking times that I'm at least five months pregnant. You’re fucking senile!"

            You will never forget the look on their faces. The doctor sat glaring at you while your mother said, "Gill! Gill, apologise! I'm so sorry, Doctor, she's never said the F word before, it's got to be the shock."

            Getting up to leave the room, you composed yourself. You grew up on the spot that day, informing Doctor that you would be in touch if you needed to, also casually enquiring as to why your back was aching, reminding him that's why you came in and if you wanted his advice or opinions on anything else you would ask. Ha! That told him. You put him in his place!

            He could see you were scared. His face softened and he asked if you would sit back down. “We'll take your blood pressure, do some blood tests, let's check everything's alright. You've missed some important checks but you're young so hopefully everything will be alright." Looking and listening to him you found him strangely attractive. He continued, “I know how you feel right now, but you need to go home, have a good think, chat with your parents. We can get the baby adopted. Babies change lives."

            Fuck him! Now he's belittling you again! You glanced over to your mother and wanted to take away her pain. She was in shock, ashamed of you. A million thoughts were going round your mind. You thought back to the time she took you to see the family GP; it seemed a lifetime ago, but it was just a year. She had read some letters from a boyfriend, something mothers should never do, and it had resulted in a visit to the surgery to be told you were over sexed. Wow, what was oversexed? “Wait till I tell Frankie.”

            You had only had a few dozen boyfriends and your mother tricked you into confessing that you had slept with two already, saying you may as well tell her because she knew anyway.

            The doctor asked, "Do the boys come back once you've slept with them?”

            It was another trick question, but you took a guess at the correct answer. “Yes.”

            “Yes, yes of course they do, they like girls like you," he replied. 

            Oh no, shit, you'd got it wrong, so you said, "Well, actually, one didn't."

            "No, no, because he got what he wanted," he said.

            You told him that your dad would say he was judging people by his own appallingly low standards. "Is that a photo of your wife or girlfriend on your desk, Doctor?" you said, trying to look directly into his eyes, with a slight grin.

            You knew it. He had had an affair. You went to school with his daughter and she let everyone know the gossip whether they were interested or not. So, you supposed he liked girls like you too. You could tell that you’d riled him. He probably knew you knew but he wouldn't want your mother to know. You wondered if he had a girlfriend and a wife right now and you decided that it would be better to be his girlfriend. Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of your name. “Gill, Gill, you’re miles away. Go home and have a think and make an appointment to see one of the nurses.”

            Outside in the fresh air you could finally breathe again. Your mum took charge; she was in control. "I'll tell your father. By the way, I'm glad you’re keeping it. I wouldn't let you kill it." You thought, It's not your choice, but didn't say so. It didn't matter. No one was going to suck out your baby. You couldn't work out why she was less mad at you being pregnant than when she'd discovered you were having sex. She leant across in the car and squeezed your hand like when you were seven and she'd taken you out of the local school and said everything would be alright, you could go to another school where you would be happy.

            You were so happy at five years old, top of the class, loved the abacus, loved winning all the sprint races, loved the mini bottles of milk at 11 o’clock with their silver shiny tops that you could rub your nail across the foil until it was dull and flattened. But you started dropping behind. You were told to put your hands up if you didn't understand, but there's only so many times you can do that without embarrassment so in the end it was easier to pretend you understood. Mrs Barnett hated you. You heard her saying, "No-one should be vegetarian, what a snob, who does her mother think she is, she's the only one with a packed lunch." So, I was to have school dinners, but I always seemed to be caught with something of my own in my pocket.

            My baby can be vegetarian, things have moved on, he won't be bullied, I’ll call him Dominic, yes it will be a baby boy, I’m sure of it. No one will know what to do with a baby boy in my family, no one can take over. I'll be the only one to know. I read in a leaflet that you have to pop the winky down when you put the nappy on or his top will get wet.

 

Your mother's been dead a year now, your father seven. You wonder if they know how you feel. Your beautiful baby boy is thirty-five, married, and you’re still thinking, What if. You think about them daily, but as your parents, not the icons they became; you remember them as people should be remembered, for their goodness and their faults. Everything they did, said, touched will disappear in fifty years or so. No one would have met them. It will be like they never existed. The house will have been knocked down, been rebuilt maybe, the old wooden summer house rotted away, the greenhouse glass green and cracked or fallen out.

            At your mum's funeral you remember your sister saying that Mum and Dad had sailed off on a ship out of sight but were coming into sight on a new shore. Today as you look out at the ocean you wonder if that's true, if you’ll see them again, if your mum knows you were angry with her, that you should have stood up to her, that you loved her more than anyone had ever loved her, that you wanted her pain to stop – but you knew it would never stop until she joined him.

            Sitting with Emma one year on, she is now thirty but still looks like a perfect beautiful child. Her emotions had been raw around her grandmother's death but looking at her now, you say, "I've been thinking of Nan, when you were talking about your feelings for a boyfriend, the time she had a go at you, remember? She said, ‘You can't love them all, Emma.’ I want you to understand she was just sad and afraid; she wanted to protect you. Can you forgive her?”

            It would be good for you, but you were never sure you forgave her yourself. Emma stared back puzzled. Your words rushed. “I want… I want everything to be sorted. I want to make sense of it all, clear my head. I feel like the line in the David Bowie song, 'My brain’s like a warehouse, I've got no room to spare, I have to cram so many things to store everything in there'.”

Emma just smiled.

            You loved it when the children came back to stay. If Emma stayed over, suddenly the house would be full of books you didn’t understand, clothes, magazines and strange vegan snacks; everywhere you went she had left some little thing to say she had been there. Angela Carter novels by the toilet, candle wax and an end of a joss stick on the side of the bath tub, pink stains in the tub where she'd dyed a streak through her hair – you threw the non-scratch scourer away so Kevin wouldn't be able to rub away the pink and you could hold onto her a little longer.

            The year Emma was born you knew your lives were complete, perfect. With Dominic and Emma, you always felt happy. You’ve always wanted to be just like Emma. Sometimes you would watch and copy her. When Kevin was at work, Dominic, Emma and you would sometimes go out in the school holidays and you'd tell them to call you 'Gill’ not 'Mum' so everyone thought you were friends. That was years ago.

 

It had never been just Kevin and you; there were no years before the children. When you met him, he was not much more than a boy, just nineteen and you twenty. You were slim then; he told you he could put his hands around your waist. You didn't really know each other. You suppose the drinking helped then.

            Then later in your little granite cottage by the sea, a whole day could pass and you wouldn't see anyone. You’d think of Mum and Dad, Dom and Emma, and their partners. “Maybe we should pack up the drink for a bit,” you'd said. You didn't want past events repeated.

            When the children left, Kevin had his work, his sport, swimming at the pool, running in the park, swimming in the sea, running on the track, cycling on the road, cycling off the road, but when Friday night came, as long as you could pretend you felt well from Thursday night's drinking, you could be together. It would always start well – you'd tell him about your day, making up how far you had run having dipped your trainers in muddy water earlier. You'd even taken the motorbike out. You knew he'd like that; he'd be proud of you. You'd have got wine, beer, hummus and dipping chips ready, put on some music, you'd dance around and laugh, but as the night went on you knew the time he'd give you was running out and the fun would soon stop. He'd be tired and need to go to bed, ready for his long weekend run or bike ride so you'd suggest one more drink but when he declined your emotions got the better of you. You wanted to remind him of the boys that would love to be in his place, but you weren’t sure there would be that many anymore, so you'd tell him you'd follow him to bed shortly, that way you could have a couple more drinks and not think.

            The next day he'd be out for hours training. By the time he returned you could suggest a meal and drinks out at the local and it would all be repeated. With your first drink you would both plan the next day's cross-country run followed by toasted sandwiches and tea in the South Downs Cafe. You knew the evening's drinking could spoil tomorrow's run, but you'd never been a weakling; you would run through any hangover so as not to give up a night out. You'd get cross when he ran ahead and back to you so you could catch up, patronising you, telling you how you were doing well and how he wouldn't run much faster if he were on his own. You knew you could be as good as him, if not better, if you put the effort in.

            You always felt your best after those runs, a feeling of achievement. You didn't have a care in the world, everything was perfect, you were happy again. You'd wonder would you bother drinking again, if you could feel that good with nature? It felt like being a child, free. Like sitting by the garden pond in your own world, making pies out of water, mud and shingle, collecting bugs, beetles and worms, or swinging from the tyre attached with thick rope to the old oak tree. Mum always told you off for keeping worms in your pockets. She had told you not to as they ended up in the twin tub on wash day. She would always have to check your clothes otherwise she'd be forever picking disintegrated grey tissue off coloured jumpers. You'd made the worms a house from soil and leaves in your small satchel but one had burrowed under the fine cotton binding that held the case together. The cotton left little dents all through its long body; it got swollen and trapped. You were only trying to care for them, protect them from the birds – trying to rescue and protect. You let the wasps crawl up your finger onto your hand and freed them before they got caught in the marmalade and jam jar traps that Dad set. You couldn't understand how everyone stood by and watched as they slowly drowned in the sweet nectar. Sometimes it's best to let things be and not interfere. As you get older you realise you can't control and change things.

 

After your runs you would go to the pub. The locals would get used to the supposedly fit couple who only came in for a hearty meal and a couple of drinks, making comments like, "Here they are, I couldn't run one hundred yards," or, "My wife can't even run a bath without needing a sit down, can you my dear," as the wife laughed too loudly, hurt.

            After your meal you knew Kevin would have bread and butter pudding with custard so it would give you the opportunity to have an Irish coffee. You were hoping a couple of friends known fondly as ‘the local piss artists’ would come in just as you were leaving and persuade you to stay. That way you could be together for longer; the fun wouldn't stop and then Kevin wouldn't get you home and start to plan next week's sports schedule or put the washing in.

            You worked hard all week running a business, being polite to customers and a pushover to staff but that's the way you wanted it; you liked to keep the peace in those days, not rock the boat. Life was hard enough without extra conflict. Trying to keep the peace overflowed into just about every relationship you had until you drank, but then somehow, you'd need to take the words back. Maybe it started when you didn't stand up to your mum, but she was living in fear, fear of not keeping her family safe, fear that she wouldn't cope if anything happened to one of you, so the only answer was to control you. That first drink was like watching a waterfall of flames, mesmerising, hypnotic.

 

There were so many good times with Kevin and the kids. On your first foreign holiday you’d bought Kevin a JVC video recorder and he recorded goofy waterskiing, and Tigger and Piglet signed Emma’s autograph book, and Donald Duck and the Ghostbusters signed Dominic’s. That evening over one too many wines, when the kids were in bed, you dramatically announced to Kevin that you could never get rid of ghosts.

            You all loved the wildlife park. You loved the pink flamingos, thought of Rod Stewart and wished you were the girl in his song, and you relaxed in the peace of Clearwater after Disneyland.

            The holiday in Lapland; snowmobiles and reindeer and husky dogs; it should have been perfect, but that year you felt like a sack of potatoes beside Kevin. He'd made a flippant joke about a small blonde, so you dyed your hair jet black to see his reaction, to test his love. You didn't trust him but the more you questioned him over the small things and the more you pushed for answers to unanswered issues the more you thought he was hiding something.

            Then in Tunisia you were so happy again, you couldn't stop laughing when a camel kissed you and you could taste his gross saliva all day.

 

Around the house you still have remnants of family life reminding you of what you once had. Strolling down memory lane, you remember saying to Kevin that the best day of your life was when you passed your motorbike test. You lied. The best day was when you married him.

You had your first argument in the new house after drinking. You don't think Kevin knew what you were really like; no one who met you after the age of fifteen could know, none of the boys with their crazy ideas. You remember when Kevin’s dad met you, he made a flippant comment about you not being innocent, but you were. You were far from worldly.

            When you first saw Kevin, you knew you would marry him. That was a long time ago. You wonder if others knew about the drinking. It’s like when people pretend they don't smoke, but you can smell it everywhere, on their breath, in every fold of their skin.

            Sometimes it helps to think about the future; it makes you feel better even though it may not be what you promised yourself.

            You know Kevin too well; you are like two halves of the same person. When he walks away his blank stare doesn’t fool you at all. He remembers everything, wishes you had all the good and the bad times back. He remembers all the love you had and lost.

            You raced impulsively ahead into adulthood and lost the natural beauty of being young. What’s been is now immaterial.

 find you copy here

Abou the Author, 

This inspiring story also shows us how alcohol dependency can affect anyone and what starts as confidence booster and fun with friends can quickly move to a coping mechanism and a secret solitary daily habit. It's an honest account of brave vulnerability.

 

Who we choose to be is a genuine, relatable courageous journey as Gillian's recognition of being alcohol dependent leads to a decision to embrace sobriety and live life to the full.

Gillian makes us question the path we are on. As we all ultimately must go through the same be love or loss and deciding who we choose to be from those lessons we learn.