“That’s my external hard-drive,” she says, presenting me with a mug. “It might look like chaos to you, but it makes perfect sense to me.”
“Fair enough,” I respond, walking around the room and spotting a photo of Dan and Sophie when they were maybe six or seven years old. Dan is adorable: wide-eyed, big grin, messy hair; both of them have identical missing front teeth.
“I keep that there to annoy him,” she says, “and by the way, he seems to have been inspired by your heroics in the café the other day. Started talking about medical school!”
She sounds vaguely scandalised by this, and I raise an inquisitive eyebrow as I ask: “And that’s a bad thing?”
“No, of course not, it would be a lovely thing – but only if it’s what he really wants. And it’s not easy, is it? All those years of training, and then the long hours, and then all those rashes and strange men’s balls…”
“It’s not easy, no. But who knows? He might love it. He might be brilliant at it. He certainly stayed calm enough the other day.”
She nods, and seems to consider this, and replies: “He did, didn’t he? I just…well, I want whatever he wants. All that matters to me is that he’s happy.”
This is a very Connie thing to say, but now of course I have a much better grasp of why – how precious her children are; how she has had to be both mum and dad for years now; how the weight of that love defines her. How she, more than anyone, values the importance of making the most of every day.
We settle at a large pine dining table, after she pushes aside a scattering of magazines and school textbooks and a box full of tangled hair bobbles. Larry disappears off to sniff at the bin, obviously hopeful for scraps. I realise that he is hungry, that I have not quite got the hang of this dog mama thing, and that I have no food with me.
I explain to Connie, and she immediately goes to the fridge, emerging with a cooked chicken breast that she shreds to ribbons within seconds, plating it up for a grateful Larry to devour.
When she sits down, she looks at me over the steam of her mug, and narrows her eyes.
“He told you, didn’t he? That’s what the hug was all about?” she asks eventually. She names no names, but it is clear who and what she is talking about.
“He did,” I reply gently. “And I’m so sorry. I hope you don’t mind me knowing.”
“Lord, no! It’s not a secret – but it’s also not the kind of thing you dump on random visitors as soon as they arrive, if you know what I mean? I miss Simon every single day, and my heart breaks for my kids, not having him around, and that will probably never go away either. But despite all of it, I don’t have any regrets about coming here, and I’m still happier than I was in my previous life.”
“I hear you were a designer diva who looked a bit like Angry Barbie…”
“Ha! Not far wrong. I was living the dream in London – big job, glowing reviews, write-ups in all the papers. I’d just been offered a spot as a judge on a new reality TV show about cooking, and I had an agent, and I’d signed a contract with a publisher for a recipe book…but I was bloody miserable, love. Looking back, I wasn’t just miserable, I was depressed – my whole life was my work. I only had colleagues, not friends; I only had sex, not relationships. I’d even stopped enjoying my work – I just hated everything about myself. I took off in the middle of the night, and did a runner. You’re familiar with the concept?”
I nod, and confirm that I am indeed.
“So, when I ended up in that ditch, I was at an all-time low. I didn’t do it on purpose, but…well, I was being careless. I was literally all out of care. Then I looked up into the bright blue eyes of the man who became my toy-boy, my lover, my friend, the father of my children, and all that changed. I had almost 20 years with him, built this life with him, found a family that was the size of a whole village. So yes, it’s all very sad, and will never stop being sad – but it wasn’t the end. I don’t always feel like that, but I try very hard to be grateful for what I’ve still got.”
I think about this home, with its clutter and mess and unapologetic air of chaos, and am filled with admiration for Connie, for George, for all of them. Admiration for them, and a slight sense of shame at my own less-than-firm grip on life. We have all suffered, we have all faced challenges – no life escapes them.
“You’re very brave,” I say simply, wondering if will ever find my own courage.
“Indeed. I deserve a medal just for putting up with Dan’s death metal playlists. Look, I don’t want to put pressure on you – you have to find your own way through whatever you’re facing, and staying here might not be the right choice for you. We do tend to get a little over-enthusiastic, but I’m aware that this place isn’t magic for everyone – plenty of people have left, have wanted something different, moved on. But can I at least show you what’s on offer, so you can make a more educated decision about it all?”
I agree, and as soon as we have finished our tea, we head to the village hall. This is another building I’ve not been inside before, but it was clearly a school at some point in its history. Now the central hall that might once have been used for assemblies is, Connie tells me, where they hold their cinema nights, classes, and meetings. There are offices set up in the former classrooms, and I get a peek at a different side of Starshine Cove – the side that involves running successful businesses. I glance through the doors, and can guess which one is Connie’s – the one with the desk you can barely see beneath a mountain of books and pads and files.
At the back of the stage area she ushers me into the room that was once the surgery. It is dated but clean, with a consulting area and a curtained-off zone that I know will contain an examination couch. A full-sized anatomical skeleton model stands in one corner wearing a top hat and wonky sunglasses, which makes me laugh – clearly the last GP must have had a sense of humour.
The equipment that is left is basic – shelving units, an unopened box of latex gloves, a set of scales. I know the essential tools – the stethoscope, the blood pressure monitor, the pulse oximeter, the diabetes tests – will probably have been packed away in the doctor’s bag and taken on to the next place. Most of us are very protective about our own equipment, a habit you soon pick up after years of losing stuff. Mine is in the boot of the car, which is where I’d expected it to stay.
“Dr Randolph retired,” she explains, going over to adjust the skeleton’s shades, “moved to the Lake District to be near his family. I know this isn’t much, but whatever you needed, we’d be able to get for you…”
I nod, and stay silent as I prowl around the room. I can already imagine using it, picture the changes I’d make, the layout I’d choose. The people I could help. Even picturing it is frightening, feeling like a mental commitment I’m not sure I am ready to make. The timing is off – maybe if I’d found this place in a year’s time, I’d have been thrilled. At the moment, I’m simply not sure.
“Right,” says Connie, looking at my expression. “Come on, I’ll show you the place we thought you might live in…if you wanted to, obviously.”
Our next stop is the bakery run by the Betties. She knocks on the door of the little building next to it, and Little Betty emerges. It is not late, but she is wearing a dressing gown and pink fluffy slippers. Her face lights up when she sees us on the doorstep, and we are invited into a cosy room that is dominated by a big sofa and an enormous flatscreen TV. Big Betty is snuggled up on the couch, and pauses what looks like an action flick, a man in army fatigues frozen in place as he brandishes a machine gun.
“SEAL Team,” Big Betty says, grinning. “Our current favourite. Have you come to look at the attic?”
“Yes, if that’s okay? Don’t want to interrupt the massacre…” Connie says, gesturing at the TV.
