Page 88 of Somewhere Only We Know

So, my itinerary … I make zero apologies for keeping it loose for Australia. I think it’s the right vibe for down under. I haven’t even decided how long I’ll stay. If I fall in love, maybe I’ll stay longer. If I think it’s time to move on, I will. Having a plan and being like Mum is great but occasionally I’m going to go with my gut and see where it takes me. Perhaps I’ll get sick of cold beers and beaches and bikinis. Or maybe I’ll love it so much I’ll want to stay forever. Who knows. If I stayed longer, would Harry stay with me, I wonder?

Imagine if Mum and my dad had stayed together and spent their lives by the beach like he said he was going to do. Where would I be now? I’ll never know. But I do know that Mum has a certain smile when she talks about that summer when she met my dad. Like she’s lit up from inside. I wish she smiled like that all the time. Maybe that should be my mission, to find a place on the planet which lights me up like a firefly too.

Mum’s Gap Year

My darling daughter,

I realised something this morning. A good/bad thing, depending on what sort of mood I’m in.

For the first time in my life there’s no one I need to check on, no one reliant on me for money, or support or well-being. There’s no reason to keep my phone on during the night, in case you were to end up stranded somewhere and don’t know how to get home (remember that train strike in France?), or woke up with food poisoning (the last time you ever ate tinned ravioli). Even for those closest to me, like Auntie Kat, I would only be – at most – the second person they’d call in an emergency.

After you died, I’d only been able to see the negatives in this life of no responsibility. But there are positives, I can see that now. Do I still wish you were here to ring me in the night in a panic? Yes, one hundred per cent. But you never will again, and every so often, I can appreciate the peace which comes from having no one to please except myself. I can be entirely selfish if I want to be without taking anyone else into consideration. Last night I lay in the bath in my hotel for an hour and listened to music, completely relaxed because I knew no one was going to knock on the door and tell me to hurry up because they needed the loo. This morning I watched the sun come up behind the Opera House, taking photo after photo to make sure I captured the most glorious colours. Later, I sat and listened to a young girl with a guitar and a hauntingly beautiful voice busking near Circular Quay, and her singing brought me to tears. Then I took my Kindle and a blanket from my room and lay in the Botanic Gardens for a couple of hours being blissfully lazy.

The big things are still scary and sad. I’ll never get to experience the exquisite sweetness of holding your newborn child – my grandchild – for the first time, or cry tears of joy at your wedding. I’ve sneaked down on Christmas morning for the last time to take a bite out of the mince pie and carrot you would still religiously set out for Santa and Rudolph. However, doing your gap-year trip has shown me that there’s still so much joy to be found in everyday moments.

I’ve laughed with the Nepalese children as elephants squirted them with water while bathing in the river; I’ve seen the snow-spangled tops of the Himalayas; and I’ve made love in a forest lit solely by fireflies. (I’d never have told you that in person, by the way, but I did and it was amazing and I have zero regrets.)

My heart still aches for you, but I’ve noticed that my grief isn’t linear – I don’t wake up expecting that today will be less painful than yesterday. But at least now I don’t wake up with dread at having to face another day without you.

Love from

Your healing, tentatively happy, with a boosted ego Mum xxx

P.S. Thank you for putting this trip together, you’re incredible xxx

Chapter 31

Australia

‘Mums taking a gap year could be the next big thing, Maggie. You’re a trendsetter.’

Harry held his phone across the table to show me, scrolling through the comments on the picture he put up of me in the Blue Mountains.

I was touched reading some of the lovely words of encouragement from Harry’s followers. ‘Gosh, I see what you mean. Look at that one: “Maggie has inspired me to do a solo trip for the first time. Why should my kids have the monopoly on seeing the world?” My little gap year does seem to have captured people’s imagination, doesn’t it?’

‘An inspiration,’ Harry said. ‘It’s true, you are, Maggie. Brontë would be so proud of her mum.’

‘She’d be proud of you too, of how well you’re dealing with life without her.’ We smiled at each other, reflecting on how far we’d both already come. ‘Mind you, it took a major life trauma for me to take time out from work. Hopefully all these people commenting won’t wait as long. At least I’ve got the bug now. Once this trip is over, I’ll be planning more.’

I told him that Tiff had been in touch, asking if I could go back to Nepal in November to help Meena set up some new adult reading classes. I’d said I would be delighted.

‘You should ask some of these mums if they’d like to volunteer,’ Harry said. ‘There are more than five thousand posts using the Mum’s Gap Year hashtag already. Most of them are connected with you.’

‘I’ve been swamped with direct messages on Instagram,’ I admitted, stunned by the numbers. ‘But I’ve been too busy with the grape harvest to reply.’

He laughed. ‘You’re going to need a social media manager now that you’re an influencer.’

‘Stop it.’ I grinned. ‘Can you imagine?’

Harry and I had met at Watson’s Bay, a short ferry ride from Circular Quay. It had been his suggestion because he was staying with a friend that night who’d got a job at the hotel beside the quay. After a breezy walk around the lighthouse, a fit of immature giggling at a canoodling couple on the nudist beach and a frantic wriggle under a gigantic spider’s web crossing our path, we’d arrived back at the quay. Now it was late afternoon and with plates of fish and chips on order, we were sitting at a waterside table at Doyles restaurant, with Sydney’s iconic skyline gracing the horizon.

‘You look great, by the way,’ said Harry, pouring a Coke Zero into a glass. ‘Relaxed and happy. You look like Brontë, actually.’

‘That’s kind of you to say.’ I was touched, although I’d always thought that she resembled her father more than me. But perhaps the eye sees what it wants to see.

‘The Hunter Valley was good then?’

‘Loved it,’ I confirmed, taking a sip of my sparkling water. ‘I could have stayed longer. Jono asked me to, but I want to see where Brontë was planning to go next.’