Her breath was hot under the weight of the bedding as she wondered again why it was her that had been the one to make Ginny Havelock a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. It was a question she’d asked herself on the plane. What had kept nagging at her as the hours between meals ticked away in economy class was Ginny’s connection with Wight—an island that was now just a ferry ride away. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on her door. It was followed by, ‘Yoo-hoo, Dizzy Izzy. Are you awake?’
‘No. Go away Mum; I’m still asleep.’ Isabel heard a snuffling, and a whimper as the door creaked open. ‘Don’t let that bloody dog near me; I’m not in the mood for fending him off.’
‘Don’t shout Isabel You know he doesn’t like it. Come on, out you go Prince Charles,’ Babs cooed.
She heard her mum step into the room, and even under her covers could smell the floral notes of her favourite perfume, Yves Saint Laurent’s Paris. Isabel’s Dad, Gary or Gaz as he was called more often than not bought his wife a bottle each birthday. With the knowledge her supply would be topped up annually, she sprayed each morning liberally. A split–second later a dragging, scuffling commotion sounded signalling, Babs was dragging her beloved corgi from the room. The door clicked shut, and a mournful howling erupted from the hallway.
‘He’s just happy to have you home,’ Babs said.
By the proximity of her voice, Isabel knew she was standing beside the bed. At least, Prince Charles had been banished. Life was bad enough without that bloody corgi making advances. From the time he was a pup he’d decided the one true love of his life, was Isabel.
‘Come on now Izzy. Out from under there. I’ve got to head off in a minute, but I wanted to see my girl before I go.’ There was a gentle tug on the duvet. ‘I’ve bought you a cup of tea. I bet you’ve missed good old English tea. I made it extra strong and put sugar in it; there’s a plate of marmalade toast too. Dad’s already left for work, but he’ll skip footie practice tonight to be home for a proper family tea. Your favourite, pie, proper mushy peas, and mash.’
Isabel emerged from the duvet like a crumpled butterfly from its cocoon and pulled herself up to a sitting position. She’d been astounded when her dad, a self-declared couch potato and borderline obsessive Saints fan, had taken up football once more after a forty-year hiatus.
‘You’ll have to do something about that hair if you want to find yourself a job young lady.’ Babs eyed her daughter’s hair with a frown and Isabel knew she was envisaging her with the softly waving brown locks of the Duchess of Cambridge. ‘That colour reminds me of flipping mushy peas. It’s the worst I’ve seen you with yet. Whatever possessed you to dye your hair green?’
‘I like it. It’s different.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being normal, you know, Isabel.’
‘How’s Dad getting on with his late-life crisis?’ Distraction was the best course of action, Isabel decided, and personally, she loved mushy peas.
It worked. Bab’s sigh was as weighty as Isabel’s duvet as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her Asda issue black pants. ‘Honestly Izzy. That man of mine—your father. He’s doing my head in and all. Truly, as much as I love him, he comes home every Saturday afternoon moaning and groaning. He’s got a perpetual limp because he’s pulled his ruddy groin muscle or some other body part he’d forgotten he had. I tell you what though I’m not going to rub him down with that smelly wintergreen anti-inflammatory stuff anymore. I’ve had it. I’m officially on strike. He can do it himself from now on, and I hope he forgets to wash his hands before he piddles.’
‘Mum!’ Isabel snorted.
‘Well, I mean come on, he does nothing physical for nearly fifteen years aside from lifting a few boxes at work and then decides to go and run around a muddy field, kicking a ball with a bunch of other old farts who all think they’re teenagers. It wouldn’t have crossed his mind to go and do Latin American dance classes with his wife if he felt the sudden urge to get off the settee now, would it?’
‘Ah Mum, you know he’s got two left feet when it comes to dancing, and it could be worse. He could’ve taken up with a nubile twenty-something or gone out and put a Porsche on credit.’
‘He’d never get out of a Porsche. Too low to the ground and the twenty-something wouldn’t stick around for long, not with his recurring groin injury,’ Babs muttered.
‘Too much information.’ Isabel reached over and took a sip from the mug. The tea was strong and sweet, just how she liked it.
Her mum’s eyes narrowed as they focussed on the patch of skin on the inside of Isabel’s elbow. ‘You’re eczema’s playing up I see. I hope you haven’t been scratching at it. You know it only makes it worse.’
‘I know, and I haven’t,’ Isabel lied.
‘I have a pot of your cream still in the bathroom.’ She got up and resembling the Green Lantern in her uniform whirled out
