Postcards Written In A Garden

As she savours the liberation of her first holiday alone, Pauline spares a thought for the people she has left behind.

‘You will send a postcard, won’t you?’ Pauline paused, looking out over the hotel garden, where the palm trees waved in a light breeze and the parakeets squeaked at each other intermittently, like old shoes having an argument.

‘You will send a postcard, won’t you?’ her father had said. ‘I don’t mean an email. Or one of those What’s Up things they go on about. I want a proper postcard written in proper pen.’

And now, here she was, on holiday, on her own for the first time ever at the age of 58. The garden was lush; the parakeets invisible in the foliage but noisy. From the nearby swimming pool came the occasional delicate splash – the hotel was mostly retired folk – and from the bar behind her, the indistinct but pleasing tinkle of a piano.

The young waiter with the sweet, dim smile brought her cortado in a small glass. On the saucer beside it, there was a tiny sugared biscuit in the shape of a star. This made her feel happy.

She sighed, popped the biscuit into her mouth, took a sip of coffee. It was strong and hot.

If she sent a postcard to Dad, that meant she had to do one to Mum as well – and probably to Andrew, her recently ex-husband. She ought to do one to Janet and Thomas, her neighbours. They were checking on the lizard. Since her son Jamie went to university, the lizard had hardly moved. What happened when lizards died? How could you tell? She wasn’t going to take its pulse.

And this, her first holiday alone, booked as her reward for nearly two decades of child rearing: a four-star hotel in a posh bit of Tenerife, a garden, a heated pool ringed by holidaymakers in various stages of middle age, and a sweet, dim boy to bring coffee and a biscuit while she sat in the poolside bar and thought about not writing postcards.

The cortado was finished disappointingly quickly. She raised a hand to order another as the boy went past. He ignored her. She sighed again and pulled the small stack of postcards towards her.

Perhaps it was the coffee, or the sun – she was later to wonder. Perhaps that was why it came over her, something so uncharacteristic: a desire to tell the truth.

Dear Dad, the hotel is lovely. Thank you for lending me the money. If you hadn’t, I would have been stuck in some cheap place that would have made me feel sad and single but instead I am here. There are parakeets. It’s a shame that you use money to control me in the same way you did with Mum. Whether you refuse to give it when asked, or offer it suddenly without being asked, the result is always the same. You stay in control. ‘I like surprising people,’ you often say. But you can’t surprise someone without disappointing them first. Think about that, Dad. The fish is good here. They do it baked in salt. You’d like it. Love, Pauline.

Next up was her mother.

Dear Mum, the hotel is lovely. I’m not the only woman here on my own and the journey was fine. The plane didn’t explode. The cab from the airport was waiting for me right on time and didn’t crash. I haven’t been robbed yet, nor murdered in my bed. I have yet to plunge from the hotel balcony. I suppose I could be poisoned by the seafood spaghetti I am planning on eating tonight – and of course there is the cab ride back to the airport, and another flight. But for now, I am safe, and thinking of taking a dip in the hotel pool, then possibly having a glass of wine and a bowl of peanuts. I will do my best not to drown, become an alcoholic or go into anaphylactic shock. So Mum, for once in your life, just for five minutes maybe, please stop worrying. Love you Mum, Pauline.

Andrew. He was easy.

Dear Andrew. I’m glad we are divorced. You were always self-absorbed and a bit boring. Love, Pauline.

Janet and Thomas. They were a little more complicated.

Dear Janet and Thomas. Thank you for checking on the lizard. I am hoping it’s dead because then I will be able to say to Jamie it died while I was on holiday. I believe American presidents call it plausible deniability. I will bring back a present from duty free that will almost certainly involve alcohol and a fruit flavouring in the same bottle. We’ll have a glass and call it interesting and when I’ve gone you’ll tip the rest of it down the sink. Please don’t look slightly panic-stricken in the way you do when you see me on your doorstep. It was a mistake to ask Thomas to look at my fuse box, I know that now, but it didn’t mean I had designs on him, Janet. It just meant I wanted to be able to turn the lights on. Your husband has a beer belly and hairs on the backs of his fingers. His virtue is completely safe with me. See you soon, love Pauline.

And last but not least.

Dear Jamie, my darling son, you are the love of my life. Having you made many years of an unhappy marriage all worthwhile. I wouldn’t have missed a moment of it. Enjoy being an adult, my beautiful boy, always believe in yourself and don’t worry if you forget my birthday. I have every intention of forgetting it too from now on. I am so proud of you. I love you to bits, Mum xxx PS I’m sorry but the lizard is dead.

When she had finished the postcards, she spread them out in front of her on the plastic table with its fake marbling and looked at them, wondering which, if any, she would post. The sweet dim boy was at her elbow. ‘Another cortado, por favor,’ she said, although all she really wanted was another tiny sugared biscuit. He gave her a beautiful, knowing smile. She smiled in return.