The Road To Recovery

A long journey is undertaken in this poignant short story by Julie Goodall.

We all go through tough times – and we all come out the other side . . .

I’M not sure I can even get out.” Iris opened the motorhome door, swivelled round and stretched out her legs. “It’s feels like we’ve driven from one end of the earth to the other.” Barry laughed.

“Imagine being in

Canada! Scotland to Cornwall would be like a hop and a skip to the nearest city.”

Iris was grateful for the light-heartedness. The purpose of their trip was anything but.

“I’m glad we decided to stay overnight in Birmingham,” she added, easing herself off the seat.

“You were right. Doing that in one go might have finished us off.”

Barry came round to her side of the motorhome and gave her a hand stepping down.

Her legs felt a bit wobbly as Barry hadn’t stopped for a break since leaving the Travelodge that morning.

They’d been warned about the August holiday traffic in the south-west and decided it was best to plough on.

Now, at ten in the morning, they had already seen the cars multiplying on the A30.

The sun felt warm on her face as she looked up at the wispy clouds dissipating in the Cornish sky.

“What a beautiful day.”

“Yes.” Barry took her hand for a moment, understanding what she meant by those four words.

It wasn’t just the weather. After 45 years of marriage, there was little either had to explain.

There was plenty of space on the road to park.

The roads had been winding and narrow for the vehicle, and Iris had been relieved finally to arrive at the ex-family-quarters patch close to RAF St Mawgan.

The man they were coming to see lived in one of the houses that the

MOD had sold off.

He had chosen one that looked over fields towards the ocean and they stood for a moment, taking it in.

“You must be Iris and Barry.”

Iris started, surprised that Peter had come out to greet them.

She hadn’t yet prepared herself, having envisaged herself and Barry standing on the doorstep, screwing their courage to the sticking-place, as Shakespeare would have said.

Peter would hold out his hand politely, shaking each of theirs as they smiled, then said how nice it was finally to meet.

Instead, Iris turned to find herself enveloped in a bear hug.

She’d seen photos of Peter, but nothing could have prepared her for the size of him, standing at six feet five with muscles not unlike Arnie.

She breathed in the smell of his washing powder, her nose against his chest.

“It’s good of you to come all this way,” he said, setting her free then embracing Barry just as warmly.

His accent was certainly Cornish and transported

Iris immediately to various TV series she’d seen over the years.

“Brideshead Revisited” had been one of her favourites, along with “Jamaica Inn” by Daphne du Maurier.

Then there was “Rebecca”, “Doc Martin” and, of course, “Poldark”. She’d been reliving them all as they’d travelled past Dartmoor and Bodmin

Moor, along the main artery of the county.

Barry had opened his window as they’d come off the main road, letting the salty sea air revitalise them.

“Come in,” Peter insisted, gently steering Iris towards the house.

It was a semi-detached house, decorated in front with a well-tended garden and a white fence.

Inside was cooler than out, but Peter took them into a small conservatory.

The garden was beautifully landscaped, with a patio complete with fire pit, pizza oven and glass table with chairs. Two blue-flowered loungers sat on the grass.

“Can I get you a drink?” Peter didn’t wait for an answer. “Hot or cold? Tea? Coffee?”

Peter stood in the doorway that led back to the kitchen. He paused for a moment, then smiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m nervous. It’s not every day . . .”

“It isn’t.” Iris smiled in return. “Personally, I’d love some lemonade with ice.” “Barry?”

“Coffee, please. Milk, no sugar.”

“Do you need a hand?” Iris moved towards him, but Peter held up a hand.

“That’s kind, but certainly not. You’re my guests. I won’t be a moment. The kettle has already boiled.”

An image of him waiting impatiently flashed through Iris’s mind.

She wondered how many times he had flicked the kettle switch to let it reboil.

Iris and Barry exchanged glances as the room fell silent. Peter had filled it with his presence and now she almost counted the

seconds until he came back.

The conservatory doors were wide open and the beautiful sound of a blackbird floated from the foot of the garden, where a high bird table provided a drink and, she guessed, a scattering of seeds.

On the fence between this and next door’s garden, a ginger cat eyed the blackbird, and Iris felt reassured that the table was too far to reach with even the longest of leaps. “Here you go.”

Peter lowered a tray on to an occasional table and handed Iris a cold glass.

Ice cubes bobbed in the top and she thanked him. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was.

Barry accepted his coffee with thanks and the small talk began.

They discussed the trip down, how the number of cars on the roads had multiplied over the years.

They talked about Scotland and Cornwall and how they differed in their own striking ways.

The rolling hills, towering mountains and glistening lochs of the north compared to the tiny corner of England, its bleak moors and golden beaches also attracting tourists from far and wide.

Anything, in fact, to avoid the reason they were now in Peter’s home, moving from the conservatory to the garden.

The movement seemed to give Peter his nerve and, at last, the subject was exposed beneath the warm summer sun for them all to examine.

Peter perched on his chair and drew a deep breath.

“I have so many things I want to say to you, but it’s hard to put my feelings into words.”

He looked at them both for a moment, the silence penetrated only by birds in the cherry tree near the fence.

“They’re too big. Too momentous.”

Iris nodded and glanced at Barry, who sat as still as stone.

“You don’t have to say anything, Peter. That’s not why we came. We just wanted to meet you.”

Her voice faded and she wondered why, exactly, they had come.

Was it to meet him, or to get a sense of their son, having lost him? Was that possible, or were they being melodramatic?

Peter was a grown man with a personality that was completely his own.

“No. Iris, I do. That’s why I found you. I want you to understand what you’ve given me.

“It’s not something to say over the phone. I was an alcoholic, you see. I am an alcoholic,” he corrected himself.

Iris could barely prevent her jaw from dropping. It was not what she’d expected to hear.

She and Barry had envisaged a tumour, or perhaps hepatitis. They hadn’t wanted to consider the thought of cirrhosis caused by alcohol abuse.

She didn’t dare look at Barry, knowing he’d be thinking of his own father and the pain he had caused his children through the years.

Peter looked at the squares of the patio and sighed.

“It’s been hard to admit that over the years, but never as hard as it is to say it now. It’s no excuse, but life as a kid wasn’t easy.

“I was in and out of care and finally given a longterm foster family.

“To be honest, I’d rather not talk about my mother. I have no idea who my father is.”

Barry blew out a breath whilst Iris held hers. None of them moved until Barry finally spoke.

“It’s an illness, Peter. A disease. It’s not a case of needing excuses.”

The younger man visibly relaxed and pushed himself back in his seat.

“When I was eighteen, I was out of the system and left to my own devices. I met Harriet, my ex-wife, when we were both twentytwo.

“It was all fine for a while, and we had two beautiful daughters, Mel and Sally.

“But things eventually caught up with me. My early childhood.

“The memories ate away at me and I started to drink and couldn’t stop.

“Harriet finally left me and took the girls, which made me drink even more.

“I was beyond help because I couldn’t admit that I had a problem.”

The birds continued to sing and the cat slunk past, close to the cherry tree.

“Finally a doctor told me my prognosis. That’s when it finally hit home.”

Peter looked every inch his forty-eight years as he drew his greying fringe back from his face.

“I came out of his surgery and made myself a promise. I went to AA. It was tough, but I’ve not touched alcohol since.

“And then, this second chance. I was so close to not being here at all.”

Iris couldn’t push the images from her mind. The lorry skidding on ice.

Their son Michael’s car, unable to avoid it. The decision they’d had to make.

Yet it hadn’t been hard, the decision. He hadn’t been on the donor list, but they knew what he would have wanted.

As a psychiatric counsellor, he’d lived his life helping others. After death, he’d have wanted to give everything he could.

“In nine years I haven’t touched a drop. I married my sponsor’s sister and had to be given a new one. A new sponsor, that is!”

He laughed nervously and they joined in, grateful to veer away from the seriousness for a moment.

Peter rose, bent down between them and took each of their hands.

“There are no words for my gratitude. Your son is literally part of me – he’s given me my future.

“In his honour, I intend to make the most of the rest of my life.” He laughed. “I’ll do my best, anyway.”

Instinctively, Iris rose and embraced him.

“Michael would be proud of what you’ve achieved.” Tears welled as she kissed him on the cheek.

She could no longer hold her son, but here, at least, was a part of him, still thriving, still keeping someone alive.

“We’re staying near Porthcothan for the week. It would be lovely if we could meet up again and get to know each other a little better.”

She glanced at Barry, who nodded in response.

“Perhaps, if you’ve time,

“Michael would be so proud of what you’ve achieved”

you could show us around Cornwall? Share your local knowledge?”

“There’s nothing I’d like more.” Peter drew back and Iris witnessed a smile that could light up the darkest room.

She had a feeling she could really get used to it. It warmed her in a way that she hadn’t been warmed for seven long years.

Barry’s hand was on Peter’s arm and Iris sensed they were thinking of Michael, who had brought them together.

How thankful she was that they had screwed their courage to that stickingplace and made the journey.

J.R.R. Tolkien had said that courage was found in unlikely places, and he was right. The meeting had taken a certain kind of bravery for them all.

It had been hard to accept Peter’s invitation at first, but now Iris knew they had made the right choice.

Michael was gone, yet seeing Peter had brought him close again.

“We’ll meet tomorrow,” Peter suggested. “You could meet Mary, my wife.”

Iris looked forward to getting to know Peter, meeting his wife and maybe the rest of the family.

Perhaps the second chance he spoke about would be for them all.

The End.