On our journey south from Scotland, we gain twelve degrees of temperature. It’s a fluke of the timing, I suppose, that Fife should have a close encounter with winter just before the whole country slips into a second heat wave but still, it makes for a dramatic change. We take one last trip into St Andrews and walk two miles along the firm wide beach of ‘Chariots of Fire’ fame, dressed in fleeces and coats against the sharp cold wind. For a moment we stop and watch teenagers hurtling along the sand in land yachts, whooping and laughing with that mixture of bravado and fear that tells of excitement not entirely under control. Then, on the following day, we pack up, clean up and lock up. It’s getting to be a habit.
We break our journey twice on the way to Berkshire, firstly in Clarencefield for a second night with James and Lynda and then in Malvern where we catch up with our oldest friends on this side of the globe. When we pull into the drive at James’ and Lynda’s house, we have the lovely surprise of finding their daughter Sarah, heavily pregnant, visiting with her husband and step-daughter. She’s glowing. It’s our first meeting with Gareth and Elysia and it’s a pleasure to spend time with this developing young family. At breakfast, seven year old Elysia is full of chat, bright and articulate, and A and I are hugely entertained.
But as we drive down the M5 and for the first time since we left Devon, A and I are feeling gloomy about our travel plans. This is the day the Passport Office should be phoning to give me the good news that my passports are on their way. They don’t. My lengthy call (spent mostly on hold) only results in the uninspiring news that my situation has been noted, I may have my passports in time to travel but then again I might not; no guarantees. We have no leverage, no power and HMPO has no accountability. Nor have they any interest in our cancellation penalty fees.
In an odd way, it’s fitting that our next stop is Mathon church, where we visit the grave of Adrian’s mother. She was an inveterate traveller, untiringly positive and completely intolerant of gloominess. We give ourselves a shake, decorate her grave and, on remembering her smile, her energy and enthusiasm, feel sad but also strangely buoyed up. So much so that A announces that he does feel, after all, that he’d like to visit the flattened site on the western slopes of the Malvern Hills that once formed the foundation of Two Shires, the red brick, white gabled family house.
Every one of Pam’s grandchildren has a story about this house; about the little brass figures on the landing window sill, the long row of descending wooden elephants in the drawing room, the treats hiding under the lid of the Lazy Susan dish at Christmas. In the garden there’d be tea on the croquet lawn, slides down the bank, carrots to pull up and raspberries to pick. But time brings change and the only recognisable feature still here is the house name by the gate.
On seeing the bulldozed earth and the enormous bauhaus building that’s currently under construction, we stare at it like aliens who’ve arrived in a foreign galaxy. The contrast is too stark even for sadness. We take some photos, climb back in the car and head back over the hills. Thankfully our friends’ house, redecorated and rearranged though it is, is still reassuringly familiar, sitting sedately in its garden addressing the hills across the common just as it did thirty five years ago when all our children were tots.
I take a run around the familiar landmarks of Malvern: the college where our children were at school, the Wintergardens where years ago, we fed the ducks, the leisure centre where I taught step aerobics, when such a thing was fashionable. My plan is to call by Manor Park Tennis Club and watch the end of Penny’s match. I rush down the stairs, hot, sweaty and red in the face and see the competitors standing to the side of the court. ‘You missed it!’ she calls and I feel like a heel.
Back at Peachfield House, Adrian and Geoff have put the world to rights, Penny and I shower and then Jillie arrives in a whirl of exclamations and hugs. She’s the oldest of my friends in the UK and the foundation of the small group of women, now scattered, who met and soon became a fixture. The fizz is opened and we all fall into the easy chat and laughter of long term friends. As A and I say our good-byes the next morning, I feel so many conflicting emotions that I can hardly speak. This is the town where our UK life began, where our children grew up, where our oldest friends all lived and I feel I’m saying good-bye forever. I don’t quite understand it but it’s definitely there. Perhaps my gut knows something I don’t.