The Summer Trip

1

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The telephone call, the one that started it all, happened on a Monday.

I wonder if I would have answered it had I known what was to follow. If, instead of a standard ring, it had announced shrilly, ‘Ava Fox, your life is about to change in the most extraordinary way’? Unlikely.

As it was, the phone merely elicited the same, low-throated tinkle it always did, and given that, save for the occasional cold caller, the only person who ever rang me on the landline was my mother, I concluded begrudgingly that I should pick up, and did so with a determinedly cheery, ‘Hello’.

‘Ava, is that you?’

Why do mothers always do this? I swallowed down the urge to make a snarky reply and settled for a ‘yes’ instead.

‘I never know if it’s you or Rosie these days,’ she said, punctuating her statement with a weary little sigh, as if my daughter’s voice sounding similar to my own was the most tiresome of inconveniences.

‘For Rosie to answer this phone would mean she had put down her mobile for more than three consecutive seconds,’ I told her. ‘Which, I’m afraid to say, is a near-impossibility at the moment.’

My mother clucked with either affection or disapproval – I never have been able to differentiate – and got straight to her point.

‘I spoke to Mattie earlier today.’

‘And?’ I waited a moment, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘How is she?’

Mattie being my sister, Matilda. Sweet, dependable, and infuriatingly close to perfect – I tried to avoid thinking about her wonderful life if I could help it.

‘Fed up,’ was my mother’s unexpected reply.

That was unexpected. Kind, patient and predictable Mattie did not do ‘fed up’.

‘What has she got to be fed up about?’ I retorted, wincing inwardly at how bitter I sounded but barrelling on regardless. ‘Is the sunshine in Greece too hot for her? The sea too blue?’

My mother cleared her throat.

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, as I am sure you’re well aware.’

It took a lot of effort on my part not to respond. Instead, I said, ‘Every time I’ve seen Mattie, she’s seemed very happy with her lot. She is Mrs Positivity.’

‘Mattie is so like your father in that way,’ my mother agreed. ‘Affable to her core. Unlike us,’ she added as an afterthought.

I gripped the receiver a fraction tighter, glancing up the stairs in time to see the long, jogging-bottoms-clad legs of my daughter as she descended, one hand on the banister and the other clasped around her phone. Taking in my expression, she mouthed the word ‘Granny’, to which I nodded, and then stifled a smile as she hastily beat a retreat. It is not that Rosie dislikes her maternal grandmother, more that she humours my slightly odd relationship with her. Occasionally, she will say things such as, ‘God, I can’t imagine having a mum I couldn’t talk to about stuff,’ and I will feel my chest swell with a blend of pride and self-pity.

‘Anyway,’ my mother went on, ‘I think what Mattie really needs is a break. She works too hard – always has done. So, with that in mind, I suggested that she and Niko stay at your house this summer.’

‘Here?’

‘No, Ava, in your garden shed. Of course, there.’

‘Now who’s being sarcastic?’ I muttered, to which my mother made a tutting sound.

‘We don’t have any space,’ I continued. ‘Rosie will never agree to share a room, and even if she did, I would honestly prefer not to bunk up for weeks on end. We’d all be on top of each other – it would be a disaster. Why can’t they stay with you?’

‘Oh, your father and I are lending the house to a friend of a friend while we’re in Thailand – did I not tell you?’

I am on the verge of repeating the word ‘Thailand’ incredulously, when it dawns on me what this means.

‘You’re going to visit Ophelia?’

My youngest sibling departed England a little over a year ago to take up a job offer in Australia, only she never made it past her stopover, deciding instead that a better use of her time would be to become a so-called influencer. Which is classic Ophelia. I had not heard from her since, at least not directly, but I was able to keep tabs on her through the endless Instagram posts, invariably featuring a beach, a bikini, some sort of green juice, and a lot of guff about ‘living for the moment’. Ophelia always had made her own rules, stepped outside the boundaries of what was expected and followed whatever path led her to the most fun. ‘Good for her,’ I would always remark. Untruthfully.

‘You know how much I miss her,’ said my mother.

‘That’s no surprise, given that she’s your favourite.’

‘Well, yes.’ My mother did not miss a beat. ‘That’s because she is the most like me, I suppose – a free spirit.’

The fact that I had pulled the pin out of this particular truth grenade myself did little to lessen the pain it caused.

From somewhere upstairs, I heard taps being turned on. Rosie was running a bath; she had one almost every night, tablet propped up on the loo seat so she could watch one of her beloved history documentaries.

It was not fair of my mother to insist that Mattie and her husband be crammed into our house all summer. It would disrupt my daughter’s routine, convince her to spend less time at home and then drive her into the arms of one of the hapless-looking boys who occasionally loitered in the street outside, waiting to walk her to college.

Of course, that was not the only reason I didn’t want them here.

‘Before you say no again,’ my mother pre-empted, ‘let me tell you the other part of my plan.’

I sighed.

‘Which is?’

‘The genius thing is, you won’t have to worry about a lack of space,’ she continued. ‘Because while Mattie and Niko will be in your house, you and Rosie will be in theirs.’

That shut me up.

‘Ava?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘What do you think? Wouldn’t it be nice to see Corfu again? And a holiday in Greece would be such a treat for Rosie. You’re forever telling me how hard she’s worked, studying for her A levels as well as doing all that volunteering – this could be her reward.’

I closed my eyes as I contemplated.

‘Mattie thinks it’s a brilliant idea,’ she went on. ‘They had a pool put in last summer and you can see all the way across Kalami Bay from their patio.’

I did not need to be reminded of how blissful my sister’s Greek island life was. Why Mattie would agree to swap that for a poky two-bedroomed terrace in Brighton, where it would doubtless rain with gloomy determination all through the summer, I could not fathom. But I also knew that a refusal to cooperate would make me unpopular, and my mother was bound to get word of her plan to Rosie, who I knew would be thrilled by the prospect of a holiday abroad. The school term would be over soon, so I could not feasibly use my own work as an excuse given that I’d been planning to take a break over the summer anyway. And then there was the small matter that I did miss Corfu.

Every day.

Still.

‘And you’re absolutely sure Mattie is on board with this swap?’ I checked. ‘She is genuinely prepared to lend me and Rosie the house?’

My mother coughed.

‘Yes. I said so, didn’t I?’

Her indignation silenced me once again, and I chewed on my retort; swallowed it down with several deep breaths.

‘So, I’ll tell your sister it’s all arranged, shall I?’ my mother pressed.

For a tantalising second, I allowed myself to picture Corfu, to envisage the myriad hues of the sea, feel the warmth of the sunshine, hear the ambient hum of insects, taste the salty feta, and smell the sharp scent of lemons. It was all there, waiting for me. All I had to do was say yes.

And yet…

‘You can tell her,’ I said firmly, ‘that I will think about it.’