An Atlas of Places We Nearly Stayed

How it begins

The first place we nearly stayed was a ferry terminal.

It had three vending machines, a view of water, and a woman who knew how to leave us alone.

Our father would have complained about the coffee.

We carried him in a tin that had once held better biscuits than we were allowed on weekdays.

Clare said the sea was what he wanted.

I said there was a great deal of sea.

This was not the beginning of a good conversation.

On the map, I marked the terminal with a small blue house.

Clare asked why.

"Because we slept here."

"We waited here."

"Sometimes that's the difference only a key makes."

She looked at the tin.

The next place we nearly stayed was a borrowed kitchen.

The owner had left instructions for the boiler, the plants, the window that needed a little lift.

Nobody had written what to do with the chair our father would have chosen.

Clare sat in it.

I stood beside the sink.

For twelve minutes, we were a family in somebody else's house.

I marked it on the map.

A red roof. A crooked door.

The third place was a lay-by above the coast.

We could see the entire route we had taken to avoid saying what we wanted.

Clare opened the tin.

Then closed it.

"I don't want to leave all of him."

I had been waiting for her to say she was ready.

I had not considered that ready might have a different shape.

On the map, I drew an unfinished circle.

Not a destination.

A place where the road could turn.

We ate the last biscuits without discussing whether he would have approved.

Below us, the ferry arrived and left again.

For once, we did neither.

Clare takes the pencil and adds a road I had forgotten. It leads back to the kitchen.