Farewell Trip

“That was the first time in my life I was happy…the happiest I ever would be. And I never told you.”

There’s always one moment in life that passes without you saying what you really wanted — needed — to. For Ruth that day came after the death of her beloved husband Trip.

She and Trip had fitted together perfectly, right from the very start, and their marriage was filled with love, happiness and adventure. Determined to leave nothing unspoken, Trip has left nine letters, taking Ruth on one last adventure - scattering his ashes in ten locations that have meaning for them both.

The letters take Ruth on a journey across the world, but also back through her marriage, and the life she thought they had shared.

They had been so happy. Hadn’t they?

At once heart-breaking and uplifting…

Farewell Trip is a must read. Prepare to smile through your tears!

Farewell Trip

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013

Copyright © Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam 2013

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472074256

Version date: 2018-07-23

Karin Dixon & Gary Twynam

They’ve been married for years, just not to each other.

She lives in Bristol. He lives in Shropshire.

She has three children. He has none.

She’s a bit chick. He’s a bit lit.

They both like Neil Diamond.

You can see our journey towards publication and onwards at:

http://garytwynamandkarindixon.blogspot.co.uk/

catch Gary’s musings on life at:

http://www.garytwynam.com/

or follow us on twitter

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Endpages

About the Publisher

A huge thanks to all those friends who provided valuable feedback and support along the way - including Jo and Mike Berry, Catherine Barnes, Constance Fleuriot, Ally Kessler, Hazel Grian, Christabel Smith and Gracie Dixon. Not forgetting Karin’s wonderful children, Ellie, Izzy and Malin.

Simon True and Jenny Philips, for reasons known only to themselves, each made it their personal mission to see the book published and without them we would still be touting it around agents and publishers, with little hope. We wish all unpublished authors out there such devoted and determined friends.

Finally, many thanks to the lovely people at HQ Digital, especially Lucy Gilmour.

To Mark

and

To Anne

CHAPTER ONE

Lampeter, January 2010

I should wash you off me. It wasn’t as easy to scatter your ashes as I’d imagined. There was spillage. And I wish I’d considered the wind direction. At the very least I should wash my hands before I eat this panini, which is what a cheese and onion toastie is called in Conti’s these days, apparently.

On the plus side, the coffee hasn’t gone upmarket. No shiny chrome espresso machine here. It’s even in the same glass mug. It tastes like University.

How many mornings did I come here for one of these?

Practically every day for three years, and always on a Sunday; nothing else was open then, especially not the pubs. If I could be bothered I’d work out how many of these coffees I drank.

You’d do it, Trip, if you were here, wouldn’t you? In your head; and tell me how much it cost too.

I can’t believe Mr Conti is still here. He seemed close to retirement in those days, yet here he is thirty years on, looking exactly the same. I swear he used to wear that shirt when we were here.

I shouldn’t have expected him to recognise me. After all, how many students have passed through his doors since then? You’d have worked that out, too. But, well, I thought I’d stood out when I was here … obviously not.

So, here I am in Lampeter, just like you asked me. Doing as I’m told, for once. At least no one’s around to see it and take advantage. Sat here with what’s left of your ashes, and your box of letters.

It’s just a box; a flat, plain box. You could at least have found a nice box, Trip, for your final present: nine plain envelopes. The top one says, Letter 1: Lampeter. Then eight more envelopes, and pages and pages of timetables, itineraries, and a larger brown envelope saying, Do not open until instructed.

I can’t believe you did this. When did you do this, and why? Why on earth would you? I know we spoke about this but I never took it seriously. How come I never knew?

Drive to Lampeter. Stay in The Falcondale. Walk to the top of Magic Mushroom Mountain and open the first letter. I can’t believe it’s a month since I first read that instruction. We often discussed what should happen to us after our deaths, didn’t we? It’s never bothered me much — just tip me in a cardboard box and bury me under some trees, I won’t be around to see it.

But you, you were always quite specific.

‘I want my ashes scattered in places that have meant something to me, staging posts; lots of places, actually. You’re going to have to go round the world, scattering me bit by bit.’

‘A limb here, an eye there, that’s very touching. How do you imagine me doing this, pray? And where shall I put your willy?’

‘Steady on. Let’s see. How about Penistone or Cockfosters? Ooh, no, I know: Cockermouth. Perfect. Pretty please; if you loved me you would.’

‘Go on then. I’ll do it, and I’ll bring a date.’

Of course, I’ve looked at all the envelopes so I know the itinerary: Lampeter, Siena, Cornwall, Paris, Sydney, New York, Shropshire, Bristol, Reigate.

Some of it half appeals. Some of it is obvious. Only some of it, though; and some of it worries me: Shropshire. Why there, Trip? And Reigate. What, I’m going to have to go to your parents’? And Sydney — surely not?

I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this, like you’re here with me. You want to know something, love? I had no intention of coming. The thought of coming back here was too much. I wanted to do what you’d asked but, well …

In fact, whilst you’re taking my confession, this isn’t the first time I’ve read this letter. I read it a week ago, at home, drunk.

When I found the letters I decided to read them all, one after the other. But then I read the first one and I could hear you talking to me, so real. It felt like I had a piece of you back. Part of me wanted to tear open all the other letters and devour them, but a bigger part of me was ashamed that I hadn’t done what you’d wanted. So I came here, to start again. To see how it went. And now you’ve made me want to carry on, do them all.

So here I am, Trip, in Conti’s. Doing as you wanted. God, I need a tissue. I’ll have to use the paper napkin. I’m not going to cry again. I’m not. Not in Conti’s. Not in front of Mr Conti.

Concentrate on something else. Read your letter again.

Letter 1: Lampeter

Allow me a guess. You’re not on top of Magic Mushroom Mountain, are you? I knew it. Allow me two more guesses. You’re either:

a) at home, three quarters of the way down a bottle of Malbec, and couldn’t help yourself,

or

b) in Conti’s. You meant to walk up the hill but it was raining and you didn’t have the right shoes on and besides, there it was as you walked past and you hadn’t been there in at least twenty years and, whatever, you fancied a coffee.

Fair play to you either way; we know that if it was me I’d have opened the last envelope and read the last page, just like I did with every book I ever read. Trust me, Ruthie, don’t do that. It’ll be fun. You love this sort of thing. Go with it.

Indulge a dead man.

I did a Top Twelve originally, of places to be scattered, which is just silly. Obviously, it should be a Top Ten. And I realised two of the places were for me, just for me: Fulham Football Club, Craven Cottage — the place you ventured into that one time and swore you’d never visit again — and Wimbledon Common, my own little escape from London life. The others are for us, about us. Celebrate us.

So, if you don’t want to play, don’t. But, if so, scatter me somewhere just for me. I’d be happy at Craven Cottage. Or dump me in the Queen’s Mere on the Common.

But if you want it to be about us …

See, only on page one and already you’ve been blackmailed from beyond the grave. How about that?

Everyone’s supposed to remember the first time they saw the love of their life, aren’t they? Well, I’ll be honest, I can’t. In my defence, I was drunk. I’m not even sure about the place. It was at one of those student parties in a hall of residence, but I can’t for the life of me remember which one.

You don’t even remember this as our first meeting, do you? You always say we first met watching Brideshead Revisited, so I guess I’m allowed a little latitude. Besides, we’re both right. Our memories of our first meeting are correct as our own individual memories — which is the thing with memories.

I didn’t spot you across a crowded room. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was certainly something. You were in a green dress that matched your eyes and you had the reddest hair I’d ever seen, tumbling over your shoulders. Every few seconds you had to sweep it out of your eyes, not like one of those girls who do it as a look-at-me gesture, but as a quite unconscious habit. I fixated on your hands as you did so. It was the first time in my life I’d noticed someone else’s hands. Your fingers were so long and beautiful. Your nails were less so, bitten right down.

So, I was staring at you and you were preparing to throw yourself into an argument from halfway down the corridor, all red hair and indignation, and I watched from afar. I have no idea what the argument was about. I think it was politics or sexual relations or something. The rugby club, in true caveman style, were giving Sally — or Yellow Jumper, as I knew her — some stick.

She was outnumbered and you were the cavalry. It was High Noon, cleaning up Dodge. You were Shane but, to be honest, a scared Shane. It wasn’t what you said that stayed with me; it was the brief look of terror on your face as you prepared to launch yourself into the fray. And the catch in your voice, and the way you said, ‘Fuck’. I really liked the way you said fuck. It sounded right. It wasn’t, how shall I say, common? As though every sentence was going to contain at least two tired fucks until the day you died. And it wasn’t a posh fuck either. It was a drunk fuck, with just the right mix of trepidation and anger. A good fuck.

And then there was that exam walkout. I appear to be spotting a pattern.

We were sitting in that room below freezing, beyond freezing, each of us thinking: this is ridiculous. We can’t be expected to do an exam in this cold.

You stood up, moved to the door, looked around and we followed. Bloody Hell; we all followed the girl with the hair and the cute arse right out of there.

I thought, um, what did I think? I thought ‘Yowser’.

You once read one of your self-help books and for years were full of this line, ‘What’s the most important criterion for friendship?’ You’d make people answer and they’d say, loyalty, or kindness, or one of a hundred abstract nouns.

You’d let them finish and, with a look of victory on your face, you’d go, ‘No … proximity.’

There’d be silence, or a groan and someone would change the subject. And that’s about right, but the more I heard you say that, the more I’d get it. Nearly all our lifelong friendships were forged in that small university town in the middle of nowhere. Where, hopefully, you are reading this.

I’ve thought all through this undertaking that you’re more likely to simply open all the envelopes and read the letters, without actually bothering to go to each place. I could hardly blame you. It does seem a lot to ask, a bit much. But if you’re there — perhaps just to try the first one, to suck it and see — if you are there, how’s it going so far?

Lampeter was our great good fortune, wasn’t it, proximity-wise? The size of the place meant we got to know everyone. Other universities, all other universities, may be bigger; but I bet it’s much easier to become isolated in the crowd, end up meeting far fewer people. We were allowed to grow up in a nice, safe environment — on a full grant, in your case. A three-year pupation from adolescent to adult, and it certainly was for you; a maturing, a growing.

I’m not sure I changed much. But then, as we know, I was born older than you.

Still, the point is we were ideally proximate. We had three years in a place where we didn’t have to hang onto the first people we came across for fear of crushing loneliness. We could take the whole university and grow friendships wherever we felt comfortable. We could pick and choose. And that’s what I think you were doing during our college years, Ruth, I think you were choosing.

Choosing your future life …

I don’t think you were fully aware of it at the time, but some part of you knew you weren’t going back home afterwards, so you had to be going somewhere new. And you didn’t want to do it alone. So the three years had an element of a selection programme about them and, looked at that way, eventually I was the one.

And I always thought: why me, Ruth? Why me?

* * *

Why indeed? You’re right, though I hate to admit it, and I’d never have told you. I did choose you.

The first time I saw your face I knew you were someone special. There was a voice that said, ‘He’s the one’. Although, to be fair, I had that voice about other people too. As though I had a list, which I suppose I did in a way, and you were definitely on it from that moment. Pow! Toby ‘Trip’ Masterson, in with a bullet. You went to the top of the list, Number 1 on my internal league table, right from the start.

Oh, you were good-looking for sure, with all that dark, too long hair flopping into your wide blue eyes. And the fact you didn’t know it was appealing. But it wasn’t your looks that got me. There was something about you.

I’ve never really been able to define what it was, not entirely, but I think part of the pull was your sheer happiness; so different to me, all Shropshire wilderness, like the Stiperstones in winter. You reminded me of my dad’s laugh. It’s quite pleasing you thought I made the choice. It implies a sense of control and decisiveness, as if I knew what I wanted, went out and grabbed it.

The reality couldn’t have been more different. And the choice seems even more accidental now. You were attracted to me because of the exam walkout?

I didn’t know that.

I didn’t even realise you were in the room because we never discussed it. Thank God. Because your memory is almost completely wrong. The whole episode was an innocent mistake, a question of timing. It was nothing to do with me. Even before the exam the hall was full of would-be rebellion.

There were a few empty threats, ‘Let’s strike’ and the like, but I was just, well, an unwitting catalyst, to be honest. I actually put my hand up to ask to go to the toilet — like a schoolgirl — and was on my way to the door. But it was so early on that other people must have assumed I was walking out. I reached the doors and heard a scraping chair behind me as someone stood up and I looked around to see what was happening. And for some reason, some weird reason, everyone took that look as a signal to get up and go. Everyone. It was mad.

As for the first time we spoke, oh, that I remember. Even at the time it felt like the start of something, though it wasn’t much of a start. There you were, waiting for Brideshead Revisited in the TV room, with a bottle of white wine secreted under your seat because you thought it was against the rules to take in alcohol.

Warm Liebfraumilch.

What a wanker, I thought, trying to pretend to myself my tummy wasn’t flip-flopping all over the place. Then Laura pointed you out. ‘What kind of a twat,’ she muttered, ‘drinks wine in the TV room when everyone else brings a couple of cans of beer?’ Sally gave her a big elbow shove. ‘Sshhh, they’ll hear you.’ But Laura just laughed.

You were dismissive of the programme before it even began, you and your friends. But, in spite of the wine and your running criticism, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were so relaxed, so confident, so at home. You laughed and laughed, that’s what I noticed: the sheer glee with which you inhabited the world.

It was magnetic.

I spent the entire hour concentrating more on the back of your head than I did on Sebastian Flyte. And I didn’t watch the final ten minutes at all, being completely occupied in trying to think of something clever to say to you then trying to summon up the courage to actually say it. All I could manage in the end was some inane comment to Laura about public schoolboys not recognising their own kind when they saw them.

You heard, though, and you knew I was talking about you, didn’t you? You turned round, grinned your grin and offered me a swig. ‘Hallo, Totty, want to come to the bar so I can put you right about my schooling?’ You sounded quite, quite posh to me. And so arrogant.

Of course, it turned out you weren’t arrogant at all, just young and clumsy and full of warm white wine. And you weren’t nearly as posh as I thought you were, just well brought up and well educated. But for a village girl from the back of beyond you seemed the height of sophistication. You might have landed from another planet. And though it didn’t appeal in itself, it didn’t put me off either. I had to pretend it did though, and I said something stupid, spluttered it really, about not being totty and then realised what I’d said and blushed and had to drag Sal and Laura off before I made even more of a fool of myself.

We went to the bar, obviously.

My heart hurts. I can feel the sound of your voice deep inside me. Nothing seems to make it better, and I keep catching myself rubbing my chest in public like I could make it better — makes me feel like an idiot. No one tells you about missing a voice, its timbre, its particular phrasing.

I can hear you so clearly here, here where we met, as if you’re back in your room at college waiting for me. As if the words in your letter have brought you back to me. Maybe I will open all the letters, right here, right now. If I open them, you’ll be here, you’ll talk to me.

If I shut my eyes I can imagine you sitting in the plastic seat opposite, stirring a second crafty sugar into your coffee, making the noisy clinking of teaspoon against cup that gets on my nerves. Your hair will be too long and you’ll have a cut on your chin from shaving. I want to hear your voice. I want to see you.

Student Union Bar, Lampeter, October 1981

She ducks into the Ladies, pretending she needs a pee, and peers at herself in the mirror, frowning. One friend produces a hairbrush and the other a tube of mascara which she uses, feeling a bit better about the whole effect. When they go in he’s leaning back against the bar waiting to be served, watching the door. She blushes as their eyes meet and pulls her glance away, but her friend pushes her towards him and she walks over to queue beside him. He turns to her with a big smile, pleased she came over.

‘So, you have a name, I suppose?’

‘Of course, but I don’t give it to every Tom, Dick or Sebastian; especially if they refer to me as totty.’ She knows she should be outraged by the term.

‘Easy, tiger, Totty’s your nickname. Didn’t you know? We’ve got no clue what your real names are, so we make them up so we can talk about you behind your backs. They’re just identifiers, an age-old tradition. Frankly, Totty’s rather a good one, I’d say, since we might well have christened you Ginger. And it could have been worse.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, your friend over there is Yellow Jumper. And the other one’s Mrs Muck.’

‘I like that jumper of Sally’s. Sally, that’s her name. I’m Ruth, Ruth Britten. And Mrs Muck, well, that’s Laura and I wouldn’t say that to her face if I were you.’

‘Hallo, Ruth. No offence. In fact, can’t remember how she got that name, nothing to do with me. Tom’s the one with the love-hate thing going on with her. Or Dick. Or maybe Sebastian. No, definitely Tom. I think it’s something about her looking down her nose at us; turns him on, apparently. That, and the way she walks as though she’s got a broom stuck up her arse. Actually, I quite like that too … so, Totty, I mean, Ruth, nicknames aside, what’s your beef with public-school boys? Not that I am one, of course.’

‘What? Apart from the fact they don’t know when to shut up and let the rest of the room watch the TV in peace?’

‘Ah, yes, sorry about that. Braying, not attractive is it? Mea culpa. That’s Latin. For my round, I think. What you having?’

‘Oh, well … Carpe diem and all that. Snakebite, please. Only … no, don’t bother, Laura’s going to get served ahead of us, she’s getting me one. What’s your name anyway?’

‘What, I don’t have a nickname? Oh, now I am disappointed,’ he says, pouting.

‘Trip.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your nickname, because I saw you once — I mean, we saw you once and … oh, never mind.’ She blushes, aware that he now realises she’s noticed him before.

‘Trip. Well, Ruth-Totty, my name’s Toby, Toby Masterson. Toby Trip Masterson. Pleased to meet you.’ He holds out his hand, not noticing the beer splashing over him.