Happy Days

1994. The year in which Oasis released their album Definitely Maybe, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective was on at the cinema, and I decided I liked cheese and pickle on sandwiches after all. It was also the year that I had my appendix out. And the year that mum left.

* * *

Mum looks sad today. Her face has that grainy, worn-out expression, like she's been thinking too
hard. Worrying. Mum's always worrying. You can see the difference, really tell when she's happy
because the bumps all smooth out and she starts to come alive. Shine. Her skin pinks, looks soft and
supple, and the wrinkles melt away, dissolve, until they're hardly there. They are there, but it doesn't
matter. Nobody notices them because all you can really see is how she is on the inside. The outside
doesn't matter if she's singing on the inside.

Her eyes wake up, and she remembers. Stops peering, making excuses, apologising, and
remembers that there's a whole world out there. A world that reminds her that life is for living, for
having adventures in, for making the most of. That's when she hooks you in.

When my mum's happy, she takes you along for the ride. Her sparkly eyes light up the corners of
her mouth, tilt her head just so, and then she's smiling. Big, cavernous, laugh-out-loud smiles that
intoxicate anyone who drinks them in. When she does laugh, irrepressible giggles bubble up from
her belly, musical and girly, as if she were ten again.

I'm ten and I love her when she's laughing. But she's not laughing, not smiling today.
Yesterday was different. She seemed ok then, happy enough. We all went to Ships and Castles –
first time in a long time – bobbing about in the fake waves, up and down the flume, taking it in
turns to starfish in the jacuzzi like synchronised swimmers. What mum calls 'quality family time'.

Afterwards, we ran around the old walls of Pendennis, pretending to dodge arrows, and breach the
non-existent moat. She was definitely smiling then. Puffed and out of breath, but grinning, laughing even, between gasps.

We stood and gazed across the Fal; watched the dinghies tacking this way and that, as if they
couldn't quite make up their minds which way to go.On the far side, King Henry the VIII's castle was guarding the estuary. The circular battlements, harmless enough now, looked like a fancy wedding cake.

We went to St Mawes once, for a special English Heritage day; made silver foil-covered cardboard armour, and maiden-in-distress wimples – strips of coloured netting trailing behind from their conical peaks. In the ante-chamber, story-tellers entertained us with tales of intrigue and valour, while through the narrow windows, black cannons aimed their barrels at unseen enemy galleons.

There we were, standing, huddled against the breeze, and all of us, I think, felt happy.

* * *

'What's wrong?'

'Oh, nothing. Just a bit tired, that's all.'

'But you don't look very, um, happy.'

'No, I'm fine. Fine. I'll be alright.'

'You're not smiling.'

'Aren't I? Never mind. Bit tired, I've got a lot on my plate right now.'

'So how can I make you smile? Make you happy again?'

'You make me happy just by being you. And if I'm not happy – and nobody ever is all of the time
– it's never, ever your fault. Sometimes, horrible things happen. Stuff that is bad and upsetting, and
then it's only normal to feel sad. But most of the time, people make themselves unhappy. Forget
what they have, how lucky they are, and take for granted what others see as special. You don't have
to smile all the time to be happy, but it helps.'

'So why weren't you smiling just now?'

'Cos I'm stupid. Too busy worrying about the things that don't count. Things that can squeeze the
happiness out if you let them. Don't let them.'

* * *

Twelve years on, and I'm back in Falmouth; re-tracing steps; remembering a life before.

Perched on a trendy bar stool in The Prince of Wales, I stare at the black/white divide of my guiness – the foamy head, a deceptive sweetener for the bitter, dark liquid to follow. An opaque film of condensation forms on the pint glass, mirroring the cold sweat beading on my forehead. And there's a faint tang of sea air mingling with the stale ash, spilt beer, smell of pub carpet.

She's gone. Long gone, and I know that I won't find her here.