A few seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from the bathroom. As he shifted position, trying to get comfortable, he realised the banging wasn’t in his head, it was coming from the front door.
Cursing whoever it was, he rolled out of bed, wearing only his boxers, and padded down the hallway. He remembered at the last moment to dip his head so he didn’t smack into the beam above. Concussion wouldn’t ease the pounding in his head.
Sliding back the heavy bolt, he opened the wooden door, ready to let rip at whoever it was for waking him up. The sight of his parents standing on the walkway outside rendered him speechless. He had a sudden urge to shut the door and return to bed. He didn’t, of course. Mainly because they’d only resume banging.
‘We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,’ his mother said, looking surprisingly awake considering the early hour. Her black hair showed no sign of grey roots and she was wearing a patterned red shirt that made his eyes ache. She looked annoyed. Nothing unusual about that. ‘Why didn’t you answer the door? And why aren’t you dressed?’
He rubbed his face, unable to cope with so many questions. ‘Because it’s still early,’ he said, trying to force his brain to function.
‘It’s eleven fifteen.’ His mother’s irritation increased a notch. ‘Are you going to invite us in, or leave us standing out here all day?’
He stood back to allow them in. ‘Hi, Dad. Nice jacket.’
Henry Hubble peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His grey-white beard was neatly trimmed, and his blue shirt and stone-coloured chinos looked freshly pressed. ‘Good morning, son. Late night?’
Barney nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. He needed painkillers. ‘Something like that. Make yourselves at home. I’ll put some clothes on.’
‘Good idea.’ His mother searched for somewhere to sit down.
Unfortunately, Dusty’s glittery dress from the previous night was sprawled across the sofa, along with her blonde beehive wig and patent leather boots.
‘Not mine,’ he said, in case his parents thought he’d developed an inclination for cross-dressing or, more likely, had pulled last night.
His mother tutted.
He tried to view the place through their eyes. On paper, The Mousehole was a charming fisherman’s cottage built in the eighteen-hundreds, with an open fire and period features. The owners had converted the tall building into a rental property boasting three double bedrooms and a modern, open-plan kitchen-diner. It was quaint, tastefully restored, and perfectly located within a stone’s throw of the beach. Normally, the place looked quite inviting. Paul was a neat-freak who regularly tidied up after his three less-disciplined housemates who didn’t share his obsession for clean living. Typically, his parents had chosen to visit on the one day the place was a mess. Discarded takeaway cartons and beer cans decorated the floor and kitchen table.
He found a pair of crumpled jeans hanging over the back of a chair. Shaking out the creases, he pulled them on. ‘Did I know you were coming?’ He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was expecting them or not. Maybe he’d forgotten, although that was unlikely. He wouldn’t have got legless last night if he’d known his parents were coming to visit.
‘We decided to surprise you.’ His mother frowned. ‘Your trousers are inside out.’
He glanced down. She was right. It might explain why he’d been struggling to do up the zip. ‘Unusual for you to take time off work.’
His mother fixed him with one of her looks. ‘You didn’t give us much alternative. You don’t return our calls or texts. What else were we supposed to do?’
Respect my decision to choose my own life, he wanted to say, but his head wasn’t up to an argument. He opted for keeping things civil. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’
His mother surveyed the dirty kitchen and unwashed crockery balancing on the side. ‘I think not.’ She removed a pair of fishnet tights from the armchair, but still didn’t sit down.
His dad was studying a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind his back as if the sight of a fishing boat caught in a storm was an interesting medical conundrum.
The sound of Nate chucking up floated down the stairs.
Feeling a little nauseous himself, Barney went over to the sink and poured a glass of water.
A creak on the stairs alerted them to the arrival of Paul. He was as pale as paper, his bloodshot eyes half-closed, his fitted blue sweater and black jeans as conservative as his mood. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Hubble. An unexpected pleasure.’ He shook hands with Barney’s dad. ‘You’re looking well, Henry.’
Unsure how to respond to such polite familiarity, Henry Hubble nodded. ‘Er … likewise. Paul, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ Paul joined Alexa by the fireplace and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re looking dazzling as always, Mrs Hubble.’
Barney’s mother’s gaze travelled to the discarded female attire lying on the sofa. ‘Thank you, young man.’ She tutted when she spotted a spill of beer on the coffee table.
Paul picked up the pile of clothes and headed back upstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice seeing you both.’ As he passed Barney in the kitchen, he leant closer so he could whisper in his ear, ‘Hang in there. My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle either.’
Barney nodded, grateful for his friend’s show of solidarity.
His mother waited until Paul was out of sight. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk? Your father and I have something we need to discuss with you.’
No prizes for guessing what that might be.
Barney thought he could do with some fresh air, especially as Nate was still throwing up. ‘We’ll go out. Give me five minutes to get dressed. They serve a decent brunch at Smugglers Inn, if you’re hungry.’
‘We’ll wait outside.’ His mother was clearly eager to leave The Mousehole, with its filthy inhabitants, messy interior, and sounds of amplified retching.
Ten minutes later, having taken two paracetamol and drunk another pint of water, he joined them on the cobbled walkway. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them past the white-stone cottages down towards the quayside. ‘There’s an impressive view across the bay.’ He knew it wouldn’t be enough to persuade them that staying in Cornwall was a good idea, but he hoped it might soften their resistance a little.
His parents thrived on hard work, long hours and the buzz of a stressful environment. Packed commuter trains, crowded streets and constant noise combined to form a drug, fuelling their determination to achieve in their high-flying careers. Noise pollution did nothing for Barney. It didn’t inspire him, it depressed him. Life in Penmullion was much kinder on the soul.
Over the last few weeks, he’d been busy rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d taken on extra shifts at the surf kiosk, and added more gigs to his schedule, eager to prove he wasn’t a layabout or afraid of hard work. But no matter how much he crammed into his new life in Cornwall, he knew it would never be enough for his parents.
‘See where the cliffs meet the sea?’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘You can just make out HMS Isolde, a three-hundred-year-old battleship anchored near the disused naval port.’ The morning mist was lifting, the breeze dragging the damp air away from the bay. ‘It’s worth a visit, if you’re planning on staying for a while.’ God, he hoped they weren’t staying.
‘We’re only here for the day.’ His mother made