In a Kingdom by the Sea

by Sara MacDonald

  Copyright

  Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Sara MacDonald 2019

  Cover design by Holly MacDonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

  Jacket photographs © Nikaa / Trevillion images (woman), RooM the Agency / Alamy Stock Photo (houseboats), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

  Sara MacDonald asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

  Source ISBN: 9780008245191

  Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008245214

  Version: 2019-05-16

  Dedication

  For Michael and for Lizzie who both passed away before I finished this book. You left me so many happy memories of love and support.

  For my Pakistani friends and for my friends here at home. Thank you, you all enrich my life.

  Epigraph

  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well

  Julian of Norwich

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Part Two

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Part Three

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Acknowledgments

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Also by Sara MacDonald

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  Cornwall, 1971

  Maman is not waiting for me by the front door as I walk up the hill from school. The door is open and slices of apricot sun slant across the coloured tiles in the hall. Inside, the house is unnaturally quiet. I hesitate on the front step, turn to look at the curve of sea glittering below me. I do not want to step inside.

  There has been a tight band round my chest all day. It started last night on my sleepover with Morwenna. I had woken suddenly in the night with my heart skittering inside me, making me want to leap out of bed and run home.

  In front of me the narrow passageway to the back of the house yawns beyond the reach of the sun. The kitchen door is shut. It is never shut.

  ‘Maman?’ I call, but no one answers.

  I step inside and the air plucks and pulls at me in cold little gusts.

  ‘Papa?’ I call. ‘Dominique?’ But I know my father will be working and my sister won’t be back from school yet.

  I run down the dark hall and push the kitchen door hard. It opens with a bang and I jump when I see Maman leaning, silent, against the battered cream Aga. She does not look like Maman. Her face is an angry, grey mask.

  ‘It is no good calling Dominique,’ Maman says. ‘She’s gone …’

  I stare at her. ‘What do you mean … gone?’

  Maman is clinging to the rail of the Aga. She looks ill and old. She is scaring me.

  ‘I’ve sent her away to Aunt Laura in Paris …’

  ‘Why?’ I shout. ‘What did Dominique do?’

  My mind darts to the arguments Maman and Dominique have been having about my sister’s clothes. Mostly short skirts. Every morning Dominique rolls her school skirt up to her knickers just to annoy Maman. She rolls her skirt back down to her knees before the school bus arrives, but, of course, Maman does not see that.

  ‘Your sister is out of control. I’ve sent her away before she gets herself into trouble. That’s all you need to know, Gabriella.’ Maman’s face is closed to me, her voice strange and hard.

  Fear begins to shiver inside me like a feather. I have never seen Maman like this. Her anger is like a fire inside her.

  ‘But … what did she do that was so bad? Why are you so angry, Maman? You can’t send her away. You don’t mean it. What about school? What about her friends? What about me?’

  Maman’s mouth is set in an ugly little line that changes her face.

  ‘I mean it. Dominique is a wicked little liar. Now she must live with her lies. I won’t have her in the house. Aunt Laura will find her a school in Paris. Next year she will be sixteen and an adult. She can do what she likes with her life. I wash my hands of her.’

  I cry and plead but Maman’s face remains cold and shut.

  ‘Gabriella, nothing is going to change my mind. Dominique is gone. I took her
to Newquay Airport first thing this morning. Aunt Laura met her in London and they went straight back to Paris. Now, go upstairs and change out of your school uniform.’

  I run from the kitchen up to the attic where my sister sleeps. I want to throw myself on her bed and capture the smell of her but Maman has already stripped away the sheets. Dominique is gone. I grasp her pillow and bury my face in it and breathe in the last little bit of her.

  In my room, as I tear my school clothes off, I see a twist of tissue paper on my bed. Inside is Dominique’s little silver bracelet, the one I loved and wished was mine. She has left it for me. I cannot do the clasp, so I fold it deep and safe into the pocket of my jeans. Then I run away.

  Down to the bay where the sun is still warm and the tide is leaving dappled pools on the sand and the sky is reflected in the water like rippled marble.

  Our secret hiding place is in the rocks at the far end of the beach at Nearly Cave. I curl with Dominique’s pillow between the sea-smoothed granite and turn on my side and sob. I am ten and not brave enough to run away properly …

  Dom, if I close my eyes you won’t be gone. If I close my eyes I won’t see Maman’s face any more. If I close my eyes I can pretend we are surfing in through small fast waves. Or sitting at the beach café eating ice cream together after school. If I keep my eyes closed you will still be here. You will still be here.

  I am soothed by waves that slide in and out with a swoosh, rising and falling, rising and falling against the rocks in time to my breathing …

  I am asleep when Papa finds me in the dark. He gives a little cry as he lifts me up. I cling to him. There are little dots of light all over the beach and the night air is full of my name. As Papa carries me home, up the hill, I can feel his tears falling into my hair.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 2009

  It all begins with an unexpected phone call. It is early evening at the beginning of June and London is as warm as midsummer. It is Mike’s birthday and we are just about to have a party. The French windows are open onto the garden. Mike is outside placing night-lights on the small tables we have dotted about the lawn. He is humming to himself, out of tune, as I check the salads, artisan bread and the wine.

  I smile as I watch him through the kitchen window. He has only been back from Dubai for a couple of weeks and I am revelling in him being home again.

  ‘What do you think?’ he calls, switching on the white fairy lights that he has threaded through the magnolia tree.

  ‘Fantastic!’ I call back. The lights make the overgrown and neglected garden spring alive in the soft, pink haze of early evening.

  Mike is wearing an expensive shirt and shorts. His arms and legs are tanned and muscular. A sprinkling of dark hairs covers his forearms and wrists. Wrists that still give me a little frisson of desire, after all this time.

  My husband has that sleek, well-groomed look of a man who works abroad, uses the gym regularly and looks after himself. There is, as yet, no hint of middle-aged spread. Paunch is a forbidden word. He has taken a rare, long leave to decide what to do next and I wonder, as I watch him, how long it will be before he gets bored.

  Will and Matteo had scoffed when I mooted the question of a family holiday this summer. ‘Yeah, yeah, Mum, nice thought, but Dad will be off before you’ve booked the tickets …’

  I push two trays of garlic bread into the oven. When the boys were younger Mike would organize wonderful, adventurous holidays in far-flung places. Now, he spends his life flying off somewhere at a moment’s notice and my sons are almost grown up and busy with their own lives. It is much harder to get together as a family and I miss those times.

  Mike’s mobile phone rings suddenly into the silence, making us both jump. He fishes it out of his back pocket and turns in small circles on the grass as he listens. Excitement begins to radiate from him in waves.

  I go and lean against the French windows. ‘Yes, I am interested,’ Mike says. ‘It is short notice, but I can make myself available to fly out … No, my contract in Dubai finished last month. I’m on leave … in London …’

  He looks up suddenly and makes an astonished face at me.

  ‘Yes, that figure sounds … reasonable … Okay, thank you. I’ll wait to hear from you …’

  Mike gives a whoop, throws his phone on the table and whirls me round. ‘How extraordinary. That was a headhunter. A job has just come up. They’re looking for someone with experience of working for airlines in the Middle East. She wanted to know if I was free for an interview. The salary they are offering is huge, Gabby.’

  ‘Where?’ I ask, my heart sinking.

  ‘It may not come to anything, but if it does, honestly, darling … this could be an amazing opportunity …’

  ‘Stop stalling, Mike, and tell me where it is?’

  Mike reluctantly meets my eyes. ‘It’s a small airline called Pakistan Atlantic Airlines. They are recruiting from their head office in Canada, but I would be working out of … Karachi.’

  I stare at him. ‘You are joking? With all that’s going on in Afghanistan at the moment? For God’s sake, Mike.’

  Mike holds his hands up. ‘I know. I know. There would be safety issues but I wouldn’t think of taking the job unless I was satisfied about my security out there.’ He hesitates. ‘Gabby, I know I promised to spend most of the summer with you and the boys, but opportunities like this don’t come up often, I’d be mad not to explore it …’

  I start to move away but Mike catches hold of me. ‘Come on, darling, at the moment it’s just a phone call. Let’s see what happens …’

  ‘It’s not just the summer, Mike. You told me that you were going to look for jobs nearer to London. You said you wanted to see more of the boys before they left home for good …’

  ‘I do, but I work for airlines and most of the interesting jobs are abroad. You know that, Gabby, you’re used to me working away from home. It’s not perfect, but it’s worked for both of us over the years. It’s enabled us to travel, take the boys to great places and both do jobs we love …’

  The doorbell rings. People are arriving.

  ‘I’ve had enough of living apart, Mike. Neither of us is young any more. I really believed you were going to start to wind down.’

  Mike shoots me a look. He hates being reminded of his age.

  ‘That’s why, if I was offered this job, I would jump at it, Gabby. This will, undoubtedly, be my last big, prestigious job with an airline. My swansong, if you like. I’d really like my career to end on a high note. Is that so selfish?’

  Of course not, this is Mike’s career, his life.

  ‘Sorry. I’m the one being selfish. Pakistan is a shock, but of course you have to consider it.’

  Mike hugs me. ‘Thank you.’

  The doorbell rings again and someone shouts irritably through the letterbox, ‘Is there supposed to be a bloody party in there or not?’

  I laugh. ‘Go on, Birthday Boy, let people in …’

  Mike grins and makes for the door. ‘I’m not going to mention this to anyone, until I know more …’

  Mike has asked too many people and they all seem to arrive at once, filling the hall and spilling through the sitting room and out through the French windows into the garden. They are mostly Mike’s friends and colleagues but I have asked two friends from my publishing world, to balance the airline banter.

  Emily and Kate arrive together. Emily started as my intern. She now runs foreign rights in the small translation company I set up fifteen years ago. Kate has a literary agency with her husband, Hugh. We all go back a long way and work closely together.

  I am hoping Dominique will come. My sister is on a flying visit from Paris and she promised she would try to pop in.

  Mike is in his element, catching up with people he hasn’t seen for a while, revelling in airline gossip. It makes me realize how restless he has been the last few days. What was I thinking? Age is never going to dull his ambition, Mike can only relax
when he knows what his next job is going to be. Will and Matteo are right; their father is not equipped for downtime at home.

  I miss my sons with an abrupt little pang. I wish they could have been here for Mike’s birthday but they are both at uni in Scotland and in the middle of exams. They are secretly proud of their father but they are protective of me and not uncritical of Mike’s long absences. For most of their growing up it has been just the three of us, here in London. Mike working away from home is part of our normal, everyday life.

  Mike does the big adventures, plans wonderful holidays. I do the humdrum and the routine, but, inevitably, I am the one at the heart of their lives. The one who was there at the end of the school day and through all the small joys and boring minutiae. I listened to their secrets. I got the gossip and the hugs.

  I also get to trip over young, comatose bodies all over this three-storey house when Mike is away. I am the nag who yells at them to turn the music down but I am also the one they both come to when life gets tough, when they are flying with happiness or in hopeless love.

  Mike winks at me from the other side of the room and I smile back. He is an effortless host, circulating and making sure everyone’s glass is filled. He can light a room with his energy but he is mercurial and his moods can swing.

  Emily, Kate and I are bumping round each other in my crowded kitchen washing plates for Mike’s birthday cake, when Dominique finally arrives.

  Mike answers the door and I see them both air kiss in the hall. Mike and Dominique have never got on, but they both try, for me.

  I hug my sister. ‘Hi darling.’

  ‘Hi you,’ she says, smiling. She is wearing a dreary, dark dress that does not suit her. I wonder why. We both have Maman’s sallow colouring and dark colours make us look like Russian peasants. Dominique makes clothes for other people and has always had an instinctive dress sense, usually wearing warm, bright colours.

  I carry the birthday cake out to the garden and everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’. As Mike cuts the cake I can tell from the look on his face that he is bursting to talk about his job offer. I will him not to. If the job does not materialize he will regret mentioning it later.

  I look at his tanned, mostly unlined face. It is hard to believe that he is fifty-four today. He doesn’t look it. I sometimes wonder if our marriage works so well because we lead independent lives. We always have a lot to talk about and there is rarely time to bicker. We also like each other, trust each other, because we have to.