by Jane Johnson
‘Are you sure there’s petrol in it?’ I ask.
‘Her,’ Olivia corrects me firmly. ‘And yes, of course I am. Unless someone’s thieved it.’ She pulls the cord again and the engine almost catches, then stutters into silence.
It’s getting dark now. The fireworks will be starting soon.
‘Shouldn’t we just go in the truck?’ I offer, but ‘Have a little faith!’ she fires back and pulls the cord a third time… and all of a sudden the engine roars to life, deafening in the confines of the garage, the fumes from the petrol almost overwhelming. Olivia puts the car in gear and nearly runs Reda over as she exits the garage.
He leaps into the passenger seat, grinning from ear to ear. ‘This is amazing! You are amazing, Olivia!’
As we make our way down the steep hill into the village I can see his distorted reflection in the wing mirror, his whole head round with glee, his teeth and eyes shining, though I know he is ready at any moment to leap to Olivia’s aid if she is unable to brake or turn the wheel quickly enough. Everyone we pass smiles and points at the lovely old classic car – it’s not something you see every day. Parking it is, of course, a nightmare. In the end Olivia simply brings the Flying 8 to a halt outside the chapel and turns the engine off. When I point out the yellow lines we are parked on she huffs. ‘Always used to park here and I’m far too old to change my ways now.’
Hoping the traffic warden is happily engaged elsewhere this evening, we walk slowly down through the little winding streets to the harbour where a throng has gathered for the annual festival – people in anoraks and bobble hats, parkas and scarves, clutching drinks outside the pub, chattering gaily. I catch a glimpse of Rosie and Jem and their sons at the other end of the railing by the war memorial, Jem looking stooped and thin, Rosie a barrel in her long black coat, their sons in their perennial puffa jackets. They are accompanied by two middle-aged women with identical haircuts and a gaggle of teenagers – their wives and children, as I now know. Ezra and Saul got off with not much more than a slap on the wrist for their illegal cigarette operation. The inability to build a useful case against them was in large part down to Olivia, who became obstinately vague when questioned about their comings and goings, about the traces of marijuana in the cellar, and about the body in the tunnel, which remains a mystery to the authorities, though the coroner’s office have deemed it ‘an historic corpse’ but not an antiquity. It appears even Rosie, who has also escaped without even a formal interview about the poisoning since Olivia refused to press charges, knew nothing about the body, down there in the dark all this time. However, since news of the discovery of the bones she has become very superstitious about even setting foot in the house, and is convinced that Gabriel is possessed by the spirit of the dead man – whoever he may be. Lots of stories have circulated about a thwarted German invasion force that tried to make landing under the cover of darkness and were fought off by the doughty locals. It amazes me that such recent events can become so hazily distorted in a relatively short space of time – it makes you question the whole idea of accepted history. I dare say further tests will put an end to the wilder of these tales, which seems rather a shame.
Rosie and her family are not getting any more money from Olivia now either, not just because her secrets are out, but because there really isn’t much money left, and they are hardly living in penury. We sold two of the smaller paintings at auction and raised enough to clear her debts, but we’re mainly subsisting on what little I make from my teaching and my own art.
‘Wait until I’m dead before you sell any of the others,’ Olivia instructed me. ‘They’ll be worth a lot more then, especially once you’ve written the book.’
Except I am not ‘writing’ the book: I do not have the requisite skills. But the young man at the auction house put me in touch with a local journalist called Lisa, and she and I are putting together a proposal about art world mysteries and frauds, focusing on the OK Painter and showcasing her art. I am doing the legwork and Lisa is doing the writing. I have found in her a lively new friend. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to have a shared creative project.
Reda and I position Olivia safely at the rail outside the pub and Reda slips inside and returns with three small glasses of whisky. ‘To fortify us against the cold.’
‘I thought—’ I start, and he winks.
‘I’m sure God won’t mind at all.’
And then the fireworks start – a great fiesta of noise and colour. We down our whiskies and Reda takes the glasses back into the pub. On his return he slips an arm around my waist, pulls me towards him and kisses me hard until a very different kind of fireworks burst inside me.
‘Enough of that!’ Olivia says, but I can hear the humour in her tone. Reda and I exchange a complicit smile and separate. We stand on either side of her and crane our necks as the fireworks burst into colour, leaving behind a tracery of smoke like fan vaulting against the cathedral of the night sky.
‘It reminds me of the war,’ Olivia says between blasts of rockets. ‘It was the happiest time of my life.’
She squeezes my hand and I squeeze back. We look out into the dark harbour as another fusillade goes off and silver flowers bloom, then cascade like meteor showers.
‘And the saddest,’ she whispers into the night.
Acknowledgments
THE SEA GATE IS A BOOK ABOUT FAMILY SECRETS. I HAD conceived of and started writing it before a number of our own family skeletons tumbled out of the closet and changed the stories I had been told all my life. So, thank you to my unexpected half-brother, Jay, who made contact with me out of the blue: that was quite a surprise. I’m quite sure that what Olivia says towards the end of the book is true, and that if you ‘scratch the surface of any family history... you’ll find a story that’s been buried’.
For wonderfully vivid of memories of Cornwall during wartime I owe thanks to my mother, Brenda, and the old boys in the village, especially Jack Guard, Alan Johns and Arthur Brown. Not one of those four has survived to see the book published and it makes me sad that their wisdom and tales of mischief and the old ways have gone with them.
I must also thank my beloved husband Abdel Bakrim and my dear friends Philippa McEwan and Sara Macdonald for their support through the writing of the novel and the reading of draft after draft; my agent Danny Baror, my publisher Nic Cheetham and my editors Madeleine O’Shea and Nita Pronovost; my cover designers, production, sales, marketing and publicity teams. They say it takes a village to raise a child: well, it also takes a community to bring a book into the world. What would I do without you all?
About the Author
JANE JOHNSON is a British novelist and publisher. She is the UK editor for George R.R. Martin, Robin Hobb and Dean Koontz and was for many years publisher of the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. Married to a Berber chef she met while researching The Tenth Gift, she lives in Cornwall and Morocco.
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