Tom pulled her closer to the door and opened it.
“If you’re looking for her father, you’ll find him down at the harbor.”
Tom and Elizabeth turned to look at each other. Dr. Davenport was out looking for her, they both knew it. If she’d had her sketch pad she could have made something up, but if he was already looking for her there was every possibility that he knew her bed hadn’t been slept in.
“I told you,” said his mother. “I told you both. This is a bad idea. You know why, Tommy.”
Mr. Hale picked up some toast, shoveled it into his mouth. Then slowly, after glancing at his wife, he met Elizabeth’s gaze. His eyes were the same blue as Tom’s, and quite striking, if she was honest, but with age they were ringed red, and framed with wrinkles. He could have been handsome once, but now his skin seemed loose on the bones, his teeth all brown and crooked, like the gravestones in Saint Sennen’s cemetery.
“Dr. Davenport didn’t see me,” Mr. Hale continued. “But I saw him all right. It rained last night, so I’d crawled under one of the upturned boats, made myself a shelter.” That at least explained the sand on his sleeves and the wetness of his attire. “I’d say he wasn’t looking for you, that’s for sure,” he said, turning to Elizabeth.
Tom stepped back into the room. “So, what was he doing?”
Mr. Hale wiped his hands on a napkin and stood up from the table. He was taller than Elizabeth anticipated when he closed the space between them. She didn’t like the way he looked at her, and it would seem neither did Tom, because when his father got too close, he pulled Elizabeth away. The scent of stale alcohol filled the air, made Elizabeth feel queasy.
“Pat, would you just tell the poor girl what you saw,” said Tom’s mother.
He took one more look at Elizabeth, his face giving nothing away, before he turned his attention to his son. “You want to be careful of this one. When a Davenport sweeps you up in their plans, folks get hurt. Isn’t that right, Martha?”
Martha Hale said nothing, turned away from the scene, and set about clearing the plates. Silence descended over them, and moments later Tom pulled Elizabeth through the door and quickly away from the house.
* * *
“I still think it best I go alone.”
They were in the roundhouse, the old capstan wheel redundant beneath their feet as they sat on the upper floor among the fishing nets. When they’d left Tom’s house, neither of them had been ready to say goodbye, or to face Elizabeth’s father.
“If we explain things together, I think he will take it better. He will see how serious I am about you. Come on, my parents know now,” he said, dragging one of the nets over her body. “I’ll only let you go once you say yes.”
“This is no time for jokes, Thomas Hale,” she said, pushing him away. “You don’t know what he’s like.” A look crossed his face that she didn’t understand. It was the way he pursed his lips, averted his eyes. What Mr. Hale had said that morning came back to her, about how the Davenports were trouble, and she wondered what she was missing. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No,” he said, pulling absently at the floats on the nets. “It’s not important.”
“So, there is something.” To Elizabeth, as she reached to turn his face to hers, he still felt like the same boy from the night before, and yet she already sensed that something was changing, something she could never have predicted. “What did your father mean back at the house? If we are going to be together, we can’t have secrets.”
“It was years ago.” Tom shrugged. “Before either of us were born.”
“Then it shouldn’t matter, should it?”
Tom gazed about the storage barn, focused on an old orange bucket so that he didn’t have to see the look on her face when he told her. “Your father, and my mother . . . they had a thing together.”
“A thing?”
“They were in love, but he left her not long before he married your mother. That’s why Mum ended up marrying Dad. People thought she was ruined, and he was the only one who would have her.”
Thoughts rocketed back and forth, nothing tangible in all her mind. Memories came to her, things her mother had said, like the fact that her father would be more likely to understand than she would have credited. Is that what she meant? “You must have it wrong,” she said.
“It’s the truth.” And then she remembered something that Martha Hale had said just minutes before: Look where that got me, referring to Elizabeth’s father being in love. Could it really be true? “And to make things worse, after that, our fathers worked together. They were both fishermen. That’s when it got really bad.”
“My father was never a fisherman.”
“He was, just for one summer, before they started shipping the industry out to the larger towns like Newlyn. It was my father’s first proper job with a fishing crew, and your dad was there for the fun of it I suppose, on a break from his studies. Your father had this nice Thermos flask, had taken hot water to make tea while at sea. It rolled out of his bag, and my father picked it up. He was just admiring it, or so he says. Anyway, your father told him to keep his hands off, and they had a fight. By the time he got back to shore your father complained that his flask was missing, and when they did a search it was found in my father’s bag.”
“Why did he take it?” Tom was quiet for a moment, and she understood the implication. “Hang on, you think my father planted it?”
He shrugged. “That’s what my father says.”
“I know my father, and he is no liar.”
“And after seeing inside our house, does it appear as if mine is a thief?” They were quiet for a moment then. It was strange, she thought, that after such a perfect night they should find themselves defending their respective families over an incident that she had never even heard anything about until just a few moments ago. Her father a fisherman, in love with Tom’s mother—it was a past she could barely even begin to imagine.
“I’m going to go and try to sort this out,” she said. The wood scratched at her skin as she descended the ladder. Tom followed. They stood beside each other, their arms brushing together, before they opened the door to another world, one tainted by reality and the history of their families.
“So, is this it, do you think? Is this goodbye?” he asked. There was a truth in his question that she couldn’t even let herself consider, already wondering what he would do when she left—bathe, sleep, or maybe walk out somewhere near the coast. It felt almost painful to think of him living life without her intricately woven into it.
He saw her hold up his copy of Pride and Prejudice, the paper yellowed, crisp on each turn. She thought of his photograph in her pocket. “I’ve got this, haven’t I?” Though she kissed him on the cheek, he still felt the gravity of uncertainty pulling at him. “I’ll see you later, alligator.” And moments later she was out through the door, into the brisk morning as it played out under a clear blue sky, the sun so close to the horizon that it would soon skim past the Porthsennen rooftops for the last time before next spring.
“In a while, crocodile,” he eventually said, but she was already heading up the hill, limping with one shoe and a sore ankle out of view, already too far away to hear.
Now
Elizabeth was pleased to leave the chaos of the Accident and Emergency department behind. The bed they found for Tom was on the chest ward, and despite the sound of coughing that resonated down the corridor, the place was altogether a relief. Only then did Elizabeth allow herself to think of the previous days at home, the difficulties they had faced in the simple effort of existence. How many dirtied clothes had she washed when Tom had failed to get to the toilet in time, and how few hours had she really slept for the fear? Fear of what? Losing him? It didn’t do to say it, not even let herself think it, but that was how bad his chest had sounded to her over the last forty-eight hours. Being on the ward, at least she felt as if she was no longer fighting alone.
The relatives’ room
offered some calm as she waited with Alice while the nurses checked him in. They didn’t speak, instead passed the time following along with the morning’s television, which was already playing when they first opened the door. Brian was there by then, sitting with his arm across Alice’s shoulders, stroking gently at the side of her neck. His eyes looked tired, swollen with tears, a strange comfort for Elizabeth from a smart-looking stranger. After a while he offered to get them a cup of coffee, and Alice said she wanted one too, which served as a decent enough excuse for her to follow him out of the room. It was a welcome respite, Elizabeth realized once she had a moment to herself. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her phone and typed a message as Kate had taught her.
I’m not sure if you received my messages the other day, but I would really love it if we could talk. It’s important. Love you, Mum xx
In a second bag on the floor she saw folded clothes, pajamas, and a wash bag. When night settled, she would have to leave him here, return to that house. Had she spent her last night with him? It was hard not to cave into the Murphy’s Law of thinking; they had hardly fulfilled any of their wishes. They had so many things left undone. Tears filled her eyes. There hadn’t been enough nights together yet. But there never could have been, she realized. Not anymore.
A moment later a nurse with a kind smile popped her head round the door. “He’s all settled now. Want to sit with him?”
Her feet clip-clopped down the corridor until she reached his bed space, found him wearing a pair of hospital pajamas that seemed to make him look even more unwell than he had when they’d arrived. His left eye still seemed droopy, but there was a softness to his features that elicited some relief for Elizabeth. He didn’t look to be in pain as he was before.
“Is he asleep?”
“No,” the nurse said, giving Elizabeth a quick rub on the arm. “But we gave him some painkillers, and they seem to have taken effect. You take a seat just there. The doctor will be along soon.”
Tom was resting in one of the six beds that made up the communal bay, and considerable noise rattled from one wall to the next, like wasps trapped in a jar, unable to escape. Yet the environment was remarkably reassuring after a few days alone at home.
“I’ll just be glad when the doctor arrives, eh, love,” Elizabeth said to Tom. Some of the wishes were still in her pocket. One she knew was from 1988; he wished he could take her up a mountain. Well, they were certainly climbing their own mountain now. Although he didn’t respond to what she said, she continued with the charade of conversation. “And when they get the CT done. The nurse in A and E said it might be later this afternoon.”
“I doubt that,” Alice said as she arrived in the bay, drawing back the curtains. “You know what the waiting lists are like.”
“People don’t wait if it’s urgent. Not even in the NHS.” There was a certain relief to see Alice nodding, as if she had decided to agree. “Where’s Brian gone?”
“He’ll be back in a while.” That was all she said about that, and Elizabeth didn’t ask again.
* * *
The doctor’s name turned out to be Dr. Nathan Peterson, and he was South African. Did he have people he missed, Elizabeth wondered, all that distance from home? Tom slept throughout the consultation, but Elizabeth felt a lot better for the doctor’s input, and even Alice seemed more settled by the time he had finished.
“So, we’ve added a steroid tablet, which will help with his coordination, and I’ll be in a little bit later as well to see how you’re all doing,” Dr. Peterson said. Alice stood up, shook his hand. “Until then, if there’s anything you need, the nurses will have it covered for you.”
“Thank you, Nathan. Thank you so much,” Alice said. Elizabeth was a little worried that Alice had called him by his first name. It felt a bit familiar to her, but he didn’t seem concerned. Time had changed more than just their appearances. Alice sat back down, smiling to herself. “I can’t believe that the CT scan has been pushed ahead of the list.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling the best smile she could muster.
“At least now we’ll know the full picture,” Alice said, seemingly pleased.
For days now, all Elizabeth could think about was knowing: first of all, knowing that it was really cancer, and then how far it had spread, or whether the type of cancer he had was amenable to chemotherapy. That was the predicament they were in. They were hoping for the right kind of cancer. But there was one thing worse than the disease itself, and that was how fast it might take him from her. How long did they have left? It had become a thought she couldn’t shake.
Dreams remained unfulfilled: a walk out to the shops, or through Hyde Park. More of his wishes that were yet to be realized. Time was the only thing that might bring Kate and Tom together, and how was it possible for it to run out before the two people she loved most in the world had met? And yet all those hopes seemed like such empty wishes now. It didn’t matter what the doctors told her about the prognosis. Not really. Her dreams were fading, whether she liked it or not, slipping through her grip like water through fingers. Tom was right after all; dreams were for rich people, and she had never felt poorer in her life.
Then
Her tread was light as she entered the house, the soft sounds of chatter and the rattle of breakfast plates coming from the kitchen. Why wasn’t her father waiting on watch, ready for a confrontation the moment she opened the door? Voices intensified as she headed toward the kitchen, leaving the book on the stairs, the conversation light and easy. Her father was serving tea, his hair wet and clothes casual. James was sitting in her mother’s usual seat.
“Where have you been?” her father asked, casually, before spotting the cut on her head, the missing shoe. “Oh, darling, whatever happened to you?”
Her first thought was one of relief as he rushed to greet her; it was impossible from his reaction that he knew she had been out all night. James stood up, took her hand. She stiffened at his touch.
“Lizzy, darling, tell us what happened.”
“I went to do some sketches and I slipped, knocked myself,” she said, thinking on her feet. “My shoe got swept away.”
“Oh my goodness, Elizabeth,” said her father, taking her in his arms.
“We should clean this,” James added, going to work right then and there, cleaning it with a strong-smelling solution that he found under the sink.
“I have told her time and time again to be careful,” said her father, glancing to James with a certain look of resignation. Something was exchanged between the two of them, and she recognized it as a handing over of the baton, as if she was James’s problem now.
“I’m fine. It’s just a little knock, that’s all.” In truth her ribs hurt, and she was bruised all the way down her leg. Only now she felt it, returning to this house. Her ankle was quite swollen too.
“You must take it carefully, darling. Whatever you were doing, it’s not worth risking your life for, is it?”
“No, of course not,” she said, although she didn’t believe it.
“Well, sit with us, let me get you a drink,” he said, collecting a cup and pouring her some tea. “James, will you take a top-up before you go?” James held his cup agreeably, steam rising as her father poured.
Elizabeth felt a little sorry for them both, knowing what was coming. They had no idea how an ordinary moment like this would be impossible in just a few short hours, that she was going to change everything they thought they knew. She was half-tempted to blurt it all out right then and there, but despite her eagerness, she knew there was a way to handle this, and urgency was not it. And even if she had wanted to, she was finding it a bit peculiar that her father was here alone, serving tea. It had thrown her a little.
“Where is Mrs. Clements?” Elizabeth asked.
“She’ll be in later.”
“And Mum?”
“A headache. Still in bed. She said not to wait for her.” He set down his cup and checked his watch. “In fact, you’d best g
et to it, otherwise you’re going to miss the best of the day.”
“Quite right. Come on, Lizzy,” said James, waiting for her to stand. After a moment he took the teacup from her and set it on the table.
As Elizabeth headed toward the door with James behind her, she couldn’t believe her father had accepted her lie so easily. He didn’t believe her truths with the same enthusiasm lately. He hadn’t even questioned the whereabouts of her sketchbook. What had he been doing down at the harbor if he wasn’t searching for her?
* * *
They arrived in Porthcurno to the sound of gulls, not another person in sight. The wind was strong as it chased across the headland, and as they stepped from the car James draped his arm around her waist and kissed her on the cheek. Feeling certain he was aiming for her mouth, she turned away just in time, managing to avoid it. The sea was rougher here, the blend of Atlantic currents with those of the English Channel disturbing the surface, as if invisible mythological giants were stirring below. The gray cliffs dripped with emerald pastures, kissed at the bottom by the luminous sands of Porthcurno beach. And there before her, the theater, built in a deep amphitheatric bowl that from where she stood seemed almost impossible to negotiate. It was as impressive as any sight she had ever seen.
“It’s quite something, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she said softly. It was years since she had been here.
“I knew you’d like it.” Uncertainty lingered in the pit of her stomach, and it felt wrong to take any joy from such beauty. “Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Let’s make our way down. I know the perfect place.”
* * *
They secured a spot on the southernmost point, glancing back over the headland toward Porthcurno. It was a small grassy knoll with ragged knots of rock protruding skyward like the lumps in Tom’s mattress. The act of sitting with her pencil in hand provided the balance she needed, her nerves steadying with each stroke. Across the expanse of sea, she could just make out the distant Wolf Rock Lighthouse, little more than a speck of dust in the vast ocean. At some point in the future she would come here with Tom, maybe at night, watch the stars like they had yesterday. What a day it had been. It would be possible to live that day over and over and never once tire of the repetition.
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