by Lilac Mills
Sunrise on the Coast
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter 1
Sophie Lakeland sat on the closed lid of her downstairs loo and contemplated her future. As far as she could see, she didn’t have one; yet at the same time, the possibilities were endless. The day stretched out before her, empty and directionless, waiting to be filled with…? She had absolutely no idea what. Which was the reason she was cleaning the downstairs loo for the third time that week when it was only Thursday, and no one had actually used it. Not even her.
She had been giving the washbasin a quick wipe when a wave of desolation and despair had swept over her, followed by a grief so intense it stole her breath and she’d been forced to sit down.
It hadn’t mattered that she’d had years to prepare for her mother’s demise, weeks and days to face the inevitable, then hours spent holding the increasingly frail hand and waiting for the last hitched breath; the end, when it finally arrived, had still been a terrible shock. Nothing could prepare you for the finality of it, and she wasn’t sure whether she’d ever get over it, or if she even wanted to. Her grief was something to cling onto, to make her feel some kind of emotion, however negative. Because without it, all that was left was a terrifying numbness and an awful sense of emptiness.
Oh, dear God, what was she supposed to do now? How was she meant to fill her days with no one to cook for, no one to count out the numerous tablets for, no one to wash, dress, wait on, fuss over, talk to, worry about, cry over…?
The house was as silent as the grave that she wished her mother had been buried in. But, as her mum had wanted to be cremated, Sophie didn’t even have the comfort of a graveyard to visit. No headstone, no leafy tree-lined parkland, no carefully chosen flowers. Nowhere to serve as a focus for her grief. Just a scattering of ashes in the impersonal Garden of Remembrance at the crematorium.
Sophie didn’t even have an urn.
Her mum had been quite insistent on that front, declaring it morbid. ‘I want you to move on, to have a life,’ she’d told her. ‘How can you do that when you’re carting me around with you? And I know you, Sophie – that’s exactly what you’ll do with my ashes. No, I want them to be scattered as soon as you’re given them. No procrastinating, no excuses. If you don’t, I’ll come back to haunt you.’
Right now, Sophie could think of nothing better than being haunted by her mother. How she longed to hear her voice again, to see her mum’s smile despite the awful pain she had been in, and to wrap her arms around those thin shoulders and breathe in the familiar perfume she insisted on being sprayed with every day, despite the fact that the smells of disinfectant and terminal illness were also mixed in with the delicate floral scent towards the end.
Sophie had never felt so alone in her life.
‘Stop it,’ she muttered, straightening up from her slump and wiping her eyes. They had seemed to leak constantly from the moment her mum passed away, as though up until that point her grief had been contained behind a wall of necessity and chores, which had since been breached by the finality of her mum’s death.
Breaking down and giving in to the tidal wave of sorrow was almost an hourly occurrence now, and she was getting mightily fed up with herself and her misery.
Bloody hell, death was an awful business. The only comfort she could glean from it was the knowledge that her mother was finally out of pain and at peace.
The pain belonged to Sophie now – not physical, but emotional. She felt as though her heart had been torn out of her chest and thrown on the floor to shrivel and wither now that there was no one left who loved her. And, in turn, she herself was without anyone else to love or to care for. She’d been doing the latter for such a long time, she now had no idea what else she was supposed to do.
With a deep sigh she clambered to her feet, but before she’d managed to drag herself into the sitting room, the doorbell rang.
‘Aunty Anne! Come in.’ Sophie stepped back to let the older woman into the hall, giving her a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek as she did so.
Anne patted her on the arm and Sophie saw tears welling up in her eyes. ‘How are you bearing up, dear?’ she asked, and Sophie’s own eyes began to prickle.
‘Oh, you know. How about you?’ she replied.
‘Don’t worry about me – losing a sister is bad enough, but losing a mother is a hundred times worse.’ Anne should know – she’d lost her own mother, Sophie’s gran, a few years back.
Sophie put the kettle on and when the tea was poured she led her aunt into the living room, her eyes welling up again as she glanced around the room.
Memories of her mum were everywhere. For her own sanity she really should remove them, or put them out of sight if she couldn’t bear to get rid of them yet. But get rid of them she must.
‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ her aunt asked, taking a slurp of tea.
Sophie shrugged, not trusting herself to speak.
‘The offer still stands,’ her aunt said gently.
‘I know, and I appreciate it, I really do; but you’ve only got a tiny flat, and there’s only the one bedroom. Besides’ – and here was the major stumbling block – ‘you live in a retirement complex. I’m pretty certain that one of the rules is that they don’t have anyone under the age of sixty living there.’
Anne scowled. ‘They can bend the rules this once. And I’m sure it won’t be for long – just until you sort yourself out. I can’t believe the council is simply going to turn you out. Surely you can do something? Can you start a petition?’
Sophie let out a slow breath. ‘You know it won’t do any good.’
‘They should be ashamed of themselves. You’ve lived here nearly all your life, and you’ve spent the last few years nursing your mum. They need to think how much it would have cost them if she’d been in a nursing home. You’ve saved that bloody council a fortune, and this is how they repay you!’
It was true. Sooner or later she’d have to move out of this house which she’d lived in for most of her life. The brief foray she’d made into living in her own place hadn’t lasted long. The cancer diagnosis had seen to that. She’d sold up, made a tiny profit which was still sitting untouched in her bank account, and had moved back into the family home for the duration.
The problem she now faced was that her mother’s home was rented, and Sophie’s na
me wasn’t on the tenancy agreement. It belonged to the council and they wanted it back. The fact that it was a three-bedroom property meant it was regarded as being too large for one person to occupy, especially when there was a shortage of council housing. She was under no illusion that she would be asked to vacate it at some point in the not too distant future.
‘Denise has offered to have you go and live with them for a couple of weeks,’ Anne reminded her.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ Sophie replied firmly. Denise was Anne’s daughter and Sophie’s cousin. At thirty-eight she was a few years older than Sophie and she’d just been surprised by a definitely unplanned pregnancy. Her twins were due any day now, and there was no way Denise and her husband would cope with having two new babies in the house, along with the two teenagers they already had, plus Sophie. It was very generous and thoughtful of them, but it was totally unrealistic.
She needed to sort out her own place to live, and pretty darned sharpish, but whenever she thought about it a feeling of intense lassitude swept over her. There was so much she should be doing, so many things to organise and arrange, and she didn’t seem to have the willpower or the energy to do any of them.
She was worn out, both physically and emotionally.
‘You look worn out,’ Anne said, echoing her thoughts.
‘I am, but there’s so much to do, I don’t know where to start.’
‘What you could do with is a break from everything. Why don’t you have a little holiday before you get stuck in?’ Anne finished her tea and put the mug on the coffee table. ‘I bet you haven’t had a proper break since before your mum was diagnosed.’
Sophie thought it was probably considerably longer than that. The last time she’d been away was at least eight years ago, a last-minute splurge with her friends before one of them got married. Not a hen party as such, more like a final fling as a single woman. The fact that her friend had been living with her fiancé for ages didn’t seem to matter.
They’d gone to Spain; Ibiza to be exact, and they’d done all the things that a group of women on holiday normally did – stayed up until the dawn brushed the sky, slept until the afternoon when they’d flopped on loungers on the beach to sleep some more, eaten too much, drunk too much, and danced until their feet were sore. It had been so much fun, and she’d been younger and carefree and she’d thought she still had the world at her feet.
Now look at her…
These days, staying up most of the night didn’t involve clubs and parties – it had been to nurse her mother. Her feet had still ached, not from dancing but from lifting, fetching and carrying. And any falling asleep she’d done hadn’t been on a sun lounger, but in the armchair in the living room where her mother’s hospital bed had resided for the last few months. She’d lost touch with her friends, had given up her job, and had gradually faded from the world, as caring for and nursing her beloved mum had taken over her life.
Maybe Aunty Anne was right. Sophie knew she had to make changes, and extremely significant ones, but she simply felt she wasn’t ready. And she wondered if she ever would be while she lived in the house that had been at the centre of her very existence for such a long time. Maybe she did need to get away for a while, to give herself the distance, space and time firstly to grieve, and then to decide what she intended to do next. The decisions were big ones, starting with where she was going to live and what job she could possibly do, having been out of work for years. She used to work in admin, but she suspected most employers would take one look at the huge employment gap in her CV and throw her application form in the bin. The only other thing she had experience of was caring for an invalid, but even then employers wanted a Level 2 qualification in this, that or the other before they’d even consider an applicant.
Sophie had nothing that an employer would want, except for a handful of GCSEs and a couple of A levels.
At least she had a small amount of savings, enough for a cheap couple of weeks away – although where she’d go for some sun in October that didn’t involve a long-haul flight and lots of expense, she had no idea – and for a deposit plus two or three months’ rent on a flat. She only hoped she’d have enough time to find a job before her money ran out.
Perhaps going away wouldn’t be such a good idea after all. It would be a waste of money for one thing.
‘Look,’ Anne said, breaking into her thoughts. ‘They’re not going to throw you out just yet. The council have to give you a decent amount of notice, and you won’t want to take any time off as soon as you start a job, so now is the ideal time.’
Put like that…
‘Maybe I could stretch to a few days away in Cornwall or Devon,’ she said.
Anne snorted. ‘In this weather? You might as well stay at home. No, listen to your aunt and go somewhere nice and hot.’
It would be considerably less hassle (she wasn’t sure she actually knew where her passport was) to have a staycation, but one glance out of the window made her think again. It was midway through the morning, but the sky was a sullen, depressing grey and rain was falling in torrents. It was bitterly cold, and the wind was whipping the branches of the trees in the park opposite into a frenzy. Did she really want to spend a few days in a guest house staring at the same rain? Once again, her aunt was right – she could do that far more comfortably from her own living room and with considerably less expense.
No, she decided; if she was going to go anywhere, it would have to be warm and sunny – which meant that most of Europe was out. The only place she could think of that she might be able to afford and would feel comfortable visiting on her own was the Canary Islands.
So with that in mind, when Aunty Anne left, Sophie began the mammoth task of searching for her passport; and if she didn’t find it, at least the hunt would have killed a couple of hours.
Chapter 2
As Sophie walked through the sliding doors of Tenerife’s airport and stepped into the balmy air, she turned her face up to the sun and sighed with pleasure at the unaccustomed warmth. She was here, really here. In a foreign country. On her own. For two whole weeks.
The thought filled her with a quiet exhilaration which was tinged with apprehension.
The last-minute, remarkably cheap, midweek flight had been uneventful, most of it consisting of reading her book and peering out of the window at the cloud-laden sky. But when the aeroplane drew close to the group of islands, the pilot first pointed out La Palma, then La Gomera on the right of the aircraft, and she craned her neck across the aisle to see better. It was at that point that the conical peak of Tenerife’s impressive volcano hoved into view, poking up through a ring of cloud like a pale, shining witch’s hat, and she caught glimpses of flatter land beneath before the plane turned and began its final descent.
Now that she was on terra firma, the cloud which she’d spotted from the aircraft’s windows seemed to have disappeared and the sky was a bright azure blue, tinged with a silver haze. She’d read that the island could be windy and so she wasn’t surprised to feel a stiff breeze, but the wind was a warm one, totally unlike the howling gale back in the UK earlier that morning, and at least the sun was shining.
Sophie took a steadying breath and scanned the throng of people hanging around the doors holding pieces of paper with passengers’ names scrawled on them until she found her own. It was her one indulgence this holiday (apart from the holiday itself, of course) – a private transfer to the apartment she was renting. Apparently it was a good half an hour away from the airport and she hadn’t trusted herself to be able to find her way there on her own. Not on her very first day, at least. So she’d booked a taxi and, as she sank into the back seat, she still couldn’t believe she was here. It felt like a rather odd, yet pleasant dream.
From the second she’d made the decision to book a holiday, the time had passed in a whirl of preparation and guilty excitement. She’d even managed to push her grief to the back of her mind for minutes at a time, as she scrolled endlessly on her rather
ancient phone to find an Airbnb to book, then dug out her few summer clothes, washed and dried them, and shopped for some essentials. During those activities the sorrow seemed less sharp, less shocking. Sophie sensed it would always be there, but she also sensed that it would fade and become less painful over time, and part of the healing process was this holiday. She hoped it would serve to draw a line between her life before it and her life after it, and enable her to face her future with a clearer head and more focus.
For now, though, all she wanted to do was to sit back and enjoy the scenery unfolding before her. The bare, dark rock interspersed with cacti surprised her, as did the sheer number of breeze-block-walled fields, topped with cream netting, some of it torn and fluttering in the breeze.
‘What’s growing in those fields?’ she asked, seeing squat palm-like plants behind the netting.
‘Banana,’ her driver said, glancing in the rear-view mirror.
‘There are acres of them!’ she exclaimed.
He gave her a wide smile. ‘Many bananas. Good to eat.’
She took a closer look as the car slowed to negotiate a steep bend and spotted clumps of the green fruit.
They’d been on the road for a good half-hour and she wondered how much further it was. They were travelling along a coastal road with the sea on their left and every so often she’d catch a glimpse of mountains on the right, with Teide as the pinnacle, still wearing a hat of cloud, only peeping through it now and again.
‘La Gomera,’ her driver said, pointing to a hazy lump of land out to sea.
Oh, yes, she remembered seeing the island from the plane. It looked miles away and slightly ethereal. Where the sea and the sky met was also hazy, but nearer to shore the water was a turquoise blue, with darker, almost navy patches in places. Little white crests topped the waves, and she guessed it was probably quite choppy out in the open water, although there were plenty of boats bobbing around on it.
‘Los Gigantes,’ he informed her, pointing straight ahead, and she leaned forward to see the famous cliffs. She had read in her guidebook that they were an impressive 2,500 feet high in places and could be seen for miles. There was a resort of the same name next to them, but she should arrive at the place where she was staying before then. The apartment did boast a view of the cliffs, though, so she hoped it wasn’t a case of having to be ten foot tall and standing on a chair to be able to see them from the balcony.