by Heidi Swain
Each sheet had a date at the top and as I flicked through, I could see that they were all in chronological order. A part of me was saying that whatever was printed on the pages I held in my slightly shaking hands was absolutely no business of mine at all and that I should put them back where I’d found them.
However, there was another part, a stronger part as it turned out, which was whispering that this was most likely the last possible link I had with my mother and that I might discover something which would help me finally begin to come to terms with losing her. I sat and began to read the top sheet from the envelope which was dated the furthest back.
I didn’t have to read too far down the page to realize that what I had discovered was far from comforting. Tears quickly blurred my vision and my breath caught in my throat.
I saw them together last night and it tore my heart in two. I can’t talk to anyone about it, so I’m going to write about it instead. I need to express what I’m feeling somewhere and this feels like the safest place . . .
They were in a restaurant on the other side of town. It was a different woman this time. She looked beautiful, so much younger than me . . .
I dropped the page as if the words had burned my fingers. I had always known that women found Dad attractive. You only had to see how they reacted around him to realize that, but I hadn’t known that he had been tempted to stray beyond the marital bed. But that’s what these words Mum had written were suggesting, weren’t they? And looking at the number of pages spread out around me, this clearly wasn’t a one-off she was recording.
For a while I sat in stunned silence and then my anger began to grow.
I was floored by my father’s blatant hypocrisy. How could a man who championed family loyalty above everything else, treat his wife with such little respect? What gave him the right to keep banging on about family values and family first, when he had been seen out in a restaurant, wining and dining another woman who was evidently nothing to do with our family at all?
I wanted to read more, but my head was beginning to spin again. I thought of Mum’s packed wardrobes. How she had put a brave face on things and presented a pristine façade to the world when the truth behind the mask was one of sadness and heartbreak. Up until now I had never really understood why Dad was incapable of grieving for her, but now I realized he hadn’t loved her at all.
Suddenly I didn’t much care whether I was letting Dad down or if Chris was capable of running the office or not. I had to get away as soon as I could and I was going to take Mum’s diary with me.
*
I was back at work early the next morning and, following my mother’s example, I was immaculately made up, dressed to impress and ensconced behind my desk long before any of the others arrived.
I had been hard pushed not to drive over to the house and confront Dad, but common sense won out. I wouldn’t be talking to him until I had read everything Mum had written and I had my emotions firmly back under control. All I wanted from this early appearance at the office was to maintain my composure and take off with my dignity intact.
‘Tess,’ said Chris, his confident stride across the floor faltering when he spotted me. ‘We weren’t expecting you in. Are you sure you’re all right to be here?’
‘Yes,’ I said as I briskly grouped together the papers on my desk. ‘Thank you. I’m fine now.’
‘What have you got there?’ he frowned, beadily eyeing the file.
‘The Vicky Price contract and paperwork.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wanted to make sure nothing had been overlooked.’
‘Now, about that,’ he swallowed, nervously running a finger around the inside of his collar.
‘It looks like you’ve thought of everything,’ I said, raising my eyebrows. ‘There’s nothing left for me to do at all.’
‘Well, your father thought it was best to act as quickly as possible, what with the advertiser clamouring to start filming the ads, and I—’
‘You,’ I said, cutting him off, ‘thought you would take advantage of the fact that I wasn’t around and claim a rather substantial victory for yourself.’
His face began to turn an interesting shade of red.
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ he objected.
‘How would you put it then?’
I had spotted Lucy loitering in the doorway. Hearing my question, she backtracked and quietly closed the door. Chris opened and closed his mouth a couple of times like a fairground goldfish gasping for air in its plastic bag.
‘Come on, Chris, you’ll have to do better than that if you’re going to survive at Tyler PR,’ I said robustly. ‘You have to have an instant answer for everything, and the right one at that, if you want to continue impressing my father.’
‘I’m so sorry, Tess.’
‘Don’t apologize,’ I told him. ‘Never apologize. Mr Tyler would hate that.’
‘What?’
The poor chap looked as though he didn’t have a clue what was going on.
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I said, deciding he had squirmed for long enough. ‘I’m congratulating you, Chris. On a job well done.’
‘What?’ he said again, looking more like a fish out of water than ever.
‘Hats off to you,’ I said, putting the paperwork back into its folder and holding it out for him to take. ‘You saw an opportunity and you took it.’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Had I been in your position, I would have done exactly the same. To tell you the truth, I probably would have been disappointed in you if you hadn’t.’
He still didn’t look as though he believed me.
‘Dad is going be promoting you in no time,’ I told him. ‘Just make sure the digital contract matches the paper one exactly. You know the system glitches occasionally and that’s the last thing we want, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes,’ he finally said, his voice cracking before he cleared his throat. ‘I was planning to cross reference everything this morning. It’s the reason why I’ve come in so early.’
‘You’re not that early,’ I said pointing at the office clock. ‘You need to set your alarm a bit earlier if you really want to get the jump on me.’
The rest of the morning passed without incident. Lucy told me that Dad had left word the day before saying that he was going to work from home, which was a huge relief, and with the contract clutched tight in Chris’s competent hands I took some time that afternoon to trawl the internet in search of the perfect getaway, but it was easier said than done.
The whole world was literally just a flight away but I couldn’t make up my mind where to go. I had all but given up on my search and was about to log out of my computer, when an email pinged into my personal inbox . . .
Dear Miss Tyler, I’m mailing to inform you that Crow’s Nest Cottage has become available for the next two weeks due to an unexpected cancellation. I appreciate that it is extremely short notice, but if you could let me know if you are still interested in renting the cottage from this Monday – the 18th – I will be happy to renegotiate the price. Looking forward to hearing from you. Sam
Chapter 3
Needless to say, given my acknowledgement that I needed to look after myself and my recent discovery about Dad’s behaviour, I didn’t feel even a hint of guilt as I typed that I was indeed interested in taking the cottage for the next two weeks. My vertigo, coupled with Joan’s timely words about work and Mum’s heart-wrenching diary entries, were all the proof I needed that I was taking the right course of action and just in the nick of time.
I was going to Wynmouth without a backwards glance, although not a clear conscience. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to forgive myself for not spotting the signs of Dad’s philandering. I should have been there to support Mum but instead, I had been so obsessed with work, I’d been oblivious, but not anymore. I was going to spend the next two weeks re-evaluating my life and my relationships and get myself back on the right track. It was too
late to make a difference with Mum, but learning the lesson would be the best way to respect her memory.
I held my breath as I dialled the home number to make my excuses for not being able to carry on clearing Mum’s things as we’d planned when I left the weekend before and prayed that Dad wouldn’t be the one to answer.
‘The Tyler residence.’
It was a relief to hear Joan’s voice. Explaining to her that I still wasn’t up to scratch would be a doddle and, if she relayed my message, then I wouldn’t have to speak to Dad at all. I could send him a text on Monday saying that Chris was in charge and that I would be back at work in a fortnight. Simple.
‘Hi Joan,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’
‘Tess, love,’ she said, quickly dropping the formal tone. ‘How are you feeling? Did you go to work today?’
‘Yes,’ I swallowed, ‘yes I did, and I think I overdid it a bit.’
It was only a little bit of a lie. I was pretty tired.
‘There,’ Joan tutted. ‘I told you not to rush back, didn’t I?’
‘I know.’
‘I take it you won’t be coming tomorrow then,’ she stated, rather than asked. ‘I’ll tell your father not to expect you.’
‘Thanks, Joan.’ I smiled. She was certainly making it easy for me. ‘I appreciate that. I’ll see you soon.’
‘Not that soon, I suspect,’ she said shrewdly. ‘You take care, Tess, love and don’t worry about your father. Or work.’
‘I won’t,’ I whispered and hung up.
With the scene set, and my booking confirmed, all I had to do when I got up Saturday morning was prepare for my secret getaway. Having not taken a holiday for so long, my causal wardrobe was somewhat depleted, but a whirlwind shopping trip soon rectified that.
My appetite had made an unexpected comeback thanks to Joan’s coaxing and I ate my way through most of what she had loaded into the fridge as I packed my bags and then settled down on Sunday to prepare emails for Chris and Lucy. I explained what to expect in my absence and apologized for not letting them in on the finer details of my short-notice departure. The less they knew, the less my father would be able to get out of them.
By the time I had scheduled the emails to be sent the next morning – when I would be winging my way to Wynmouth – I was feeling a little nervous. Or was I excited? It had been so long since I had done anything so self-centred, anything that didn’t revolve around work, that I really couldn’t be sure. My current mental state was hard to pin down, especially as Mum’s diary had added its own unique layer of turmoil to it, but Wynmouth would soon set me straight. I hoped.
*
The journey to my personal paradise should have taken no more than three hours, but I was behind the wheel for nearer five. Not one, not two, but three crash clear-ups had hampered my stretch of motorway journey and I was well into Cambridgeshire before I started to notice the change in the scenery. It felt like an age since I had slowed down enough to look at green things growing.
A little further on I crossed the final county line and drove deep into Norfolk. Eventually, the first signpost directing me towards Wynmouth came into view and I swallowed down a lump in my throat as I tried to quell my mixed emotions.
‘Home sweet home,’ I whispered as I slowly pulled into the village and the sun, which had been positively shining down all morning, disappeared from view. ‘Well, for a couple of weeks anyway.’
The bank of grey cloud blowing in from where I knew the sea was waiting for me to spot it could have dampened my spirits, but I didn’t let it. After all the waiting and remembering, I was finally here. I had finally found my way back to the one place in the world where I had always felt happy and the sun always shone, in my mind at least.
I let down my window and breathed in a lungful of the longed-for salt-laden air as I drove around the large expanse of grass known predictably as The Green and smiled at the wooden sign featuring an image of a tall ship in full sail. The paint wasn’t quite as bright and pristine as I remembered and there was a definite lean to the stake which secured it, but I knew a sailor featured too and that there was a legend told about him on stormy nights. I couldn’t recall the details but hoped to be reacquainted with them soon.
The picturesque row of traditionally built brick and flint shops caught my eye next and looked comfortingly familiar, although perhaps a little smaller and certainly quieter. I scanned around but there wasn’t a soul in sight. It was quite deserted, but then given the gathering clouds perhaps the locals had headed home in case it rained, and of course it wasn’t the school holidays yet which would no doubt make a difference to numbers too.
I carefully swung the car around the tight bend which would lead me to the Smuggler’s Inn pub, my long-coveted Crow’s Nest Cottage and then a view of the beach.
‘I can see the sea!’ I shouted in the timeless tradition, even though there was no one to hear me.
The road dipped gently down – and the stretch of beach I had been dreaming about finally came into view. It was only the narrowest of glimpses between the two rows of houses lining the lane, but it made my heart skip nonetheless.
With no one behind me I slowed the car to a stop, pulled on the handbrake and took it out of gear. The little lane was single track, one way only and, in my opinion, offered the prettiest slice of coastal view in the whole of Norfolk. I could see the pub on the left and knew my cottage was just beyond it but set back a little with the tiniest garden and picket fence in front.
On the other side there was a row of what would have once been fishermen’s terraced cottages. There were half a dozen or so, also built in the traditional style and from local materials, and I hoped they weren’t all given over to the holidaying masses. Hypocritical I know as I was a holiday-maker myself, and I also knew that a village like Wynmouth needed to make ends meet. But I hated the thought of the place being devoid of local families, and bursting at the seams with tourists during the summer and then abandoned and boarded up in the winter.
It was all about striking the right balance, but aware of the soaring real estate prices on such picturesque properties in other places along the coast, I knew that most definitely hadn’t been achieved. The scales were weighted firmly in the holidaymaker’s favour there.
A sharp toot behind me brought me back to my senses and I waved a hand in apology to the impatient-looking chap on a tractor. At least there was one fisherman still in the village then. The old tractors, rust-riddled affairs thanks to the saltladen sea air, were used to pull the little boats up and down the beach and in and out of the sea.
‘Sorry,’ I called as I pulled away and indicated left, but I don’t think he heard me.
He had inched so close to my bumper that I didn’t think he could see my indicator either, but he must have known where I was going. There really wasn’t anywhere else, unless I wanted to take the car beachcombing. Focused on making the tight turn without scraping my paintwork, I hadn’t been able to look at the cottage as I squeezed by but it didn’t matter. I would be turning the key in the lock soon enough.
Fat raindrops had started to fall as I pulled into the pub car park and unloaded my bags and by the time I had walked back around to the lane and negotiated the incline up to the cottage it was falling faster, but it didn’t stop me taking a moment to admire the riot of colourful flowers in the front garden or the brick and flint façade.
The cottage was every bit as beautiful as I remembered. As I wrestled with the gate, which was a little twisted on its hinges, and scrabbled about in the leaking porch, searching for the pot with the door key hidden under it, I felt extremely happy to be back in Wynmouth, even if it was raining and some of my memories were already being subjected to a little fine-tuning.
‘It’s under the one on the other side,’ said a woman’s voice close behind me.
‘Shit,’ I swore as I dropped the pot in my hand, and it landed on the step with a sharp crack.
I picked it up and turned around.
‘Sorry,’ said the woman, who was loaded down with bags, ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘And I didn’t mean to break this,’ I said, showing her the damage and feeling my face flush as I bit my lip. ‘It’s cracked all the way down one side.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said kindly, shaking her head. ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to glue it back together.’
I set the pot aside, located the key and finally stepped into the cottage. The door opened straight into the bijou sitting room I had seen online. It was even cosier than I had imagined with a squishy sofa and chair, an old pine desk under the sash window and a well-stocked bookcase next to the brick fireplace which housed a log-burning stove. It was definitely tighter for space than I had imagined when I posed for my holiday snap.
You would have been stretched to make it a comfortable holiday spot for two, unless you were in the first flush of romance and happy to live on top of each other. Not an emotion I had felt for a very long time. Relationships were another thing I had sacrificed in my quest to keep focused on my career. Anything beyond half a dozen or so dates – or sooner if things felt even remotely as though they were heading towards serious – were ruled out. I had disappointed a good share of men in recent years and my heart had taken a bit of a battering too. As a result, I was sworn off romance (although not uncomplicated sex with no strings attached), for good.
I baulked at the thought that, if my interpretation of what Mum had written was correct, then I was like my father in that sense. I was certain that he and his lover could have managed to feel right at home with the compromised space in Crow’s Nest Cottage, but then quickly kicked the thought away. I would get around to the further details of Mum’s diaries at some point, but now was not the time. Now I wanted to enjoy getting to know the cottage which, given its dimensions, probably wouldn’t take long.