Another teenage memory from a long-ago summer flitted into her mind as she saw a tourist boat slowly making its way back down river. An illicit June evening trip up river, creeping on board with Beeny without buying a ticket, hoping bad-tempered Mitch Hutchinson wouldn’t notice them and have them thrown off. Beeny French-kissed Owen, his son, for his silence when he found them and realised they hadn’t paid. Funny how it was only Beeny he’d wanted to kiss. She hadn’t cared, though. The only person she was interested in kissing in those days was Gus. Not that she had, of course. She’d been invisible to him.
Harriet glanced at a blackboard nailed to the side of the kiosk with neat chalk-writing advertising the times of the next trips up the river, gold lettering at the top proclaimed: ‘Hutchinson River Trips. Established 1931.’ Was Owen running the family business now? Did Beeny still live in town? Funny how the old kiosk was kick-starting so many memories. Turning, she crossed the road and walked towards the Royal Avenue Gardens.
Standing by the inner harbour, its muddy waters crammed with boats small enough to pass under the embankment bridge to reach the river, her stomach rumbled and she realised she was ravenous, Angie’s delicious scones not enough to make up for her missed lunch. She glanced behind her at The Royal Hotel. Time for more nostalgia. Turning, she crossed the road and made her way into the hotel foyer, automatically turning right for the bar and restaurant.
After ordering a steak salad, Harriet took her glass of wine over to a window table and settled down to wait for her meal. Looking around, she could see the place had been extensively modernised since the last time she’d been there, but had somehow managed to retain most of its atmosphere from the eighteenth-century days when it had been a busy coaching inn.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ the waitress said, smiling at her. As she heard the Birmingham accent, Harriet smiled back. An incomer. Not a possible old friend from a past life. Good. She wasn’t ready to meet any of those yet.
Glancing around at the other people in the restaurant, an elderly couple, a family of six with an adorable toddler, a group of locals having a drink at the end of the working day, Harriet pushed her self-conscious feelings of being conspicuously alone away. She’d always hated dining alone. At least it wasn’t a permanent state of affairs. Frank would be joining her in two days. Tomorrow she would buy a book to read as she ate. Tonight she’d people watch and make plans for tomorrow and the meeting with Trevor Bagshawe, solicitor, to which she and Frank had planned to go together but now she was having to face alone.
CHAPTER THREE
JOHNNIE
Johnnie whistled tunelessly as he steered Annie on a falling tide across the Dart towards the grid. He loved the river at this time of day. Early evening and the light of the day was disappearing, although there was still activity on the water.
The Higher Ferry, its three lanes crammed with cars full of returning commuters from work in Torquay or even Exeter, was making its way across to the Dartmouth slipway. The naval college lorded it over Sandquay and the marina in the deepening gloom. Motoring past one of the huge black buoys in the middle of the river, he watched a shag preening itself, perched on the iron ring while seagulls wheeled and screeched overhead. When one wheeled directly over his head, aiming for Annie’s mast, Johnnie shouted ‘Bugger off’, knowing it was a useless shout. He’d waged a constant vendetta against them for years to Sabine’s amusement.
‘They’re part of the river’s landscape,’ she always said.
‘Bloody vermin,’ he’d mutter back.
Further upriver, on the banks that were appearing as the tide went out, oyster catchers were busy prodding around in the mud. He’d timed his arrival at the maintenance grid perfectly and, once Annie was alongside the embankment wall, he cut the engine.
‘Throw me the rope and I’ll tie you up aft,’ a female voice said.
‘Thanks.’ And he threw the stern line up towards the woman who expertly caught it and began to tie it to one of the rings. Johnnie went forward to the bow and threw the mooring rope curled up on the deck onto the quay before stepping off the boat onto the landing ladder and climbing up to the embankment.
‘Nice boat,’ the woman said.
‘Thanks,’ Johnnie answered, concentrating on pulling the bow into the position he needed for Annie to settle properly on the grid overnight. Once he was satisfied, he turned his attention to the stern rope, but the woman had done a good job there, releasing and tightening the rope as necessary whilst he did the bow.
‘Done a bit of sailing, then?’ he said. She might be wearing an expensive yachting waterproof jacket, but that was no guarantee she’d ever stepped on board a boat. Some women wore nautical clothes to be fashionable when around boats and water. Although Johnny had to admit she’d done a pretty proficient job with the rope.
‘Just a bit.’ The woman smiled at him. ‘Have a good evening.’
‘You too.’
Johnnie watched as she walked away. Nice smile. He couldn’t remember seeing her around the river before, and he knew he’d remember that smile, so he’d guess she was a holidaymaker.
He stayed on board Annie for half an hour, adjusting the ropes as she settled down on the grid, the wooden piles against the embankment wall keeping her off the stones. Once he was happy with the way she was settling, he grabbed his laptop from the chart table, secured the cockpit hatch and set off for Sabine’s and supper. Ten minutes later, he was sitting in her cosy kitchen.
‘You all right?’ he asked as she placed the chicken casserole on the table. ‘You’re a bit quiet tonight.’
Sabine shrugged. ‘Things on my mind.’
Johnnie knew better than to probe. Sabine would tell him in her own time.
‘Took a booking this afternoon for a delivery over to St. Malo next week,’ he said. ‘Forty-foot motor yacht so should be a quick trip. Only be away for three or four days at the most. Be back for Easter.’
‘Good. Do you get Annie across ready for tomorrow?’
Johnnie nodded. ‘Yep.’
‘You want to sleep here tonight?’ Sabine asked, knowing the yacht would be at an uncomfortable angle once the tide was fully out.
‘Thanks, but I’ll go to the cottage.’ He shrugged as Sabine glanced at him. ‘Needs an airing.’
‘Got a few signatures on the kiosk petition this afternoon by the way,’ Sabine said before adding, ‘Owen is planning on leaving Peter his boat business.’
‘Strewth. Bloody generous of him,’ Johnnie said. ‘Any strings?’ Given how fond he knew Owen was of his sister, maybe it was a ruse to gain her love? No. Not Owen’s style at all.
Sabine shook her head. ‘No. He just thinks of Peter as the son he never had.’
‘Set Peter up that’s for sure,’ Johnnie said. ‘What does he say?’
‘Doesn’t know yet. Owen is getting it all formalised before he tells him.’
Sabine stood up and cleared the plates away before placing an apple tart and a dish of clotted cream on the table in front of Johnnie.
‘Help yourself. Had my first American of the season book a ticket today. And guess what? He’s researching his family history! Quelle surprise! Why can’t they leave the past alone? Asked me if I knew any Holdsworths.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Basically that, unlike smalltown America, I knew the name but I don’t know everybody in the town.’
‘Pretty sure there aren’t any living in the town now,’ Johnnie said. ‘Didn’t we go to school with a girl who had Holdsworth relatives, though?’
‘She was the one I wanted you to marry so we could be sisters,’ Sabine said. ‘Wonder if he’s going to turn out to be related to that branch of the family.’
‘You ever hear what happened to your friend?’
Sabine shook her head. ‘Nope. Family simply vanished at the height of the scandal.’
On his way home later that evening, Johnnie stopped by the yacht to check everything was okay before crossing the embankment road and maki
ng for Undercliffe. The cottage he and Annie had bought when they married, filled with youthful optimism, no longer felt like home without her there. It had lost the wonderful homely and safe feeling that Annie had created within its walls. Now it was just a cottage where many painful memories blocked out the happy ones. He needed a drink to stay in the place these days.
Picking up the post from the doormat, he rifled through it. A letter from France, caught up in between the pamphlets and newspapers of junk mail that his post mainly consisted of these days, he placed on the table. He recognised Cousin Martha’s writing. Daughter of Tante Brigitte, his father’s younger sister, she was the one who kept him and Sabine up to date with family news these days. She was also the one whom he’d stayed with during those first dreadful days after he’d lost Annie and he’d fled to France.
Pouring himself a finger of whisky and taking the letter, he wandered through into the small sitting room and sank down onto the leather Chesterfield. Thank god his drinking was under control, thanks to Sabine, but he knew she would still have taken the bottle of whisky he’d hidden under the kitchen sink away if she’d realised it was there. ‘Too much temptation,’ she’d say.
Carefully he opened the letter. Bound to have lots of family news – there was still quite a large contingent of Le Roys over there in his home town. As he’d thought, the letter was full of news about the younger generation not doing well at school, the state of fishing was terrible and the new prime minister didn’t have a clue and when was he coming over? It would be a good idea if he came soon – but there was no reason given. Normally Brigitte simply said: ‘Looking forward to seeing you sometime soon’, but this: ‘It would be a good idea to come soon’ sounded more like an order. Was something up? Did they need his advice or was it a typically French reaction to something minor? Well it wouldn’t be until after Easter, that was for sure. A couple of deliveries were lined up – one to Spain and one to the west coast of Ireland. He’d give her a ring later. Find out what the problem was exactly. He took a slug of his whisky, savouring the warmth as he swallowed. Closing his eyes, he leant back against the settee.
Annie had loved the whole cottage, but this room had been her favourite to sit in and read. Johnnie could still see her curled up, lost to the world as she read the latest bestseller. Part of him knew the sensible thing would be to sell the place. He rarely spent a night here these days, preferring to be out on the boat.
He should buy another place without the memories. Or even a bigger boat. Move on like Sabine had when Dave died. Buying the cottage after the trauma of Dave being lost at sea, had certainly helped Sabine to get her life back on track. Strange really how they’d both lost their partners so early in life, but he’d always felt that while Annie had been the love of his life, Sabine hadn’t loved Dave in the same way. Oh they’d loved each other for sure, but he wasn’t convinced that they’d been true soul mates like him and Annie. Sabine had deserved a second chance with someone, but sadly it had never happened.
A voice in his head asked how could he bear to severe the tenacious connection the cottage provided with Annie. The simple answer was: he couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe at the end of summer he’d think about it.
CHAPTER FOUR
RACHEL
Rachel stood back and looked at the cake critically. Cake decorating had never been high on her list of ‘learn how to do’ skills. In the past it had been so easy to nip down to the local patisserie and buy their most highly decorated concoction whenever she’d been asked to provide a cake. Somehow, even if that option was still available, she doubted that approach would go down well with the organisers of this particular fund-raising event who’d asked her to donate a cake. Every one of them was sure to be a closet Mary Berry.
So this chocolate-covered three-tiered sponge had to be as good as she could make it. No doubt it’s homemade appearance would lose her brownie points and its butter-cream icing would be found wanting, but so be it.
Rachel smiled wryly to herself as she carefully placed the cake in the largest box she could find, ready to deliver it later that morning. Who’d have thought, six months ago, she’d be baking a cake and participating in a spot of charity work? Not her, for sure. When she’d arrived, still stunned by the changes in her life, she’d simply wanted to shut herself away. Which she did. The only person she’d spoken to on a regular basis was Hugo, who phoned her daily, telling her she should never have left France and begging her to return to the villa. The one thing Rachel was determined not to do. At least not permanently, maybe a holiday in due course to see everyone would be wonderful. But first she had to sort her life out.
Avoiding face-to-face contact with people, for weeks she ordered her food over the Internet for home delivery on a Friday with the instructions to leave the box in the porch. It had taken two months for her to discover she wasn’t cut out to be a hermit and to start craving some sort of social life. When she told Hugo she was starting to go out, his sigh of relief was audible down the phone. Within weeks she’d joined the library, been roped in to help at the town’s charity shop, found a favourite place for coffee and been cajoled into joining a book club which was where, after several glasses of wine following a particularly boring discussion, Susannah and Caroline had extracted a promise from her to bake a cake for their next coffee morning. And so far nobody had questioned her too closely about her past.
Her, ‘I’ve lived abroad for years’ reply when asked about where she’d previously lived, quickly followed by, ‘My husband died recently’ earned her sympathetic looks and stopped people probing too deep. Although there had been a moment just last week at the book club when Caroline had pursed her lips and said: ‘Where are you from originally? I’ve been trying to place your accent but can’t quite make it out.’ To Rachel’s relief, before she could answer, somebody called out for more wine and Caroline had moved away.
Glancing out of the kitchen window, she saw a sailing boat beating its way up river and for a moment she longed to be out there on board. Sailing was definitely on her agenda for this summer. She’d ask Susannah at the coffee morning later if she knew anybody who wanted the occasional crew. Maybe she’d brave the sailing club too and ask there.
Moving into the sitting room, with its large patio doors opening onto the terrace, it struck her how at home she was beginning to feel in the house. Something she hadn’t expected to feel in such a short time. But here were no memories lurking in every room to pull her up, to remind her how different her life had been just a few short months ago. Coming back was looking increasingly like it had been the right decision. She was living life on her own terms. For the first time in months she realised she was … not happy exactly, more like content.
The coffee morning was already in full swing in the charity shop when Rachel arrived. She pushed her way carefully through the crowd to the small cafe area and put her cake on the table. As she’d feared, placed next to a plate of expertly decorated cupcakes and a professional-looking carrot cake with a frosted topping, her chocolate cake did indeed look amateurish.
‘Hi, thanks for this’ Susannah said, immediately cutting it into slices. ‘People always go for chocolate – especially the ones that look so obviously homemade. Are you okay to stay and help for a while? Could do with a hand feeding the hordes.’
‘Sure,’ Rachel said. Half an hour later, as things started to quieten down, she was pleased to see only a single slice of chocolate cake left. Couldn’t have been that bad then. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she stood back and looked around.
She already recognised one or two faces. The lady from the library, the girl from the post office, even the traffic warden had popped in for a quick coffee. Two elderly ladies were talking quietly together as they browsed the book section. Parts of their conversation drifted over to Rachel.
‘Sad she had to die in the nursing home. Can’t help wondering what’s going on with her estate now though.’
‘Didn’t have any relatives, did she?’
‘Maybe she left all her money to charity.’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. She always was a close one. Wouldn’t mind her house. If it comes on the market, might go and take a look. Got wonderful views. Bet it’ll be expensive though, nothing ever comes cheap in Swannaton. Oh look what I’ve found, an Erica James. Have to buy it. Love her books.’ And the two women moved away.
Rachel’s hand shook as she replaced her coffee cup on the table. Was the woman they were talking about the one person she’d dreaded bumping into ever since she’d arrived here? Guiltily Rachel hoped it was. It would mean there was no chance of them meeting unexpectedly. It couldn’t just be coincidence. How many women living in Swannaton had a recently deceased twin brother?
The final link in town to her past would have been severed. With no-one left to drag them out of her cupboard and dangle them in front of her, her skeletons could finally be laid to rest.
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLIE
The day Ellie Lewis was made redundant from her job as features editor with a famous women’s magazine, turned out to be the day her relationship with Rod Vicars also fell apart. Ellie berated herself for weeks for not seeing either event coming.
She’d known, of course, about the redundancies sweeping through the industry, but had stupidly assumed her job was safe. Even consoled her friend Sally with the words, ‘Think of it as a new opportunity’ when she’d received the dreaded summons. Now she had her own unwanted new opportunity to deal with.
Andy, the editor, had been apologetic as he’d given her the news, saying he’d tried to save her job but ‘upstairs’ had refused. ‘Given you a generous package though,’ he’d added. As if that made all the difference. She needed to work.
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