I Do Not Sleep

by Judy Finnigan

  Now he finished his cigarette at the War Memorial and stood up. He wasn’t in the mood for meditation this morning; had been unable to find the energy to do anything but jog since he’d spoken to Molly at the Blue Peter. It had been an enormous shock, hearing from her out of the blue like that. And he’d behaved like a total prat, striding away from her in the street like a guilty child.

  He would have to face Molly eventually, he knew. He would walk, not jog, back to Polperro, shower and escape to have breakfast at the Crumplehorn. He couldn’t face the others at home, not yet.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Molly

  I spent the morning in a total flap. Len had telephoned, suggesting that we should head over to the island now the weather was calm and sunny once more. I found my throat close up with tension as soon as he began to speak. My stomach churning, I told Len I wasn’t feeling well. I’d been sick, I lied, and was going back to bed. Maybe we could do it tomorrow? It was obvious he didn’t believe me. His voice was gruff with disapproval as he confirmed he’d call me later, once again adding that time was running out.

  When I put the phone down, I rushed to the bathroom. Although I’d felt fine before Len’s call, speaking to him had indeed made me ill. So much for lying, I thought grimly. It served me right that I was now throwing up, my nerves were so jangled. I brushed my teeth, then lay down on the bed and tried to sort out my muddled thoughts.

  Why was I so reluctant to let Len take me to the island? I knew all about the place now, both from Tony and the book I’d read the previous day. Although it had a spooky past, full of stories about smuggling, dark hauntings and foul play, its history was really only as colourful as the legends attributed to Jamaica Inn. The aspect of Lammana that most intrigued me was its religious significance, the holy awe with which it had been regarded by monks for centuries; so important to them that after the original site of worship on the island had to be abandoned–the unforgiving elements imposing a harshly cruel environment that made it impossible to carry on living there–the Cistercians built another monastery on the mainland, keeping the island firmly and perpetually in view. It seemed that the holy friars felt they had to keep watch over Lammana, almost as if they were expecting something astonishing and momentous to happen there.

  Although this mystical distant history somehow resonated with my own dreams about Joey, especially the vision I’d had of the mysterious ceremony in the graveyard at Talland church, and the sense of peace and deliverance it had brought me, I still couldn’t make out why Len was so determined to get me there. It was as if he knew something, but what could he possibly know? If it were something about Joey, surely he would have told the authorities, the police, the harbourmaster, long ago?

  But then, I had walked to stare at the island myself, apparently, back in 2009. Len had told me that practically everyone in the village saw me make that journey on foot compulsively every day of my stay. If that was true, why had nobody questioned me about it, including Adam? Were they all too embarrassed to tell me they thought I was losing my mind? Were they just being polite? Were they keeping a secret? Restlessly I got up and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Taking my tea into the sitting room, I jumped as the phone rang again.

  It was Adam. I sat down with a bump when I heard his voice. He sounded strained, but I could tell he was trying to be kind.

  ‘Molly, we need to talk. Could we meet for lunch? I can pick you up from the car park and we’ll go somewhere quiet. We could eat outside at the Talland Hotel; in the garden we can talk privately.’

  ‘I don’t know, Adam. Every time we talk we have a row that ends in stalemate. I’m not prepared to leave Polperro yet, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘No, I accept that. But I haven’t seen you for three days.’ There was a pause. ‘I miss you, Molly,’ he said quietly.

  That shook me a bit, his tenderness. I stammered something about missing him too. I wasn’t remotely sure of this. In fact, I knew Adam had barely crossed my mind since I moved into Hope Cottage. Embarrassed and a little ashamed, I said I’d really like to see him and agreed to meet him at the car park at half past twelve.

  After I put the phone down, I stood for a long time looking out of the window. I watched the sea, now as calm and translucent as a village pond. Mindlessly I marvelled at its beauty, letting my thoughts wander, making shapes out of white woolly clouds, wondering idly about the small sailing boats I could see in the distance and the kind of families that were on board, enjoying the sun and the salt-tinged breeze; simply having a wonderful time together at leisure in a beautiful place.

  I thought of my own reduced family: Danny, Lola and Edie, and felt a violent and distressing pang of longing to hold my granddaughter in my arms. It was Edie I missed. I hadn’t really missed Adam at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Adam and I sat together at a table in the hotel garden. We’d deliberately chosen a spot as far from other diners as possible, right at the front of the large paved patio. The hotel was behind us; before us, a wide sweep of lawn, curving down to a superb view of Talland Bay. After a young waiter had taken our order, we sat in a silence born not of awkwardness but rapt delight. On a summer’s day like this, not even a famous celebrity-packed five-star restaurant in the south of France could provide a more perfect vista.

  An attractive, smiley girl brought out a jug of Pimm’s. Adam had insisted on ordering it, although I thought it was a strangely frivolous drink in the circumstances; oddly celebratory for a lunch during which some difficult things were bound to be said. Adam poured us each a glass, and smiled. ‘A lot better for us to be sitting here on a beautiful day drinking Pimm’s than shouting at each other in the middle of the night necking a bottle of brandy,’ he said, raising his glass to mine. I had to agree, though I still felt uncomfortable. This man sitting opposite me was my husband, and yet I felt as distant from him as I would a stranger.

  Adam leaned into me. ‘What’s your cottage in Polperro like?’ he asked pleasantly.

  I just about forced myself not to shrug. ‘Lovely. Very picturesque.’ He looked at me expectantly. I realised he was expecting an invitation. I couldn’t give it. As it dawned on him that I wasn’t going to ask him round, his smile began to fade.

  I looked steadfastly at the pretty fairy dell that Vanessa, the hotel owner, had created for children in a little copse to the left of our table. There was a life-size fairy queen, delicate and shimmering silver, waving her wand out to sea as if it were her dominium and she was summoning mermaids to join her from the waves. Elves danced around her, and a giant Alice in Wonderland mushroom stood guard. Closer to the edge of the enchanted glade were a white horse sprouting silver wings, and a gigantic bronze snail. Somewhere further along the winding path stood a grinning pink pig, and dotted about suspended from trees were tiny flower fairies and dragonflies made from glittering wire, shining like silver bells as they hovered in the sunlight. Set against the glorious background of sweeping green lawns, deep blue sky and cobalt sea, the effect was enchanting. More Cornish magic, this time restrained, delicate and full of childlike wonder.

  Dreamily, I found myself thinking about Edie. We’d brought her here, of course, but she was far too little yet to appreciate the fairy dell. Forgetting the awkwardness between Adam and me, I said, ‘Won’t it be lovely to bring Edie here in a year or two, when she’s old enough to enjoy all this?’

  I shouldn’t have been surprised at his ill-tempered reply. ‘What do you mean, bring her here when she’s old enough? You’ve told me in no uncertain terms you don’t ever want to come back here again. Have you suddenly changed your mind now you’ve found your picturesque Polperro cottage? Will you be staying there again next year? Alone? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. With Edie, of course. And I suppose Danny and Lola. Just not with me. I’m not allowed, because everything’s my fault. It’s my fault Joey died, isn’t it?’

  I started to protest but he silenced me with a furious gesture. ‘Oh, please don’t tell me
it’s nothing to do with me that you’ve moved out of Coombe, that you’re grieving. That’s bollocks. I’ve been thinking about this, you know, on and off for years, but especially now. What do you think it’s like for a man to go without sex for five years? For a husband to be rejected by his wife time and time again, when he’s lost his son, when he desperately needs comfort? Because he knows his wife is punishing him for something he didn’t do? Don’t pretend, Molly. You know that’s why we haven’t had sex since that bloody Easter. You know it’s because you blame me, you can’t forgive me for his death. Admit it, for Christ’s sake. Just admit you hate me, you’ve hated me for five long years, and then let’s talk straight and get a divorce.’ His face red with fury, Adam got up from the table and stalked off along the path towards the lawns leading down to the sea.

  I was dumbfounded. Sex? How had we got on to this? And what was Adam talking about? I didn’t blame him for Joey’s accident. And the reason we hadn’t had sex for so long was because we were both grieving. The idea of making love was impossible. I remembered the night we came here for dinner, and went back to Coombe, both of us feeling tender towards each other and hoping we could be lovers again. But though we fell asleep in each other’s arms, sex eluded us; Joey’s spirit loomed outside the bedroom. It was impossible to ignore.

  And yet–had we both felt Joey’s presence, or was it only me? Had we both felt it was wrong to make love, or only me?

  Adam was nowhere to be seen. I dug a notebook and biro out of my bag, and scrawled him a note. I couldn’t bear to sit here any longer. Other people on the terrace had seen Adam’s anger, they must have done. I looked around, and sure enough several couples were looking at me, whispering to each other behind their hands. I wrote on the note that I had gone down to Talland beach. I would either meet Adam there, or if he didn’t want to see me again, I would wait half an hour and use the phone box on the lane to get a taxi. I left enough money on the table to cover our bill, walked quickly to the gate and turned left down the lane. My face was flaming and my eyes stung with embarrassed tears. I would never, ever be able to go back there again.

  On the beach, I found a secluded rock and sat down, trying to make myself as unobtrusive as possible. I probably should have called a cab straightaway, but I needed some time to compose myself. Even a taxi driver would see I was upset. And I had to think. I had to think about what Adam had said. I looked down at the little rock pool at my feet. Tiny fish and minuscule crabs darted across the water, all busy, completely self-contained in their miniature world. I thought how secure and snug they looked. Around me children swarmed all over the rocks with their dads, their buckets and little fishing nets. Any minute my contented fishy companions could find their small haven in turmoil as the children’s nets plunged into the pool, stirred the sandy water and scooped them all up. Then they would be dropped into plastic buckets and triumphantly carried back to Mum. A compassionate mother might encourage the kids to return their little captives to the water, and some might obey, but for most of those baby crabs and fishes, it would undoubtedly be curtains. And so the world turns. Snug environments become hostile in an instant. Everything changes and nothing, no one, is safe.

  Had I really blamed Adam for Joey’s accident?

  When our safe environment imploded and I lost my son, had I somehow, illogically, thought it was my husband’s fault? I didn’t think so. I stood up restlessly and began to walk up and down the beach. I thought back to that hideous day at the start of the Easter holidays when I had screamed in our Manchester garden as Ben told me what had happened. I tried to remember what I did next, the sequence of events. But everything was scrambled, a chaotic mess. Adam must have come home, and he must have called Danny, but all I really remember of that night were flashes of the journey down to the West Country, blurs of blackness on the motorway when I dozed off (Adam had got our family GP to come round and give me sleeping pills and tranquillisers before we left). When we arrived at Joey’s cottage, Ben was waiting for us. I remembered his white face, his trembling hands, but not what he said. Adam put me to bed, heavily dosed with pills. The next day, the next weeks, were hazy, without definition. I remembered vaguely talking to the police, the harbourmaster, and Ben. But I couldn’t recall the conversations, just as I had no memory of my mysterious walks along the cliff path to the island every day. But Adam must have known, surely? Why didn’t he stop me, or come with me? Why did he just let me wander round the coast on my own? What had we said to each other during those tortured days?

  Adam failed to materialise on the beach, and eventually I got a taxi back to Polperro. I was miserable, and thought of calling Josie. Then I felt I couldn’t talk to her about Adam. I didn’t know her well enough. In fact there were no girlfriends I could discuss such an intimate problem with. My sanity for the past five years had depended on keeping my distance, on pretending everything was fine, including my marriage. If I told anyone we hadn’t had sex for five years, what would they say? They would know our marriage was a charade; that it had broken down. They would have breached my defences.

  I sat on the porch for most of the afternoon, trying to read one of the piles of novels I’d brought with me from Coombe, but I couldn’t really concentrate. I drank tea at first, but soon succumbed to white wine; trying to numb myself, avoid the impact of Adam’s devastating accusation. People wandered past the house, up and down, heading into the village or going the other way, towards Talland beach. They smiled and waved, their dogs barked happily and their children yelled and screeched with laughter. I dutifully waved back, trying to find pleasure in these charming little families enjoying their summer break, but I felt glum and distant.

  Later, I watched television with complete lack of interest. Impulsively I decided to walk to the Blue Peter. I wouldn’t know anyone there, except perhaps Queenie, and I wasn’t in the mood for conversation about Charmers, Looe Island or Joey. But Queenie could be a very entertaining gossip and I could certainly do with a laugh. I needed company, noise and laughter, and all the Blue Peter regulars were friendly. I would repress my normal shyness and try to have a good time.

  Daylight was fading as I walked past the harbour, the bright colours of the fishing boats darkening into a uniform grey. But their prow lights were on, joining the moonlight reflected in the pewter waves, creating nautical jolliness even in the gathering gloom.

  I pushed the pub door open; the place was thronged with fishermen and, of course, summer visitors, thrilled to be included in a genuinely nautical crowd. They liked local colour, the holidaymakers–who could blame them? The Blue Peter and its regulars provided as attractive an atmosphere as Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean, while being totally, authentically, Cornish. Admittedly there were no animatronic sailors chasing local maidens and brandishing brimming jugs of ale while bellowing about the joys of a pirate’s life. But the laughter was real and raucous, and I stepped inside with a lighter step.

  I saw Queenie straightaway, talking nineteen to the dozen as she served drinks with astonishing speed. I waved and she saw me, beckoning me to the bar, which was heaving as always. By the time I’d pushed my way through, she’d already made me a gin and tonic and she pointed towards a tiny corner table. The chairs had been grabbed by a couple of flushed young men, but just behind the table was a narrow window seat. I squeezed myself into it, and, after I’d people-watched for a while, Queenie, with extreme difficulty, managed to squash her round body next to mine.

  ‘I’m really glad you’re here,’ she said without preamble. ‘I was going to call you as soon as I got a break. Len’s in hospital.’

  I stared at her. ‘Why?’ I asked with deep foreboding.

  ‘Pneumonia,’ said Queenie crisply. ‘I knew he shouldn’t have walked through that terrible storm to get to Hope’s place.’

  I gawped at her. ‘What do you mean? You invited him.’

  Queenie tried to shift her squashed body, and shook her head. ‘Well, I didn’t want to, not on a night like that. I knew he’
d get drenched, and he’s an old man, you know. But when he heard you were there, he insisted I should arrange something.’

  ‘How ill is Len? And where is he?’

  ‘He’s in Derriford. They took him in an ambulance couple of hours ago. He gave the ward sister my telephone number and she called me.’ She looked shifty. ‘He’d told her about being caught in the storm and she was very cross. Said I ought to know better than to let a man as old as Len get wet through. I told her, I said, ‘Don’t you blame me, Sister. He was going to see a friend and he said it was urgent. I was merely acting as the go-between.’

  Queenie took a sip of her wine. ‘He’s ninety-two,’ she continued. ‘Pneumonia’s about the worst thing an old man like him can get. Sister said he’s very weak right now, but not critical yet.’

  I drained my gin and tonic and stood up. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go and see him first thing tomorrow morning. Thanks for the drink, Queenie. I must get back.’

  ‘I’ll come with you in the morning, shall I?’ she said eagerly. ‘We can share a taxi.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Not tomorrow. He needs to talk to me. I should see him alone.’

  And I left; Queenie looked crestfallen. When I reached the old blue door, I found my way blocked by a group of men in their forties, all pretty drunk. ‘Hello, love,’ slurred one beefy-looking bloke in a striped faux-matelot sweatshirt. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve just had one. I’m leaving,’ I said, trying to push my way past him.

  ‘Don’t leave, love, a pretty lady like you, all on your own. I’m on my own too, bloody wife’s left me.’ As he said that, his mates drunkenly cheered. The matelot leered at me. ‘Where’s your hubby, darling? Has he left you all alone? Shame. Come and have a drink with me and let’s talk about our shit spouses.’