He nodded. ‘It looks that way. I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you for letting me carry on for as long as you did.’
‘You were right not to give up,’ Ray said, ‘and I’m glad we kept working on it.’
‘Even though we’re not any further forward?’
‘Yes, because now it feels right to stop, doesn’t it? We’ve done everything we possibly could have done.’
Kate nodded slowly. ‘It does feel different, yes.’ She looked at Ray appraisingly.
‘What?’
‘I guess you’re not the chief’s yes-man, after all.’ She grinned, and Ray laughed. He was glad to have gone up in her estimation.
They ate the crisps in companionable silence, and Ray checked his phone in case Mags had sent a text message.
‘How are things at home?’
‘Same old,’ Ray said, tucking his phone back in his pocket. ‘Tom still grunts his way through meal-times, and Mags and I still argue about what we should do about it.’ He gave a short laugh, but Kate didn’t join in.
‘When are you next seeing his teacher?’
‘We were at the school again yesterday,’ Ray said grimly. ‘Barely six weeks into the new school year and it seems Tom’s been skipping lessons.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘I don’t understand that kid. He was fine over the summer, but as soon as he went back it was the same old Tom: uncommunicative, surly, uncooperative.’
‘Do you still think he’s being bullied?’
‘The school says not, but then they would, wouldn’t they?’ Ray didn’t hold a particularly high opinion of Tom’s head teacher, who had been quick to place the blame on Mags and Ray for not presenting a ‘united front’ at parents’ evenings. Mags had threatened to come to Ray’s office and forcibly drag him to the next meeting, and Ray had been so worried he would forget that he had worked from home all day, so he could drive to the appointment with Mags. Not that it had made a blind bit of difference.
‘Tom’s teacher says he’s a bad influence on the rest of the class,’ Ray said. ‘Apparently he’s “subversive”.’ He gave a derisive snort. ‘At his age!’ It’s bloody ridiculous. If they can’t deal with uncooperative kids they shouldn’t have gone into teaching. Tom’s not subversive, he’s just bloody-minded.’
‘I wonder where he gets that from,’ Kate said, suppressing a smile.
‘Watch it, DC Evans! Or do you want to end up back in uniform?’ He grinned.
Kate’s laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered. I think I’m going to call it a night. My car’s in the garage, so I need to check what time the buses run.’
‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Are you sure? It’s not exactly on your way.’
‘It’s no trouble. Come on – you can show me what the posh end of town’s like.’
Kate’s apartment was in a smart block of flats in the centre of Clifton, where prices were, in Ray’s view, vastly inflated.
‘My parents helped me out with a deposit,’ Kate explained. ‘I’d never have afforded it otherwise. Plus it’s tiny; technically two bedrooms, but only if you don’t actually want to put a bed in the second one.’
‘Surely you’d have got far more for your money if you’d bought elsewhere?’
‘Probably, but Clifton has everything!’ Kate waved an arm expansively. ‘I mean, where else can you get falafel at three in the morning?’
As the only thing Ray ever wanted at three in the morning was a pee, he failed to see the attraction.
Kate unclipped her seat belt and stopped, her hand on the door handle. ‘Do you want to come up and see the flat?’ Her tone was casual, but the air was suddenly thick with anticipation, and at that instant Ray knew he was crossing a line he had been refusing to acknowledge for months.
‘I’d like that,’ he said.
Kate’s apartment was on the top floor, with a swanky lift that arrived in seconds. When the doors opened they were on a small carpeted landing with a cream-painted front door immediately opposite them. Ray followed Kate out of the lift, and they stood in silence as the doors slid shut. She was looking directly at him, her chin lifted a little, and a strand of hair falling across her forehead. Ray suddenly found he was in no hurry to leave.
‘This is me,’ Kate said, without taking her eyes off him.
He nodded, reaching out to tuck the errant strand of hair behind her ear. Then, before he could question what was happening, he was kissing her.
14
Beau pushes his nose into the crook of my leg and I reach down to fuss his ears. I haven’t been able to prevent myself from loving him, and so he sleeps on my bed as he has wanted to do from the start. When the nightmares come, and I wake screaming, he’s there to lick my hand and reassure me. Gradually, without my noticing, my grief has changed shape; from a raw, jagged pain, that won’t be silenced, to a dull, rounded ache I’m able to lock away at the back of my mind. If it is left there, quiet and undisturbed, I find I’m able to pretend that everything is quite all right. That I never had another life.
‘Come on, then.’ I reach out to switch off the bedside light, which can’t compete with the sunlight streaming through the window. I know the seasons of the bay now, and there is a pleasing satisfaction in having seen almost a full year here. The bay is never the same from one day to the next. Changing tides, unpredictable weather, even the rubbish thrown up on the beach alters it hourly. Today the sea is swollen from a night’s rain, the sand grey and waterlogged beneath heavy clouds. There are no tents at the caravan park now, only Bethan’s static caravans and a handful of motorhomes owned by holiday-makers taking advantage of the late-season discounts. Before too long the park will close, and the bay will be mine again.
Beau races ahead and runs down on to the beach. The tide is in and he dives into the sea, barking at the cold waves. I laugh out loud. He is more spaniel than collie now, with the slightly-too-long legs of a teenager, and so much energy I wonder if he could ever run it off.
I scan the clifftop, but it’s empty, and I allow myself a twinge of disappointment before I shake it off. It’s ridiculous to hope to see Patrick, when we’ve met here on the beach just that one time, but I can’t stop the thought forming.
I find a stretch of sand on which to write. I suspect things will slow down over the winter, but for the time being the business is doing well. I get a jolt of pleasure every time an order arrives, and I enjoy guessing the stories behind the messages. Most of my customers have some connection to the sea, and many email after they’ve received their order, to tell me how much they loved the picture; how they spent their childhood on the beach, or saved for family holidays by the coast. Sometimes they ask me which beach it is, but I never reply.
As I’m about to start work, Beau barks, and I look up to see a man walking towards us. My breath catches, but he raises a hand in greeting and I realise it’s him. It’s Patrick. I can’t hide my smile, and although my heart is racing, it isn’t through fear.
‘I hoped I might find you here,’ he says, before he has even reached me. ‘How do you fancy an apprentice?’ He isn’t wearing boots today, and his corduroy trousers are laced with wet sand. The collar on his waxed jacket is turned up on one side and I resist the temptation to reach up and smooth it back down.
‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘An apprentice?’
He makes a sweeping gesture with his left arm, encompassing most of the beach. ‘I thought I could help you work.’
I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me. I don’t say anything.
Patrick takes the stick from my hand and stands expectantly, poised over the empty patch of sand. I’m suddenly flustered. ‘It’s harder than it looks, you know,’ I say, adopting a serious tone to cover my awkwardness. ‘I can’t have any footprints in the shot, and we have to work quickly, otherwise the tide will come in too close.’
I can’t recall anyone ever wanting to share this part of my life: art was always something to be shut away in another room, something for
me to do on my own, as though it didn’t belong in the real world.
‘Got it.’ He has an air of concentration on his face I find touching. It is, after all, just a message in the sand.
I read the order aloud. ‘Nice and simple: “Thank you, David”.’
‘Aha – thank you for what, exactly, I wonder?’ says Patrick, leaning over the sand to write the first word. ‘Thank you for feeding the cat? Thank you for saving my life? Thank you for agreeing to marry me even after I had that fling with the postman?’
The corners of my mouth twitch. ‘Thank you for teaching me flamenco dancing,’ I proffer, pretending to be serious.
‘Thank you for the selection of fine Cuban cigars.’
‘Thank you for extending my overdraft.’
‘Thank you for…’ Patrick reaches his arm out to complete the final word and loses his balance, toppling forward and only managing to stay upright by planting a foot firmly in the middle of the writing. ‘Oh, bugger.’ He steps back to eye the ruined message and looks apologetically at me.
I burst out laughing. ‘I did say it was harder than it looked.’
He passes me back the stick. ‘I bow to your superior artistic skills. Even without the footprint, my effort isn’t terribly impressive. The letters are all different sizes.’
‘It was a valiant attempt,’ I tell him. I look around for Beau, calling him away from a crab he is intent on playing with.
‘How’s this?’ Patrick says. I look at the message he has written in the sand, expecting a second attempt at the ‘thank you’.
Drink?
‘Better,’ I say, ‘although that’s not one of—’ I break off, feeling foolish. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘At the Cross Oak? This evening?’ Patrick falters a little, and I realise he’s nervous too. It gives me confidence.
I hesitate, but only for a second, ignoring the thumping in my chest. ‘I’d like that.’
I regret my impetuousness for the rest of the day, and by the evening I am so anxious I am shaking. I count the ways in which this could go wrong, and replay everything Patrick has ever said to me, looking for warning signs. Is he as straightforward as he appears? Is anyone? I think about walking into Penfach to phone the vet’s surgery and cancel, but I know I won’t have the nerve. I take a bath to kill some time, running the water so hot it turns my skin pink, then I sit on my bed and wonder what I should wear. It’s ten years since I last went on a date, and I am frightened of breaking the rules. Bethan has continued to clear out her wardrobe of clothes she can no longer fit into. Most are too big for me, but I try on a skirt in deep purple and although I have to tie it at the waist with a scarf I don’t think it looks too bad. I walk around the room, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of my legs touching as I walk; the swing of the fabric about my thighs. I feel a glimmer of the girl I used to be, but when I look in the mirror I realise the hem is above my knee, and my legs stretch boldly out beneath. I take it off and throw it into a ball at the back of the wardrobe, reaching instead for the jeans I’ve only just taken off. I find a clean top and brush my hair. I look exactly as I did an hour ago. Exactly as I always do. I think of the girl who would spend hours getting ready to go out: music playing, make-up scattered about the bathroom, the air thick with perfume. I had no idea, back then, what real life was like.
I walk to the caravan park, where I have arranged to meet Patrick. At the last minute I decided to bring Beau with me, and his presence gives me back a little of the bravado I felt on the beach this morning. When I reach the caravan park Patrick is standing by the open door to the shop, Bethan leaning in the doorway talking to him. They are laughing about something, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s me.
Bethan sees me, and Patrick turns and smiles as I approach. I think at first he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but he simply touches me gently on the arm as he says hello. I wonder if I look as terrified as I feel.
‘Be good, you two!’ Bethan says with a grin.
Patrick laughs and we walk towards the village. He finds conversation easy, and although I’m certain he exaggerates the antics of some of his patients, I’m grateful for his storytelling, and I find myself relaxing a little as we arrive in the village.
The landlord of the Cross Oak is Dave Bishop, a Yorkshireman who arrived in Penfach only a few years before me. Dave and his wife Emma are firmly rooted in the community now, and – like the rest of Penfach – know everyone’s name and everyone’s business. I’ve never been inside the pub, but I have said hello to Dave when I’ve come by with Beau on my way to the little Post Office shop.
Any hope I might have had of a quiet drink evaporates the moment we step through the door.
‘Patrick! Your round, isn’t it?’
‘I need to get you out to look at Rosie again, she’s still not right.’
‘How’s your old man? Not missing the Welsh weather too much?’
The onslaught of conversation, coupled with the enclosed space of the bar, makes me anxious. I close my hand around Beau’s lead and feel the leather slip against my damp palm. Patrick has a few words for everyone but doesn’t stop to chat. He places a hand on my back and steers me gently through the throng of people to stand at the bar. I feel the heat of his hand on the small of my back and am both relieved and disappointed when he takes it away and folds his arms on the bar. ‘What would you like?’
I wish he had ordered first. I long for a cold bottled lager, and I scan the pub to see if any of the women are drinking beer.
Dave coughs politely. ‘A gin and tonic,’ I say, flustered. I have never drunk gin. This inability to make decisions isn’t new, but I can’t remember when it started.
Patrick orders a bottle of Becks and I watch the condensation form on the outside of the glass.
‘So you’ll be the photographer staying at Blaen Cedi? We wondered where you’d been hiding.’
The man talking to me is around the same age as Iestyn, with a tweed cap on his head and whiskery sideburns.
‘This is Jenna,’ Patrick says. ‘She’s been building up a business, so she hasn’t had much time for sinking pints with you old lags.’
The man laughs, and I flush, grateful for Patrick’s easy explanation for my seclusion. We choose a table in the corner, and although I’m conscious of the eyes upon us, and the gossip that is no doubt now rife, after a while the group of men turn back to their pints.
I’m careful not to talk too much, and fortunately Patrick is full of tales and interesting snippets of local history.
‘It’s a lovely place to live,’ I say.
He stretches long legs out in front of him. ‘It is that. Not that I felt that way when I was growing up here. Kids don’t appreciate beautiful countryside, or a sense of community, do they? I used to nag my parents endlessly to move us to Swansea – I became convinced it would transform my life, and I’d suddenly become really popular, with an amazing social life and a string of girlfriends.’ He grins. ‘But they wouldn’t entertain the idea of a move, and I went to the local comprehensive.’
‘Did you always want to be a vet?’
‘Ever since I was a toddler. Apparently I used to line up all my stuffed toys in the hall and make my mother bring them into the kitchen one at a time so I could operate on them.’ When he talks, his whole face is animated; the corners of his eyes crinkling a split second before his smile breaks. ‘I scraped through with the A-levels I needed and went to Leeds University to do Veterinary Science, where I finally got the social life I’d been desperate for.’
‘And the string of girlfriends?’ I say. Patrick grins.
‘Maybe one or two. But after all that time desperately trying to escape Wales, I missed it terribly. When I graduated I found a job near Leeds, but when a partnership became available at the surgery in Port Ellis I jumped at the chance. Mum and Dad were getting on a bit by then, and I couldn’t wait to be back by the sea.’
‘So your parents lived in Port Ellis?’ I’m always curious about people who h
ave close relationships with their parents. I’m not envious, I simply can’t imagine it. Perhaps if my father had stayed, things might have been different.
‘Mum was born here. Dad moved here with his family when he was a teenager and married Mum when they were both nineteen.’
‘Was your dad a vet, too?’ I’m asking too many questions, but I’m scared that, if I stop, I’ll be the one expected to give answers. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, filling me in on a family history that puts a nostalgic smile on his face.
‘An engineer. He’s retired now, but he worked for a gas company in Swansea all his life. It’s because of him I’m a volunteer lifeboatman, though. Dad did it for years. He used to dash off halfway through Sunday lunch, and Mum would make us all say a prayer that everyone would be brought safely to shore. I used to think he was an actual super-hero.’ He took a swig of his pint. ‘That was back in the days of the old lifeboat station at Penfach – before they built the new one in Port Ellis.’
‘Are you called out often?’
‘It depends. More in the summer, when the caravan parks are full. It doesn’t matter how many signs there are, telling people the cliffs are dangerous, or not to swim at high tide – they don’t take any notice.’ He looks suddenly serious. ‘You must be careful swimming in the bay – the undercurrent is fierce.’
‘I’m not a strong swimmer,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t been in over my knees yet.’
‘Don’t,’ Patrick says. There is an intensity in his eyes that scares me, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Patrick drops his gaze and takes a long swallow of his pint. ‘The tide,’ he says softly, ‘it catches people out.’
I nod, and promise I won’t swim.
‘It sounds strange, but the safest swimming is further out.’ Patrick’s eyes light up. ‘In the summer it’s great to take a boat out beyond the bay, and dive straight into the deep water. I’ll take you sometime, if you like.’
It’s a casual offer, but I shiver. The thought of being alone with Patrick – with anyone – in the middle of the ocean is utterly terrifying.
I Let You Go Page 11