Snowflakes at Lavender Bay
Page 20
‘I don’t suppose you’re still in touch with her? Do you know what happened to Deborah?’
‘Margery and I are still very much in touch, but I’m afraid the news about Deborah isn’t good. She passed away a few years ago, some kind of cancer.’ She shuddered. ‘Terrible bloody disease.’
Dead. His mother was dead. He’d ripped open his oldest and darkest wound, and for what? Numb, Owen could only stare at the patch of carpet between his feet, his eyes tracing the rosette pattern over and over as he tried to process his feelings. Beneath the usual anger and resentment was something new and unwelcome—grief. He dug his fingers into his thighs; he wouldn’t cry for her. He. Would. Not.
Doris shuffled in her fluffy slippers to the far end of the wall where the black-and-white photos hung. She removed one and held it out and he found himself taking it on reflex. A scowling man stood in the centre of a group of solemn-faced children dressed in their Sunday best in front of a plain brick edifice. Each child clutched a book in their hands. ‘That was our confirmation day.’ Doris tapped the photo with one gnarled finger. ‘That’s me on the left, and Gerald and Margery are standing in the middle on either side of their father.’
Lifting the photo closer, Owen squinted at the blurred image. Perhaps there was something of him about the man; the jawline looked enough like his own, and as Doris had said there was something around the eyes, too. His eyes strayed lower to a small bear dangling from the girl’s hand. A row of buttons marched neatly down the toy’s chest. Mr Buttons. ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered.
She patted his shoulder. ‘I know this is a lot for you to take in, but we weren’t sure the best way to go about it.’
‘We?’ Owen had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could get the word out.
‘After Gerald—your grandfather, I suppose I should say. After he died, Margery moved back down to the bay.’
‘She’s here?’
Doris nodded. ‘She lives a few doors down from me. She knows about your visit, but she didn’t want to presume anything. If you want to meet her now, I can go and fetch her, or you can wait and think about it a bit, if you’d rather?’
Owen stared down at the photo in his hands, searching for any kind of a connection to the people staring back at him. Not just people—his great-grandfather, grandfather and great-aunt. Surreal didn’t even begin to describe that notion. He’d never really thought beyond looking for his mum, hadn’t dared let himself think of a wider family. Were there others, or had Deborah been an only child? Did he have any cousins? Did he want cousins? The only way to find out would be to meet Margery, his great-aunt Margery. ‘I don’t know what to say to her.’
‘You could start with “hello”?’
Owen nodded. ‘I can manage that, I think.’ It felt like he sat alone for hours with nothing but the blank faces from an old photograph and the ticking of the clock on the mantle for company, before a knock came from the open living-room door. He glanced up, and felt the world sliding away from him. The years hadn’t been kind to her, but there was no mistaking the woman standing in the doorway as anyone other than the one in the picture he was clutching. ‘Margery?’
Her hand fluttered up to her mouth, tears shining in her eyes. ‘Oh, it really is you. When Doris came to me the other week, I couldn’t dare hope it was true. But, I’d know you anywhere. I wanted to look for you so many times, but Gerald refused to tell me where he’d sent Deborah to have the baby, and she wouldn’t talk about it.’
‘You wanted to try and find me?’ It was the strangled tones of a desperate child.
Margery hurried across to him, then seemed to freeze with a hand outstretched as though not sure she should try and touch him. ‘So very much. I didn’t do enough to help your poor mother. I was still too afraid of Gerald, but after she…’ Her eyes widened in horror.
‘It’s all right,’ he said with more gentleness than he knew he had in him. ‘Doris told me she’s dead.’
Crumpling onto the cushion beside him, Margery fumbled a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and dabbed at her eyes. ‘After I lost my poor Deborah, I was determined to try and find you, but I didn’t know where to start. I’m so sorry.’ She choked off into sobs.
It was too much. He couldn’t deal with her emotions right now, not when he had no idea how he was supposed to feel about it. Did she think an apology would make up for all those years he’d been left alone? He stood, desperate to get away before the ugliness boiling inside of him spewed out. ‘I can’t do this.’ Christ, was that to be his default response to everything?
He was halfway out the room when Margery called out, stopping him in his tracks. ‘Wait, I brought something for you, it’s in the bag beside the front door. It might give you some of the answers you’re looking for. I…I’m so sorry, Owen.’
‘Me too. I just need some time to think.’
Margery swallowed hard, but thankfully there were no more tears. ‘Take as much time as you need. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.’
‘Thanks.’ The way he was feeling right then, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be ready. Barely pausing to snatch up the carrier bag by the door, he fled the confines of the flat.
He didn’t know how long he sat there in the little car park outside Baycrest, but it was dark when he finally came back to himself enough to notice how cold it was. Condensation from his breath covered the inside of the windows. Turning on the engine, he shoved the temperature up to full blast and tilted the vents towards the water-beaded glass. His hand brushed the carrier bag still sitting in his lap, and he shoved it off. A scattering of envelopes spilled out into the footwell, and he flipped on the internal light with a curse before bending to retrieve them.
He glanced at the top one. And unable to resist the stab of curiosity, he slid open the flap. Toy soldiers spelled out the words Happy Birthday on the front of the card. Heart racing, he slowly opened it up and scanned the words inside. A tear plopped onto the card, smudging the ink. More filled his eyes, blurring the innocent words of love shaped by an almost childish hand.
Scrubbing his face, he placed the card carefully to one side then opened the next envelope, then the next one, and the next one. For an hour, he did nothing but read, not stopping until the bag was empty and a stack of empty envelopes littered the footwell beneath the passenger seat. Whatever her faults, whatever her failures and weaknesses, Deborah Mary Blackmore had loved her lost little boy.
Owen pulled on his seat belt and backed the car out of the car park. Turning away from the sea front, he steered the vehicle through the quiet streets of Lavender Bay. There was only one place he wanted to be right then.
A couple of minutes later he pulled his car into the free space beside the little white van behind the chip shop. Taking a deep breath, he told himself he was doing the right thing. ‘I can’t do this’ would not be the motto by which he lived the rest of his life. Not giving himself a chance to talk himself out of it, he grabbed a loaded carrier bag from the passenger seat, hopped out and pressed his thumb to the doorbell. A loud buzzing echoed from the other side of the obscured window glass. He counted to five, then pressed again.
‘All right, all right.’ The irritated shout was followed soon after by a blurred outline visible through the glass. When the door swung open it was all he could do not to grab Libby up in his arms and squeeze her tight.
She looked more than tired, she looked drained of all the sparkle and verve he loved so much about her. Her signature hair hung limp and greasy around her face, at least an inch of mousy-brown roots showing at the top of the faded yellow and pink strands. Sallow was a word he’d often read but never applied to someone’s skin before, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes seemed to stretch almost down to her delicate cheek bones. Even for her usual baggy style, her dirty T-shirt hung off her too-thin body.
He swallowed down a bite of anger at himself for the terrible state she was in and forced himself to relax against the doorframe. ‘Hello.’
Only a bite to the inside of his cheek stopped the smile threatening to quirk his mouth. She’d lost none of her fire. ‘I tried to call you.’
She folded her arms across her body, tugging the shirt tight. His anger roared back as one of her collar bones showed stark against the thin cotton. He’d done this to her, left her alone to try and cope when he should’ve been glued to her side making she was taken proper care of. He’d have to make a start on the stack of baby books weighing down the rucksack still in his car.
‘I said what I needed to say to you.’ She sounded tired, and utterly defeated.
Unable to stop himself, he wiped a dirty smudge off her cheek. ‘You look like you’ve been up the chimney.’
Ducking away from his touch, she lifted a hand towards her greasy hair then caught herself and dropped her clenched fist and began to bump it against her outer thigh. So, she still cared enough about her appearance even if she didn’t want him to know. It was another tiny thread of hope and he wove it quickly around the first. He’d keep tugging and pulling until he had enough threads to build an unbreakable bond between them. ‘I was cleaning the oven.’ She glanced past him, spotted his car then eyed him with a deep suspicion. ‘What do you want?’
‘To take care of you.’ It was the unvarnished truth.
‘Just like that?’
He shook his head. ‘I found out what happened to my mum. And just like with you and the baby, my first instinct was to run away from it.’ Reaching out, he cupped her cheek. ‘I need to stop doing that.’
Her lashes fluttered a mile a minute and when she spoke, there was a huskiness to her voice. ‘I can take care of myself.’ The words might have been a rejection had she not leaned into his palm resting against her cheek.
‘I know you can, you’re bloody amazing, but take pity on a man. Can’t you at least let me pretend I’m of some use to you? Don’t you have a jar that needs reaching from a high shelf, or something?’
The tiniest of smiles twitched her lips and he gathered the thread. ‘The fryers need degreasing.’
It sounded like the worst job she could possibly think of, and he snatched at it like she’d offered him the Crown jewels. ‘Deal.’ Give a man an inch… ‘So where can I put my stuff?’
‘Your stuff?’ The whites of her eyes shone bright against her dull complexion.
He gestured to his car. ‘The Barneses are already packed to the rafters, and I can’t take care of you from the pub now, can I? Spare room’s on the second floor?’
‘You think I’m going to let you move in here?’
‘Until I can find a more permanent solution, yes. Like it or not, Libs, that’s my baby, too. I might not have a clue what I’m doing, and I’m sorry it’s taken this long for me to step up, but I take my responsibilities seriously. And right now, my first, last and only responsibility is the pair of you.’ He reached for her hand, and when she didn’t pull away he added that thread to the others. ‘No pressure, no expectations, just a friend who cares very much for you who’s trying to do his best.’
‘Oh, you don’t play fair at all.’ Still holding his hand, she turned her head to swipe a tear from her cheek onto the shoulder of her T-shirt. ‘Damn hormones.’ Eyes dry once more, she fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘You can come in and clean the fryers, and then we’re going to sit down and you’re going to tell me everything about your mum, your time in care. Every ugly little bit of it, and then we’ll see. Your stuff stays in the car for now.’
It was more than he might have hoped for, and a damn sight more than he deserved in the circumstances. ‘Okay.’
As he took a step closer, the carrier bag in his hand swung forward and she pointed at it. ‘What’ve you got in there?’
Owen smiled as he held open the top to show her the contents. ‘A few things for you. Ginger ale, digestive biscuits, some Granny Smiths and a bit of strong cheddar.’ An eclectic collection, but he’d surveyed a couple of the women at work who’d had children and asked them what had made them feel better during the early months of their pregnancies.
Taking the bag, she turned on her heel and walked inside, leaving the door open behind her. Another thread.
Chapter 22
Three hours later, Libby found herself sitting at the little downstairs kitchen table with a plate of sliced apple, cheese and biscuits before her. Everything she’d put even near her mouth over the previous week had set her stomach heaving. Panicked about not getting enough nutrition inside her for the baby, she’d forced herself to eat then instantly regretted it. Before long, it had become a spiral of panic, sickness, tears and more panic. Desperate for a distraction, she’d thrown herself into clearing and cleaning the large kitchen behind the shop. They’d used it mostly for preparation, storage and baking the pies they served alongside the fish and chips.
The oven sparkled like new, and the cupboards had been ruthlessly stripped of their contents and restocked thanks to a supermarket online delivery service. Her eyes strayed to the plate in front of her, and miracle of miracles, her tummy gave a little rumble of pleasure rather than warning. Snapping off a tiny piece of biscuit, she nibbled at it then washed it down with a gulp of ice-cold ginger ale. Her lashes fluttered down in bliss. Had anything ever tasted so good?
Before she knew it, the plate was empty, and she was eyeing the beaded curtain separating the kitchen from the front-of-house area. Owen Coburn was some kind of bloody wizard. A loud thump and a curse stirred her from her seat and she swept through the curtain to find Owen bent over the counter clutching the top of his head. ‘Are you all right?’
Turning, he favoured her with a rueful grin. The front of his pale grey T-shirt was covered in grease stains, and further streaks decorated his arms. ‘I was trying to get into the back of the fryer and managed to catch my head on the edge of the warming cabinet. I’ll live.’
‘Let me see.’ When he ducked his head low enough for her to check, she ran careful fingers over his scalp. There was a thin line of red visible through his close-cropped dark hair, but no blood, thank goodness. ‘You might have a bit of a bump. Do you feel okay? Not dizzy or anything?’
Tilting up to meet her eyes, he grinned. ‘No matching concussion, I don’t think.’ He straightened up. ‘I reckon another half-hour and I’ll be finished here. How are you doing?’
‘Oven’s done.’ Feeling a little bit shy, she glanced away. ‘Thank you for the food, it was exactly what I needed.’
Gentle fingers touched her chin. ‘You’ve got a bit more colour in your cheeks, which is a good thing. I’m going to check out the restaurant once I’m finished here. Why don’t you have a shower and a nap whilst I’m out?’
Her first instinct was to bristle against the suggestion. If she let him, he’d keep pushing and worming his way in beneath her defences. But she was tired, and filthy having fallen out of bed and straight into her work clothes with little more than a brush of her teeth. ‘We still need to talk.’
Face solemn, he nodded. ‘We will, I promise, but you look half dead on your feet, and it won’t be a five-minute conversation.’
As it turned out, the shower and the nap were exactly what she wanted, and she didn’t stir until she heard a gentle knock on her bedroom door. Struggling to sit up, she was surprised to see Eliza peering in. ‘Hello, how are you feeling?’
Libby pushed back her quilt and swung herself out of bed. ‘Better than I have in ages.’ A soft orange glow spilled in from behind her bedroom curtains and she then realised just how dark her room was. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six. Owen asked me to pop over because he’s caught up with some crisis at Subterranean. Something to do with the lighting.’ She shrugged. ‘It all got a bit complicated, so I left him, Jack and Sam crawling around under the seating units with the electrician.’ Holding the door wide, she held her arm out towards the landing. ‘Why don’t you come dow
nstairs? Mum sent over a pot of her chicken soup and Beth’s just heating it up.’
The creamy, rich, familiar smell of Annie’s homemade soup wafted up the stairs towards her as Libby padded down still in her pyjamas. ‘Gosh, that smells good.’
‘Doesn’t it? I’ve been freezing my bum off in the shed all day so I’m in dire need of thawing out.’
They were soon settled around the upstairs kitchen table with steaming bowls and hunks of freshly baked bread before them. Libby took a couple of cautious spoonfuls, then sat back to nibble on a bit of bread. ‘This is yummy.’
Eliza grinned. ‘Sally’s contribution to the cause. She’s been trying to teach me to bake bread, but I think I’ll stick to making soap.’
‘I’d love the recipe.’ Nutty, with just the right hint of malt, the brown bread would be perfect for the Ploughman’s style basket lunches she had in mind for the teashop. Filing the thought away for later, she turned her attention to Eliza’s other comment. ‘How’s the soap coming along. Do you think you’ll be ready in time?’
Her friend nodded. ‘I think so. Sally’s been an absolute star. I’ve had her on potpourri mixing duties. I’ve found some fantastic net bags covered in silver snowflakes and stars to fill with it. I think they’ll make perfect stocking filler gifts.’ The Christmas market weekend festival was fast approaching. The wooden huts were booked and each business along the promenade had agreed to take one, together with lots of individual local artists and a few local charities.
The shop windows would all be decorated, and the promenade Christmas lights would be switched on to mark the start of the festival on the Friday evening. Beth was planning to fill her hut with a selection of wares from the emporium, while Annie and Paul would be serving mulled wine and hot spiced cider from their hut outside The Siren.
Libby’s original plan had been to hire her own hut to run alongside the one her dad should’ve taken to serve their usual fish and chips, but now he was away she’d decided to concentrate on testing the water with things she planned to sell if she managed to get the teashop up and running.