by Jane Cable
I try to laugh. “I think that’s what I’m worried about.”
“I have a daughter too,” he tells me. “But I didn’t see much of the growing up of her. When she was seventeen her mother was phoning me all the time telling me to do something – she went wild. But then she settled down all of her own accord; she’s an estate agent in Truro now, married, two kids. All normal – nobody died.”
I turn the brandy glass in my hand. “I think I worry too much because I only lost my husband last year.”
“It does make you think. I lost a very good friend about six months ago; not a wife, or a partner, but someone I had known for a very long time.” Suddenly he smiles again. “But I got the dog from the rescue and she filled the gap.” He points to the beach. “Have you filled the gap too?”
“Robin filled a gap all of his own.”
“Robin?” The man frowns. “When I passed them on the beach I thought there was something familiar about him… a guy that tall… did he by any chance live in Newquay years back?”
My hand shakes as I put my glass down. “Yes, yes he did.”
“I knew it. He hasn’t really changed that much but when I saw him it seemed too much of a co-incidence.”
“That’s what I thought when I bumped into him just before Christmas – he hadn’t changed at all, apart from the beard. And I hadn’t seen him for twenty years.”
“Oh, he had the beard when he was here; I used to tease Meg she liked it because it made him look a bit older. But he was a nice lad; reliable, conscientious. He worked for me, you know – driving my trailer over here every day and then going back to help Meg in the shop. She always did wonder what happened to him.”
The last of the brandy trickling down my throat fails to warm me. “Did he just up and leave her as well?”
“He went home to see the damage the hurricane had done, but I think it was just an excuse. Him and Meg – they wouldn’t have lasted anyway. She didn’t dwell on it over much – it wasn’t her way.”
The hurricane. 1987.
“Anyway,” he carries on, “they weren’t together long. From what I remember he only turned up that spring. Newquay’s full of migratory birds. Always has been.”
I stand up. “It’s time I hauled them off the beach; we’re meant to be going to Padstow for some of Rick Stein’s famous fish and chips. Nice to meet you, er…”
“Ed. My name’s Ed.” He stretches too. “I’ll come with you – I’d like to say hello to Robin again.”
The sun is bright but the wind cuts through me the moment we step outside. Robin and Claire are walking towards us so we wait on the slipway, Megsy straining her lead towards an overflowing bin. When they get close enough Ed steps forward. “Robin! Do you remember me?”
I study Robin’s face. He does not smile, not immediately anyway. A muscle twitches somewhere under his beard. “Ed?” he asks.
They grip hands but the wind takes away their words. Then Claire is brought into their circle and I am outside it. After a moment Robin reaches his arm towards me. It is stiff like his voice.
“Izzie – this is Ed. I worked for him when I lived down here.”
“I know. We’ve been talking about you in the bar. Your ears must have been burning.”
He laughs. “And I thought that was the wind. Come on, it’s too chilly to stand here.”
I turn and walk towards the car park. They are only just behind me and snatches of their conversation drift past me but I am not listening. The only word I don’t hear is Meg.
Chapter Forty-Three
We eat in Stein’s café next to the harbour car park. Pine tables, hot oil and vinegar. Up market chips with everything. I want a glass of wine but Robin orders tea. He says it will warm me; he is feigning concern because I am shivering, even though the car heater has been turned up all the way from Watergate. But I’m not ill, I’m angry: I worried about him for years when all the time he’d just jumped into bed with someone else.
Claire is excited because Ed knows everyone and has offered to show us the hostel tomorrow. He says he’ll take Claire and her friends under his wing when she comes down so there is no need for me to worry – or at least that’s what Claire tells me – I don’t remember him saying that. I don’t remember saying she could come back at all. Robin offers nothing; he is silent – reliving old dreams of Meg, no doubt.
I hear my own voice. “Robin – is this Ed reliable?”
He looks up from his plate, a chip balanced on his fork, half way to his mouth. “He always seemed that way to me. But it was a long time ago.”
“Oh, Mum – he’s being so kind.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s reliable.”
“But he’s an old man and he’s been here nearly forever.”
“That’s no guarantee of anything. He could be a raving paedophile for all I know.”
“Well that wouldn’t be a problem for me, would it? I’m almost seventeen – well past the age of consent if you hadn’t noticed.” I try to ignore the fact she is pointing her knife at me.
“I hadn’t actually. Mainly because you’re acting like a ten year old over this.”
I look to Robin for some support but he is pretending to seek out bones in his fish.
Claire’s cutlery clatters onto the table. “You just don’t want me to go this summer. I don’t know why you wanted to come here if you were never going to change your mind. What’s the point? You never let me do anything.”
Robin opens his mouth to speak but I can’t let him in case he takes her side.
“Claire – that is quite enough. This holiday is not all about you.”
But Robin does chip in. “Your mother’s right – she needs a decent break – you know that if you think about it – she’s had a tough half term.”
“It’s not fair. One moment you’re hardly talking to each other and the next you’re ganging up on me.”
Robin’s hand stretches across the table and envelopes mine. I didn’t want it to but his warmth creeping up my arm feels welcome all the same.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit distant.” I don’t know if he is talking to me, to Claire, or to both of us. His voice sounds heavy. “Let’s not talk about this again until you’ve seen the hostel tomorrow,” he continues. “Let’s just finish our lunch and have a nice walk around the town, OK?”
Claire rolls her eyes, but she agrees and if she keeps to her word we will have almost twenty-four hours of peace. Robin is looking at me, waiting for my consent. I nod and he squeezes my hand before picking up his fork and spearing another chip.
It is only when we are in the shops that Claire becomes animated again. She points out funny slogans on sweatshirts and fingers her way through trays of shells. She buys a starfish for her dressing table, something reassuringly childish. Robin gazes into the windows of a gallery but won’t go in because the pictures are too expensive.
“It doesn’t stop us looking,” I say, but he shakes his head.
I follow Claire into a jewellery shop. Racks of bead necklaces jostle for space with baskets of earrings. On shelves around the walls silver items are displayed on black velvet cushions, dazzling under brilliant white spotlights.
“Mum,” Claire tugs my arm. “Shall I get this for Sasha?” She has a strap of leather in her hand, with three turquoise beads in its centre.
“Sasha? Who’s Sasha?”
She looks at me aghast. “Sasha, Mum – you know who Sasha is.”
I do, of course I do. My brain is struggling, working through a file of people… and then I have it. No wonder there is panic in her eyes.
“Sorry, darling,” I say. “It’s the music in here and I’m getting a headache – I didn’t hear you properly. Yes, I think Sasha’d like that. I’ll wait outside while you pay for it.”
The afternoon has turned grey. I lean against a whitewashed wall, the cold shapes of the stones lumpy through my coat.
“What’s up?” Robin looms over me.
“I’ve g
ot a terrible headache. Do you think we could go home?”
“Where’s Claire?”
“In the jewellery shop. Just buying a present for S… Sasha. She won’t be long.”
Robin nods, then pulls me away from the wall and into the softness of his anorak.
Chapter Forty-Four
Robin and Claire are whispering because they think I’m asleep. I curl under the duvet. It warms me, but I am wrapped so tight the ache in my head cascades through my neck and shoulders. So I stretch on my back, pointing my toes at the wardrobe while my fingers scrabble up the headboard. One slow, deep breath after another.
I have pushed the panic into the corner of the room. I know it is there – somewhere between the curtains and the dressing table. I thought, I hoped, I prayed, even – and really believed – that Robin had driven it away. But now I know it is still there, hiding ready to surprise me; at the supermarket checkout, outside my classroom, sitting at the traffic lights in my car.
The bedroom door brushes along the carpet and Robin fills the frame, silhouetted by the light from the hall.
“It’s OK, I’m awake.” I don’t know why I’m whispering.
“Can I get you anything? How do you feel?” He hovers in the doorway.
I prop myself up on one elbow. “How about a cup of tea?” It will buy me time to compose myself while he goes to make it.
He leaves the door ajar, the strip of light falling across the bed. In my mind’s eye I follow its path and there, in the living area, I see Claire stretched on the sofa flicking the pages of a magazine and Robin, shoulders hunched, arms folded, leaning against the kitchen unit waiting for the kettle to boil.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull on my cardigan. I feel a bit wobbly when I first stand and my eyes are drawn to the corner between the dressing table and the curtain. When I pull the door open fully the shadow there disappears.
Claire gets up from the sofa and gives me a hug. “How you feeling, Mum?”
“Much better thanks and I don’t want to spoil our evening. What would you like to do? Go for a pub meal or something?”
She shakes her head. “I’m still full after those fish and chips. Robin was saying he might do some jacket potatoes later and I’ve found a DVD of Breakfast at Tiffany’s in the bookcase – I’ve never seen it. Perhaps we could all watch that?”
I smile at her, stiff cheeked. “That’s a lovely idea. Robin?”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s was one of Jennifer’s favourite films. I’d love to watch it again. I’ll just make your cuppa then I’ll pop down to the corner shop for some cheese for the potatoes.”
“And a bottle of red – it always goes well with cheese.”
He turns away as the kettle boils. I assume he agrees.
Chapter Forty-Five
Surprisingly – and thankfully – the hostel looks like a converted office block, hidden down a side street near the railway station. Most uninviting. Despite Ed’s cheery wave as we clamber from the car. Megsy leaps up in greeting, little terrier ears pricked. I crouch to stroke her and she snuggles into me, making snuffling noises.
Ed laughs. “She’s well taken with you, Izzie. Now don’t you go luring her home – I’d miss her too much.”
“She is adorable, but no, I won’t steal her. If I took her home she’d only be in an empty house all day.” I stroke the top of her head.
“Robin could take her to work with him, Mum.”
“Now that’d be a turn up; Robin and Megsy after all these years,” Ed winks.
Robin doesn’t laugh. He clears his throat. “I meant to ask you about Meg. How is she?”
Ed puts his hand on Robin’s arm. “Not with us anymore. Breast cancer. About six months ago. That’s when I got the dog.”
Robin is hiding behind his beard again. “I’m sorry, Ed,” he says, without a hint of emotion. “That must have been tough.”
“Well, when you’ve been in and out of someone’s life since your first day at school it leaves a gap. But you know Meg, she wouldn’t want me to waste too much time grieving. I’ve still got her board in the shop, up on the wall. It’s the best reminder – that and the dog. I needed something to shout at.”
Robin nods. “Come on,” he says, “let’s take a look at this hostel.”
It does nothing to reassure me when the receptionist has long braided hair and is wearing a hoodie. But he stands to greet us pleasantly enough, although I am conscious of him eyeing Claire up and down. She is beautiful, as she smiles at him, and for the first time I wonder why she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Perhaps she does. Perhaps she is hiding someone from me because she thinks I won’t approve. Perhaps she is hiding someone like this.
My head starts to thump again but I have to get through this. I have to send the panic back to the corner of the bedroom in the rented apartment where it belongs. I reach for Robin’s hand. His fingers brush mine then he seems to sense how I am feeling so he wraps an arm around me, saying nothing.
Ed disappears into an office and comes back with a woman in a long brightly coloured skirt. I cannot decide if her generous proportions are due to pregnancy or simply the way she is. I search her face for clues but there are none; she is of indeterminate age, although a few wisps of grey run through her hair.
“Hello,” she says, her slow voice like clotted cream. “I’m Martha. Ed says you want to look around.”
“Yes please. Claire would like to come here with some friends in the summer, but I have my reservations.” I sound so uptight I hate myself. Robin squeezes my shoulder.
“Most mothers do,” says Martha, “only most of them are too afraid to admit it for fear of upsetting their precious offspring. Well done you.”
We follow her up the stairs and down a corridor, off which are rooms containing three pairs of bunk beds. Everything is spotlessly clean; even the lino on the bathroom floors sparkles. It feels cold and clinical and I pray that Claire won’t like it.
Downstairs is a huge common room with sofas and a TV one end and a dining area the other.
“We take thirty students at a time,” Martha explains, “and everyone chips in with the chores.” She turns to Claire. “Can you cook, my dear?”
“Yes – I’m not too bad at the basic stuff.”
“Then you’ll be in demand. There’s too many youngsters come here haven’t a clue but if you know what you’re doing in the kitchen I can promise you won’t be cleaning the lavs.”
Claire looks a bit shocked, but she smiles politely. I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
We return to the reception area.
“Now, when are you looking to come down? We get very busy, you know.”
“There’s a provisional booking already,” Claire stammers. She can’t look at me.
Martha lifts an enormous diary from the counter. “When for? What name?”
“6th of July… Jack Granger.”
“Who’s Jack Granger?” I shoot.
“Oh, no-one Mum. Just one of the lads in Sasha’s geography group. His brother came down two years ago so he’s organising it.”
I turn to Martha. “What about adult supervision – they’ll only be seventeen.”
“There are rules – and there’s always someone on duty but to be honest it can be a bit like herding cats. On the other hand if they’ve been surfing all day they’re normally too knackered to get up to much mischief. But we organise quiz nights, and there’s a games room we share with the hostel over the road; it’s got table tennis, pool, that sort of stuff.”
“What about the surfing?” Robin asks.
Martha consults her diary again. “Well at that time of year we’re really busy so we do offload work to other surf schools. How about I book Claire’s group in with Ed so you know they’re being looked after?”
Robin nods. He’s taken over. “I guess that would be helpful. What happens on days when conditions aren’t right?”
Ed laughs. “Well we load up that old trailer and the minibus
and go somewhere they are. And if it’s flat we bodyboard instead, or if it’s completely hopeless we play waterpolo. If it pisses down we get more into the theory than we would otherwise, so there’s plenty to do. They’re not allowed to roam the streets and pubs, don’t you worry. Noses to the grindstone.” He winks at Claire. “You don’t think this is going to be a holiday, do you?”
Claire looks up at him, her face glowing with expectation. “It sounds wonderful,” she says.
“Come down to my surf shack, little girl, and we’ll take a look.” He winks at me over the top of her head.
These people are so kind, so welcoming – and so sensible. It’s becoming harder for me to say no. As we cross the main road and head down towards the sea I battle with myself to find the reason for my reluctance.
Newquay may be grubby and grotty but on the beach the sunlight reflects off the damp sand, making everything below the tide line seem washed and new. A few surfers are riding the waves and Claire can’t take her eyes off them.
Ed struggles with the padlock on the front of what appears to be several garden sheds tacked onto an ageing cricket pavilion. The white paint has been weathered away in places and a huge wooden board creaks in the breeze. The windows are shuttered; against the wind and waves or vandals I can’t decide.
The lock finally clicks open and Ed inspects it. “Needs some WD40. Bit like me, really. Don’t look at this mess, Izzie – it hasn’t had its spring spruce up yet – no point until the last of the storms have passed – it’ll just get sand blasted again.”
We troop in and Ed flings open the shutters. The room is bigger than I expected, with racks of wetsuits on one side and surfboards stacked on the other. In the middle is an old wooden desk and behind it an enormously long board is fixed diagonally across the wall. I know whose it is before I even read the inscription: ‘Megan Tregea 1945 – 2006’ and then a list of surf competition honours spanning the sixties and seventies.
Robin shakes his head. “She never told me.”