‘Do you need to know about the spider?’
Victoria smiled. Her son had made her smile. It was a huge moment, and nothing else mattered – not the silly house name, not the million black halos on the carpet, and not the horrible stain on the ceiling. Nothing. She was ready to fly.
‘What a great plan,’ Frank said. ‘You two go on. I’ll take another scout down here.’ He grinned at Seth and indicated for him to leave the room. ‘You too, smiler.’ He kissed Victoria and ushered her into the hall.
She glided towards the stairs. ‘Let’s take a look at the rooms, then.’
Seth ran ahead and Victoria followed.
‘I lived here for five years,’ she said. ‘That’s almost as long as you’ve been alive.’
Seth continued climbing.
‘And then I moved to London. I was twenty-four. Seems so young these days.’
‘It’s old,’ Seth said.
Victoria puckered her lips. ‘It certainly feels like a lifetime ago.’
Once they’d reached the dark landing, Seth scurried in through the first of three doors, and Victoria aimed for the furthest one. She waited a moment before entering the bedroom, watching for Seth. He’d gone into the bathroom and she expected him to exit any second, but there were no signs of movement. Whatever he’d found, it was keeping him entertained. Victoria recoiled as an image of a large spider crawled across her mind. There were bound to be spiders in every room – the cottage had been neglected.
Her buoyant mood rapidly nosedived, and she hit the ground with a bump.
She was responsible for the cottage’s state of disrepair.
Par for the course, she thought. Everything in my life needs fixing.
She couldn’t bear to think what her neglect had done to her old bedroom. It was the place where many fantasies were imagined and many dreams were realised.
EweSpeak was one of them.
She opened the door with caution. To her utter relief, the room had been loved and well cared for. Given how badly mistreated downstairs was, she stood on the threshold and wondered why. Perhaps the view of the sea made it everyone’s preferred room.
She’d spent many hours here herself in her younger days, learning computer basics and studying courses in programming. She was good at it. Her logical brain found it easy, and the isolation of the work suited her. With her desk against the window, she would observe the people on the beach, unnoticed.
Juliette would visit from time to time and try to entice her out, but socialising wasn’t on Victoria’s agenda. She was uncomfortable in crowds, saw no point in drinking herself into oblivion, and hated karaoke with a vengeance. It was all right for Juliette. She was gregarious and witty, and had a natural affinity for people, qualities Victoria didn’t possess.
With a bold stride, she entered the room. The decoration and the furnishings were different to when she’d lived there. The walls were brightly coloured, when she preferred creams and whites, and net curtains that flounced with lace had replaced her Venetian blinds. Her double divan had gone too, and in its place was a ladder-less cabin bed, but the electric atmosphere remained, her copper coils conducting it and her brain, working like a battery, providing the voltage to power her system.
The skin on her skull contracted. She thrilled at the sensation. It was life-affirming. Juliette would say it was proof that although Victoria had been gone many years, her room had not forgotten her. Victoria didn’t think like that. The house was made of stone, with walls thick enough to withstand a small explosion. It was nothing more and nothing less. It didn’t hold memories. She did. And the ones she’d made here, she remembered.
That’s what created the energy.
‘This is all right.’
Her father’s voice surprised her. She turned and flattened her hand to her front. ‘Dad! Don’t creep up on people. You’ll give someone a heart attack.’
‘Sorry. Unintentional.’ He pushed the door to and inclined his head. ‘Seth’s pretending the bath’s a go-kart, and he has a spider for his mechanic. But you don’t need to know about that.’
Victoria took a deep breath. Her father often used gentle humour to ease her into difficult conversations.
‘Would you like to talk while we have five minutes?’ Frank patted his pocket. ‘A shot of Dutch courage first, maybe?’
Safe in her favourite room, and touched by her father’s concern, Victoria was moved to speak. ‘What you saw downstairs with Seth and me, he and I talking and getting along, it’s not how we are. Not normally. We have a very strained relationship. And it’s my fault. I realised I’ve never been a mother to him, and he resents me for it. In fact, he hates me.’ She faltered, and pressed her palms together, as the words clawed their way into her heart. ‘And he’s every right to. He’s angry with me, violent. He strikes out. Verbally and physically. And I don’t know what to do.’ She turned back to the window and studied her father’s reflection, shocked to see he was lost, like her. Like Seth. ‘I’m frightened, Dad. What if I can’t repair the damage?’
‘Oh, Victoria.’ Frank grabbed her sleeve and yanked her to him, encircling her with his arms. ‘I had no idea.’ Echoes of Juliette. ‘I don’t have an answer right now, my darling, but it’ll be all right. I promise.’
His action triggered Victoria’s tears, and she rubbed and pulled at her eyes to prevent their dispersal. ‘I was too busy maintaining the business. I fooled myself into believing I was providing Seth with everything he required. But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t giving him what he really needed. And it’s up to me to make it right.’ She buried her face in her father’s neck and allowed the emotion to carry her through. She wasn’t frightened to let go anymore.
‘I’ll help you,’ Frank whispered. ‘You know I will. There’s nothing here that can’t be fixed.’
Victoria’s gut fell away and years of pulling at the thread and tightening the knot, unravelled in an instant.
Chapter Six
Chris poked his head round Rick’s bedroom door. The mass of duvet was more or less as he’d seen it last. It was possible his teenage son had spent the entire night in one position. Jet lag was a whole new experience for Rick. ‘How was the British bed?’ Chris asked.
‘All right.’
‘Tired?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Up for that scout about later? I discovered a self-contained apartment last night. It must have been something to do with when the castle was a hotel. It’s got its own entrance and a connecting door to the kitchen. It’d make a cool bachelor’s pad.’ No response. ‘Tommy’s been out hunting. He speared a packet of bacon and rounded up some eggs. Fancy some brunch?’
‘Yeah. All right.’
‘See you in five.’ Chris pushed the bedroom door fully open. Tommy was already cooking and the smoky smells had found their way upstairs. ‘Or sooner,’ Chris said, rubbing his growling stomach. It was good to feel hungry. Amazing, in fact. He’d lost too much weight over the last couple of years. Food was a chore rather than a pleasure, but the cheeky sea breeze had flirted with Chris’s appetite and teased him back to the table.
He trotted downstairs and followed his nose to the kitchen. When he arrived, Tommy was standing at the side, cursing.
‘Smells fantastic.’
‘Small miracle. Bloody handle’s fallen off the pan. Thank God the lorries are coming today.’ Tommy turned and waved a shaft of black plastic at Chris. ‘I thought you told the agents to spare no expense.’
Chris wandered further into the room and examined the contents of a corner cupboard. ‘Not quite. I requested new sheets and towels, and beds, if they were needed, otherwise, I told them not to replace anything. I guess the porter’s chair was left over from the castle’s hotel days.’ He reached into the cupboard. ‘There’s a saucepan in here. Do you need it?’ He pulled it out. ‘We
could have scrambled eggs.’
Tommy placed the broken handle to the side and pushed up his sleeves. ‘Are you making them?’
Chris baulked at the condition of the pan. ‘Nope. This is rank.’
‘Fried it is, then.’ Tommy returned to his work. ‘You seem more settled today.’
Chris shoved the old pot away and hitched himself onto the counter. ‘Hmm. Maybe. I’ll feel happier when our stuff’s arrived.’ He hated being separated from his personal items – photo albums, marriage and birth certificates, medical records. He liked to have them under lock and key and under his jurisdiction at all times. Currently they were packed in a cardboard box marked ‘Private. Office’, doubtless stuck in the morning traffic on the A31. He’d sealed the box himself. There were things inside for his eyes alone. ‘What time do we think the lorries will arrive?’
Tommy flipped an egg over. ‘Not for another couple of hours. If they’re not here by midday, I’ll call the shipping company. Right, sit down.’
Chris obeyed, and waited at the kitchen table. ‘Brown sauce. Cool.’
‘Hmm. Not sure your son will approve.’ As Tommy served Chris with a plate of bacon and eggs, Rick shambled past. ‘Hungry?’
‘Yeah.’
With brunch eaten and the formalities of clearing away sorted, Chris issued Tommy with instructions to call him as soon as the containers arrived. He grabbed his coat, threw Rick his, and invited him to join him in the garden. ‘Come on. Let’s find the entrance to the beach,’ he said, heading into the shade of the trees.
Where to? Which direction? Chris dredged the bottom of his memory and fished up an image of a hedge, and a drop down to the pebbles. ‘We can’t go wrong if we head for the sea,’ he said.
He urged Rick on, desperate to share something of his past with him. As they walked, fragments of memories linked together to form a picture; an old ruined section of wall, a tomb with a skull and crossbones engraved upon it, a grey stone archway – all clues he was going the right way.
‘Look at that.’ He pointed to a headstone. ‘That’s a grave of a smuggler.’
Rick stopped beside the yellow, fuzz-covered rock. ‘Yeah. Right.’
Chris smiled. Teenagers were so cynical these days. When he was a youngster, the thought he was intruding on a pirate’s resting place scared the living daylights out of him. He loved it. ‘I used to ride my bike through here.’ He saw Rick nod, and they continued on their trek. ‘It was reckless. Look at the rough terrain.’ As he spoke, his foot caught on a thick root of a tree and he crashed to the ground. ‘See,’ he mumbled, removing the barbed thorns of a bramble from his cheek.
Rick tutted, pulled a tissue from his jeans pocket, and crouched. ‘Call yourself a stuntman.’
The words spoken, and the tenderness Rick applied to the wound, sent chills through Chris. His son was in there and he was beginning to fight for his freedom. ‘Thank you,’ Chris said, taking the tissue from him. ‘I’m good.’ He held out his hand. ‘Help your old man up?’
There was a chance he’d refuse. There was a chance he would walk away. Chris watched for Rick’s reaction and saw his chest fill with air, his eyes acquire their troubled expression and his mouth converge into a question mark. Then, within a blink, he stretched out his arm, hooked fingers with Chris, and hauled him to his feet.
‘Stuntman,’ Rick scoffed. ‘Fall guy more like.’ Then he stuffed his hands into his pocket and continued through the undergrowth.
‘Wait up!’ Chris’s call had no effect. Rick continued walking. As long as he stayed within the grounds, he wouldn’t get lost, Chris reasoned, although the stumble had knocked Chris from his path.
He searched the area, eager to regain his bearings. He’d got this far on instinct and luck. He’d seen two or three landmarks further back, but nothing for the last few minutes. He closed his eyes and listened, as he did when he was a boy. In those days, he was so familiar with the castle’s grounds, he established which tree he was under by the pitch of its whistle as the wind travelled through its leaves. He never told anyone – they’d have thought him crazy. He held his finger to his lips to concentrate his mind. He heard squeaks and screeches, but nothing identifiable. It was a stupid idea. The trees were old men now, not youthful saplings as they were then. That explained the cacophony of creaks. ‘Poor old buggers,’ he said, as he opened his eyes.
Then he saw it. The most venerable gentleman of them all.
The great oak.
Chris knew precisely where he was. He crossed the spiny, moss crusted roots that had broken through the ground, placed a hand on the ragged trunk, and searched for the scar he’d inflicted when he’d lost control of his bike and crashed. ‘Sorry, old guy. I was young. And a little careless.’
The words triggered visions of Todd disregarding his warnings to take it easy, scrambling his motorbike across the dry land of the ranch, and wheel spinning dust over the cars. He was fearless, like Chris.
Scrunching his eyes shut again, Chris held onto the oak. Its silent support gave him the strength to deter the advancing flashback. He pushed the images away, inhaled the fresh, earthy scent of the tree, and grounded himself. ‘Thanks, old man,’ he said, resting his head on the rough bark.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the evidence of his youthful collision – a lesion that had withstood the rigours of age. He scuffed at it with his shoe. The last time he’d seen it, he’d been with Vicky Paveley. Glad to have another picture in his mind, he carried on with the thought. ‘Vicky Paveley. Do you remember her? I brought her to meet you. We lay on the ground and used you as a headboard.’ Innocent times. ‘Then we went to the beach …’ He traced the outline of the laceration with his index finger. ‘I hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. It was a real wrench when I left for America.’
His journey from teenager to man was accelerated by the trill of his phone. Tommy’s text tone. ‘Containers here,’ the message read.
‘Our stuff’s arrived,’ Chris said to Rick, who had retraced his footsteps and was now examining the bark of the old oak. ‘Coming?’
Rick stepped away from the tree and shook his head. ‘Gonna find the beach.’
‘On your own?’
‘I guess.’
No. That wasn’t the idea. They were meant to do it together. Chris berated himself. It was his suggestion to poke around the woods, and it must have taken all the courage and enthusiasm Rick could muster to agree to tag along. ‘Ah, sod it. The unpacking can wait. Let’s find that beach.’ Chris trusted Tommy not to open the box marked Private.
Victoria spent five minutes wrapped in her father’s arms. It was healing – a sensation she didn’t expect. She couldn’t recall when she was last held that long.
Calm, and with her emotions in check, she was able to speak again. ‘Can we talk about something else for a while? Tell me about your lady friend.’
Frank loosened his hold, and cleared his throat. ‘Her name’s Olivia DeVere. She’s an artist.’ He paused. ‘She runs Chiswell Crafts.’
Victoria pulled away and eyed her dad. ‘Well, that explains your reticence to chat about the art shop.’
‘Craft centre,’ Frank corrected. ‘It wasn’t reticence. It wasn’t the right time to engage in the subject. I’m not sure now is the right time, but since we’re having a half hour of honesty, I’ll indulge you.’ He smiled. ‘She’s nothing like your mother.’
‘Mum was a one-off.’ Victoria scaled the ladder-less bed, leaned against the wall, and invited her father aboard. He declined.
‘The same could be said for Olivia.’
‘Do I get to meet her?’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Of course. She’s the first woman in your life in eight years. I want to know what she’s got that reeled you in.’ Victoria pointed to the window. ‘Apart from a great view.’
> ‘That was top of my list.’ Frank laughed. ‘It’s early days, but …’
‘Are you happy?’ Victoria jumped down and landed beside him.
‘Are you?’ Frank’s brow wrinkled.
‘I asked first, Dad.’
His face lifted and exuded joy. ‘The happiest I’ve been in a long time.’
Victoria threw her arms out and pulled him into a tight hug. ‘If she makes you happy, then what more can you possibly want?’
He grinned and repaid the squeeze. ‘I wasn’t sure how you’d take it.’
‘I appreciate you thinking of me, but this is your life. You didn’t interfere when I married Ben.’
‘I wish I had.’
They separated from the hug, but clung to each other’s arms.
‘Well, one day, I might learn from my mistakes,’ Victoria said.
Her dad smiled. ‘We’re never too old to ask for help. Or listen to our elders.’ He winked as they relinquished their hold of one another. ‘I’m not sure Seth will understand about Olivia. Do we tell him?’
Victoria bit down on her bottom lip. ‘Let’s play it by ear.’ It sounded like a sensible course of action.
With her father at the craft shop, and Seth still playing in the bathroom, Victoria stole five minutes for herself. She climbed back onto the bed and surveyed the autumnal seascape. No matter what the time of year, it was awe-inspiring. In the summer, it had the blue of lapis lazuli, and today it was the colour of green tourmaline crystal.
In her youth she’d spent hour upon hour walking the coastline, exploring the coves and searching for smugglers’ caves. Wherever she went, the sea stayed with her. She’d forgotten how much it meant to her. Where had that sense of wonder gone? At some point, she’d become clinical, cynical and sterile.
She propped herself against the woodchipped wall, and appreciated the vista. She’d spent a happy, carefree summer on Chesil Beach when she was eighteen. She’d passed her exams, arranged a place at college, and was in love with Chris Frampton. For six weeks they lived on that beach, skimming stones, jumping waves, and kissing. He was her first love, and she’d fallen in the way only a teenager could, expecting they’d be together forever.
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