Never Coming Back: a tale of loss and new beginnings

by Deirdre Palmer

  ‘No matter. The personal touch is always the best. You don’t know her address, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But you know where she works.’

  ‘So?’

  Morgan was being deliberately obtuse, he knew. He stuffed both hands in his jeans pockets, effecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel. Along the riverbank, in the middle distance, the jagged profiles of the broken priory walls stood out darkly against the paper-white sky. The site, not only of a ruined priory but of a kiss that led to his own downfall.

  ‘So, take the afternoon off,’ Connor said, making it sound as if he was stating the obvious.

  Morgan kicked out at a handy beer can. It bounced off the pavement and landed with a clatter halfway across the road. He shook his head.

  ‘I’ve moved on. And even if I hadn’t, even if I wanted to rake all that up again, there’s no way I’d be setting foot inside Tidehall Manor. That’d make me look like a stalker. Or desperate.’

  ‘Which you are.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Morgan felt exasperation rising within him like flood water. Connor meant well, but he didn’t want this conversation.

  ‘Okay, desperate’s a bit over the top, but you can’t get her out of your head. Am I right?’

  Morgan gave a noncommittal shrug. Of course, Connor was right. Layla had taken up permanent residence inside his night-time dreams, and his waking ones; had never left them, in fact. She was installed in the wings of his life like a prompt in a theatre production. No matter how hard he tried to ignore her, she wasn’t going anywhere. But, in time, even the bad stuff went away. In time. He had to believe that.

  They had reached the path leading down to the river. Connor stopped walking, the better to emphasise his next bit of advice.

  ‘Don’t leave it till it’s too late, that’s all.’

  Stopping, too, Morgan took his hands out of his pockets.

  ‘It was too late ages ago. I’m not going to Tidehall. She knows how to find me if she changes her mind. Which she won’t. Even if I did manage to speak to her, it wouldn’t make any difference. You didn’t see her, mate. The way she looked at me, like I’d really scared her. I wouldn’t want to put her through that again, whatever it was about.’

  They carried on walking, past the yard and the sheds, down to the kiosk and the jetty. Pete, the worker with the tattooed head, was attempting to steady a rowing boat into which a portly middle-aged man and his chubby female companion were gingerly stepping. The woman’s arms flapped out at her sides as she struggled to keep her balance. Morgan and Connor grinned at one another. The boat rocked perilously as the couple made the descent to the seats. The man took up the oars with surprising efficiency, and the little craft with its load moved smoothly out into the middle of the river.

  ‘It sounds to me,’ Connor said, as if there had been no break in the conversation, ‘as if you need to tie it up one way or another. Find out what’s in her head. You’ll never get any peace otherwise.’

  I can’t be with you. I can’t be with anyone.

  The cryptic message was still there, locked inside his phone. He didn’t read it any more. He’d stopped puzzling over what it meant, wouldn’t even be thinking about it now if it hadn’t been for Connor. But he hadn’t deleted it. If Connor only knew, his well–meaning advice had had the opposite effect from what he’d intended.

  Morgan’s hand was on his phone even as he left Connor at the jetty and headed for the office. By the time he’d let himself in and sat down at the computer, the message – the whole of that last conversation – had been erased and her name wiped from his contacts list.

  Switching on the computer, he turned his attention to a note Maureen had left for him with a list of supplies to order for the café. By the time he’d looked up from the screen, the sky had turned a dull, misty grey. Holiday season or not, the river wouldn’t be the main attraction today. The accounts and the orders were up-to-date; there was nothing else that couldn’t wait for another day. He had planned to move into Ted’s cottage tomorrow, or the day after, but why not today? Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to be there.

  He looked at his watch. Quarter to eleven. If he went back to the bungalow now, he could load his car with his few possessions and be settling himself into his new home by lunchtime.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Monday. Layla had the day off – a relief after working a long shift yesterday on top of a frantically busy Saturday night. There was some sort of bug doing the rounds and they were short-handed. Layla hoped she wasn’t going down with it, too. But the slight wobbly sensation in her stomach was more likely to be left over from Saturday’s visit to the Morlands, which was still fresh in her mind. So much so that she was finding it impossible to think about anything else.

  Worrying about the Morlands, and her relationship with them, had become ingrained in her system, so much a part of her life that she felt strangely bereft now that it was over. It would take a while for the feelings to subside, the kinds of feelings she used to dread, but now she must concentrate on the new feelings, the new understandings that all three of them had reached. She was free, now, to remember Danni – grieve for her still, if needs be – in her own way.

  Driving home from Foxleigh, she had thought about telling her mother, and possibly Abe, the truth about Danni – her pregnancy; the battles with her parents and with her own conscience; her fear for the future that had sent her hurtling over the edge of reason and into the arms of the unscrupulous Art. But by the time she’d pulled up in Warbler’s Way, she’d decided there was nothing to be gained by telling them. If there was the smallest chance of Mum or Abe thinking any less of Danni because of what she told them, she couldn’t do it. It was Danni’s secret and she would keep it for her. As for herself, she didn’t want or need sympathy. The rest was up to her now, as it was for Melody and Reece.

  All this ran through Layla’s mind as she sat on the back doorstep, her second mug of tea of the morning in her hand. It was warm out here – the kind of warmth Mum described as ‘close’ – but not sunny. The trees stood stock still. From over the fence came the subdued cackle of hens. Inside the house, Finn ran riot with some kind of toy space vehicle that spent half its time in unfathomable, sharp pieces which were scattered around the house ready to spear an unsuspecting foot, and the other half – as it was now – being propelled at speed up and down the legs of the polished mahogany dining chairs.

  April had gone to work at the supermarket, Jadine was still sound asleep in bed – her usual position on a Monday morning when the salon was shut. It was Rowan’s day off, too; she was upstairs getting ready to take Finn to the out-of-town mall to shop for new school uniform for him, and, no doubt, yet another new outfit for herself with which to impress Jeff on their next date night.

  Finn hadn’t yet been told that his mother was seeing Jeff again, which Layla agreed with April was a good thing. Rowan seemed happier by the minute, and altogether calmer, which in itself was good for Finn, and enough for now.

  Jadine, on the other hand, seemed permanently on the precipice of melodrama involving, naturally, Smart Alec. They were young, too young for a relationship of such length and intensity; both had, in April’s words, other fish to fry, which was exactly how it should be. Alec had twice now stood Jadine up – not exactly left her waiting, but cancelled their date at the last minute with what her sister termed a pathetic excuse. When Alec did come round to the house, Layla couldn’t help but notice a certain friction between them. She wasn’t the only one.

  ‘Rub two flints together and what do you get?’ April had whispered to Layla in the kitchen one evening. ‘Those two’ll catch fire in a minute. Have you been listening to them?’ She raised her eyes.

  Layla had, and what she’d heard came into the category of too much information. Jadine had been complaining to Alec that all he thought about was sex – pots and kettles, Layla thought – and Alec had flung back that at least it was free, and if Jadin
e wanted clubs and pubs every night she’d have to part with some of the massive tips she was always boasting about.

  Layla had raised her eyes back at her mother and said, ‘Que sera, sera.’ She wasn’t getting involved. If her little sister wanted her advice, she could ask for it. She laughed to herself; a more unlikely scenario she couldn’t imagine.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. Tired though she was, she should do something with her day, something to take her out of her pensive mood. Tonight she was meeting Abe and some of his mates at the Tidehall Arms, the pub near the hotel, where a band that Abe knew was playing. But there was no need for her to hang around the house all day.

  The river. She could go for a walk by the river. There were at least a dozen reasons why she shouldn’t go anywhere near it; Layla dismissed them all, because that was exactly where she wanted to be. Soon she’d be in New York, a tiny dot on a sidewalk among the seething traffic and the skyscrapers, one of millions of other tiny dots. Maybridge was her home town. She wasn’t going to let a little thing like not wanting to set eyes on a certain somebody prevent her from making the most of it while she still had the chance.

  Okay, bumping into Morgan would not be a little thing. It would be hugely embarrassing, and possibly upsetting, but if he was anywhere near the river today he’d be busy working, doing whatever his mate employed him to do. If she kept clear of the places he was likely to be – the boathouse included – she’d be fine. She couldn’t live her life in fear of ever meeting him again.

  Upstairs in the bedroom, Jadine’s form rose and fell rhythmically beneath the pink duvet. Layla changed her shorts and t-shirt for a sleeveless cotton dress patterned with tiny blue and orange flowers. It had a fitted top, and flared gently from her waist to below her knees. It felt floaty and feminine. Her hair she left loose, smoothing it back with Jadine’s brush. Downstairs, she collected her shoes and denim jacket from the hall, then, seeing how the sky had begun to darken, put Mum’s umbrella into her bag and slipped out of the front door.

  ***

  Morgan called at the café to update Maureen on the orders and to check there was nothing else she needed from him. It was still quiet, the only customers being an elderly man with a black Labrador and the couple who had taken out the rowing boat earlier. Next he went to find Connor. He was on board Princess Delilah, sitting in the covered part of the boat with his feet up on the seat in front, reading the daily paper. He seemed pleased to hear Morgan’s plans and told him not to bother returning to the yard today. They’d meet up in The Swan tonight.

  As Morgan set off for Connor’s house it began to rain, a miserable, light drizzle that barely disturbed the surface of the water. He turned up the collar of his jacket and strode along the riverside path, hurrying in his eagerness to begin the move to his new home. Rather than head in the opposite direction from his destination in order to cross the river at the road-bridge, he continued along the nearside bank. There was a wooden footbridge some way past the boathouse. If he crossed there, it was only a stone’s throw to the right-of-way which led to the bungalow.

  It was as he happened to glance across the river that he saw her. Layla. Or rather, he saw part of her, because her head and shoulders were completely obscured by a bright green umbrella, pulled well down as if she wanted it to hide her as well as protect her from the rain. She was walking along the opposite bank, a little way back from the river and slightly ahead of him, but even at this distance there was no mistaking her.

  In his mind, he executed a kind of double-take while his feet, instead of stalling on the path, took even longer strides as if they had a will of their own. Heat engulfed him. His stomach was shot through with nerves, yet he kept on walking, as she did, on the other side.

  He hurried on for a few yards, passing the bench where the two of them had sat on warm, sunny days, then he glanced across again and saw that she was standing still. Ducks were congregating on the grass bank in front of her. Presumably she’d stopped to look at them, though he couldn’t tell exactly what she was doing because of the angle of the umbrella. He thought of calling out but the river was too wide. She wouldn’t hear him, and even if she did, she would turn tail and run.

  She walked on. The river curved, the path with it. Panicking for a second as he lost sight of her, he picked up speed. And then she reappeared with a flash of bright green. He forced himself to slow down. It was ridiculous to be chasing her, literally; he should give it up, as he had given up the virtual chase. So many times he’d imagined seeing her again, running into her by accident. He had a script, well-rehearsed. But words that seemed eloquent at three in the morning became ludicrous in the honest light of dawn.

  The boathouse was yards in front of him now. The key was in his pocket. The sensible thing to do – the decent thing – would be to hide out until she’d gone, then forget he’d ever seen her. He jogged across the muddy grass towards the boathouse steps, but even as he reached them, his thoughts had spun off in a different direction. He couldn’t let her go. Whatever the outcome, here was his chance to make it right with her; possibly his only chance.

  Holding onto the newel post, Morgan took several deep, sustaining breaths. Then he turned and ran, faster than he’d ever run before, back towards the boatyard.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Light rainfall had freshened the air and taken the mugginess away. Layla felt refreshed, too, and energised. She’d already walked a fair distance before she’d reached the May, having decided to leave the car at home, but her legs carried her on, powerful as pistons.

  Passing through the old part of the city, she’d stopped off at The Spice Emporium to say goodbye to Raj. He’d deliberately made her laugh by putting on a comically sad face, and coming out from behind the counter to present her with a parting gift – a poppy-seed loaf, wrapped in rustling brown paper. As she walked, she could feel the bulk of it inside her shoulder-bag.

  Reaching the river, she’d experienced a bout of nerves. She’d hurried across the road-bridge, averting her eyes from the boatyard below, and keeping the umbrella tilted to one side, like a shield. She felt safer here on the riverside path, but kept moving, keeping her gaze straight ahead. This was harder than she’d imagined. Perhaps she should have turned left after the bridge and walked in the opposite direction, but along here was the most scenic stretch of the river.

  She passed the backs of the Tudor cottages, their black-and-white picture-postcard prettiness always a draw for the tourists, and then the path wound around the riverside gardens where roses bloomed in the flower-beds. Layla thought about Melody, and then, of course, she thought about Danni. But it was all right. Really it was. She was getting better at thinking about Danni without succumbing to sinking despair.

  Another time, she might be wishing it would stop raining, but today the umbrella had more than one use. She kept it well down, its handle her comforter as she gripped it. Opposite now would be the bench where she and Morgan had sat gazing at the river and idly chatting. As if they knew she needed the diversion, a flurry of ducks waddled on splayed orange feet across the grass bank towards her, a brown-feathered throng livened with flashes of emerald. They squawked as she approached. Their squawking and flapping made her laugh. They were after food, but they weren’t getting the poppy-seed loaf. She was sorry to disappoint them.

  She remembered coming down here as a child, with Mum or Dad, sometimes both, and Rowan, to feed the ducks with chunks of stale bread. When Jadine arrived, they’d brought her, too, and she’d sat in the pushchair and chewed on the lumps of bread instead of throwing them to the ducks. On impulse, Layla took out her phone. Clamping the handle of the umbrella under her arm to keep it securely in place, she took several photos of the ducks before walking on.

  The clipped grass banks gave way to rougher grass, and trees – tall ones to the left, dipping willows at the river’s edge. Here was the bend in the river; round the bend, across the water, the boathouse. Even with the umbrella in place, it was impossi
ble to avoid a glimpse of it, in its raised position among the trees. Layla gave in to temptation and lifted the umbrella a little so that she could see. A deep sensation of longing filled her, and she regretted ever coming on this walk. Why had she thought she could get away scot-free? She wasn’t made of stone. Drawing on the little breath she had left, she resolutely tugged the umbrella down and hurried on.

  A few minutes later, a sound reached her. A voice? Calling her name? Other sounds, splashy, watery, coming nearer. Puzzled, she lowered the umbrella fully. The sight that met her eyes sent shock-waves through her stomach. Laughter rose inside her; hysterical, inappropriate laughter. Throwing down the umbrella, she clapped both hands to her mouth.

  A little blue rowing boat was heading towards her, casting ever-widening ripples across the water as its occupant levered the oars, his shoulders pumping for all they were worth, as if he were in a race. One oar was pushed out towards the clumps of tall reeds as he tried to make contact with the muddy bank, but the boat drifted further out into the river. He tried again, and this time managed to manoeuvre it closer to the bank. A rope was thrown towards her, along with a smile which tore Layla’s heart in two.

  ‘Catch the rope, will you? Quick, before I capsize the bloody thing,’ Morgan yelled.

  How she’d managed to haul on the rope so that the boat came within distance and then clamber aboard, she had no idea. But somehow she had negotiated the mudslide while Morgan kept one hand on an oar and clutched at the reeds with the other to try and close the gap. One foot was wet and mud-stained, as was the hem of her dress. The umbrella hadn’t made it into the boat with her. It had bowled into the undergrowth, where it lay tangled like a fallen bird. At least it had stopped raining now.