‘Oh, Nat, come on, love.’ Closing the door behind them, she guides her over to the large squidgy sofa overlooking the bay. In the short time she’s been up the light is lifting. ‘Just look at that mad lot, will you? Can’t decide if I admire them or think they’ve lost all sense.’ She nods at the bodies, lying on surfboards, already paddling out, up and over the whitewash-broken waves, as she manhandles Nat into soft cushions, tucking a piece of her dishevelled hair behind her ears.
‘Now then, coffee, tea or something nice and sweet – hot chocolate?’
Nat pulls a face, ‘Eek, God, no, coffee, please.’
‘I’ve been kind of expecting you, perhaps not quite this early though.’ Morwenna wanders off to the kitchen area, being small but sufficient at the back of the open sitting area. Cute, the agent called it on first inspection. Bloody minuscule, she’d replied before explaining how well she knew the owner.
‘Yeah, I know, but I didn’t get much sleep. No, cancel that, I’m pretty sure I’ve had no sleep. Just needed to remove myself from the flat for a different air, you know.’
Morwenna nods; she fully understands. When she first arrived in Cornwall, it was all happy for the first ten years. Before she lost her husband, John. What then ensued were many days spent not sure whether to remain in the house, then in Wadebridge, or whether to escape and walk the streets with the horrible, debilitating feeling shadowing her every step. I’ll feel better, once I get myself out of the house. I’ll feel better once I’m back all cosy at home. I’ll feel better if I try and make some friends, join some groups, anything. But the pain attached itself to her like a malignant growth. She moved from one scene to the other never feeling any better.
‘It’s never a problem for me, Nat. I’m always up with the gulls, bloody literally. Which reminds me, I’ve not thrown their food this morning. Honestly, I’m fifty-four not ninety-four but sometimes I wonder, I really do.’
She makes coffee, filtered always, as the instant stuff does awful things to her digestive system – God knows what they do during these processing methods – and Nat continues to stare out of the window without feeling the need to speak. It’s the companionship they both crave more than anything. On rainy days off they often pick up magazines, Nat downloads something from her Netflix, and they eat copious amounts of chocolate. It pains her to see Nat like this, the carefree, wonderfully humoured girl being squeezed into someone she struggles to recognise. Nat’s always been at the opposite end of the scale to Mark, this was something that strengthened the relationship initially, before the letters from her father, why she doesn’t tell him everything is beyond her. She could bang their blinking heads together, Nat and Mark, both of them holding back what’s really driving their behaviours. And she’s stuck right in the middle. But then, how can she talk about secrets?
‘Sorry about last night, with Mark, I mean. Hope we didn’t disturb you,’ Nat says, taking the coffee from Mo.
‘Disturb me?’ Mo sits at the other end of the sofa. ‘What you apologising for? I had a lovely night. If I wasn’t vociferous enough last night, by the way, thank you, for all the effort you went to. I’m properly touched. I know it was mostly down to you. My cake was gorgeous. Delicious. You’ve quite a gift for baking, haven’t you?’
‘Aww, my pleasure. You know, I quite like baking, cakes especially. I don’t know why I don’t do it more often. It’s sort of therapeutic in a messy kind of way.’
‘Don’t let me stand in your way. I’ll always be the willing taster.’
‘I made my dad a cake once. After Mum died. Can you believe I felt sorry for him? It was his birthday, just the two of us left. Using Mum’s recipe book, but too worried to ask for any cake ingredients—’ Nat laughs ‘—so I compromised. Instead of eggs I used more of that bloody horrible spread stuff. I ran out of sugar too, so I used extra flour, and for the icing, I didn’t have any icing sugar, so I covered the top in a Dream Topping sachet I found at the back of the cupboard. I put a candle on it and everything. God, it was awful when I think of it.’
‘Maybe, but even so, I’d have been over the moon with it, Nat.’ Mo understands what is probably coming next. ‘Dare I ask? Did he like it?’
‘Took one look at it, pushed the candle through the cake with his fist, smothered it all over the table. You expect me to eat this shit? Wasting our food on this shit? Picked up his roll-ups and disappeared.’
‘Oh, God, Nat love, how cruel.’
Nat shrugs. ‘I didn’t even cry when I think about it, just scrubbed the table clean and prayed that was the worst of it for the night. To be fair—’ Nat smiles ‘—it would have tasted bloody awful.’ She reaches forward and pats Morwenna’s hand. ‘Don’t look so sad, you. Or is it because you’re wondering what I made your cake with – feeling a bit queasy, eh?’ She laughs. ‘I have sworn Dan to secrecy.’
‘I don’t care, it was scrumptious.’ Mo squeezes Nat’s duvet-smothered feet. ‘I don’t know, what a pair. What a life.’
‘Exactly. And now there’s me and Mark. Just when I thought I was happy.’ Nat slaps her own hand. ‘Silly me. Rowed again, last night. I mean, nothing major but even so, sometimes, honestly.’
Mo reaches over, taking the cup from Nat. ‘Another one?’
Nat nods. ‘Thinking about it, that’s twice this week we’ve rowed. Always about such stupid things. Things that really shouldn’t bother us but do. Feels like we’re trapped in one of those really bad unfunny sitcoms, with an even worse script to follow. You know what I mean – I’m retaliating and saying things that aren’t even me. Rowing is so not my thing.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in a row, love, as long as it clears the air for the morning. Better that than put up and shut up, so long as you make up afterwards, that is.’
‘Hmm. But it’s not me, Mo. I don’t do arguments. In my head maybe but not in person. Anyway, it didn’t clear the air, more like smothered it. He kind of tried to apologise but I rejected it. Even asked him to leave. He’d probably have stormed off anyway but even so. Not so much as a kiss on the cheek – we didn’t even say goodnight. He probably hadn’t even slammed the front door before I began to question myself. So…’
‘… you didn’t get any sleep,’ Morwenna calls from the kitchen. ‘Mark does hate to feel rejected, Nat.’
‘Tell me about it. Is that spoilt child syndrome or what?’
This is the moment, Morwenna thinks, when she should tell Nat about Mark, but how can she without betraying him? It’s not her story to tell. She’ll get on to him about it again; he has to sort his own dirty washing out. ‘Maybe there’s more to it than that. Look, not sleeping isn’t going to help matters, makes everything feel so much worse. Give it some time.’
‘You know how it is when you keep going over and over what you wished you’d said, what you shouldn’t have said. And all over a bloody cardigan! How does anyone actually have a row about a cardigan? Help me out here, is this me?’
‘Oh, yes, you saying that, I vaguely remember now – so what’s the deal with the cardigan?’
‘You tell me. Other than it’s miraculously disappeared and, apparently, stupidly expensive.’
‘I see. Mark can get a little, how shall I say, precious over material items. Treats his art pieces like his babies, which I kind of understand if you’re the artist, but he’s probably taking it too far with a cardigan. No matter the cost. Silly man.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Morwenna hands Nat her coffee. ‘Out of interest, though, how does a cardigan disappear?’
‘Exactly, that’s what I said to him. Apparently, it doesn’t. I’ve lost it, regardless of the fact I’ve never properly worn it, not out anyway.’
‘How strange.’
‘Where I’ve supposedly lost it, I’ve no idea. I mean, I had it on the other morning but I’m pretty sure I didn’t wear it out afterwards. Then, I went to put it on last night but couldn’t find it, could I? Then, I was worried I’d be late coming here to stall you,
before everyone else arrived, so didn’t have time to look for it or, from Mark’s perspective, I couldn’t be bothered to look for it. Then…’ Nat slaps her hand to her face. ‘For God’s sake, I can’t believe I’m still talking about the flipping cardigan.’
They both laugh. ‘Men,’ Morwenna says.
‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them, can’t kill them any more either,’ they say in unison.
‘Let him have his paddy,’ Morwenna suggests, ‘then he’ll be on your doorstep – well, he would, if you had one – with flowers later. Best not allow yourself to be pulled into his own issues, love. Really.’ Understanding, more than Nat, Mark has his issues, but so does everyone.
‘Hmm, guess you’re right, as always. Did you think Daniel seemed quiet last night, towards the end, or was that me being hyper-sensitive?’
Morwenna thinks back through the fuzzy-edged evening. ‘Not sure I noticed, but then I didn’t notice your ding-dong with Mark either. And was Nigel even there? God, I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself.’
Nat laughs. ‘Silly. It wasn’t a ding-dong either, not at that point anyway. More of an atmosphere radiating from Mark. I’m gobsmacked you couldn’t feel the heat. I, on the other hand, was having fun irrespective of his childish behaviour. No, Daniel seemed a little on the edge, you know, now I think of it. I kept pulling him over to chat amongst us all, but he seemed… kind of anxious towards the end of the night.’
‘He hates conflict, that will be why. Probably picked up on the undercurrents. I’ve noticed this before. Even when we’ve been sat watching a film, he physically flinches at the screen if anyone so much as raises a voice. Shame, poor lad. Such a sensitive flower. The times I’ve wondered just what has gone on in his life.’
‘Me too. Does he ever mention his parents to you?’
‘Not often. Occasionally they drop into conversation. Thinking about it, I’ve mostly gained little snippets here and there when Tommy’s mentioned them. And rarely do I speak to Tommy. If Daniel brings them up – have you noticed? – he does that thing, goes all deep into himself, reserved and thoughtful.’
‘I have. Strange, isn’t it? I mean, I love him to bits, like he’s my own brother, and I wouldn’t ever talk about him to anyone but you, but it is odd.’
‘Which bit – him not mentioning them or his behaviour if he does?’ Morwenna asks.
‘Both. His parents, from what he’s told me, put up the rent for his flat each month. I mean, they’d have to, wouldn’t they, with him not working other than a few hours here and there. And they give him a monthly allowance. He’s twenty-eight and more than capable of looking after himself. Not only that – where are they? Given they have such an impression on him, they’re pretty much invisible.’
Morwenna shakes her head. ‘I’ve not met the mother. I don’t think he’s ever mentioned her to me even. The father, now I think of it, I’ve only met him the once.’
‘You see, odd. Then there’s Tommy. I mean, why does he need Tommy? He cleans his own flat, does his own shopping. I don’t mean to be horrible but what’s the point in Tommy? The housekeeper, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Not sure, maybe it’s a guilt thing.’
‘Guilt?’
‘Well, with his parents not properly having any contact with him. His father works for the government in some capacity or other, from what Tommy said, always busy, often away in London or overseas. I’ve no idea what the mother does but maybe they feel guilty. And I hate to say it, but, between you and me, as much as we all love Daniel, yes, he’s super intelligent but, let’s face it, with life itself, he’s quite – how should I put it? – vulnerable. Don’t you think? He’s hardly what you might call streetwise, for his age, I mean.’
‘No, completely, I get you. I used to think he was one of those academics with so much highbrow intelligence but zero common sense. And I mean this in the fondest of ways when it comes to Daniel.’
Morwenna laughs. ‘I know you do, we both do. He’s one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met, present company excluded. But he’s certainly one on his own.’
Mo’s often wondered about Tommy. He’s pleasant enough and certainly seems to be no problem to Daniel, but she too can’t understand the need for his housekeeping duties, as he refers to them. But then Daniel, for whatever reason, doesn’t seem to be able to fully integrate with life in terms of holding down full employment, or arranging the more administrative side of living. She’s always put this down to his flighty creative brain, writing a fantasy novel in his spare time and probably spending far too much time alone in his imagination. None of us really know, she thinks, what lurks in the past, what challenges have been experienced and fought. Look at her – she glances at Natalie with a pang of guilt – she really ought to tell her, if not about Mark, then at least about her greatest regret.
9
Daniel
It’s dark and damp in the cottage today. A breeze lifts and plays with the rubble and bits of old newspaper lying on the sandy, dusty floors. The front door is permanently wedged open, which is probably a good thing, given the damp air hoping to suffocate all who enter. Olive-green speckles dance arbitrarily, where once the walls were white.
‘You’re late again,’ Jacob declares.
‘Sorry,’ Daniel mutters, hanging his head in shame. He’s always in the wrong. Last night, he didn’t sleep at all. The raised voices pirouetted around his mind throughout the early hours. Then, this morning he desperately wanted to check on Natalie, he was worried about her, but there was no answer after he’d jumped the stairs two by two to knock on her door. He scrambled back down to his flat, scribbled a note, ran back up the stairs and pushed it under her door. Begging her to open it, before waiting another thirty minutes or so, sitting outside, back against her front door. Nothing. Only when he thought of knocking on Morwenna’s door for help did he realise the two of them were, in fact, together. Hearing their voices, quiet and distant, definitely Natalie, talking and laughing somewhere in the background. She wasn’t dead. Mark didn’t kill her. Despite there being no red, he’d been terrified. As Tommy has pointed out before, there doesn’t always have to be red to signify death.
‘Punctuality maketh a man!’ Daniel jumps. ‘But then you are no man. Are you?’
Daniel shakes his head, anything not to upset him.
‘Well?’ he demands.
‘No,’ Daniel states. ‘I am not a man.’
‘So what are you, then? If not a man? What are you?’
‘Just a child,’ Daniel whispers.
‘Any old child?’
‘A scared child.’
‘Go on.’
‘A naughty child. Annoying, demanding constant attention. Lonely.’
Daniel scampers across the floor, pulls out the old decrepit wooden chair, easing himself onto it. Eyes down on the heavily marked table. He wonders about the family who have sat here, before him, before they condemned this forsaken place. He thinks of the tale Morwenna told him. How the cottage had been in the same family of farmers for generations until the old lady was the only one left and she stayed here until the bitter end. Despite the cottage being condemned as unsafe, she refused to move; she died here. Red, he thinks. His mind flooding with a crimson fluid. Red. Why did he suggest this place to Jacob? Or was it Jacob who suggested it? Did Jacob know about the old lady? Did Morwenna tell him? Did Jacob kill the old lady? No, she died; Morwenna said she died of old age.
‘So?’ The voice booms over his thoughts. Daniel panics. What was it he was supposed to be saying? He daren’t ask – so, what? ‘So?’ Daniel pushes back the rising bile. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘I’m not sure what to say,’ he murmurs. ‘I’ve forgotten. Sorry. I’m so sorry, I can’t remember.’ Daniel listens as the other chair scrapes against the flagstone tiles. Next, he feels the pressure of a hand on the back of his head; he doesn’t resist as his nose is squashed against the unforgiving surface of the table. He stays still, counting in his head, withou
t uttering a word, without drawing a breath until he feels the pressure release, then slowly he raises his head. The atmosphere has lifted. Jacob has gained some kind of relief in pressing Daniel’s face against the table.
‘Still waiting, Daniel.’
‘I made my mother ill. I destroyed my family. That’s why I was locked in my room. It was all my fault.’
‘And this is what happened?’
‘Yes. Only allowed out for meals, if I behaved.’
‘You’re telling the truth? Your family hated you, then?’
‘Yes. For good reason. Then I was sent away to boarding school because I was so bad.’
‘Fascinating. Now read to me.’
‘Yes,’ Daniel says. ‘Of course, yes, the books. I’ve brought books.’ He lays the books out for Jacob to choose. It’s okay; Jacob always relaxes when Daniel reads to him.
Jacob points at the book, sliding his arm across the table to toss the remaining hardbacks to the floor. ‘This one is perfect.’
10
Natalie
I reach for Daniel’s manicured hand as we sit together in the café, a few doors down from the gallery, overlooking the beach, our second favourite haunt after The Crab and Tiller. ‘So, Dan, I found your note,’ I say to him.
Daniel stirs the volcano of cream, speckled with flaked almonds, into his hot chocolate. ‘My note. Yes. Sorry about the note. I was worried. About you – you didn’t answer your door, so I wrote the note.’
‘Hey. It’s fine, you don’t need to explain. I was just saying.’ I smile at him. ‘Sorry I worried you. And I thought I was a worrier. Really there was no need for you to be worried. No need at all.’
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