by Kathy Shuker
She had to smile then. ‘Thirty-six.’
He looked her up and down but didn’t comment and turned and threw the crab shell back into the pool.
‘So can I keep coming here?’ he said, not looking at her. ‘It’s not like you use it much, after all. And I like it ‘cause it’s quiet.’
‘That’s because it’s private.’
‘People shouldn’t own beaches,’ he said sullenly. ‘They should belong to everyone.’
‘Maybe. But if my aunt didn’t own this beach, you wouldn’t want to come here because it wouldn’t be quiet.’ She paused and when he didn’t speak, she prompted, ‘Would it?’
‘S’pose not.’
She relented, unable to be cross with him. He was just a kid. There was no way he was seventeen. And he looked harmless - lonely more than anything else.
‘I’m Jo,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘Harry.’
‘OK Harry, so, yes, you can come again, but only to the beach. And just you. No friends. My aunt’s not well at the moment. I don’t want her to come home to find her special place has been spoiled for her. Whatever you might think, she’s worked damn hard for this.’
He stared down into the rock pool, saying nothing.
‘Agreed?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don’t go on.’ He looked at her sidelong. ‘She fell, didn’t she?’
‘My aunt? Yes. Why?’
He shrugged, then began studying the rock pool again and edging around it and away from her.
She left him to it and climbed back up towards the house, pausing at the top of the steps and looking down again to where Eleanor had been stuck in the brambles. There was something about it that didn’t fit.
Chapter 6
The alarm on his phone woke Matthew with a start. The night before he had stayed up reading in bed for too long as usual, trying to wear his mind out. Even when he’d finally slept he had done so fitfully, checking the time two or three times during the night. He had become resigned to this routine. Then he’d drifted into a light sleep not long before the alarm was due and now lay there sweating in the bed.
Sophie had just come to him again in a dream. Vivid, whole, as healthy as when they had first met, she had talked with him and laughed with him, made plans and teased. They had been on an excursion together with Harry, Matthew driving, Sophie and Harry in the back singing a succession of children’s songs. Bizarrely, Harry had been the same age he was now but it hadn’t mattered in the dream. He was happy: happy singing children’s songs; happy to be with his mother; maybe even happy to be with his father.
And for several minutes after Matthew woke, he thought it was true. It had been so real, he could still hear Sophie’s voice, could smell her perfume. Even now, if he just reached over in the bed, he felt sure he could touch her…
But reality washed through him bringing the familiar pain and longing. He covered his face, wanting to hold Sophie still in his head yet desperate to make the pain go away. He couldn’t do both. He couldn’t do either, it seemed. He had lost count of how often this had happened. How long was this going to go on for? Wasn’t it bad enough to lose her once, but to keep doing it over and over again like this? He couldn’t stand it.
‘Why, Sophie?’ he said angrily. ‘Bloody hell. Why? Why leave me then keep coming back to haunt me?
He had spoken too loudly and immediately listened for Harry but heard nothing. Did Harry dream about his mother like this? Matthew wouldn’t know. Harry had become a closed book since Sophie had died.
He sat up and threw himself out of bed, needing to move, to distract himself somehow. It was Sunday and he would have to open the shop later but there was plenty of time to go out first. Quickly washing and dressing, he trod as silently down the stairs as the creaking boards would allow and let himself out of the tiny cottage.
Their house was on the end of a thatched terrace, a short walk from the rear of the coffee shop. Harry was right: it was dark. The small windows, low ceilings and overhang of thatch only exacerbated the cottage’s gloomy position at the northern end of the terrace. Exiting through the back door and moving round to the lane at the front, Matthew found himself squinting as he walked into the sunshine. The lane hugged the side of a stream which ran down through the village to the shore. He turned right towards the sea and headed for the coastal path.
It was still early and there were few people out, mostly dog-walkers. He reluctantly exchanged a brief greeting with those he recognised and kept moving. Reaching the footpath up the headland to the north of the cove, he pounded briskly up it, then did the same with the steps, savouring the physical effort, feeling the blood pumping through his body. He was breathless by the time he reached the top but kept going, seeking out the highest point and the spectacular view it afforded. He hoped he would have it to himself at this time in the morning and he did. He took a step onto the soft, spongy grass nearer the scrubby edge of the cliff and looked out and round as his breathing settled.
This was one of his favourite places: crisp, clean air and a stunning panorama. To the northwest the coastal path wound along the clifftop and away out of sight. In the far distance he could see South Rock, the next village along, and the suggestion of its shoreline. To the south and east, below him, was the bowl-shaped sandy beach of Petterton Mill Cove and, on the other side, the wooded headland which sheltered Eleanor Lambe’s home. Gazing down to the straggle of village buildings reaching up the valley, Matthew could see someone slowly laying out the beach gear in front of the convenience store. A single car navigated the road winding down through the village and looped round and up into the small car park above the beach. A herring gull, wings outstretched, wheeled and hung on air currents out over the sea.
This is why he had brought Harry here: the peace, the simplicity, the quietness. If the lad couldn’t sort his problems out here, where could he? As soon as Matthew had seen the advert for the coffee shop, he had known. And once he’d looked into the place and found out that Eleanor Lambe lived in the village, that had clinched it. It felt like fate. Sophie had been a big reader and Ms Lambe had been one of her favourite authors. Sophie. You see, he couldn’t get away from her because he kept chasing her. His shoulders sagged. It was wrong to get angry with Sophie because he was the one who wouldn’t let her go. He was destined to go round in circles like this forever.
With an effort he pushed her out of his head and thought of Harry again. Most kids would kill to live somewhere like this, wouldn’t they? OK, so he didn’t like the house but this was a place to be outdoors and the house was only a rental that came with the shop, a convenience for the time being.
But maybe it was his own fault. It wasn’t working out the way he’d hoped. Before they’d come here, he had planned beach cricket and cooking together and walks like they used to do with Sophie. But he was finding the coffee shop too all-consuming. It was busy and more demanding than he’d expected. Gail was wonderful of course and there was Freddie too - a lad of twenty-one. Freddie had a ponytail, a ring through one eyebrow and a line in bizarre jokes but he was genial, polite and hard-working. They were a good team, but Matthew wasn’t good at delegating. The café was his responsibility; he felt he had to be there. But he felt guilty for not being around for his son too - though when he did have time with Harry they barely spoke.
‘Take some time off,’ Sophie said in his head. ‘It would do you both good. Stop being a martyr.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ he replied. ‘I’m trying to juggle a hundred balls here - without your help.’
‘You’re hiding, using the shop as an excuse.’
‘Oh, you’re so clever these days. You should try what I have to do.’
He had a lot of these silent conversations with Sophie. It upset him that they were always so cross. When she was alive it had never been like that.
He sighed and began the walk back down the hill towards the village and work.
*
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ hissed Louisa.
‘Because I didn’t want to upset you. I was scared you’d read something into it that wasn’t there, that’s all.’ Frank glanced towards the counter, aware that Matthew was not far away, making their coffees. Why had she waited until they’d come out for a Sunday morning walk to challenge him about his visit to Eleanor? He hated arguing in public.
‘Why?’ she pressed. ‘Because you don’t feel you can talk to me? Because I’m too blinkered in my thinking? And how come Imogen knew when I didn’t?’
‘Because I bumped into her when I got back, that’s all. She could smell the disinfectant on me. You know - that stuff you have to squeeze onto your hands when you go into a ward. Hospitals leave a smell on you anyway. Bloody Imogen, misses nothing.’
‘Don’t blame Imogen.’
Matthew brought their drinks over and they immediately fell silent while he put them on the table and withdrew.
‘Oh, I have a right to blame Imogen,’ muttered Frank. ‘I asked her to keep it to herself and she said she would. So much for her promises. Perhaps I should warn Mari she’s not to be trusted.’
‘Don’t. Mari’s devoted to Imogen. They’re planning to get married.’
‘Exactly my point.’
Louisa tipped a sachet of sugar into her coffee and stirred it round, her unhappy gaze fixed on the cup.
‘So why did you go?’ she said, not looking at him.
‘Because we used to be close. Because she’s had a terrible accident. Is it really so surprising? Come on, darling, please understand, it has nothing to do with us.’ He reached out and took her free hand, dropping his voice. ‘I’m in love with you. I was just paying a brief visit to someone I used to know well who’s very ill and probably dying. It may be the last time I see her.’
Louisa frowned. ‘I suppose that could be true.’ She freed her hand from his but seemed to relax a little and sat back, cradling her cup and saucer, looking across at him solicitously. ‘I’d hate to think you hadn’t had a chance to see her before she went. I’m sorry, Frank. That was thoughtless of me. But still, you should have told me beforehand. I could have come with you. You know, made it easier for you.’ She smiled and he melted as he usually did. He loved her smile: it was broad and cheerful and guileless and made her eyes crinkle. And he hated to upset her.
‘I didn’t stay long,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t so hard; it’s been a while now. But thanks anyway. Now let’s talk about something else. Shall we walk over to South Halcombe and have lunch there?’
*
For Jo, Saturday rolled imperceptibly into Sunday which rolled into Monday. There had been no change in Eleanor. There was no evidence that she was even aware that anyone was with her and Jo finally accepted that there was going to be no quick fix, no fairy-tale recovery. In the darkest recesses of her mind, she began to doubt if there would be a recovery at all but refused to go there. Already wrung out, physically and emotionally, she was going to have to settle in for the long haul and pace herself. She adjusted her daily pattern, working on her editing commissions at the house in the morning, visiting Eleanor in the afternoon.
Eleanor’s study was the obvious place to work but it wasn’t a comfortable thing to do, pushing her aunt’s laptop to the back of the desk, shifting papers and notebooks out of the way. She had strayed in here a few times as an inquisitive child and her aunt would invariably find her and ask her what she was doing. The study was the one room Eleanor had always liked to keep to herself.
But now it was Lawrence who was keeping track of Jo’s movements. On the Monday morning she had been at Eleanor’s desk barely half an hour when he pushed back the half-open door and stood in the doorway.
‘Is there something in particular you’re looking for in here?’ he demanded.
‘No. Should there be?’
His eyes quickly scanned the room before he replied.
‘No-o. But I thought if you were, I could help.’ He finally registered her computer and books and his eyebrows rose. ‘You’re working?’
‘Indeed.’ She bit back a sarcastic response. Better not to antagonise Lawrence unnecessarily. ‘Charlotte said you were planning to see Eleanor over the weekend.’
The housekeeper had made the remark casually when she’d arrived that morning while Jo was still in the kitchen. Though, as if she’d spoken out of turn, she had seemed reluctant to say anything more on the subject.
Lawrence regarded her dispassionately. ‘Yes. I went last night.’
‘How was she?’
‘Just as you described,’ he said crisply, and left.
He’s a cold fish, thought Jo.
It was later that morning when, mug of coffee in hand, she finally allowed herself to pick through the papers she had moved. She found one headed Lit Fest with a list of possible speakers, some of whom had ticks and TBC written by their names. Inevitably, Eleanor’s own name was at the top. Since the meeting in the hall, Jo hadn’t given the festival much thought and had no idea how she would fulfil her rash promise to Nancy to step into Eleanor’s shoes. But this would help. She recognised all the names on it and had even met some of them. They were a mix of fiction and non-fiction authors including one politician, Brian Hunwin, a close friend of Eleanor’s and a retired Member of Parliament. At the bottom of the list were the names of the course tutors too, all except Vincent and all ticked. Interesting. Why had Vincent been excluded?
She checked through the other papers for anything similar but all she found, buried under the mound of paper, was a small digital recorder. Eleanor had used a variety of these devices over the years to record her writing thoughts. She carried one round with her everywhere.
Jo picked it up, considered it thoughtfully, then trod softly to the door and closed it, turning the handle as silently as she could. Back in the heart of the room, she switched it on and hit ‘play’. Eleanor’s voice spoke to her as loudly and clearly as if she were in the room.
‘Chapter four needs to start with a flashback to ‘84. What Donald decides to do has to be seen to result from his experiences at that time.’
She quickly reduced the volume. The date stamp for the recording was the Friday morning, the same day Jo had rung, the same day Eleanor had fallen. And there were other recordings - similar snatches of thought, all made within the previous week.
Jo stopped the recording. There had been footsteps in the hallway and she was convinced that Lawrence was standing the other side of the door, listening. She found herself holding her breath, waiting. The steps eventually moved away and she breathed again, then slipped the recorder into her bag. It seemed important not to leave it there.
Back at the desk, Eleanor’s voice still echoed in her head. She didn’t sound like someone gripped by writer’s block. Nor did she sound anything other than her usual determined, forthright self. Jo sat, staring blindly at her computer screen for some minutes, then began searching the drawers of Eleanor’s desk. There were all the usual stationery items: pens and pencils, new notebooks and adhesives and paper clips; old filled notebooks too, some going way back. But Eleanor used to keep an address book. She said modern technology was great but paper and pens didn’t break down or go off-line. Yes, here it was, in the middle drawer. Jo found the page where Eleanor’s agent was listed, programmed the mobile number into her phone and promptly left the house, walking down the slope to the parking bays where she got in her car. Lawrence couldn’t eavesdrop here. She glanced round, then called the number.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘Jenny? It’s Jo here, Joselyn Lambe, Eleanor’s niece. Have you got a minute?’
‘Jo? Oh yes, Jo. How are you? I haven’t seen you in…oh ages. How’s poor Eleanor? I’ve been meaning to come down but it’s been hellish busy. Lawrence said she wouldn’t know me anyway.’
‘I’m afraid that’s true at the moment. But Jenny, I wanted to ask you something.’
‘Of course.’
‘How was Eleanor’s latest book coming on? Did she have problems with it? I gather she’d missed a few deadlines already.’
Jenny laughed. ‘Eleanor always misses deadlines. Though she did have a bad patch with the latest book a while back. She seemed to be over the hump the last time we spoke. She’d got into that excited phase. I guessed it was coming together. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, you know…I’m trying to talk to Eleanor as much as possible but it gets hard to know what to say. I didn’t want to say anything about her work in case it upset her.’
‘Oh no, she loves her work. I mean, she hates it too - you know what writers are like.’
Jo hesitated. ‘Have her books not been selling well lately? Is she not as popular as she used to be?’
‘Eleanor Lambe is one of the foremost writers of our age,’ said Jenny smoothly, as if doing a press briefing. ‘Her political thrillers are edgy, pacy and above all smart. They’re popular the world over.’
‘Jenny, please. You don’t have to tell me how clever she is. I know that. But is she struggling to sell?’
‘No. Well, not exactly,’ she said coolly. ‘The margins have got tighter lately but certainly she’s selling. Maybe not as much as we’d like. There are fashions in writers - well, you know that - but compared to most writers, she’s doing very well.’
‘I see. Well good.’
Jenny’s voice softened. ‘Look I’m really sorry Eleanor’s in such a bad way. I will try and get down there soon. I’d like to see her.’
Jo closed the call but continued to sit in the car. The unease that she kept shrugging off had closed in again and thickened. There had been no writer’s block. Sales were OK. Lawrence kept lying to her.
*
Eleanor was going backwards. She was running a temperature and had developed a chest infection, incubated silently and insidiously over the preceding days, not uncommon in patients who are very static, the nurse told Jo.
‘You are treating it?’ Jo demanded, frightened they would think there was no point. Would they do that? Not without asking her surely?