My heart hammered as I called out. You turned and squinted through the early evening sunshine as you took a second or two to place me. Then you raised your hand and waved enthusiastically. I waved back and couldn’t help laughing. All the years I’d been searching for someone and you were right here, a few miles from Trevose all along.
‘Enjoy your sandwich!’
‘Thank you!’
Every fibre of my being screamed at me to follow you. But I had to be patient. Women are easily put off. I had to take my time. As I watched you walk away it physically hurt.
I would stay in Cornwall for another week. It meant a call to work. I explained I’d developed a bad case of shingles and asked them to delay my flight to Paris. They weren’t happy, but what else could I do? Shingles is nasty.
Over the days that followed I indulged a newfound appetite for iced buns. Every day I made the drive to Newlyn and wandered into the bakery, nonchalant, playing it cool.
‘Iced bun?’ you asked with a knowing smile.
‘They’re the best I’ve ever tasted and I know my iced buns!’
‘I’ll tell my dad. It’s his own recipe. I’d give it to you, but then I’d have to kill you, so…’ You shrugged and it was such a charming gesture I laughed.
‘I’ll have to do without for a while.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’m a lawyer. I have to go to Paris, to head office. I’ll be there for a while, I think. A few months at least. They need me to sort some things out for them. I should be flattered, I suppose.’
The stint in Paris was actually part of my training, but the small white lie was worth it to see your expression change to one of awe. ‘Wow, you must be clever.’
I lowered my gaze to affect humility.
‘I didn’t even do A levels. I love reading though, and quite enjoyed history and English, but school was wasted on me. I was too naughty.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second.’
You laughed. ‘Well, not naughty, as such. But I was definitely lazy when it came to doing my homework and stuff.’ You shrugged. ‘Guess that’s why I’m here in my dad’s bakery and not a hotshot lawyer off to France.’
The bell above the door rang and another customer walked in. I wished I could tell her to go away, to come back later and let us finish talking, but of course I couldn’t.
‘I’ll be back in England for Christmas though.’
‘I’ll have your iced bun ready and waiting.’ You winked at me and turned to the lady. ‘What can I get for you?’
As I reached for the door handle, something stopped me. My sister’s words.
When you know, you know.
‘Will you have dinner with me?’
You looked surprised, shocked even, and an immediate panic took hold of me.
‘It’s, well, I don’t have many friends down here, and I’ve been at home alone for a few weeks. Climbing the walls. And I’ve enjoyed our daily chats.’
You hesitated.
‘But if you can’t think of anything worse, I understand.’
The woman in the shop glanced at her watch and huffed quietly. ‘Look, can you serve me first then sort this out? I’m in a hurry to pick up my daughter from nursery. They get cross if we’re late.’
‘Yes,’ you said to her, before turning back to me. ‘Can you—’
‘Just dinner. That’s all.’
Then you smiled. ‘Yes. Sure. Dinner. It sounds lovely.’
I took you to the most expensive restaurant in Cornwall. The chef had trained at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons. You hadn’t heard of it, which was disappointing as I’d hoped you’d be impressed, but then again your lack of sophistication was beguiling. I’d be Professor Higgins to your Eliza. I’d show you the museums of London and Amsterdam, the canals of Venice and the Statue of Liberty. I imagined us wandering through the narrow backstreets of Rome, eating in romantic trattorias, and making wishes at the Trevi Fountain. My pulse quickened.
Chez Laurent wasn’t what I’d expected. It was, if I’m brutally honest, pretentious. You ordered the fish, do you remember? It came with three cubes of something we decided was probably swede. The fillet of John Dory was the size of a deck of cards and undercooked. My heart sank as you examined the translucent grey flesh with the tip of your knife. I tried not to notice you scrape away the orange balls of salmon roe over its surface whilst eyeing the puree of mushroom warily.
‘It’s nice here,’ you whispered. ‘But it’s posh, isn’t it? I don’t think I fit in.’
‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You are far too beautiful.’
You blushed and lowered your gaze.
‘I’m sorry about your food.’
‘It was lovely. I’ve never got on with mushrooms and I wasn’t sure if the orange stuff was for eating. The fish was tasty though.’
You were so desperate to make me happy. I’d have married you then and there, no word of a lie.
Dessert was more successful, pots of chocolate mousse scattered with flakes of edible gold and cherries dipped in white chocolate. You ate half the mousse and I had another surge of warmth towards you. You’re right. A woman should care about her figure.
Coffee came with sweets arranged on a white saucer.
‘They’re called petits fours.’
You repeated the words under your breath as you reached for a sphere of sugar-dusted apricot jelly and nibbled the edge.
Emboldened by wine I rested my hand on yours. It was electric.
‘I’d love to see you again.’
‘What about Paris?’
‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘You must have loads of girls you like up in London. I bet you have to fight them off with a stick.’
I toyed with the idea of making someone up to make you jealous. A colleague in the law firm. Emily or Arabella. But playing games wasn’t called for.
‘The girl I like is right here.’ I was pleased with this comment; it came out smoothly. ‘Can we have dinner again?’
‘You should come to The Packhorse with me and my friends when you get back. Meet some other people.’
I drove you back to your tiny cottage on the outskirts of Newlyn and walked you to your door. The air had chilled and there was the distant sound of a fishing trawler coming into port. A movement from an upstairs window caught my eye. I glanced up to see your mother watching us. The curtain fell back immediately. I smiled at you and you thanked me for dinner.
I thought you might kiss me. But, of course, you weren’t that type of girl.
When you know, you know.
Chapter Five
Hannah
The kitchen is silent but for the ticking clock and my own shallow breathing. I check the time again. Seven minutes to eight. Nathan sits at the table, unmoving, fists loosely balled and resting either side of his empty plate. He watches the clock like a hawk on a field mouse.
I check the shepherd’s pie again. The potato is turning from golden to overdone. I take it out of the oven, rest it on the side, and prod the crispy potato with a fork for no reason other than to appear busy.
‘You know, I think this has improved with the extra time in the oven.’ My tone is designed to appease Nathan’s mood. ‘He won’t be long. He probably missed the bus or—’
My sentence is interrupted by footsteps on the gravel path outside. Moments later, Alex pushes through the kitchen door and relief floods me. He dumps his kit bag on the floor and kicks off his football boots. His face is smeared with dirt and teenage indifference, and his white shorts are covered in a camouflage of stains from the football pitch. He bends down to ruffle the dog’s neck and whispers into her fur, and she responds with a vigorous beating of her tail on the flagstones.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ He appears anything but apologetic as he walks to the sink and turns on the tap to wash his hands.
‘And why are you?’ Nathan is glowering, staring at the wall in front of him, mouth moving in silent, tight-lipped mutters.
Nathan turns his head slowly to look at him. ‘Late.’
My stomach twists in anticipation of the inevitable argument and when Alex shrugs I have to bite my tongue to stop from interfering. From experience I know this doesn’t make the situation any easier.
Alex dries his hands and throws the tea towel on to the worktop. Nathan glances at the discarded cloth and visibly bristles, his lips pursing tightly.
‘Well?’
Alex rolls his eyes theatrically. ‘Rob offered me a lift but his mum was late. I was about to catch the bus, then she showed up, so I hung about because I thought going with her would be quicker than the bus, but it wasn’t because she got chatting to the other mums and we didn’t leave for ages.’
‘And you didn’t think to call?’ Nathan’s words are laced with caustic irritation.
‘I kept thinking she was nearly done.’ Alex gives a dismissive shrug. ‘Turns out they had a lot to catch up on.’
I stare at him and will him to apologise. He doesn’t need to do this. All he has to do is say sorry and sit down for supper.
‘What’s the point of having that bloody phone if you can’t use it properly?’
Alex heads towards the door.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Alex gestures upstairs. ‘Shower.’
‘Sit down and let’s eat.’
‘You waited?’ Alex’s forehead wrinkles with confusion but it’s an act. He knows full well Nathan would have insisted on waiting. He’s baiting him. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Nathan says, spitting the words out like sharpened tacks, ‘this family eats together like civilised human beings.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Let’s just eat, shall we?’ Alex looks at me and I hold his gaze for a moment. ‘While it’s hot, love.’
Nathan reaches for the bottle of red. He pours two glasses. Alex slouches on his chair, legs kicked out in front of him, fingers toying with a fork. If it wasn’t for the leaden tension, their matching cartoon scowls might make me laugh. I make two or three attempts at starting a conversation, but the sullen silence from my son and one-word snaps from my husband ensure that very soon the only noise which accompanies our meal is the scrape of cutlery and the relentless ticking clock.
When he’s finished, Nathan leans back in his chair and wipes his mouth, leaving a greasy smear of orange on his napkin. He drains the last of his wine then taps his finger on the table. ‘I don’t think you’ve given me the receipts yet?’
Nathan smiles and my insides solidify as heat spreads to my cheeks.
‘Sorry. I meant to put them on your desk but got sidetracked in the kitchen.’
‘Can I have them?’
‘My purse is upstairs.’
‘No problem. Alex and I will clear while you fetch it.’ The lightness in his voice thinly masks an anger which hasn’t faded at all. ‘Now, if possible?’
My hands have grown clammy. I force a smile at him and imagine – as I often do – what it would be like to lean forward, close to his face, and tell him where he can stick his fucking receipts.
But I don’t.
Instead I nod and leave the table. Cass follows on my heel, her claws lightly tapping the stone floor, and waits at the bottom of the stairs as I go up to our bedroom. I lift my handbag from the chair in the corner and rummage for my purse. Humiliation burns my skin. It shouldn’t. I should be used to this by now, but it’s always hard when he does it in front of Alex. The pity on my son’s face sharpens the shame.
‘Here you go,’ I say brightly, as I walk back into the kitchen and hold out the receipts, one from the supermarket, the other from a cash machine.
Nathan puts down his wine glass and takes the receipts. My heart starts to flutter. I notice that though the table has been cleared of plates, its surface is scattered with crumbs of food. I walk to the sink and run a cloth beneath the tap, wring it out, and return to the table.
‘The cash?’
‘Sorry?’ I lift a glass and wipe beneath it, moving the cloth in steady, rhythmic circles.
‘The withdrawal? Why did you need the cash?’
I place the glass back on the table. ‘I forgot something at the supermarket, but the queues were horrific. I was worried I’d miss the bus, so rather than go back, I took some money out at the garage cashpoint and bought what I’d forgotten at the Co-op.’ The words run out of me in a nervous torrent.
‘What did you forget?’
I glance at Alex. He is staring intently at his hands, which are clasped on the table in front of him, as his mouth moves silently.
‘Sanitary towels.’
Nathan nods and puts the receipts down. ‘Why didn’t you pay for them with a card?’
‘It was only three pounds ninety and they have a minimum spend in the Co-op – five pounds – and, well, we didn’t need anything else because I’d just done the shopping at the supermarket.’
This seems to satisfy Nathan. I pick up the wine glasses and bottle and walk back towards the sink.
‘And the receipt for the sanitary towels?’
My face reignites. I turn to face him, wrinkling my brow as I gesture at the receipts. ‘You’ve got it.’
Nathan holds up the pieces of paper, one in each hand, as if doing semaphore with tiny white flags. ‘Only two. The supermarket shop and the cash withdrawal.’
I feign confusion as I open my purse and make a show of looking for it despite knowing it doesn’t exist. ‘That’s odd,’ I say. ‘It’s not here. Are you sure you haven’t got it?’
He tips his head to one side and smiles as if I’ve said something amusing. ‘Yes, Hannah. I’m sure.’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘Get the towels.’
‘Sorry?’
Alex swears quietly.
Nathan glares at him whilst talking to me. ‘Hannah, please could you get the sanitary towels you bought today?’
‘Do you have to do this?’ Alex’s words catch in his throat.
‘I’ve told you before, Alex.’ Nathan’s voice has turned calm and flat like a patch of mirrored sea in the eye of a storm. ‘It’s important to take care of the finances, watch the pennies as well as the pounds, keep a careful record of what’s coming in and what’s going out.’
He’ll mention his father any moment now. Nathan’s nothing if not predictable.
‘I know what it’s like to live with someone irresponsible—’
Ah, yes, here it is. Right on schedule.
‘—and I’ve seen the devastation that goes with it. Believe you me, if you’d seen a person you love with a ruddy great hole where their face should be because they couldn’t manage money, you’d understand.’
‘I just… I just think you should take Mum’s word for it. Why would she lie?’
My son’s words make me ache. I want to run to him and hold him tightly. I want to tell him not to worry, that I’m fine, and don’t need protecting.
‘Alex,’ I say. ‘This is how it works for us. I look after the house, you and Cass, and your father works and takes care of the money.’
‘But it’s only sanitary towels, Mum.’ The pleading in his whispered voice breaks my heart.
‘You know what, Alex?’ Nathan’s anger is building as Alex taking my side so overtly stokes the flames. ‘I am the one earning all the money. I am the one paying all the bills. I am the one who buys your football kit, pays for school trips, puts food on your plate. When your mother gets a job, she can take care of her own money or chuck it about like confetti, but while I’m the one bringing it in, I’ll be the one keeping track of it.’
It’s all I can do to stop myself bursting into hysterical laughter. A job? Ha! No CV. No references. No car. I’m not far off forty with four crappy GCSEs, an unfinished NVQ from Cambourne Tech, and fifteen years out of the workplace. The chances of me getting a job are next to nothing.
‘Now, Hannah,’ he says, addressing me again. ‘Fe
tch the damn towels.’
Upstairs, in my bathroom, I retrieve the two unopened packets of sanitary towels from the cabinet. Then I undo the small zipped pocket inside of my handbag and fish out the change. I lied to Nathan, of course. I bought the sanitary towels from the pound store. One pound for each pack. In the Co-op they are one pound ninety-five. The exact same brand. A saving for many people, for me it’s a strategy. I’m not as bad with money as Nathan thinks I am. I buy brands in the pound store and pretend they’re from supermarkets or corner shops. I buy things and show him the receipt, then return them, buy the same thing from the pound shop, and pocket the change. I keep pennies I find down the sofa or in the car. I lose receipts. I play dumb. With the one pound ninety I’d saved today – plus ten pence from my pitiful stash – I bought a replacement lighter for me and a cartridge for the plug-in air freshener in Mum’s room at the care home. I tore up the receipt and put it in the bin beside the bus stop. Just in case.
‘Here.’ I place the towels and a tower of coins on the table in front of him. ‘And six pounds ten in change.’
He regards the sanitary towels for a moment or two then nods before reaching for the coins and closing his fist around them. Then he looks at me and smiles.
‘Thank you for supper, Hannah.’
As he heads out of the kitchen, I let out a sigh. But it’s premature.
‘Why do you treat her like this?’ My son’s voice is flat and level, as if he’s just asked Nathan what his favourite colour is. Both Nathan and I open our mouths to speak but he continues. ‘You don’t let her do anything.’
Again Nathan tries to speak but Alex talks over him.
The Storm Page 4