The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  He wipes fresh tears from his cheeks. ‘I was looking in the mirror earlier and wondering if I look like him. If I have his eyes or his nose? If we have the same colour hair?’ His eyes are wide and limpid, black eyelashes dampened by tears. ‘Do you remember it every time you see me? When you look at me do you see… him? You see? I don’t know how you can’t hate me. How can you not?’

  Each word stings like a wasp and a lump of emotion lodges in my throat. ‘Listen to me, Alex. After that hellish night, I thought my life was over. Literally over. I was like a zombie. I went through the motions of living. I ate and slept, washed and dressed and cooked. And on more than one occasion I thought about going down to the cliffs and ending it all. But then you came along and you were everything. For I while I was depressed, suffering mentally, but then slowly you brought light back into my life and for the first time in almost a year everything made a bit more sense. When you were born I was no longer alone, and you were this beautiful, beautiful thing amongst all the ugliness.’

  Tears fall like raindrops on to his lap.

  ‘I didn’t think about whose child you were. That became irrelevant. You were a gift and you saved me.’

  I pull him close to me again and rest my chin on his head, then close my eyes and recall the softness of him when he was a baby. His smell. How helpless and vulnerable he was.

  How pure.

  ‘And now, fifteen years later, look at you,’ I say as I lean back from him and brush his damp hair from his eyes. ‘You’ve grown into the most wonderful young man, brave and loyal, and you make me so proud. So, no, when I look at you I don’t see him. When I look at you all the trauma and pain and guilt which suffocates me disappears.’

  I smile and lift his lowered chin with my finger so he’s forced to look at me.

  ‘But what if I’m like him? What if I’m bad?’

  ‘You aren’t bad. You’re the opposite of bad. You’re a good and kind and gentle person. You’re the type of boy who thinks to find his grandmother photographs to make her happy and picks her flowers and brings her a little glass storm bird to watch over her. You are loved by everybody who meets you. You have nothing to worry about. Do you understand?’

  He purses his lips and sighs, unconvinced, as he dries his eyes with his sleeve.

  ‘I promise you, Alex. You aren’t bad.’

  ‘But…’ His voice has become strangled again. ‘But… back there, I had these… these thoughts. When I went for him, I… I wanted to kill him.’

  A laugh explodes from me. ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ I say softly. ‘I’ve lost count of the times I’ve wanted to kill him. I’ve got close a few times. Once I fetched a carton of his rat poison from the greenhouse and tipped it all into a stew I was cooking. For about an hour I fantasised about him eating it, mouthful by mouthful, swallowing the lot, then keeling over, face first in what was left of it. Then I threw the whole lot away and started again. Made it exactly the same, but left out the poison.’

  He regards me with a furrowed brow, trying to work out if I’m joking or not. I laugh as if I am and wink. At that moment, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. When I look at the screen, it’s a number I don’t recognise. ‘Am I allowed to answer it on the ward?’

  Alex shrugs so I accept the call.

  ‘Hello?’ I say, keeping my voice down.

  ‘Mrs Cardew?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Hayle Veterinary here.’

  My heart skips a beat. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have a dog here. Her chip is registered to you. Have you lost your dog?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, we have. Cass. A collie cross with a wall eye. Is she hurt?’

  ‘Somebody’s brought her in. I’ll be honest, she’s not great, she’s eaten some sort of poison, but she’s in with the vet at the moment.’

  ‘Oh my god,’ I breathe. ‘Will she be OK?’

  For a heart-stopping moment I expect the woman on the end of the phone to tell me Cass won’t make it, but then she says, ‘Yes, we think so. But I don’t want to get your hopes up. We’ll know more once the vet’s finished.’

  ‘Do you know where she was found?’

  ‘No, the man didn’t say. Just that he’d been out walking and discovered her. He didn’t stay long, just dropped her in at reception and left.’

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cam

  Cam walks down through the centre of Newlyn in the direction of the harbour. It’s surreal to be back but at the same time more comforting than he could have imagined. The warmth of the sun on his back, the seagulls screeching, and the potent smell of fish mixed with engine oil is as familiar as his own reflection. He stops as he passes the bakery and stares in through the window. It’s like a museum with nothing changed in fifteen years. The saffron buns, bright yellow and studded with blackcurrants, are lined up next to sugary doughnuts and golden pasties. It could be a photograph from the past. He pictures her standing behind the counter and catching sight of him. He sees her clearly, smiling at him, waving, gesturing she’ll be out in five, before blowing him a kiss.

  On the corner, a little further down the road, is The Packhorse. The sight of its sign, swaying in the breeze coming up off the sea, brings a mix of memories and emotions. So many evenings spent in that place sinking pints with his mates like there was no tomorrow. Dancing and singing tunelessly, words slurring, arms looped around the necks of other fishermen. He pauses outside the pub, and hears the sound of his fist making contact with Nathan Cardew’s jaw and winces at the memory, wishing he could erase it. He remembers kissing Hannah there, her leaning against the wall, him resting both hands either side of her, forgotten cigarettes burning to nothing in their fingers.

  He walks on and comes to the main road with the harbour and pier in front of him. The feelings inside him grow tight as he has a flash of himself, young and angry, high on the trauma of that ill-fated fishing trip and piercing jealousy, running up the hill, away from Newlyn. Away from Hannah. He shoves his hands into his pockets and anxiety floods him, the if onlys jostle for attention. If only he hadn’t run off. If only he’d gone to his boat instead. If only he’d stayed at home, had a bath, and got some sleep.

  If only…

  The port is bustling with boats coming in, fishermen loading supplies in preparation for trips, hosing down decks, stacking crates laden with ice and fish on to trollies, some weary, some laughing and joshing.

  Cam walks down the jetty where he used to keep his boat. He remembers that night in the freezing cold when he saw the body of wretched Davy Garnett slumped on the deck. When he knelt beside him and made the decision to dump him in the unlit waters. He recalls his frozen fingers struggling to undo the knot on the dingy’s tether, waves rolling high, then setting her free and watching as the tiny vessel faded into the blackness. Davy’s body had been hard to manoeuvre, so heavy, his pockets stuffed with fishing leads, and he’d struggled to tip him over the edge of the boat, the splash barely audible against the roar of the furious sea. He’d stared at the scrimshaw knife in his hand, its delicate carvings, Davy’s death smeared all over its shining blade. Cam had hurled it into the darkness and pictured it falling downwards like an autumn leaf to settle in the sand and seaweed not far from Davy’s body. Slim would ask him a few days later where the knife was.

  ‘I’ve been scared of telling you,’ Cam had said, flushed red and jittery. ‘I lost it. Had it in my pocket to give to you, but got drunk and it fell out. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.’

  Slim had shrugged. ‘Didn’t bring much luck, did it? No doubt it’s best wherever it is.’

  Cam turns back up the jetty and heads along the pier where the trawlers are tied. When he nears the first boat he sees a man beside it, on the shore, sitting on an upturned crate, sewing up a torn net.

  ‘Have you seen a young lad?’ Cam asks him. ‘About fifteen. Skinny. Black jeans. T-shirt.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ the man says, not looking up from his work.

  Cam walks on to the n
ext trawler. It’s shiny and well cared for, the freshly painted hull gleams in the sunshine and the windows are polished without a smear of salt scale. The boat’s name, The Octopus, is written in immaculate black cursive. It crosses his mind this is an odd name for a boat, but he’d come across plenty stranger. The man up on deck has a spanner in hand, and is occupied with the hatch, repeatedly lifting it and lowering it, investigating, Cam imagines, a faulty hinge.

  Cam halts beneath the boat and calls up. The man stops what he’s doing and leans over the rail. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a boy. He’s done a runner and his mum’s worried. You seen him? He’s wearing black jeans—’

  ‘Jesus,’ the man says, whistling through his teeth. ‘Is that Cam Stewart?’

  Cam does a double take and squints through the sunlight, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. The man laughs, climbs the rail, and jumps down on to the dock, landing lightly on his feet.

  ‘Fuck me, Cam Stewart!’ He walks towards Cam and takes his cap off, stroking back his hair to smooth it. ‘It’s Lawrie? Lawrie Mould? Fuck. Cam Stewart.’

  Cam smiles. ‘Young Lawrence Mould?’

  Lawrie laughs and steps close to Cam, then embraces him warmly, before stepping back and shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Cam Stewart, as I live and breathe!’

  ‘Lawrie Mould,’ Cam says again. ‘Well, I never.’ Cam wouldn’t have recognised Lawrie had he passed him in the street. He’s tanned and fit, filled out, with longer hair which shows no signs of thinning. He’s wearing jeans and a clean, ironed shirt. ‘Blimey. Look at you. All grown up.’

  ‘You sound like my grandma!’ Lawrie says with a laugh. ‘Jesus, Cam. It’s good to see you. I heard they all lost touch with you when you left. I’d have liked to say goodbye, but I know how these things are. Geren was here for a few years, but he moved a while back now. Went to Wales, I think, and found work at a car plant in Bridgend.’

  Cam smiles sadly. His friendship with Geren never recovered. Geren was too cut up about Davy for Cam to be anywhere near him. The guilt was too much. Remembering him now, the laughs they had, the years of friendship they shared, he realises how much he misses him.

  ‘Did he have a boy or a girl?’ Cam asks. Hearing it out loud, it’s an odd question and Cam looks at his feet, his cheeks flushing.

  ‘Boy. Then twin girls. You still fishing?’

  ‘Me? No. Haven’t fished since I left.’ Cam gestures at the boat behind Lawrie. ‘Guess you are though?’

  Lawrie winks at Cam. ‘You’re looking at Newlyn’s top grossing skipper for the last two years.’ He smiles. ‘Bet you wouldn’t have put money on that?’

  Cam laughs. ‘I’d be lying if I said I would.’ He tries to keep the smile on his face, but it’s hard. He has a flash of the open seas, the sun and the seagulls chasing the boat, the waves flat and calm and stretching out for thousands of miles. ‘I’m happy for you, Lawrie. You deserve it. And, you know, you look well.’

  ‘I am,’ Lawrie said. ‘I got a great crew. Good men. Two kids at home. Boys. Little rascals. My wife doesn’t want them to fish, but I’ve got other plans.’ He stops himself and his face falls serious. ‘Shit, it’s good to see you.’ He nods and sniffs, puts his cap back on and adjusts it. ‘You know, it’s all down to you, this. Some of it anyways.’

  Cam isn’t sure what he means. ‘Me? How?’

  ‘The advice you gave me.’

  ‘I gave you advice? And you took it? Jesus, you fool.’

  Lawrie Mould laughs. ‘You were everything I wanted to be. That night of the accident? You were just, I don’t know, so calm. You got on with it, knew what you had to do, didn’t panic. I watched you and you never lost it once. Your head stayed clear and you looked out for all of us. And what you said to me, about making it as a fisherman, telling the barmaid I saved Martin’s life. I don’t know. I guess it struck a chord in me. You gave me purpose and made me realise I wasn’t a loser and that I could do it. You and that bloody octopus. You changed my life.’

  ‘I forgot about that octopus. In your bed, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was a bit of a turning point, I suppose. The moment I grew up.’ Lawrie smiles bashfully and his cheeks flush pink. ‘Ah, listen to me going on. I sound like a proper twat.’ He held his hand out and Cam shook it. ‘Look, seriously, it’s good to see you, and if you ever want to fish in Newlyn again, well, you’ve a place on my boat. Just say the word.’

  ‘Those days are over, my friend.’

  ‘Over or not, you know where I am. And the money’s good at the moment.’ He raises his eyebrows and nodded. ‘All hail the hake.’ He winks then climbs back on to his boat. ‘I’ll tell the lad you’re looking for him if I see him.’

  Cam raises a hand and the two exchange a look of mutual respect.

  Hannah’s text comes through as he walks back up to his car, which is parked in the small car park behind the pub.

  Found him. Cass too. All good.

  He smiles and reliefs floods him as he texts back.

  Where are you? I’ll come and get you.

  He carries on walking, head down, eyes locked to his phone screen, waiting for a reply. But none comes. When he gets to the car, he opens the door, and climbs in. A moment later the phone rings. It’s Hannah. He smiles and answers the call.

  ‘Look, I’m at the hospital. I can’t talk for long. Alex came to see Mum,’ she says. ‘Vicky’s going to drive us to get Cass then take us home.’

  ‘Can I see you later?’

  There is a hesitation on the end of the phone. He rests his head back against the headrest and mouths silent swear words. The hesitation, though only for a beat, tells him all he needs to know.

  ‘You can’t be staying with him,’ he says softly.

  ‘Cam,’ she says, and he girds himself for her rejecting him all over again. ‘I’m not staying. I’m leaving him, but I need some time on my own.’

  ‘But there’s still something there. I know you feel it too.’

  ‘I’m not in that place. We can’t go backwards and start from where we left off. We’re different people now. First and foremost I’m a mother and I need to concentrate on Alex.’ She pauses. ‘On myself, too.’

  He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘Cam? Do you understand?’ she asks.

  No, a voice inside him screams. I don’t understand any of it. I love you and I never stopped loving you. I’ve loved you since the first time we met, since you brushed your finger against mine in the cinema.

  But he can’t put this on her. Words Martin Garnett used to say ring in his ears like a bell. ‘Lad, if you love someone, set them free. If she comes back, she’s yours; if she doesn’t, she never was.’

  ‘I understand,’ he manages to say.

  She is silent for a bit. Is she crying? Has she changed her mind? Is she having second thoughts?

  ‘When are you leaving for Reading?’

  He breathes in and rubs his face. ‘I was thinking of hanging around for a bit. The flat in Reading’s a shithole and the council are trying to evict me anyway. I’ve missed Cornwall and Newlyn. I thought I might see if there’s any work going here.’ He pauses. ‘I mean, if that’s OK with you?’

  ‘Of course it is. We only have one life and we’ve wasted enough already. You should definitely stay here. This is where you belong,’ she says. ‘Cam?’ she adds after a hesitation.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I hope things work out for you. Maybe see you around for a drink some time?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Take care of yourself.’

  ‘And you.’

  Then the phone goes dead.

  He pulls out his wallet and retrieves the photo of them taken on the dock on that happy day, laughing and in love, free as birds without a care in the world.

  He strokes his thumb over her face.

  ‘My a’th kar.’

  Then he slides the photograph back into his wallet and starts the engine.

  Chapt
er Fifty

  Hannah

  Cass runs along the beach ahead of us. It’s March. Nine months have passed since I closed the door on Trevose House and its pervasive air of death and confinement. Though not without problems, and frequent bouts of self-doubt that leave me breathless, overall things have been easier than I, or Nathan, would have predicted.

  Three days ago Alex told me he’s never been happier. He used those exact words and hearing them made my heart sing. He’s changed his plans – Nathan’s plans – to study law and is set on becoming a vet. It’s given him purpose. He’s working hard at school and doing really well. In fact, he’s flourishing. It was the vet who saved Cass who inspired him.

  Cass was very poorly when she arrived at the vet’s, weak and convulsing and struggling to breathe. They said it was lucky she got to them when she did. A few more hours and the poison would have killed her. I asked the receptionist if the man who brought her in had given her his name and phone number so I could thank him. But he left no contact details. When I asked what he looked like, she smiled, remembering, perhaps, a flirtation with the dashing, compassionate stranger who’d carried Cass in. Good-looking, she said, slim, around forty-years-old with dark hair, coloured ash at the edges. Very clean. Dressed nicely. Polite too. Oh, she said, and he drove a nice car. An Audi, she thought. Or maybe a BMW?

  When she thanked him he’d smiled and said, ‘Nothing that any decent member of the community wouldn’t do.’

  A shame, she said, that he hadn’t left his number.

  We are at the beach in Wherrytown for a picnic to mark my dad’s birthday. The weather is fresh and cool, the sky blue, and the sun is bouncing off the pebbles and turning them from the drab brown I know they are to silver. Cass bounds in and out of the waves, snapping happily at the spray, and trying to find the stones which Alex is throwing for her.