He looked over the dunes and along the beach, along the sand that shimmered pink or cream or grey, depending on the weather, at the vast blue sea butted up against the vast blue sky, constant companions watched over day and night by the sun and the moon. And he saw the grey felt roof of the beach hut, and the bleached-out peeling paint and he felt proud. It would be the perfect wedding venue.
He’d seen the advert for the hut in the post office in Everdene when they were on holiday, over twenty-five years ago now, before beach huts became all the rage and wildly overpriced. It was the best ten grand he’d ever spent. He could still remember getting the key, running across the sand with Ethan and Jake beside him. Opening the door, hearing the creak of the hinge and smelling damp wood, and thinking that this was the best den in the world, somewhere to hide, somewhere to hang out, somewhere his boys would never forget. He couldn’t believe their luck. They went there every summer and every half term, until he’d finally hit upon the idea of them moving to Everdene for good.
He should have realised that the move was the wrong thing for Tina, but she’d bought into it at the time. They’d sold their house in Enfield and bought one overlooking the headland. He’d set up in business doing plastering and renovations and had a full diary. He couldn’t just turn his back on the work.
And it had been all right at first. They’d moved down in the summer, and she seemed to embrace the beach life. But then the weather had got colder and the days got shorter and the wind and the rain blew in. He and Jake and Ethan didn’t care. They went in the water whatever the weather brought.
He remembered Tina shivering, her goose-bumped flesh blue-white, sitting miserably on a rug while Rocky and Ethan and Jake frolicked in the waves, having the time of their lives.
Rocky was frustrated. She didn’t have to get in the water, of course she didn’t, but she could have made some attempt to integrate and make a new life for herself. But she didn’t value the calmer pace of life by the sea, the beauty of nature. She was homesick, horribly homesick, for Enfield and her friends and her family and the camaraderie of the salon she’d sold, the one she’d had since she was twenty-four.
She was supposed to be looking for somewhere to open a new one.
‘There’s no point. No one ever has their hair done down here!’ she protested.
‘Yes, they do,’ said Rocky.
‘Not often enough to make it worthwhile.’ She slumped, despondent, which worried him because if Tina had anything it was fight.
He tried to figure out a way to placate her. He was baffled that she seemed to take no pleasure from the fact the boys were as happy as clams. And riddled with guilt that they all seemed to be living the dream but her.
He was working on a compromise when she did the unforgivable and cheated on him. Just a one night stand, but he should have seen it coming. Maybe it was inevitable? Two unhappy people: one too busy, one bored. He shuddered at the memory of the hurt it had caused. It had been so much more painful than it had needed to be, and he blamed himself. Of course he did. But now, it was time to put it all behind them. He wanted his son’s wedding day to be unblemished. Nothing was going to stop it being perfect.
‘Hey,’ said Jake, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Ethan said you had a date.’
‘Can a man have no secrets?’ Rocky laughed.
‘It’s cool, Dad. You need to get back on the horse. How did it go?’
‘Well,’ said Rocky, remembering Melissa. He was still puzzled. ‘It was going really well. And then she just left.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Just like that. I don’t know what I said.’
‘You can’t take it personally.’
‘That’s what the barman said!’
‘Seriously. You don’t know what people have got going on. Maybe she was nervous. Or married. Or she thought she was punching above her weight.’
‘Above her weight?’ laughed Rocky.
‘Yeah, Dad. You’re a good catch. Any woman would be lucky to have you.’
Rocky was quiet for a moment. It was funny, taking dating advice from your own son. By rights, he should be giving Jake marriage advice, but he didn’t feel equipped. ‘Thanks. That means a lot.’
Jake punched his arm playfully. ‘Come on. Last one in the ocean buys a round at the Ship Aground.’
They jumped out of his truck, ran down the dunes and unlocked the door of the beach hut, racing to get into their wetsuits that were hanging by the door. They couldn’t stop laughing, because getting into a wetsuit quickly was almost impossible. They were both ready at about the same time and shot out of the door with their boards under their arms.
This was the kind of thing that made him happy, thought Rocky. Racing to get into an ice-cold sea with his son. He shouldn’t have regrets. If he’d stayed in his marriage, gone back to Enfield, he wouldn’t be doing this now.
At the last moment he slowed down to allow Jake to be the first into the waves. As if his son was still five years old. Jake put his arm in the air in a gesture of triumph, threw his board down and climbed on.
Drinks are on me, then, Rocky grinned to himself, and followed his son into the water.
16
Later that afternoon, when Jake headed off surfing with his dad, Robyn made her way to see the one person in the world she felt safe sharing her secret with, even if she was more than twice her age. How old, she couldn’t be sure, but she’d mentioned seeing the Rolling Stones before they were famous. So much older than she looked. Or behaved.
Gwen Chadwick lived in the flat beneath Robyn’s old flat in Tawcombe, taking up the whole of the first floor, her drawing room vast with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wrought-iron balcony. Gwen was the one thing Robyn missed about living in the town, and she made sure to see her at least once a fortnight, either for coffee or tea or cocktails or a curry in the high street. There wasn’t a person in the world less like Robyn than Gwen, but she adored her all the more for it.
In all the time Robyn had lived in the flat above, she had never seen Gwen without make-up, or known her not to smell utterly delicious, a mixture of powdered sugar, smoky cinnamon and crushed peppercorns. While Robyn strode, Gwen drifted. She did exactly what she wanted whenever she wanted. She cooked like a dream, drove like a demon, and cut her own hair with the kitchen scissors into her trademark pixie crop, kept platinum white with peroxide and coconut oil.
Gwen filled her home and her life with treasures. She had a nose for a bargain, and people phoned her when they found something of interest and off she would zoom, in her powder-blue 1970s Mercedes convertible. Somehow, she seemed to make a living, picking things up and passing them on. House sales, charity shops, flea markets, car boots: Gwen would haunt them with her beady eye, seeing beauty – and profit – where others would see unwanted tat. She had a string of connections she had built up over the years. When she lit on something, she knew exactly where it was destined. Sometimes the item would need repair or renovation, and she had endless skill and patience. A small armchair would be reupholstered in bright silk velvet stripes. A lamp would be re-wired and given a new shade trimmed with beads or feathers. A painting would be carefully lifted from its heavy gilt frame, cleaned and re-mounted while the frame was given a wash in a contrasting colour and lo – now the painting would jump out, transformed. She was a magpie and a magician.
She could make you pale green macarons at the drop of a hat, or plant you up a tub of flowers that come spring would greet you with a cluster of crocuses and narcissi and tulips that would make your heart sing. She lived in Tawcombe because she had to breathe the sea air. But she loved the city too, and would disappear for weeks on end to Paris or Vienna or Istanbul – she had more friends than anyone Robyn had ever met.
Robyn didn’t really know much about Gwen’s past. She seemed reluctant to share any details, and the fact she’d remained resolutely single all her life suggested a broken heart. Robyn
had never intruded: Gwen was one of those people who made it easy for you to spill your own beans but never shared her own private life.
And this afternoon, Robyn was preparing to take Gwen into her confidence about what she was about to do. She was still a little unsure, but she didn’t want to talk to either her parents, or to Jake quite yet. And Robyn thought Gwen might know what the piece of music was. Gwen was an encyclopaedia, cultured and well read. She absorbed and memorised information, drank in music and literature and art, frequented Glyndebourne and Covent Garden and the Royal Academy, mostly courtesy of friends who had boxes or tickets to opening nights and private views.
‘You have to keep your eyes and ears open,’ she often told Robyn. ‘And your heart. Always your heart.’
And so she’d decided to call in on Gwen after she and Jake had done their best to salvage a day’s work after the deluge. Robyn parked in the car park at the end of the harbour, squeezing her truck into a space, remembering how people in Tawcombe didn’t seem to be able to park properly and how aggravating she’d found it. In the harbour, the tide was out and the boats were sunk into the grey damp sand. A few hours later they would be bobbing about on the water, the vista completely transformed. Sometimes, when it was sunny, you could think yourself in the South of France, with the striped awnings and the sun throwing glitter on the waves.
She walked towards the row of shops and houses that lined the harbour front, and noticed that the flat underneath Gwen’s had a ‘sold’ sign in the window. It had lain empty for nearly two years now. That was the problem with Tawcombe: even though it was on the up, if a property didn’t move straight away it got stuck. Someone had obviously seen the potential and was brave enough to overlook the fact it had been on the market for ages.
She looked up and could see Gwen on her balcony. If it was fine, her French windows were inevitably flung open so she could breathe in gusts of fresh air.
‘Have you got time for a coffee?’ called up Robyn.
‘Always!’ came the reply. ‘Come on up. I’ll buzz you in.’
Robyn pushed the front door open, ran up the stairs and through Gwen’s open door.
‘How lovely,’ said Gwen. ‘I was thinking about you yesterday. I don’t know why.’
Sometimes, there was something a little bit mystic about Gwen.
‘Well,’ said Robyn. ‘I do have news.’
Gwen’s eyes widened with excitement. She was wearing a grey silk blouse with tiny covered buttons, flowery culottes and staggeringly high heels. She ushered Robyn in, led her to the chesterfield sofa in front of the French windows and sat her down. Robyn found herself drowning in a sea of cushions and bolsters in a multitude of colours – burnt orange, hot pink, emerald green – and fringed with tassels. She picked one up and hugged it to herself. She saw Gwen’s eyes narrow as she surveyed first her left hand and then her stomach.
‘Stop scrutinising me!’ laughed Robyn.
‘Well, it’s either wedding bells or a baby because you know jolly well nothing else would be of interest to me.’
‘I might have won the lottery.’
Gwen gave a dismissive snort. Money matters were of no interest to her. Robyn had no idea how she survived, yet she seemed to. She was a shrewd businesswoman, certainly, but she never discussed her income. She could be as rich as Croesus or as poor as a church mouse; Robyn had no idea.
‘Well, come on. Don’t tease.’
‘It’s both.’
‘Both?’
‘I’m three months’ pregnant.’
‘Darling!’
‘We didn’t want to say anything until we had our twelve-week scan, but it’s all good.’
‘I can’t think of nicer news. Congratulations. You will be the sweetest parents.’
‘And.’ Robyn burrowed in her pocket. She’d taken off her ring while she worked. ‘Jake asked me to marry him. Ta da!’
She held up the ring.
Gwen’s eyes lit up as she took it from her. ‘I knew it!’ She scrutinised it closely. ‘Aquamarine. Very pretty.’
‘I know it’s not a diamond or a sapphire but I wouldn’t want that.’
‘Quite. You’re not a rock sort of a girl. It would be wasted on you. And I don’t mean that as an insult. This is perfect. He’s very clever, your boy.’
‘He is.’ Robyn took the ring from Gwen and slipped it back on her finger, admiring it once again. The little starfish filled her heart with joy.
‘Well, I think that calls for a coupe de champagne,’ Gwen went to stand up. ‘Can you have the tiniest drop or is that frowned upon?’ Gwen moved over to her cocktail cabinet and removed two glasses.
‘Just give me a tiny splash and I can pretend to drink it.’
‘Good idea.’ She went into the kitchen and came back with a mini bottle of Moët. ‘We can split this.’ She always kept one or two of the little bottles in her fridge. You never knew when you might need one, as Robyn’s announcement had just proved.
‘There’s something else I want to show you.’
Robyn pulled a padded envelope out of her bag and took out the cassette.
‘This tape was in a box,’ Robyn told her. ‘The box my birth mother made for me. Mum gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday, but I never opened it. I thought if I opened it, something would come out that could never be put back, like Pandora’s box. While the box was shut, I was safe. I belonged to Sheila and Mick Moss, at Hawksworthy Farm, and that was that. I was always happy. I never felt the need to dig into my past.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Gwen. ‘Your parents are wonderful. But …’ she nodded at Robyn’s ringed finger. ‘Has this changed how you feel?’
‘Yes. As soon as I realised I was pregnant, I felt as if I needed to know exactly who my mother was. As if it was important to know the truth about my background, not just for me, but for Jake. And the baby …’
‘I understand that.’ Gwen nodded. ‘It seems logical to me. Our identity is crucial to us. To know whose blood runs through our veins.’
‘But I don’t want to upset Mum and Dad. I know they went through a lot before they had me. Mum lost three babies.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I always felt as if it might bring back the memories, if I went digging. I didn’t want to remind them of what they’d lost. Even though they’ve had Clover since. And I know if I went to them they’d say go ahead. Which almost makes it worse.’
‘Your mum kept the box for you. She needn’t have. She could have kept it hidden, or even thrown it away. She must have wanted to leave the line of enquiry open for you.’
‘I know. That’s what I keep telling myself. But it’s hard.’
‘This is your story, Robyn. Giving you the box was your mum’s way of saying it’s OK.’ Gwen smiled at her, and Robyn felt comforted. Gwen always put things into perspective.
‘I guess so. Anyway, now I’ve opened it. And my birth certificate was in there, with my mum’s name on it. Emily Silver. And there was a photo of me, probably about a month old, and a cuddly little piglet.’
Robyn faltered. For a moment she imagined her mother putting the piglet in the box, knowing that was the last she would see of her baby.
Gwen put a hand on her arm. She understood how momentous this was.
‘And this cassette.’ Robyn handed it over. ‘It’s someone playing the piano, but I’ve no idea who it is. Or what the music is. I thought you might be able to help.’
‘Well, let’s see, shall we?’ Gwen took the tape and went over to her hi-fi, an ancient Grundig that would have cost a fortune in its day. When the applause started, Robyn jumped: it sounded as if they were in a concert hall. And then the music began.
After only a few bars, a smile of recognition spread itself across Gwen’s face. But she said nothing, just leaned back in her chair and shut her eyes as the music spilled its way into the room, drifting into
every corner and up to the ceiling and out of the window. Hearing it on a quality sound system made it even more eerie and magical. Almost haunting, thought Robyn. For the full six minutes, they sat and listened, until the last notes faded away.
Gwen opened her eyes at the end and Robyn looked at her.
‘“Ondine”,’ said Gwen with a sigh. ‘From Gaspard de la Nuit. By Ravel.’ She smiled. ‘People used to dismiss Ravel as mediocre, but this is one of the most difficult piano pieces ever written. Most players would quail at performing this in public.’ She pressed the tape deck to rewind it. ‘Ondine was a water nymph. She tried to seduce a mortal man into coming down to her kingdom beneath the lake. But he refused. He was betrothed to someone on earth. And she was furious.’
‘Oh!’ Robyn shivered.
‘Ravel is especially good at musical narrative. He constructs this dark, watery, magical world and you just get drawn in. Didn’t you feel as if you were underwater?’
‘Yes! Now you say it. Absolutely,’ said Robyn, utterly fixated by the explanation. ‘It’s beautiful, but very sad.’
‘The question is why your mother gave this to you. It seems to be a live recording.’
‘That’s the puzzle.’ She looked at Gwen. ‘Do you think this could be my mother playing? My real mother, I mean?’
‘If it is, she’s a pretty marvellous player.’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t inherit her musical talent.’ Robyn managed a laugh. ‘Could we listen to it again? It sounds so different in here.’
She shivered as Gwen pressed play again. The notes were like droplets, ripples, cascades, tumbling waterfalls. The emotion of it ran through her and by the end, Robyn had tears in her eyes.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 9