She had made up her mind. She needed to know the answer to the riddle.
‘I need to know who she is,’ she told Gwen. ‘I need to know what this means. You see, I should never have opened the box.’
‘So what will you do? How do you go about finding her?’
Robyn had gone online first thing that morning before she’d even got dressed. She’d woken at six and crept out of bed in the chill morning air, turning on her laptop and typing find your birth mother into the search engine with frozen fingers.
‘There’s a special register for adopted people who want to trace their parents. If Emily wants me to get in touch, she’ll have put her name on it. All I have to do is contact them, and they’ll give me her details. It’s that easy. Or it seems to be.’
Robyn still couldn’t believe it was so simple. Emily Silver could be just an email away. It made her nervous, but excited too.
‘Oh,’ said Gwen, turning this information over in her mind. ‘But what if she hasn’t registered? Or doesn’t want to be contacted?’
‘If she’s not on the register, I’d have to think carefully about whether to pursue it. I could go to an agency who could try and trace her for me. But I don’t want to upset her, or cause trouble. I mean, she might have married and not told her husband or her children about me. Nobody wants a stranger turning up on the doorstep claiming to be a long-lost daughter.’
‘I guess not,’ said Gwen.
‘What do you think I should do?’ asked Robyn.
Gwen was silent for a moment.
‘I think, if your mother has registered and wants to make contact, that it would be a wonderful thing. For her to see you after all this time, and know you are all right. I imagine she’s thought about you every day since she gave you up.’
‘She was only seventeen when she got pregnant. That’s really all I know about her.’
‘Only a baby herself,’ said Gwen.
‘I feel so close and yet so far away,’ said Robyn. ‘And I’m afraid.’ She tried to smile. ‘I watch those programmes on the telly about reunions, and sometimes it’s wonderful. But sometimes, it’s awful.’ She sighed. ‘It can mean the world, for a mother to make contact with her child. But not always. How am I supposed to know which ending I’ll get?’
‘It’s a risk, I suppose,’ said Gwen. ‘But all the important things in life are, Robyn. You don’t lead a rich and full life by taking the safe path.’
Robyn looked at her, wide-eyed, nodding at her wisdom.
‘But tell me about the wedding,’ said Gwen, changing the subject, for Robyn needed to go away and think. ‘That’s the important bit. When’s the big day, my darling girl?’
‘I booked it this afternoon. For the first Saturday in May.’
Gwen’s eyes widened. ‘That’s only a month away.’
‘Exactly. We thought if we had it sooner rather than later, we can keep it really simple.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Gwen, doubtful.
‘What do you mean, “mmmm”?’ asked Robyn with a grin.
‘In my experience, there’s no such thing as a simple wedding. Even with the best will in the world.’
‘Well, we’re going to try. And Jake’s had a brainwave. We don’t have time to arrange anything extravagant – work’s mad, and we can’t afford it while we’re trying to finish the Linhay. So we’re going to have it at the Shedquarters. What do you think?’
‘Well, that sounds perfect.’
‘We’ll do a big picnic. Clover can do some wedding cocktails. Really simple but fun. We can put on some music at sunset. Dance the night away.’
‘Let me organise it for you.’ Gwen leaned forward, her eyes shining. ‘I’ll run everything past you first. And I won’t make it expensive. That is my forte, after all. Making things look good without spending a fortune.’
‘Would you really?’
‘It could be my wedding present to you both.’
Robyn looked thrilled. Gwen had the magic touch. She would make it the most beautiful wedding in the world. She’d think of all the little details that would make it memorable.
‘I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have in charge. I haven’t a clue about organising a wedding. And Mum definitely doesn’t have time.’
‘Well, I’d love to do it. It’ll keep me out of trouble for at least a month. And there’ll be no balloon arches or fake red carpets.’
Robyn laughed. That was exactly the sort of thing she didn’t want, and she knew she was in safe hands with Gwen. ‘Phew. As long as we’re clear on that.’
‘Just give me numbers and a budget. It will all be done in the best possible taste.’
Afterwards, Gwen watched out of the window as Robyn made her way back to her truck. She was delighted with her news. Jake was solid and kind and good fun, which in Gwen’s opinion were pretty much the three requisites you needed in a man if you wanted to be happy. She had been through enough to know kindness was particularly key, and that money and looks counted for nothing without it.
She knew that better than anyone.
17
The kitchen at Hawksworthy Farm was typical for a Devon longhouse, with three outside walls and a flagstone floor, which would be chilly but for the inglenook fireplace kept fed with logs, and the ancient range, where Sheila was putting the finishing touches to the gravy.
The kitchen served as an office too. There were piles of paperwork on top of the units, a huge whiteboard at one end with bookings for the kennels scrawled all over it, biscuit tins and Tupperware pots, an ancient black-and-white telly, and a rack with fleecy dog blankets drying on it.
Mouse, the Moss family’s wire-haired lurcher, was padding around waiting for scraps to fall onto the floor. Occasionally he would get bored and flump into his basket, but his eyebrows and ears would twitch constantly, ever vigilant.
‘A month gives me just enough time to get the hut into some sort of shape.’ Rocky was saying as he put a dollop of shepherd’s pie on his plate. ‘It’s been needing an overhaul for a while.’
‘But the whole point of having the wedding so soon is so no one makes a fuss. The hut’s fine as it is.’ Jake brought a big dish of peas over to the kitchen table.
Rocky shook his head. ‘It’s been the shabbiest hut on the beach for ages. But you know what they say: cobblers’ children have no shoes.’
‘That’s why we like it!’ protested Robyn. ‘It’s a beach hut. It’s supposed to be all faded and weather-beaten. Some of the huts on the beach now are like show homes. Not that there’s anything wrong with show homes,’ she added hastily, for Rocky took pride in his work. His last development had sold before he’d even printed the brochure.
But Robyn was right. The beach huts at Everdene were becoming more and more elaborate with owners trying to outdo each other. The Shedquarters definitely erred on the side of rustic.
‘I’ll spend the next couple of weekends doing it up.’ Rocky wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ‘We need the toilet working properly for a start. It’s a bit temperamental at the moment. And what’s your colour scheme? I can paint the hut to match.’
‘We don’t have a colour scheme.’ Jake looked at Robyn. ‘Do we?’
‘Blue and white stripes might be nice,’ said Robyn. ‘A turquoisey blue. Not navy.’
‘Oh. So we do have a colour scheme?’
Robyn looked sheepish.
‘No. I just think that if Rocky really insists on painting it, blue and white would look nice in the photos.’
Jake put his hands up, laughing. ‘It’s getting out of control already.’
‘I can give you a hand, Rocky. Just say the word.’ Mick took the dish from Rocky and started to serve himself. ‘And we’re chuffed to bits, Jake. We couldn’t ask for a better son-in-law.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Sheila, waving her wooden spoo
n in agreement.
‘Thank you,’ said Jake. ‘And I’m very proud to be marrying Robyn.’
Robyn smiled and fiddled with her ring. She felt a bit self-conscious, but it was lovely that everyone seemed so delighted.
‘And we’ll do whatever we’re asked, but we won’t interfere. Will we, Mick?’ Sheila said, undoing her apron and slinging it on the rail over the range then bringing a Pyrex jug over to the table. ‘Everyone help themselves to gravy.’ She pushed back her hair and re-tied it in a scrunchie she kept on her wrist. She was almost ready to sit down. Although Sheila didn’t really do sitting down. She was always on the go. ‘And if you want a hand with the catering. Or flowers.’
‘Actually,’ said Robyn. ‘Gwen’s offered to do the organising for me. It’s her present to us.’
‘Oh?’ Sheila looked taken aback. ‘So you’ve told Gwen already? Before you told us?’
Robyn realised she’d made a tactical error. ‘Only because I wanted her advice, and before I knew it she’d offered to take it all off my hands.’
‘I see,’ said Sheila, in a tone of voice that suggested she didn’t see at all.
Robyn panicked that she’d already offended her mum.
‘The things is, Mum, I want you to enjoy the day. I don’t want you to be running around. You’re a guest. A guest of honour.’
‘Cake. What about the cake? I can do you a nice fruit cake, but I need to do it now because it needs to mature.’
Robyn could already see her mother calculating ingredients and wondering if she had the right tin.
‘I’d love a cake, Mum. But probably not fruit cake. No one likes fruit cake.’
‘Chocolate? That’ll be messy if it’s hot. It’ll melt.’
‘I don’t know yet, Mum. Just chill.’
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Robyn worried that she’d been a bit harsh. It was obvious Sheila was going to need to be given something to do to make her feel useful. She felt a squiggle of panic. She had thought delegating the organisation would take the stress out of it, but it seemed everyone had bigger expectations than she did. She caught Jake’s eye and he lifted his shoulders a little in solidarity.
Sheila was staring at the whiteboard. ‘Well, I won’t take any more bookings at the kennels, so we’re not having to rush back. Though that is always a busy weekend …’
She jumped up and put a red line through the wedding date with a Sharpie.
Robyn felt even more anxious. If they didn’t take any more bookings for that weekend, they’d be losing quite a bit of money.
Rocky gave her a sympathetic smile across the table. He couldn’t be much younger than her dad. They were both wearing a jumper and jeans, but while Rocky’s were smart and close-fitting, Mick’s were baggy and misshapen and had probably been bought at the farmers market when he went to get his shears sharpened. And it was almost impossible to get him to cut his hair, which straggled over his ears. He was a Devon farmer through and through, she thought fondly, but maybe they’d be able to get him to a barber before the wedding.
It was funny, she thought, how Rocky was single. In all the time she’d been going out with Jake, she hadn’t known Rocky go on a date with anyone. He worked hard, of course, and loved his surfing and went to the gym a lot, but he didn’t seem interested in romance. Maybe he didn’t need anyone else? He certainly seemed happy enough.
The door opened and her sister Clover bounded in from off the bus. She looked as if she’d just come back from a week at Glastonbury rather than college: pink streaks in her hair, feathers and bangles and nose-rings and a tiny dress with combat boots. The complete antithesis of a straight-A student.
‘Hey, dudes. What’s going on?’ She smelled of chewing gum and sweet perfume.
‘Robyn and Jake are getting married,’ said Sheila. ‘He proposed to her on Friday night.’
‘No way!’ Clover looked between the two of them, then glared accusingly at Robyn. ‘You could have said. I saw you this morning before I left for college and you didn’t say a word!’
‘We wanted to get it booked in before we told everyone.’
‘Do I get to be bridesmaid?’ Clover plonked herself down next to Rocky and reached for the serving spoon.
Robyn realised she hadn’t even thought about bridesmaids.
‘It’s not that kind of a wedding.’
‘What do you mean, “not that kind of a wedding”?’ Clover stared at her in horror. ‘You’ve got to have a bridesmaid. To look after you. Hold your veil. And your bouquet. Organise your hen night.’
‘I don’t think I’m having any of those things. Definitely no hen night, anyway.’ Robyn felt slightly uneasy at the mention of veils and bouquets, neither of which had crossed her mind until Clover mentioned them.
‘Oh.’ Clover looked a bit crushed. Her eyes slid across to Jake. ‘You’re having a stag night, right?’
‘Maybe.’ Jake was floundering, not sure of the right answer.
‘So can I crash the stag do? If Robyn’s not having a hen night. And anyway, it’s sexist to keep them separate. You can’t discriminate.’ Clover’s ability to argue boded well for her legal career.
‘Me, Dad and Ethan might go for a quiet pint. And Mick as well. If you want to come.’ Jake was diplomatic. He knew what Clover was like when she got the bit between her teeth.
‘Paintballing. You should go paintballing.’
‘Clo,’ Robyn gave her a warning look.
‘Sorry. I’m just excited.’ Clover picked up her fork then looked pleadingly at Robyn. ‘At least let me take you shopping for the dress.’
‘Dress.’ Robyn said the word as if it was strange and unpronounceable, like hygge. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a dress.
‘It’s non-negotiable,’ said Clover. ‘I’m not having you turn up in dungarees and wellies.’
‘I can’t spend a fortune, though.’
‘That’s cool. We can do vintage.’
‘I’d really love that, Clo,’ Robyn smiled. Clover would be the perfect person to advise her, as long as she didn’t get too carried away. ‘But just so you know, we’re keeping everything super simple. Me and Jake at the registry office, with parents and you and Ethan. Then we’re having a party at the beach hut. Thirty people, tops. And Gwen’s pulling it all together for me.’
Clover raised her eyebrows. ‘Nice one.’ Even Clover couldn’t deny that Gwen had impeccable taste and great style.
Robyn had to smile at her spirited little sister. It was funny. Clover was loud and extrovert and very unlike her parents. Whereas Robyn was so unassuming and low key, like Mick and Sheila, that people found it hard to believe that she was the adopted one.
Who were the people who had made her the person she was? Who was she part of?
She looked around the kitchen, the very one she’d been brought to when she was barely three months old, and Mick had put her proudly on the kitchen table in her Carry Tot. The photo was still in the photograph album her mum had bought: Baby’s First Year, the pictures carefully stuck in and captions put in underneath with Sheila’s best calligraphy pen, along with records of Robyn’s weight gain, the food she liked (Robyn loves parsnips but hates raisins) and her favourite nursery rhymes.
She wanted to know more, about what happened before that day. She wanted to know who she was.
18
Later, up in the eaves of the farmhouse, Robyn lay down on her bed to let everything digest. Not just the shepherd’s pie. It had been the perfect family get-together: nourishing food, banter, laughter, hugs, a few tears. Rocky had proposed a toast to her and Jake, and Sheila had got a bit emotional.
And now, here she was, about to do something that might throw everything into chaos. She felt as if she didn’t have a choice. She had stared at her birth certificate long enough. It was almost as if she could feel a
n umbilical cord between her and Emily. If she wanted more answers, she had to take the next step.
She couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman wondering about the baby she had given up. She wanted to tell her how happy she had always been, and what a good life she’d had, and how wonderful her parents had been, and still were.
Although would that be what Emily wanted to hear? Or would that be confirmation that she had not been important to her own child? How would you ever recover from that, knowing you weren’t fit for the most natural role in the world? The one thing every woman was supposed to be good at.
She decided, if they ever did connect, or speak, or meet, she would take her lead from Emily. She wouldn’t volunteer information unless she was asked for it. She wouldn’t grill Emily either – she would let her tell her the truth in her own time.
She longed for every tiny detail about how she’d found her way into this world.
Robyn stared at the contact form on the screen in front of her. She’d filled out all the information. She had ticked the box to say she wanted contact, should her mother be on the register. She just needed to print it out and post it off.
Robyn jumped as someone knocked on the door. She realised how tense she was; how she was holding her breath.
‘Hello?’
The door opened and Clover put her head around the door, tentative. ‘Can I come in?’
This was unusual. Her sister usually wandered in without asking.
Robyn shut her eyes, pressed save then quickly exited the website and closed the lid of her laptop.
‘Course!’
Her mouth felt dry as Clover came over and flopped down on the bed next to her. It was a long time since this had happened. Clover used to climb into bed with her when she was much younger, and Robyn would read to her. Famous Five, usually. And her own favourite, The Secret Garden. But then Robyn moved to her own flat, and now she’d moved back Clover was far too old for bedtime stories.
But perhaps not.
Clover tucked herself under her older sister’s arm, and rested a hand on her tummy. Robyn twiddled Clover’s hair like she used to. They lay there for a while, so comfortable with each other they didn’t need to say anything, on top of the old silken eiderdown with faded roses that had belonged to Mick’s grandmother.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 10