Robyn’s heart was still hammering from what she had just done. She felt guilty and secretive, and was scared of being found out, of a drama unfolding before she had even started.
Then Clover broke the silence. ‘I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?’
‘What?’ Robyn turned to look at her, bemused. ‘Why?’
‘You’re only thirty and you’ve got it all sorted.’
‘Have I?’ Robyn looked puzzled. ‘Not really.’
‘You so have.’ Clover’s tone was adamant. ‘You’re doing a job you love. You’re building an amazing house. You’re marrying the man of your dreams. And you’re having a baby …’ Clover was staring up at the ceiling. She looked distressed. ‘I don’t know how I’m ever going to get any of that.’
‘Of course you will. Clo, when I was your age I’d just failed my A levels. I didn’t have a clue what was going to happen.’
‘But you knew you loved gardening. It was your passion.’
‘I suppose so. Though passion is going a bit far. It was what I decided to do because I didn’t have many choices. You’ll have loads, because you’ve got all the smarts.’
‘The smarts.’ Clover rolled her eyes. ‘What if I fail my exams, though? Sometimes I panic that I’m going to mess it all up.’
‘You won’t. But if you do, you can retake them. What’s got into you? It’s not like you to have a wobble.’
Clover didn’t answer. Robyn frowned. Her fearless little sister let nothing stand in her way.
‘Baby, has something happened?’
‘I’m just scared. I’m scared of going to uni. Of leaving Hawksworthy, and Mum and Dad, and you. And not being here when the baby comes. I’ve just got this awful feeling.’ She made a fist and pressed it against her tummy. ‘This awful feeling nothing is ever going to be the same after this summer.’
Robyn pulled her little sister in closer. It was rare to see Clover vulnerable or having a moment of doubt. It was unsettling. But it was also nice, having this moment of closeness, and being able to reassure her.
She supposed this was what being a mum felt like.
‘The thing is, Clo, things don’t stay the same. Of course they don’t. But it doesn’t mean they’re going to be bad. Just different. We will all be here for you. Always. You know that. And you’ve got to go out into the world and do your thing. You’re Clover Moss. You are going to be awesome.’ Robyn laughed. ‘If anyone should be worried, it’s everyone else. You’re a force to be reckoned with. You’re going to do great things.’
Clover didn’t say anything for a moment. She lay there, thoughtful, patting Robyn’s tummy. Then she sat up and grabbed Robyn’s laptop.
‘Hey!’ said Robyn, panicking, praying she’d closed the window properly.
‘Let’s look at dresses,’ said Clover, opening the navigation bar.
Robyn felt giddy with relief to see there was no sign of the form. ‘OK,’ she said, marvelling at how Clover’s moods and needs could switch in a nanosecond.
‘What kind of thing are you thinking?’ Clover started typing into the browser. ‘Long? Short? What colour?’
‘I’ve literally got no idea. And don’t forget I might have a bit of a bump by then.’
‘How big?’ Clover stared at her stomach.
‘I don’t know. I’ll be nearly seventeen weeks. Depends how much weight I put on. I’m not going to try and stay thin for the wedding, though.’
‘No!’ said Clover. ‘The baby is way more important. But you still need something wow. It can be done.’
Robyn was trying to concentrate.
‘Ugh,’ said Clover. ‘These beach wedding ideas are really tacky. I can’t see you in any of them.’
Robyn glanced at the screen. Image after image of white, flowing dresses marched across the screen: acres of lace and net and tulle on over-made-up-women displaying their toned tanned flesh.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘They’re horrible.’
‘You want something simple but pretty. And practical. If we’re going to be on the beach.’ Clover frowned, typing in to the browser again.
For a moment Robyn wished she could take her sister into her confidence, but she wasn’t sure now was the right time to broach the subject, especially when Clover was supposed to be revising for her exams. And Robyn couldn’t gauge what her reaction might be. Would Clover think it was Robyn’s right to trace Emily and contact her, or would she think it was a betrayal of Mick and Sheila? Clover was very protective of her mum and dad. She’d been very mindful of Mick’s fragility, after the TB episode. Clover had been the most visibly upset of all of them when the cows had gone, and although she was only tiny, she’d followed her father like a little shadow for months afterwards. She had been the one thing that had made his face light up in those dark days.
Oh God, thought Robyn, overwhelmed. Might this tip her father back into gloom again? She was being selfish. What did it matter who her birth mother was? It was of no consequence. Surely all that mattered was they all loved each other. She could see the wretched box sitting on her desk. The box that had started it all.
She was playing with people’s hearts.
Clover was burbling on. ‘You could wear this with some beaded flip-flops. I know I’ll never get you into high heels, and they’d be useless on the beach anyway …’
For a moment, Robyn thought she might be sick from the stress. But there was nothing she could do. So she sat and listened with a fixed smile on her face while Clover went through the rest of her outfit, oblivious to Robyn’s dilemma.
Later on, Robyn took her laptop down to the farm office to print out the form. She’d decided to send it off. If she got a letter back saying Emily was on the register, she would think again. If she didn’t, no one need ever know she’d been thinking about it.
‘Hello, love,’ said Sheila, coming in pink-cheeked from the evening feed at the kennels. Robyn had heard the barks of excitement.
‘Just printing out a quote,’ she said, pulling the last page of the form out of the printer and folding it in half.
‘You don’t want to be doing too much, love,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s still early days.’
‘It’s cool. Jake and I have worked out how we’re going to manage over the next few months.’
Of course her mother was cautious, after what she’d been through herself.
‘It’s a special time, though. Try and enjoy it. I wish I’d enjoyed Clover more, but I was so worried the same thing would happen.’
‘Oh Mum. I’m sorry it was so hard for you.’
‘That’s life, isn’t it? And she turned out to be all right in the end.’
‘She sure did.’
‘Take it easy, though. When you can. I’m worried it’ll all be a bit much, with the wedding.’
‘Honestly, Mum. That’s why we’re keeping it low key.’
She should tell her. She should tell her right now. Show her the form. Explain what she wanted to do and why.
‘It’s very exciting. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted for you. A lovely man. A lovely home. A baby.’
Sheila’s eyes were shining. Robyn thought she even detected a tiny tear, which was so unlike her mother. She couldn’t ruin the moment and bring her crashing down. She just couldn’t.
Afterwards, she had to go and lie down again. She wasn’t sure which was the more exhausting, pregnancy or deception.
Or the stress of waiting to hear if Emily Silver wanted to be found.
19
1987
The summer after Lower Sixth, Emily went to a music school for a month, recommended by Miss Bembridge.
‘You’ll absolutely love it. You’ll be immersed in gorgeous music all day long, and your playing will come on leaps and bounds,’ Olivia enthused.
Emily’s parents had willingly agreed to pay th
e considerable fee, grateful that their daughter seemed to be back on her feet after last year’s incident, and what could possibly go wrong at a music summer school? It fitted in perfectly with their idea of what a nice girl should be doing and stopped them worrying about her skulking around Worcester during the holidays.
It was held in the depths of the Shropshire countryside in a rambling private school that rented itself out over the summer. There was one-to-one tuition with top music teachers and workshops and ensembles and there was going to be a big concert at the end. Each pupil had their own room and they all ate together and had activities in the evening. They were expected to work hard and practise in between sessions and it was quite competitive – the really good musicians were particularly intense. Emily wasn’t nearly as good as most of them but she didn’t mind; it was fun to be immersed with like-minded people who didn’t think you were weird for liking Elgar or thinking Jacqueline du Pré was a goddess instead of Madonna.
She arrived earlier than most people. Vivian was an anxious driver so had left about two hours longer than she needed for the journey, so she dropped Emily and shot off back to Worcester straight away, to be home before dark. Emily found the room she’d been allocated, then wandered down to the main auditorium, lured by the sound of piano music.
There was a boy at the piano playing Chopin – Étude Op 10 Number 4. It was a tricky piece of music, very fast and very complicated and she didn’t much care for it, as it was very jumpy and not particularly melodic or emotional. But she couldn’t help but be impressed by his playing.
Towards the end, he tripped over his own fingers and made a mistake, swearing profusely and bashing down on the keys in frustration.
Emily burst out laughing and he turned around.
He was tall and broad and slightly awkward, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his long limbs. His hair was wild and curly and almost to his shoulders, and he had the kindest face with a lopsided grin and wire-rimmed glasses.
‘Shit. Sorry. I really shouldn’t swear.’ He stood up, looming over her. He was wearing a baggy blue coat over jeans and a checked shirt – it made him seem larger than he really was. Behind his glasses she could see eyes the colour of a calm sea on a winter’s day: a soft blue-grey that would twinkle when the sun came out.
‘I’m sorry if I distracted you.’
‘No. I always get it wrong at that bit.’
‘I’ve never heard anyone play that in real life.’
He looked sheepish. ‘It’s a bugger, that’s for sure.’ He frowned. ‘I thought people weren’t getting here till four? I got here yesterday – I live in York so it’s a bit of a hike.’
She could hear it now, in his voice, a trace of Yorkshire. She liked it. It was warm and comforting, like a toasted teacake or a slab of gingerbread.
‘My mum dropped me off early.’
‘You’re a student, then?’
‘Yes. Are you?’
‘I’m accompanying. I do it every summer. I’m Jonathan.’
He held out his hand and Emily took it. Warmth travelled up her arm and straight into her heart. She blinked in surprise and wasn’t sure what to do.
‘I’m Emily,’ she said eventually. ‘Would you play something else?’
She longed to hear what else he could do.
He smiled and turned back to the keys. He began to play. She recognised Liebestraum. Love Dream. By Lizst. She could hardly breathe while he was playing. It was as if he was testing her heart and seeing how much it could bear. The notes swirled around them, dreamy, magical, enchanting. Emily wanted to cry. That wasn’t unusual. Music often made her want to cry. But she only ever did it in the privacy of her own room. This was something else.
The notes faded away and he turned around. She couldn’t speak, overwhelmed with emotion she wasn’t used to showing in public.
‘Are you OK?’ He stood up and came and put a hand on her shoulder. She wanted to lean against him, curl up against his broad chest, but of course she didn’t.
‘You’re very good.’ Her voice was a small squeak she managed to squeeze out through her tears.
He laughed. ‘Oh. Well. Thanks. I’ve got a great teacher. And I practise my arse off.’
‘Well, it shows.’
He shifted about a bit. He didn’t look as if he liked praise. ‘This your first time here?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded in approval. ‘You’ll enjoy it. It’s good fun. I’ve been coming for the past five years.’
‘So are you doing A levels?’ His face was boyish but he had an air of assuredness that made it hard to tell how old he was.
‘Yeah. History. Music. French. You?’
They were at that time of life, when they were defined by their A-level subjects. And where they were hoping to study.
‘English. Music. French. Where are you applying?’
‘Royal College. You?’
‘Durham. Maybe Cambridge.’
He nodded his approval. ‘Do you want a cup of tea? There’s a kitchenette just through there?’
Emily hesitated. Was he sending her away, or was it an invitation?
‘That sounds good.’
‘Come on, then.’ He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ambled towards the door. ‘I’ve got a secret stash of chocolate Hobnobs too. They only do custard creams and Bourbons here and I’m not a fan of either.’
By the time they got to the kitchenette, she was smitten. She’d never felt like this before. She’d never had a crush on any of the boys she’d met in Worcester. She joked with them and talked music, sometimes, but they didn’t interest her in the least. She didn’t think she was better than them – if anything, Emily was self-deprecating – but they held no thrall for her. They were just mates.
Later, when everyone else had arrived and they’d all registered and been given a talk about what to expect from the week, then been divided into their ensembles, she lost him. She’d observed from afar that he seemed to know almost everyone, all the teachers, certainly, and the pupils who’d been before. He treated everyone with the same scrupulously polite kindness he had her, which sent a boiling shoot of envy through her veins. She could feel it, sharp in her stomach, as they trooped into the dining room for dinner, her eyes raking about for him.
He was there, a plate piled high with food, gesticulating, smiling, chatting. She lined up to fill her own plate with the lasagne and jacket potato on offer, and tried to work out how she could sit next to him.
Dinner was at three long tables with everyone sitting where they liked, shuffling around to get a place near to whoever they wanted. The arrangement was particular torture for Emily as she always felt shy among new people and didn’t have the confidence to sit at the next available space in case she got a glare or caught an exchange of glances. Though here everyone seemed very open and there didn’t seem to be cliques. But she felt awkward nevertheless. Her heart was pounding while she waited for Jonathan to sit at one of the tables, then wandered over oh-so-casually to sit next to him.
‘Is this place taken?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘This whole sitting-next-to-strangers at dinner is a bit …’ She made a face.
‘You’re best not to think about it. Everyone’s as nervous as you are.’
‘They can’t be. They all seem totally confident.’
Jonathan looked around the table and shook his head. ‘They’re all bricking it.’ He leaned forward. His eyes were gleaming with mischief behind his glasses. ‘Who’s your money on, then?’
‘For what?’
‘You know.’ He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Getting it on by the end of the week.’
She looked around the table. There was a very prim viola player who kept looking hungrily at a violinist with jet-black hair. It was obvious he thought he was the bee’s knees. He would only have to
click his fingers and she would come running.
She realised Jonathan was waiting for a reply.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, and blushed.
He didn’t press her, and thankfully they moved on to less stressful topics. By the time they had moved on to their jam and coconut sponge pudding, they were arguing about the best Led Zeppelin track. Emily had never met anyone who had a more encyclopaedic knowledge than she did.
‘Just don’t say “Stairway to Heaven” or we can’t be friends,’ he said, shovelling in a spoonful of sponge.
She snorted. ‘Everyone knows it’s “Whole Lotta Love”.’
He shook his head, clearly outraged but his mouth too full to contradict.
‘Just kidding!’ She said. ‘It’s “Kashmir”.’
He stared at her, swallowing. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘It’s so intense. So dramatic.’ She tapped out the staccato intro with her spoon on the side of her plate. ‘It’s genius.’
‘It’s all genius.’ He put his spoon down.
‘But,’ Emily held up her finger. She rarely got a chance to have this discussion. She was in full flow. ‘For pure emotion – “Since I’ve Been Loving You”.’
She sang a couple of bars of the chorus, to prove her point.
He nodded, not taking his eyes off her for a second.
‘Eat your heart out, Robert Plant,’ he said. ‘Can I demonstrate the reasons that it is, in fact, “Immigrant Song”? I mean, it would be a tragedy if you came away from this labouring under an illusion.’
Emily burst out laughing. ‘Definitely,’ she said, realising this meant she was going to go to his room. This was new territory for her. But she wasn’t nervous. She felt so at home with him.
They dumped their plates and left the dining hall, not caring if anyone was watching them go. They were in a little bubble, delighted with each other. Emily followed him up the red-carpeted stairs to his room. He’d brought a ghetto blaster with him, a big shiny portable cassette player that was his pride and joy, along with a case full of tapes, everything from Gershwin to Genesis, Brahms to Black Sabbath.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 11