The Holiday Home (24 page)

Opening the door into the old stone room, now used as a store for household detritus, he took in the familiar smell of sea damp and the sound of the water lapping at the bottom of the rough flight of rock steps ahead of him. He often thought of the young girl who had died down here. Such a tragedy. How would any parent recover from that? A painful stab of loss made him catch his breath, and he was aware of a lump forming in his throat. God, what was this? He put his hand out to the damp wall to steady himself. Tears stung his eyes and he swallowed hard. He fumbled for an old stool and sat on it. He told himself that what was past was past. He had Dorothy and Connie and Pru. He was blessed. But what should he do with the knowledge he had about Greg? If he told Connie, it would kill her marriage. Could he do that to her? He didn’t know. He hoped the answer would come to him. Standing up, he switched on the boathouse lights and descended the steps to the cave.

The
Dorothy
was resting in her hammock hoist, suspended above the water. He checked the boat’s bottom and twin propellers and ran his hand along the sleek curves of the hull. Satisfied that everything was in good order, he lowered the hoist and eased the boat into the rising tide.

Forty-five minutes later, he was putting away his cleaning cloths and thinking about turning on the engine, when he saw Dorothy enter the cave with Belinda. Belinda was carrying a large cool box.

‘Hi, Poppa.’ She waved to him. ‘Dorothy asked if I’d like to join your little cruise, so the least I could do was to pack a picnic.’

‘Well, you are very welcome, my dear.’ He got off the boat and stepped on to the rock floor that doubled as a harbour wall. ‘Let me help you aboard.’

The women got themselves settled and Henry gave them each a life jacket, untied the ropes securing the boat to the wall and turned on the engine. The deeply pleasing throb bounced around the cave.

‘OK, girls, duck your heads as we go out. The ceiling is a bit low.’ Henry confidently manoeuvred his pride and joy round to face the cave entrance. Belinda couldn’t see the outside world yet. The narrow passageway took a twist to the left and then to the right before she could see daylight ahead of them.

Coming out into the warm sunshine they surprised a basking pair of seals, who flopped from their rocky ledge into the sea.

‘Seals!’ Belinda laughed.

Dorothy patted her hand. ‘We might be lucky and see the dolphins.’

‘Really?’

Dorothy nodded as she tied a cotton spotted handkerchief over her hair. ‘If we’re lucky!’

Now that they were clear of the rocks, Henry gently opened the throttle. Within moments they were bouncing over the waves with the wind in their faces.

Belinda trailed her hand overboard so that her fingers were in the water. ‘This is heavenly!’ she shouted above the engine.

Henry was in his element. The
Dorothy
always had this effect on him; it was as if all anxious thoughts were whipped away by the breeze and scattered in the turbulent wake behind him. He took them out to sea and round a small island that was home to a reasonably large seal colony. He slowed the engine and let it idle as Belinda foraged for her camera and took photos.

The weather was fine and the sea flat. ‘Would you like to pop across to Trevay?’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘No, let’s go to Shellsand Bay. We can eat Belinda’s picnic.’

‘Righto, Number One.’ He pushed the throttle on again and for the next twenty minutes they raced and bounced the waves to Shellsand Bay.

He dropped anchor just offshore and the three of them sat in the comfortable leather seats munching the houmous salad wraps and sticky slices of flapjack that Belinda had made.

‘I love the sea,’ she said. ‘I grew up on the South Coast and loved going on day trips with my mum. Brighton was my favourite; it was always so busy and full of life. The pier scared me, though. I didn’t like seeing the water between the planks.’

‘Is your mother still alive?’ asked Dorothy.

‘No, she died just over a year ago. She’d suffered a massive stroke that left her almost paralysed. It meant she had to go into a nursing home, because she was unable to do anything for herself. But she still had all of her marbles, which made it so much harder to bear.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorothy.

‘Not your fault,’ said Belinda, taking a bite of flapjack.

‘What about your father?’ asked Henry.

‘I don’t remember much about him. He walked out when I was a baby. I found some bits and pieces about him in Mum’s papers. I’ve been wondering about tracking him down.’

‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Henry, reaching for his second piece of flapjack.

Belinda looked at him steadily. ‘Mum never told me.’

‘Where did you grow up?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Pevensey Bay. We had a little flat just off the seafront. My mum was very beautiful. She had a few boyfriends in her time. They helped her with money, I suspect, but she worked in T J Hughes, the old department store. On the cosmetics counter.’

‘Where was her nursing home?’

‘Oh, in Eastbourne – God’s waiting room.’ Belinda gave a rueful smile and started to pack up bits of sandwich bag and tinfoil.

Dorothy thought about her own family. ‘It must have been horrible for you all.’

‘Yeah. It was … Is.’ Belinda shrugged and put on a smile. ‘But life is what it is. Me and Emily, Brett and Steve – we’re OK.’ She gave a laugh. ‘And get me: sitting on a swanky speedboat with one of the most handsome captains in Cornwall! Can it get any better?’

*

Connie was reversing into a perilous parking space on the edge of a quay next to the River Fal. Greg was blocking her view as he turned to see what she might hit.

‘For God’s sake, woman, there’s a bollard behind us.’

‘I know, and I could see it better if you sat back in your seat and let me park. That big head of yours is not see-through, you know.’

She moved forward a little and then slid back into the space.

‘Bloody hell, Connie, there’s a thirty-foot drop behind us!’ Greg yelled, making her jump.

She stamped on the brake and shouted back: ‘I’m doing you a favour, you stupid man. I don’t want Abi to have a bloody boat for her birthday, but I have brought you here because you have a broken arm and I’m trying to be nice! OK?’

A youngish man in faded red cotton shorts with a navy blue jumper was coming towards them. They both immediately plastered on their best fake smiles.

Connie got out. ‘Hello! You must be Peter. I’m Mrs Wilson and this –’ she waved vaguely to where Greg was struggling to get out of the car – ‘is my husband.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Peter shook her hand and that of the advancing Greg. ‘I’ve got a super little boat for you. Perfect for your daughter. Come and have a look.’

The small grey RIB was bobbing gaily on the water. Peter handed Connie and then Greg into it.

‘You sit here in the front seat, Mrs Wilson and your husband and I will sit behind the console while I take her out.’

The men discussed torque and trim and engines and stuff while Connie enjoyed her comfortable seat and view of Falmouth from the water.

‘Why’s it called a rib?’ she ventured.

Greg tutted and said impatiently, ‘Rigid Inflatable Boat. It’s got a rigid hull and blow-up sides. I thought you’d know that.’

Peter added more kindly, ‘Many people ask the same question, don’t worry. It makes the boat very light and easy to handle.’

‘What happens if you get a puncture?’ asked Connie.

‘You have to be careful of barnacles and such, but you can get it fixed.’

Connie would have liked to ask more, but Greg was monopolising Peter’s attention again.

Later, as they left the sales office with their invoice and a promise that the boat would be delivered in time for Abi’s birthday, Greg was buoyant.

‘What a little corker we’ve got there. Perfect for the family.’

‘It’s Abi’s, not the family’s,’ said Connie, opening the door for Greg and helping him in.

‘Of course it’s Abi’s,’ he snapped. ‘But while she’s at uni it’ll need to be taken out and used.’ He fixed his seat belt in place. ‘Great name, though, eh? Am I genius or what?’

‘It’s OK,’ said Connie, starting up the engine.

‘OK? It’s genius.
Abi’s Gale
– she’ll love it.’

*

‘What shall we get for Abi’s birthday?’ Dorothy asked Henry over a lunchtime prawn sandwich in their local pub.

‘Money. That’s what she wants.’

‘Too boring. I’d like to give her some jewellery. It’s a custom for grandmothers to pass their engagement rings to their granddaughters.’

Henry ignored this and continued eating.

‘If I had an engagement ring to give. Or a wedding ring,’ needled Dorothy.

‘Good God, woman. You are my wife. There has never been anyone can hold a candle to you.’

Dorothy rounded on him. ‘Oh, I’m your wife, am I?’

Henry put his hand to his forehead and winced. ‘You know what I mean. In every sense that matters, you are my wife.’

‘Except in the sense that
really
matters.’

Henry tilted his head towards the nearby tables that were filled with lunchtime diners.

‘Dorothy, lower your voice. Do you want the whole pub to hear? This isn’t the time or the place.’

‘When exactly would be a good time for you, Henry? It’s been more than forty years and you still haven’t told me when would be a good time. You never want to talk about it. I’ve had enough – and I don’t care who bloody well knows about it!’

Henry raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Darling. Why all this now? Let’s finish lunch and then I promise we will talk about this later.’

Eyes brimming with tears, Dorothy pushed aside her plate. ‘I’m not hungry any more.’ She picked up her bag and got to her feet. ‘You may not want to discuss it, Henry, but the fact remains: I am not and never have been your wife. Susan is your wife.’

Henry watched helplessly as she stood and fumbled with her handbag. Finding her sunglasses, she did her best to make a dignified exit.

23

‘I
can’t believe our baby is going to be seventeen in two days’ time, can you?’ Connie was sitting in bed, completing her nightly routine of creaming her feet and hands. She was rubbing vigorously at her cuticles as Greg sat on the bed and lifted his legs under the covers.

‘No. I can’t. Where did the time go? We’re lucky that she’s got this far without doing anything illegal.’

‘That we know of,’ said Connie, screwing the lid back on to the hand-cream tube.

‘Well, she hasn’t got a boyfriend, so we know she’s still innocent in that sense.’

Connie gave a quiet laugh.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Greg.

‘Nothing.’ She turned to face him. ‘But teenage girls are very good at having private lives that remain private.’

‘I would know if she’d been up to anything. I could tell just by looking at her,’ said Greg smugly.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’ Connie reached for the bedside light and turned it off. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

In the darkness, with the house settling around them and the dull shush of the unsleeping sea outside their bedroom window, Greg began to worry about Abi and her purity. Connie, on the other hand, smiled a secret smile and closed her eyes, reliving once again her own seventeenth birthday.

She’d been alone in the house – she couldn’t remember why – when there was a knock at the front door. She opened it to find Merlin leaning casually against the porch wall, looking very desirable.

‘Hey, birthday princess. I hear you’ve got the key to the door today?’

‘Not quite,’ Connie had giggled. ‘I’m only seventeen.’

‘Shame – I was going to take you for your first legal drink.’ He had stepped into the hall, uninvited, and closed the door behind him.

Connie felt a shiver of anxiety. ‘Pru’s not here.’

‘It’s you I’ve come to see, birthday girl.’ He leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘It’s very hot outside. Can I have a cold drink?’

‘Yes. Sorry. Come into the kitchen.’

He stood behind her as she opened the fridge door. ‘I’ve got some Coke or orange juice … Milk?’

Laughing, he reached his hand in and pulled out a tin of shandy. ‘This is more like it. But I can’t drink alone – will you join me?’

Connie had tasted a sip of her father’s shandy and wasn’t keen on the flavour, but wanting to appear sophisticated she agreed and got out two glasses.

He took the tins and walked with them into the big drawing room. ‘Quite a house.’ He opened one tin with a hiss and offered it to Connie. She poured it into a glass and then did the same with the second tin. ‘Come and sit on the sofa next to me.’

Connie did as she was asked and he sat down next to her, very close.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses.

Connie wasn’t sure what to say next, but it didn’t seem to matter. Merlin started talking.

‘Like your sister you’re a very ’andsome woman. Different, mind, but I bet you’ve got plenty of admirers an’ all.’

‘Have I?’ She took a quick mouthful of the bittersweet shandy.

‘Don’t pretend you haven’t seen the boys lookin’ at you on the beach.’

Connie, who had hoped this was the case, shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Yeah, an’ some of them ’ave been asking me to put in a good word for them.’

‘Have they?’

‘Oh yeah.’

Connie took another sip and felt its unfamiliar alcohol warmth hit her tummy. ‘Who?’

Merlin laughed and drained his glass. ‘I’ll get us each another one of these, then I’ll tell you.’

When he came back, with two more tins, he sat down next to her and turned his sleepy, sexy blue-green eyes on her. ‘Where were we?’

‘You were going to tell me who had asked about me.’

‘Oh yes.’ He looked from her eyes to her lips and then seemed to shake himself and come back to the question. ‘Well now, there’s all the lifeguards for a start, and there’s … well … there’s someone else.’

Mesmerised by the thickening of the atmosphere between them, Connie murmured, ‘Who else?’

In answer he turned his head slowly to one side so that his nose wouldn’t squash hers and his lips kissed her mouth very gently. As he broke away, he said quietly, ‘Me.’