‘Of course.’ Cynthia was delighted Lizzy had asked her. Maybe now that Mo and Lexi were off at uni she could muck in more. Though the twins were growing up fast – they didn’t really need looking after these days. It made her feel sad, to have missed out.
‘I’m stuck in a meeting,’ Lizzy explained. ‘I’m supposed to be picking Hattie up from school to take her to the skating rink. Would you be able to take her for me? I’ll be finished by half five so I should be able to pick her up afterwards.’
‘Now?’ Cynthia put a hand on her chest.
‘She needs picking up in half an hour. Do say if it’s a problem.’
Cynthia tried to gather her thoughts. Of course she wanted to help. This was a breakthrough, Lizzy turning to her. But how much had she had to drink? She tried to calculate – it had been two hours since she’d come into the club house, so surely two of the glasses she’d had were out of her system. Which just left one, which was OK. Wasn’t it?
She could hardly tell Lizzy she was too drunk.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave right now.’ The twins’ school was about twenty minutes away.
‘You’re a lifesaver,’ said Lizzy. ‘I’m for ever in your debt.’
Cynthia settled her bill. The bartender seemed to think she’d had four glasses but she didn’t have time to quibble. She drank down a glass of water then went to the cloakroom. She looked in the mirror, trying to assess how she felt. Fine. She felt completely in control. A tiny bit muzzy but that was lunchtime drinking for you.
She drove, slowly and carefully, to the school, where Hattie was waiting for her.
‘Granny!’ Hattie seemed delighted to see her. ‘Ooh, can I have one of your Polos?’
They made it to the skating rink with no mishap. On the way, Cynthia loved listening to Hattie babble on about her skating, her next exams, the auditions for the summer extravaganza.
‘I’m so proud of you, darling,’ she said. ‘And grandpa would have been too.’
He would have been, she thought, and felt the familiar prickle behind her eyes.
She set off for home, her head starting to throb, but happy in the knowledge that she had come to the rescue. Perhaps this could become a thing, picking Hattie up to take her skating. Maybe she could watch her practise and then take her back to Pepperpot and stay for supper. A family ritual. Every Wednesday.
Every Wednesday. She liked those words. Perhaps she would suggest it to Lizzy. Or was that being pushy? Cynthia always felt lesser in Lizzy’s company. It was nothing that Lizzy did. She was sweetness and warmth itself, but that only made Cynthia feel more uptight than she actually was. She longed to be relaxed and easy-going and spontaneous.
Cynthia decided to take the cross-country route back home, just to be on the safe side. It was easier negotiating narrow lanes than traffic, and she was feeling tired. It was ten minutes to home, and she would have made it. She was sure she was fine, but it had been a little bit of a risk. It was all about metabolism and how much you’d had to eat—
Suddenly the car started juddering and shaking. She wrestled with the wheel in alarm, realising that she had failed to notice the sharp left-hand bend. Instead, she had gone sailing straight on through a gateway and into a field. The car lurched and dropped down a steep bank, plunging its bonnet into the soft earth.
Her heart was pounding. She put the car into reverse, but it was stuck. There was no way she was going to be able to get it out.
Her phone was ringing. It was Lizzy. Cynthia knew it was her only chance of getting out of this without getting into trouble.
‘Everything OK?’ chirped Lizzy. ‘I’m so grateful. I’m just leaving work now so I’ll be fine to pick her up.’
Cynthia tried to gather her thoughts. How was she going to explain her predicament without incriminating herself?
‘Oh, Lizzy,’ she said. ‘I’m such an idiot. I missed the bend on the back road and I’ve got the car stuck in a ditch. Don’t tell Simon. He’ll be so cross with me.’
‘Oh, gosh,’ said Lizzy.
‘I don’t know what to do. I’ve smashed the bonnet up.’ Cynthia was in tears by now.
‘You need to call someone to get you out.’
‘I feel such an idiot. Would you come and help?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. If Lizzy couldn’t help, Cynthia wasn’t sure what she would do. Stay in the car until she was stone-cold sober? How long would that take?
‘Of course,’ Lizzy said. ‘I’ll get one of the other mums to take Hattie home. Where are you exactly?’
Cynthia felt sweet relief as she described where she’d left the road.
‘Oh, there,’ said Lizzy. ‘It’s a black spot. I don’t know why they don’t put up warning signs.’
It made Cynthia feel so much better, knowing it was a mistake anyone could have made.
The car was far enough off the road not to be spotted by a passer-by. While she waited for Lizzy, Cynthia did endless calculations in her head. She must be all right by now. What an idiot. Though it was easily done. She kept telling herself she wasn’t the first person to end up missing that corner.
She saw Lizzy’s car bumping up the field behind her. She parked on the harder ground, then came running over to Cynthia’s car. She opened the driver’s door.
‘Oh goodness. How are we going to get you out?’
‘Thank you for coming, Lizzy.’ Cynthia smiled up at her. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’
The smile froze on Lizzy’s face. She was looking down at Cynthia in horror.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘What? Don’t be silly.’
‘You absolutely stink of booze. How much have you had to drink?’
Cynthia was flustered. She couldn’t deny it completely.
‘I had a lunchtime glass of wine at the golf club,’ she said.
‘How much?’ repeated Lizzy.
Cynthia stared up at her, mute.
‘I can phone the club. I’ll ask the barman. How much?’ Lizzy’s voice was icy.
‘I don’t know.’
‘More than two?’
Cynthia shut her eyes and nodded.
‘Are you telling me that you picked up Hattie and drove her while you were drunk?’
‘I was fine. It was over a long period. I felt perfectly clear-headed.’ Even as she spoke, she could hear her words running into each other, muddy.
‘Well, we’ll see, shall we? We’ll get the police.’ Lizzy was brisk. ‘They’ll get your car moved. And if you’re not over the limit, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘Please.’ Cynthia thought she was drowning in a sea of sauvignon blanc and shame. ‘Please don’t call the police. Please don’t call Simon.’
Lizzy surveyed her mother-in-law with distaste.
‘I will never forgive you for this.’
‘I just wanted to help,’ said Cynthia. ‘I just wanted to help you.’
‘You could have killed someone. You could have killed Hattie.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Cynthia was ashamed to find she was crying. Snivelling, actually. Uncontrollable, heaving sobs.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Lizzy. Her cold distaste was more painful than any anger. ‘Go and sit in my car. I’ll get on to the garage in Astley. They’ve got a tow truck.’
Cynthia scrambled out of the car and stumbled over the rough ground to Lizzy’s car. She sat curled up in self-loathing while Lizzy phoned the garage and oversaw the removal of Neville’s beloved Jaguar. The front was well and truly bashed in, she saw, as the car was lifted onto the low-loader.
‘Shame,’ she heard one of the garage men say. ‘That’s a classic, that is. But I reckon it’s a write-off.’
Neville would be so ashamed of her. He had zero tolerance for drink-driving. How on earth had she t
hought she could get away with it?
Once the car had been driven off, Lizzy got into the driver’s seat beside Cynthia.
‘Please,’ said Cynthia. ‘Don’t tell Simon.’
She hated the sound of her pleading voice.
Lizzy’s face was expressionless. She couldn’t even look at Cynthia as she put the car into reverse and drove out of the field.
‘We won’t speak of this again,’ she said as she turned onto the road. ‘But I will never forgive you for putting Hattie’s life at risk. Never.’
28
‘Look, Nat!’
It was funny how, wherever you were in the world and however you felt, that first glimpse of the sea always lifted your heart. Why it should was a mystery, for it was a simple joining of land and water, but there was something special about it, something calming and reassuring yet also exciting.
‘What do you think, buddy?’
Nat nodded his approval. ‘Is that the thea?’ he lisped.
‘It is,’ said Jack. ‘And it goes all the way to the other side of the world.’
The car wound its way down the hill, the sunlight bouncing off the surface, dazzling him. Everdene was somewhere totally new to him and Nat, realised Jack. Somewhere with no ghosts, where they could make memories. Just the two of them.
Jack reached for his sunglasses and tried very hard to banish his unwanted thoughts. It was bloody impossible. All he could think about was Fran’s excitement, the way she would have woken – she’d have been asleep for most of the journey; she always slept in the car – with her eyes shining.
‘I must go down to the sea again,’ she would have said, ‘To the lonely sea and the sky.’ She had a poem for every occasion. In the back would be her picnic hamper, tartan rugs, a vintage thermos filled with consommé and a Coronation tin full of shortbread. He’d put them all away, her beloved things, in a metal trunk that had belonged to her grandfather, until the day he felt ready to look at them again. Or until Nat wanted to see them. Whichever came first.
He sighed. There it was in front of him. The lonely sea and the sky, stretching out to the horizon, beckoning him with its beguiling blueness. How could somewhere you’d never been remind you of someone? Fran would have made this simple trip to the seaside an adventure. Of course, that’s what he wanted to do, too. For Nat. But Jack knew he didn’t have Fran’s sparkle. Her ability to turn the mere making of a sandwich into an event.
‘Egg sandwiches, for the seaside,’ she would say, decisive. ‘On very soft malted bread, with the best mayonnaise and finely shredded spring onion.’
And there they would be, plump and soft and bulging, individually wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, with each of their names written on them in black spidery writing.
She’s gone, Jack reminded himself. As if he needed reminding. This is your holiday. Yours and Nat’s. You have to do it without her.
He was doing it again. He was remembering her as perfect when she wasn’t. He was forgetting the mess she left behind her in the quest to make the perfect cake, the perfect birthday card, the perfect hanging basket – a permanent trail of crumbs and glitter and mud that he had to clear up. He was forgetting how forgetful she was, how she would fail to turn up to important appointments or fill out important forms. Every year he had to arrange her MOT for her Fiat 500 because she never remembered. He was forgetting how impossible it was to get her up on a Sunday morning to do something. She would slumber for hours under the rose-patterned duvet while he waited, impatient and anxious, reluctant to go and do whatever it was he wanted to do without her, because she made everything more exciting and more interesting.
Jack sighed and looked at the print-out of the instructions on the seat next to him. It was a client who was lending him the beach hut. He’d refused to take any money for it, just told Jack to enjoy it.
Jack didn’t know what he would do without his clients. They never ceased to warm his heart, with their kindness and thoughtfulness and generosity. When he had told Clemmie where he and Nat were going, and sworn her to secrecy, she had pointed out that it was karma, that people were kind to him because he always went the extra mile.
‘What goes around, comes around, Jack,’ she said, and when he rolled his eyes she rolled hers in exasperation at his cynicism.
‘Don’t let your grief define you,’ she begged him. ‘Don’t become bitter. Try and enjoy yourself. Have some fun.’
And that’s what he was going to try and do. He had taken him and Nat out of the equation, away from the norm, and he was going to spend this Christmas as if it was his first, with no nostalgia, none of the rituals and traditions he and Fran had made for themselves or inherited from their families. No gingerbread men. No jigsaws. No fucking fairy lights. A new kind of Christmas.
He swung into the car park. The journey had taken longer than he thought because they’d had to stop twice at a service station. But it was still light. They would unload the car and get settled in, then have a picnic on the beach.
‘I need a wee,’ said Nat, and Jack thought, of course you do, you poor little lad. It had been over an hour since they’d last stopped on the motorway. He got Clouseau out of the boot and they sneaked round the back of the public loos, which were determinedly closed for the duration of winter, and Jack found a tree and they had a wee, boys together (even Clouseau), laughing conspiratorially (except Clouseau), and Jack thought if Fran was here he would whisper Don’t tell your mother …
When he got back to the car, he wondered how he was going to manage everything, with Nat and Clouseau, and decided he’d have to do it in stages. He pulled out their suitcase, slung two cool bags over his shoulder, then slammed the boot shut.
‘Number twenty-four,’ he said. ‘Beach hut number twenty-four. You’ll have to count with me, Nat.’
The three of them made their way out of the car park and down the slipway, past the ice-cream kiosk and chip shop and the surfboard hire and onto the golden sand.
Jack had forgotten how difficult sand was to walk on, especially when you were laden with luggage, and it took them quite a long time to make it down the row of huts. Although it was sunny, there were only a few people on the beach. He supposed most people were at home, getting ready for the big day, ushering in guests who were coming to stay for the festive season or rushing to the shops for gravy granules.
‘All right, mate?’ he asked Nat, who was plodding along stolidly in his striped yellow wellies, his bright blond pageboy shining in the sunlight. His hair was getting a bit long, thought Jack, but it suited him. Another week and he’d look the part – a real surfer dude. He’d probably get away with it here, but not in Chiswick. There were so many things to keep on top of with a child. Haircuts, shoe fittings, nit checks, booster jabs … He was seriously thinking about creating an app for single dads.
It was hard, being thrown in at the deep end, even if it hadn’t been unexpected. But he’d had better things to talk about to Fran than Nat’s first dental appointment.
‘Are we nearly there?’ said Nat. ‘Can we go fishing?’
‘I think,’ said Jack, drawing to a halt outside a pale blue hut, ‘that this is us.’
As he felt in his pocket, a woman outside the hut next door waved her hand in greeting. She was attaching a Christmas wreath to the door, the sea breeze messing with her mass of curls.
Jack reminded himself that this was going to be the new him. The start of a new chapter. That his past was to be behind him and he was going to open his heart to new friendships and possibilities.
He raised his hand to return her greeting and pulled the key his client had posted to him out of his pocket. He felt the usual anticipation of arrival at a holiday destination. Was he going to be delighted or disappointed by what he found inside? Would it live up to his expectations? He hadn’t even seen photographs, so he didn’t have any great preconceptions. At the time,
all he had wanted was neutral territory and the offer of a beach hut on the Devon coast was the answer to his prayers.
The door swung open and he and Nat stepped in.
The inside of the hut was painted in ice-cream colours: pale pink and cream and baby blue, with candy-striped deckchairs, bookshelves stuffed with old games and Penguin paperbacks and a table covered in a red spotted oil-cloth. The kitchen had a little dresser loaded with mismatched china. There was bunting strung from the ceiling; lamps in the shape of lighthouses; a mobile of china seagulls.
Jack blinked. It was as if Fran had walked in and decorated it. He could imagine her cries of delight if she saw it. It captured her spirit so perfectly, he thought he might be sick. Or cry. He certainly couldn’t breathe.
‘Dad!’ said Nat, who had found a collection of buckets and spades and fishing nets. ‘Look at this!’
‘Cool,’ Jack managed to choke. He stepped outside the hut and took in great gulps of ozone. He wasn’t going to lose it. He’d made it through the whole day without crying so far, which was a record. He squeezed his eyes shut.
‘I just thought I’d come and say hello,’ said a voice. ‘And Merry Christmas.’
He opened his eyes to see the woman from the hut next door standing in front of him. Her appearance was enough to distract him from his potential breakdown. She must be mid-forties, with a mass of squiggly curls that she probably endlessly complained about but were wild and untamed and wonderful. She was in jeans and trainers and a thick coat, wrapped up against the elements.
‘Hello,’ Jack smiled.
‘I’m Lizzy, by the way. I’m staying next door.’
‘Dad?’ Nat appeared at the top of the steps, wondering where he was.
‘It’s OK, buddy, I’m right here.’ Jack held out his hand for Nat to come down the steps, and turned back to smile at Lizzy. ‘I’m Jack and this is Nat. There’s just the two of us here for Christmas.’
He waited for her to look surprised or awkward, but she crouched down in front of Nat.
Christmas at the Beach Hut Page 18
