The Mermaid Garden

by Santa Montefiore

  Marina explained that his work was simply too modern for her guests and cut him off briskly when he tried to tell her that he could paint anything she wanted. He could have painted like David Hockney for all she cared; she simply did not like him. Just as he was on the point of leaving, Clementine strode into the hall. She took one look at him, and her face flowered into a smile. They exchanged glances and he returned her smile, looking her up and down appreciatively. Clementine watched him leave then turned to her stepmother excitedly.

  “Is he coming to stay the summer?”

  “I’m afraid not. He’s highly unsuitable.”

  Clementine’s face snapped shut. “What’s unsuitable about him? If you ask me, he’s just what you want.”

  “Which is why I’m not asking you.”

  “You’re very hard to please. Anyway, your fusty old ladies would love a handsome young man like him.”

  “His paintings are much too modern.”

  “If he’s talented, he can probably paint boring landscapes to your heart’s content.”

  “I didn’t warm to him.”

  “I did.”

  “Then go out and talk to him. Look, he’s hanging around his car. He clearly fancies you.”

  “No,” she retorted sharply.

  “Not interested?”

  Clementine clicked her tongue crossly and stalked off. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Marina sighed. “I’m going out,” she said to Jennifer. “I need some air. This has been a very trying day. Have you seen Jake?”

  “Not back yet.”

  “How long does it take to see a dentist? Well, I’m off. Grey is around, should you need him.”

  Marina walked purposefully along the cliff top, arms folded, shoulders hunched against the blustering wind. She could never gaze upon the ocean without her heart aching with longing, especially on a clear day such as this, when the setting sun pulled at her soul until it hurt.

  She hurried down the well-trodden path to the beach, where the last rays of sun were gradually being swallowed into shadow, and kicked off her shoes to tread barefoot over the sand. The fresh air filled her lungs, and her chest expanded with the beauty of the dying day. She had held it together for so long, burying her sorrow down deep where she believed she wouldn’t find it. But now, as she approached her mid-fifties, it had found her, bubbling up through the cracks in her aging body, and she could no longer ignore it.

  The disappointment of the day and her worries about their business overwhelmed her, and she began to sob. Why hadn’t one of those artists been suitable? Why had they all been so totally inappropriate? Why did she feel her life was suddenly without purpose or direction? Why now, after nearly forty years, did her past suddenly open behind her like a dam and flood her with painful memories? She was overcome and sank to her knees. Hugging her belly, she rocked back and forth in an effort to assuage the ache inside.

  It was there that Grey found her. He ran down the beach and gathered her into his arms. She yielded without resistance, burying her face in his chest and blocking out the sea. Neither said a word. For what was there to say? No amount of carefully chosen words could soothe the agony of childlessness.

  They clung to each other. Marina unburdened her sadness and stopped crying. She closed her eyes, soothed by his hand gently stroking her hair and his lips tenderly kissing her temple, and inhaled deeply until she felt a calm wash over her, like warm honey poured onto the wounds in her heart. The sorrow was slowly replaced with gratitude that she had found in Grey, a man who loved her unconditionally, in spite of all her faults.

  “I came down to tell you that you have another candidate for your artist-in-residence. A man called Rafael Santoro just called and asked whether the position has been filled. He sounded very pleased when I told him it hadn’t.”

  “I don’t think I have the energy to see anyone else,” she sniffed.

  “You will tomorrow. You’re exhausted right now, so don’t think about it.”

  “Where’s he from? Italy?”

  “Argentina.”

  “Did he sound … normal?”

  Grey laughed into her hairline. “What’s normal?”

  “He’s not a mad tango dancer, or a fancy polo player?” She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, smiling tentatively.

  “I don’t know. But as far as I can tell he sounded normal enough.”

  “What time is he coming?”

  “Ten.”

  She sighed heavily, regaining her strength. “Okay. So all is not lost.”

  “It’s not lost until you say it’s lost, darling.”

  “I wish Paul would come back.”

  “We’ll find another Paul. This Rafa, as he likes to be called, might even be better than Paul.”

  “You’re as optimistic as Harvey.” She laughed, the sparkle restored in her eyes. “If you ask me, Rafa Santoro sounds like a brand of dog biscuits.”

  Clementine met Sylvia, her lover, Freddie, and Freddie’s friend Joe in the Dizzy Mariner pub in Shelton, surrounded by model boats and what looked like rusted relics of the Mary Rose.

  “Shelton must be the sleepiest village in Devon,” said Clementine, looking around at the empty tables. A couple of old people sat in the corner, tucking into steak-and-kidney pie, without saying a word to each other. An elderly man, in a tatty tweed suit and cap, perched on a stool chatting up the barmaid, who leaned on the counter, grateful for the company.

  “Most people go to the Wayfarer in Dawcomb, but I like it here. It’s cozy and less noisy,” said Sylvia.

  “I like it quiet,” said Freddie, putting his arm around Sylvia’s waist. “I don’t have to share you.”

  “Or risk bumping into your wife,” Sylvia added, raising a plucked eyebrow.

  “I bet it’s a culture shock coming down here from London,” said Joe, gazing on Clementine admiringly.

  “It is. I didn’t want to come. I don’t get on with my father’s wife.”

  “So, why did you?”

  “Because I have to earn some money.”

  “I thought the likes of you would have a trust fund or something.”

  Clementine laughed bitterly. “There was a time when Dad threw money at us. You know, the classic father trying to win his children’s affection with treats to make up for the divorce. But he’s not so rich anymore. Submarine—that’s his wife—is very high maintenance, and I know they’ve been hit by the financial crisis as I pick up fag ends when they don’t know I’m listening. Then there’s Mum, married again to Michael, hopeless with money. They’ve had to sell their house in London and move up to Edinburgh so that he can join the family business. He’s lost loads in the credit crunch. I think I’d rather be poor, living in London, than rich, living in Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh’s more happening than Dawcomb and Shelton put together!” said Sylvia.

  “Perhaps, but it’s cold. At least it’s sunny down here.”

  “Sometimes. You’ve just had it lucky.” Sylvia arranged her dress, pulling the neckline lower to expose her cleavage. Freddie lost himself there a moment. “I couldn’t live in a city for all the world. Much too noisy, and the people, oh, I couldn’t bear having to fight for space on the pavement. It’s bad enough in Dawcomb during the summer when all the tourists come down and fill the place to bursting. I like it now, when it’s quiet. Just us, the locals, empty beaches, empty sea, long, empty days.” She giggled as Freddie put his hand on her upper thigh. “And you, dear Freddie, with your empty head!”

  “Not empty. Full of you, Sylvia.”

  She wriggled with pleasure. “Fancy coming out for a ciggie?”

  Sylvia wandered slowly through the pub, her hourglass figure squeezed into a tight blue dress, causing the man in tweed to spill his beer as he swiveled around to follow her with lusty eyes. “Close your mouth, dear, you’re much too old,” said the barmaid with a cackle, reaching for the cloth to wipe the counter.

  “She’s quite something,” said Joe, shaking his
head. “A real vixen.”

  “How long have they been together?”

  “Together isn’t a word I’d use. They’re lovers, plain and simple. He’s married with kids. She’s divorced. It’s going to get messy. About six months, to answer your question. Snatched moments and I’m the beard.”

  “You’re very good to put up with it.”

  “He’s my mate. I’d do anything for Freddie. Trouble is, he’s in love. A man don’t use his head when he’s in love.”

  “I was very little when my parents divorced, but I know it’s damaged me. I mean, how could it not? Anyone who thinks children escape unscathed when their parents divorce is kidding himself. All through my childhood I dreamed of them getting back together. Even when Dad had married Submarine and moved down here, I still wished.” She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. “I wished Submarine would meet with an accident.”

  “Naughty girl.”

  “Very.”

  “Sounds like she’s still alive and kicking.”

  “Unfortunately. At least she hasn’t given Dad any children. There’s some justice, after all.” She knocked back her vodka tonic. “I’m still Dad’s only daughter. There’s consolation in that.”

  Joe laughed. “You’re funny.”

  “Gallows humor.”

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  “You most certainly can, Joe. Thank you.”

  He walked over to the bar. Clementine sat back on the bench and watched him sleepily. He was easy on the eye. A little coarse, perhaps, but she liked the way he laughed at her jokes and looked at her so appreciatively. When he returned with her vodka, he was grinning.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Us.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, Sylvia and Freddie, they’ve set us up.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought they’d just gone out for a cigarette.”

  “No. They’ve gone out for a shag. But they’ve left us together on purpose.”

  “She wouldn’t set me up without warning me.”

  “Of course she would. That’s Sylvia. She has a big heart. She wants everyone to be as happy as she is.”

  “So Joe, if you’re my date, we might as well order something to eat. I’m ravenous.”

  He stared at her eagerly, mouth twisting at one corner with anticipation. “There are less stars in the sky tonight.”

  “There are?”

  “Yes, because the brightest star is sitting here at this table with me.”

  Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her lonely heart, which was ready to open for the first man with a key, but she laughed heartily at his lame line and took another gulp of vodka.

  When Sylvia and Freddie came back, Sylvia smoothing down her dress and patting her updo, Clementine and Joe were enjoying cottage pie and laughing inanely at everything they said.

  “So, looks like you two have hit it off,” said Sylvia, shuffling onto the bench and filling the air with the overpowering smell of tuberose.

  “Where have you been?” Clementine demanded.

  “For a ciggie, lovely.”

  “Long ciggie.”

  “Yes, we made it last.” She laughed huskily.

  “Let’s order,” Freddie suggested. “Smells good.”

  “It is good,” enthused Joe, his mouth full.

  “Sylvia, are you setting us up?”

  “I’d never do such a thing without telling you, Clemmie,” she replied, looking appalled.

  “Just that Joe said—”

  “Don’t listen to a word Joe says. He’s a terrible old rogue. Why, have you really hit it off?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “If you have, I’ll happily take the credit.”

  “You won’t find a better man than Joe.”

  “Freddie’s right. Thirty-two, unmarried, no kids, good job—and that’s saying something these days.”

  “What do you do, Joe?” Clementine asked.

  “Anything you want.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “No, really.”

  “Yes, really. I’m a handyman.”

  “Like Harvey,” she muttered, giggling at the thought of him in a blue boiler suit and cap.

  “I can do anything.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Anything at all.”

  3.

  The following morning Marina sat at the breakfast table with Grey in the private house they had converted from the old stables across from the hotel.

  “I’m glad to see that Jake is back this morning,” she said tightly. “Long dentist appointment. What was the man doing? Taking out all his teeth and putting them back in again?”

  “He went to Thurlestone.”

  “Why? He’s the manager here, not in Thurlestone.”

  “He’s interested in that robber.”

  “So he went to do a little detective work?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good. Now we can all sleep better at night.” She sipped her coffee.

  “I don’t think Jake’s presence there is going to be of much help in finding the burglar.”

  “He obviously thinks he can make a difference.”

  “Amateur detective.”

  “He should put his energy into his job here or I’ll give it to someone else.”

  Grey glanced at the clock on the wall. “I think you should wake Clementine or she might find herself begging you for a job as well.”

  “That girl needs to learn to be responsible.”

  “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

  “A bit late to teach her to stand on her own two feet. She knows you’ll always bail her out.”

  “If she wants to go back to India, she has to earn the money herself.”

  “Grey darling, she shouldn’t be going back to India. She should be getting a proper job. India is simply a way of avoiding the rest of her life.”

  “She loves travel.”

  “I had to fend for myself when I was her age. I didn’t have rich parents to support me.”

  “So, isn’t it lucky that Clementine does?”

  “Did. We don’t have any more beans to share.”

  “I don’t see anything wrong in traveling and seeing the world while she’s young and free.”

  “Of course, there’s nothing wrong in that. But she’s doing it for the wrong reasons. She won’t grow up until she takes responsibility for her life. You’re too soft. You always have been.”

  “I’m a guilty father.”

  “You have no reason to feel guilty. You’ve given those children everything they’ve ever wanted. Jake lives and works here, Clementine has spent every holiday traveling the world. She didn’t even have to work to pay for her university fees. They’ve both had it good and as a result are highly spoiled. But they are not my children so”—she shrugged—“I shouldn’t criticize.”

  “But you do.” He looked at her indulgently.

  “Because I care.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  “They don’t. They think I’m the enemy.”

  “That’s not true. Deep down they like you.”

  “Then they don’t show it.”

  “Neither do you.”

  She sighed. “Stalemate.”

  “Have a croissant.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  He grinned. “Yes, I am.”

  “Very well, I’ll have a croissant. Soon it will be time to meet ‘the Dog Biscuit.’”

  “And wake my daughter.”

  “I won’t be thanked.”

  “But you’ll have done good.”

  Marina drained her coffee cup. “I suppose you’re out fishing this morning.”

  “It’s a good day for it.”

  “Beautiful. Sometimes I wish I could come with you.”

  “I wish you would. It would do you good to get away and think about something else.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to think about. This place
is all-consuming.”

  “That’s what I mean.” He got up. “I’ll be back for lunch. Good luck with the Biscuit.”

  She pulled an anxious face and sighed helplessly. As he passed her chair, Grey bent down to kiss her head. He lingered there a moment, absorbing her apprehension, aching to carry her burden for her. He closed his eyes and inhaled her warm vanilla scent. “No matter what, darling, we’re in this together.”

  She placed a hand on his as he squeezed her shoulder. His touch was loaded with so many unspoken words she didn’t have the courage to reply, so she squeezed him back instead. They remained still, allowing their love to console them where syllables could not. Then he kissed her again and left the room.

  Clementine awoke with a head full of warring rhinoceroses. She put her hand to her brow and rubbed it ineffectively. As she slowly came to her senses, fragments of the night before surfaced one by one, until an unsavory picture began to form in her mind. She groaned at her own folly. Not only had she allowed Joe to kiss her, which had been quite nice at the time, but she had allowed him to do all sorts of other things, of which she had only jumbled recollections and a lingering sense of shame. She rolled over and pulled a pillow onto her head. Had they gone the whole way? She was mortified to discover that she couldn’t remember.

  The door opened and Marina crept in. “Clementine, you have to get up. It’s eight fifteen.” Clementine lay inert, pretending not to hear. Marina walked over to the window and opened the curtains. Sunlight tumbled in. “It’s a beautiful day again. Not a cloud in the sky.” She approached the bed and lifted the pillow. “I know you’re awake. Heavy evening?”

  “Too much vodka at the Dizzy Mariner,” Clementine mumbled.

  “I’ll make you a strong coffee. Take a cold shower, you’ll feel better.”

  “I want to sleep.”

  “I’m not going to phone and pretend you’re sick.”

  “Please.”

  “No. That’s beyond the call of duty. Now hurry, or you’ll be late.”

  Clementine dragged herself into the bathroom and peered at her reflection in the mirror above the basin. Her face was gray, the circles beneath her eyes as dark as purple storm clouds, and she had an unsightly spot on her chin. Her shoulder-length hair was tangled and knotted, as if a bird had spent the night in it, trying to scratch its way out. Her lips were swollen from too much kissing. No amount of eye drops would restore her bloodshot eyes, and as for her self-respect—she fumbled for the paracetamol—nothing could restore that.