by Karen Clarke
As I put the milk back in the fridge, I noticed a folded newspaper sticking out of the bin. Weird. I pulled it out. It was an ancient copy of The Cornish Gazette, the pages faded to yellow. I checked the date. July 30th 1992.
The teaspoon I was holding slipped through my fingers.
Next to the main headline about burglars cashing in on the hot weather was another, much smaller one: Body washes up on beach. Below it, my name leapt out, and the words got muddled as I read the paragraph, going back to the beginning to read it again.
A body believed to be that of the man who saved 7-year-old Beth Abbot from drowning on July 27th has been recovered from Porthen Beach. The man, thought to be in his late forties, may have been on holiday in the area. Efforts to locate his next of kin continue.
I was breathing fast as I read it a third time, trying to rationalise the paper being here, at the cottage. It had clearly been left for me to find, but apart from the owner, only one person had access. My thoughts slammed back to Emma’s message.
I don’t trust him, Beth. Come home.
‘Beth?’ I leapt with fright at the sound of Vic’s voice from upstairs. ‘I don’t suppose you’re making coffee, are you?’
‘I’ll bring one up.’ My voice sounded normal, but my hands were shaking as I shoved the paper back in the bin. My legs felt like rubber, making it hard to move. I looked at the landline on a table in the living room and thought about dialling 999, but what could I say?
Had Rosa been in touch with the local police yet?
I reached for my phone, relieved it had enough charge to come on. My heart lunged in my chest. I’d had two missed calls from Rosa and she’d left a message.
Angie Pascoe, 19 Meadowside, Newquay. She’ll talk to you.
There was a phone number too, but I’d already opened Google Maps and tapped in the address. It was only fifty minutes away.
I read the rest of Rosa’s message. Call first. Don’t go alone. Spoke to PC Andrew Fellowes in Penzance. He’s going to ring you. Said to call if you’re worried about anything. Stay safe. X
My fingers felt too fat as I typed Thank you so much for this. Worried Vic might be involved, I’ll … I deleted the last bit. I didn’t know Vic was involved, couldn’t begin to figure out how. Maybe, if I spoke to Angie, I’d know.
Don’t go alone.
I couldn’t go with Vic, not now. And I’d always known, deep down, if I ever got the chance, this was something I had to face on my own.
‘That coffee’s taking its time.’
I heard a creak of floorboards upstairs.
‘Stay there, I’m bringing you breakfast in bed!’ I grabbed the loaf of bread and crammed two slices in the toaster. ‘Scrambled eggs OK?’
‘Great!’ He sounded sleepily delighted, hopefully misinterpreting the note of panic in my voice. I wasn’t the best cook in the world and either cooked eggs for too long or not enough. ‘I’ll have mine well-done.’
I couldn’t work out why he’d hidden the newspaper, or how he’d even got hold of it, but asking would only alert him to the fact I’d found it.
Maybe he’d planned to produce it over dinner tonight – or tomorrow, or our last night here. But why? It felt as if my head was about to explode.
I managed to produce an edible plate of food in record time, made a fresh cup of coffee and carried both upstairs, thinking about Angie Pascoe, trying to conjure an image to go with the name. Her surname suggested she’d either remarried or reverted to her maiden name at some point. The former, I hoped.
Vic was sitting up in bed, bare-chested, looking at his phone when I ducked into the bedroom, spilling some coffee on the rug. ‘I feel spoiled,’ he said, watching as I weaved towards him. ‘We should come away more often.’
He was smiling and rumpled and looked about five years younger. Surely if he was plotting something dark, he’d look more troubled.
‘I thought we could ease in slowly,’ he said, taking the plate while I put down the cup of coffee. He ate a mouthful of eggs and nodded his approval. ‘Perfect,’ he said when he’d swallowed. ‘There’s so much to see and do,’ he went on, as eager as a boy scout. ‘I’ve been reading up about the smuggling haunts around here, but they all involve the sea, obviously.’ He grimaced. ‘Maybe we could head inland for a bit, explore the village, have a pub lunch. Then, if you feel up to it, we can head to Porthen Beach and look at the sea from there, first, before approaching Perran Cove.’ He took another mouthful. ‘I think we should go to the cove tomorrow morning; that’s when the tide will be furthest out, according to the timetable. I’ve already set the alarm on my phone for four thirty.’ Seeing my expression, he grinned. ‘I know you’re not a morning person, but it’ll be worth it.’ Registering that I was standing by the bed, empty-handed, he said, ‘Aren’t you having anything to eat?’
‘Oh,’ I said, vaguely thumbing the doorway. ‘I was in the middle of making some more eggs—’
‘Here, have mine.’ Vic held out his plate, pushing aside the bedsheet, revealing his plain white boxers. With no Hayley in the next room there was no need for him to wear his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, yet I found his nakedness, the sight of his muscular chest, unsettling. ‘I’ll go and make some more.’
‘No, no, don’t be silly.’ I backed away, palms outstretched. ‘I won’t be long, eat yours while it’s warm.’
Before he could stop me, I ran downstairs and dithered for a second by the door before rummaging in my bag for a pen and notebook. I tore out a sheet of paper and swiftly wrote, Really sorry, Vic, but I can’t face the sea today. I need shops and people. I’m going for a drive, and to have a look around. I’ll be back later, don’t worry xx
Praying he hadn’t taken his keys upstairs, I looked around and saw with a burst of relief they were on the table, next to the phone. After prising his car key off the keyring, I grabbed my phone and charger and slipped out of the cottage, closing the door quietly behind me. The bedroom was at the back, so hopefully Vic wouldn’t hear the car engine, which sounded unnaturally loud when I turned on the ignition.
I glanced back at the cottage, remembering the feeling I’d had when I arrived home on my birthday, that someone was watching from the landing window.
Had it been Vic?
With a feeling of rising hysteria, I connected my phone to the in-car charger and almost leapt out of my skin when the radio burst into life with a clash of trumpets. I switched it off and drove fast down the bumpy lane, glancing in the rear-view mirror as if Vic might be charging after me, but all I could see was sky and the receding cliff path.
I estimated I had about five minutes at the most, before he noticed I wasn’t there and ran down and read my note, which I’d left on the bottom stair.
It was exactly five minutes later, as I was heading to the A30, that my phone began to ring. Knowing it would make things worse if I didn’t pick up, I answered, using the speaker system.
‘Beth, where the hell are you?’ Vic sounded so frantic, I wavered, slowing the car so the van behind me beeped.
‘You saw my note?’
‘Yes, but why did you run off? Why not tell me you wanted to go somewhere else?’
‘I know you’re not keen on shopping, and I thought you’d prefer to hang around there and see the sights, like you said.’
‘I wanted us to see them together.’ He sounded bewildered. ‘That was the whole point.’
‘I’m sorry I took your car.’
‘I don’t care about the car, Beth,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mind what we do, but it would be nice to spend our first day here with each other, not doing different things.’
‘We can go out for dinner later.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I thought I’d go to St Ives,’ I said. ‘Have a look round the galleries.’
‘I thought you wanted shops.’
‘Well, it’s the same thing.’ I cringed. ‘Art shops.’
There was a pause. ‘What are you up to Beth?’
He exhaled a sigh. ‘You’re not supposed to go anywhere on your own.’
‘I know, but I’ll be fine.’ I turned onto the Newquay road. It was early and traffic was still fairly light. I should be there in forty minutes. ‘I’ve got my alarm and I’m charging my phone in the car.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to join you there?’ he said. ‘There’s probably a local bus, or I can get a taxi over and meet you.’
‘Why don’t you scout the area there, find somewhere nice to eat?’
‘Right.’ The word was stripped of warmth. ‘I guess I’ll see you later then.’
My phone sat nav instructed me to take the first exit onto the A3075 just as Vic hung up. Had he heard? What if he guessed I’d seen the newspaper? I couldn’t recall whether I’d put it back exactly as I’d found it. Remembering the headline made my stomach sway. Body washed up on beach. At that point, no one had known who the man was. And my own name, underneath in black and white like that. I’d had no idea it had even been reported. Had Angie Pascoe seen the paper that day? If so, she’d known my name, could have found me if she’d tried. The police would have told her anyway.
My mind swung back and forth, from Vic to Angie, and settled on Hayley as I glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d have been up for an hour or two, was probably in the farmhouse kitchen baking bread with Matt’s mum.
When my phone signalled a text, I pulled into a lay-by to read it, in case it was from Matt.
What did he say? It was Emma. Have you asked him?
So what’s his ‘real’ name then?
Ask him, Beth. He should be the one to tell you.
I threw my phone down and carried on driving, barely aware of my surroundings as I followed the phone’s robotic directions, trying to imagine Angie’s reaction when I rocked up on her doorstep. It had occurred to me that she might not be in – probably wouldn’t be. She could be at work, or out for the day, and would be expecting a phone call, not to see me in person. I tried not to think beyond knocking on her door to what I would say if she was there.
Thirty-five minutes later I was in Newquay, pulling into Meadowside and parking outside number nineteen.
Chapter 26
It was an ordinary semi-detached house in sand-coloured brick, with a decorative wooden wheel attached to the wall beside a small covered porch.
The front garden was an immaculate triangle of grass, the path to the front door fringed with lavender, and blinds were drawn over the windows, presumably to stop the sun from fading the furniture inside.
My hands were gripping the steering wheel, my face prickled with sweat. Even with the window down, there wasn’t much air coming in.
Children were playing in the street, riding their bikes up and down, reminding me again of Jamie and me during school holidays, before our trip to Cornwall, playing in the quiet alley at the side of the house with our friends.
I looked for signs of life and saw the downstairs window was open. Someone must be in. Was Angie thinking about me right now, wondering when I was going to call, planning what to say to me – speculating about what I was going to say to her? Would there be anger, after all this time?
Part of me wanted to stay in the car, to turn round and drive back to the cottage, but a bigger part – the part that had been waiting for an opportunity like this – propelled me out and up the neatly paved path to the front door.
As I raised my hand to knock, I paused. It felt significant, as if the moment should be marked with a fanfare. I heard shrieks and laughter from somewhere next door, and the splash of a paddling pool, which sounded ironic somehow.
Quelling a rush of nerves, I rapped on the door and stepped back. I looked at the open window. I couldn’t see in, but sensed someone looking out, checking to see who was there. I arranged my face in a smile so I didn’t look threatening, and seconds later, a blurred shape appeared behind the frosted glass. The door opened a couple of inches and a woman’s face peered round, knotted into a frown. ‘Hello?’
‘Angie Pascoe?’ My throat felt full of cotton wool.
‘Who’s asking?’
I swallowed. ‘My name’s Beth Turner … Abbot.’
The door swung wider, revealing a short, barrel-shaped woman about Mum’s age, in cropped white linen trousers with navy flats, and a floaty top that matched her vivid blue eyes. She pushed her short, ash-blonde hair behind her ears, revealing big hooped earrings. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, her Cornish accent strong. ‘I thought you might pop over. Your friend said you was staying round ’ere.’
‘Near Penzance.’ I entered a cream-carpeted hallway painted primrose yellow, a smell of citrus air freshener making my nostrils itch. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘This is a real surprise,’ she said. ‘’Aven’t thought about you in years.’ She closed the door and looked me up and down with open interest. I must look a mess. I hadn’t bothered with make-up, and my hair had been whipped around from driving with the windows down. I smoothed it back and tugged my top over my shorts, self-conscious under her scrutiny. ‘You’re the little girl who nearly drowned.’
‘That’s me!’ It came out jaunty, as if I might do jazz hands. ‘I didn’t though, thanks to your husband, Mike.’
She made a noise, between a laugh and snort of derision. ‘Only decent thing that bastard ever did, pardon my language.’
I froze, not sure I’d heard correctly.
She turned, indicating I follow. ‘Let me get you a drink – you look hot.’ As she headed down the hall, I noticed she had a slight limp. ‘This weather’s starting to get on my nerves,’ she said. ‘If I’m ’onest, and I never thought I’d say this, we could do with some rain. Mind you, there’s a storm brewing. I can always tell because my arthritis plays up; it’s in my hips, see?’ She patted the left one. ‘Tea, coffee, or something cold?’
I managed to unglue my feet from the floor. ‘Water will be fine, thank you,’ I said faintly, following her into a small, square kitchen that smelt faintly of last night’s dinner – something spicy. In contrast to the hallway it was a messy jumble of colour, mostly due to the number of teapots in various shapes and sizes lining every surface.
‘I collect them,’ she said, seeing me blink at the huge array. ‘Got a cabinet in the other room, full of them. My kids and grandkids buy me one every Christmas and birthday.’ She shook her head, hooped earrings dancing, and her tanned face relaxed into a smile. ‘I won’t be able to move for them soon,’ she said, taking a glass from a pine cabinet above the worktop. ‘George reckons he might have to move out.’
It felt so surreal, standing there, listening to her everyday chatter, trying to work out why she’d spoken like that about Mike. A ginger cat came through the open back door and wound around my ankles, purring loudly.
‘Tommy’s come to say hello.’ Angie beamed fondly as she handed me a glass of tap water, which I drank in a few gulps. ‘Biscuit?’
At a loss for words, I nodded.
‘Sit down.’ She nodded to a table jammed against the wall, a chair at either end. I obeyed, and while she peeled the lid off a Tupperware box, I glanced around, looking for evidence of the other occupants of the house. ‘You have children?’
‘Three, all grown up now.’ She offered me the box of biscuits, watching as I took one and ate it quickly. ‘Have another.’
I shook my head and she replaced the lid before settling herself opposite me, wincing as she got comfortable. ‘They’re not his,’ she said, without preamble. ‘The kids. They’re not Mike’s, if that’s what you were wondering.’
‘Right.’ I tried to work out what that meant. If they weren’t his children, there was no history with me – no need for revenge for the loss of their beloved father. It sounded as if Angie hadn’t lost any sleep over his loss, either.
&nb
sp; ‘You said he … Mike …’ For some reason, I stumbled over the name. ‘You said saving me was the only decent thing he’d ever done.’
Her mouth puckered, creating grooves in her peach-coloured lip liner. ‘He wasn’t a good person,’ she said starkly. ‘I should never have married him; he was sixteen years older than me for a start. My mother tried to warn me. “Once a cheater, always a cheater,” but I was in love, thought he’d be different with me.’ She shrugged. ‘I was wrong.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Her face hardened. ‘He got what he deserved.’
Her words hit me like a slap. This wasn’t going remotely how I’d imagined. There was no shrine here to a well-loved husband, no grieving widow and children. Angie sounded as if she’d hated Mike.
She was talking again. ‘I thought at first he’d gone into the sea to impress her.’ She spat the word like venom. ‘His other woman, one of many I may add – he left a trail of broken hearts – but when I found the note and discovered he’d been planning to go, it must have seemed like divine intervention, you getting into trouble like that. A chance to die like a hero. Not that I was having any of that.’
She looked at me darkly, in the grip of an old emotion. ‘I told the police not to release his name, said I didn’t want any publicity, any contact with family.’ The family. Me. ‘I knew she wouldn’t want it getting out, not that she was capable of much anyway, bloody mess she was – I think he’d woken up to that. It’s why he wanted out, and me telling him I’d never divorce him didn’t help, but why should I have made it easy for him?’ Her gaze was faraway, somewhere tangled and dark. ‘He’d had it easy for too long. Anyway, he took the coward’s way out, because that’s what he was, deep down. A coward.’
Her stream of words ran out and she refocused her gaze on me, as if trying to solve a riddle. ‘I don’t suppose this is what you were expecting to hear.’
