The Sweetest Thing

by Susan Sallis

  ‘Won’t I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She held his gaze somehow. ‘I don’t know anything any more, Phil. What has happened here—’ She swept her gaze around the tiny space. ‘We found something, Phil. Something natural and real. A sort of . . . a sort of . . .’

  ‘Bench mark,’ he supplied.

  She laughed joyously. ‘That’s it, Phil! Just like your driftwood table – we didn’t have to change any shapes or cut into anything at all. We were there – we were there, Phil!’

  He caught her mood. ‘I’m coming in with you. We’ll swim – we’ll swim!’

  They charged down the beach and into the quiet sea, still wearing their bulky clothing. Connie ducked under and swam four strokes and surfaced. The heavy wool of the sweater was too much. She started to struggle out of it. Behind her, Phil was still in his depth, clutching William’s slicker around him and gasping with the sudden cold.

  Above them, above the beach huts, came a shout from the cliff. A warning shout. William was there, ridiculously overdressed in his city suit and waistcoat. He was waving his arms like semaphores. But already she knew what was happening. She could feel it in her feet and flailing arms and she stopped fighting with the sweater and began to swim strongly towards Phil.

  ‘Go in!’ she screamed at him. ‘Go in . . . now!’

  He grinned at her. ‘Can’t swim!’ he yelled back and went on walking towards her and she felt pure terror grip her own body as the weight of the Atlantic lifted her high and she could see his beautiful face below her still full of that joy and then he was gone and she was past him and a back wave was coming at her from the shore and she was sucked into a vortex of water and smashed down until she felt the grit of the seabed rolling her over and over and not letting her up.

  Strangely she did not care. All she could remember was that voice . . . ‘Can’t swim!’ he had said. So why had he—

  The inevitable drag was taking her out again and she would have to breathe very soon. She opened her eyes and saw him. Just for a moment his body rolled towards her. And then he was gone and something had hold of her hair and was pulling and pulling and she was free of the drag and the next wave pushed her up. She was choking but she was being borne to the shore. Her hair was still hurting.

  She and William landed right in front of the beach huts far beyond the high-tide line. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He got across her and began to push her spine so that water spurted out of her and she could move again. She started to crawl back into the sea. He shouted something at her and she managed to speak.

  ‘He can’t swim – he can’t swim!’

  He looked at her, startled, and stood up. He was still in his suit; it was thick with wet sand. She saw it was impacted in his ears; he spat his mouth clear of it. She wondered how he had done it, held himself against that fearful drag and pulled her on to the incoming wave.

  He ran back to where the vortex pulled and pushed as the sea tried to swallow the cove. She crouched and watched him run up and down. Then as one wave receded he started to wade and she struggled up somehow and managed three steps before sinking to her knees. She called his name and he looked round and the next wave engulfed him and brought him to her. She grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and felt the full weight of him as the sea tried to drag them both to itself. It left them with a ghastly sucking sound.

  She whimpered, ‘He’s gone, William. I saw him . . . down there. Under the water. I think he was already gone.’

  She must have lost consciousness for a few minutes because the next thing she knew, the cove was full of people and there was the navy and white of St John’s Ambulance and the poles of a stretcher and the coastguards were launching one of their latest fast rescue boats.

  Mrs Pentwyn acted as if she was royalty and helped her into a hot bath. Later, William knocked on her door with a tray of food. He was in his dressing gown, the same dressing gown he had worn on Monday night.

  He said, ‘She’s put my food on the tray as well. But I can take it away if you would rather.’

  She said, ‘Stay, William. I have to tell you something.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me anything, Connie. Nothing at all. I did an awful thing, insensitive and underhand. I cannot believe now that . . . Anyway, you don’t have to say anything. We’ll go home tomorrow.’ He looked at her. ‘Everyone knows you risked your life to save that boy’s.’

  ‘William! You know it wasn’t like that.’

  ‘I was watching, Connie. I saw exactly what happened.’

  She said, ‘You saved my life, William. I’ll always remember that. But I am responsible for the death of Philip Pardoe and I will never forget that.’

  He said, ‘Think carefully, Connie. If you persuaded him to go into the sea or actually pushed him in, that is one thing. If he made up his own mind, that is quite another.’ He cut up her meat carefully. ‘Try to eat something, my dear.’

  She looked at the food; it was veal. She thought of the calves who were reared especially for such delicacies. She thought of the Memburys.

  ‘Are the little girls – Rosalie and Lily – are they very upset?’

  ‘A bit. They don’t really understand. But they met Philip Pardoe’s sister this morning at Hayle library. And they are anxious for her. Membury drove over earlier with the coastguard to tell Mrs Pardoe.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Phil’s mum. They had been very close. Connie squeezed her eyes shut. ‘How will she bear it? William, she has been widowed twice. And now – what have I done, William? What have I done?’

  He held her during that first breakdown. Above her head he stared bleakly at the flowered wallpaper and remembered the day Arnold had first laid the plans for the so-called holiday.

  ‘I had a bit of a fling with Greta,’ Arnold had said. ‘Years ago now, of course – during the war. But she’s a good egg, William. I don’t want her getting caught up in litigation that will leave her penniless. See what you can do. She fancies you like mad. If I ask her to book a couple of rooms down in this special place of hers, she’ll be tickled pink.’

  And it had ended up in this boy’s death.

  Connie raised her head and controlled her breathing. ‘I’ll have to see her, William. Do you mind if we stop off in Hayle tomorrow? I have to see her.’

  He looked into her face. He had lost her and he knew there would never be anyone else for him. She was good. Through and through she was good. And if he had needed more evidence of her goodness, he had it then.

  ‘You do understand, William?’

  He smiled. ‘I understand, Connie.’

  Four

  LUCY PARDOE THOUGHT – much, much later – that when Joshua Warne turned up in his Morris Minor still wearing his oilskin suit, and closely followed by someone called Harry Membury driving a bigger car, she had probably gone mad.

  She had known instantly why they were there and her only thought was to get rid of them as quickly as possible so that she could forget they had been there and go back to waiting for Egg to come in and help her clear up the mess left by the earth-shake. She had been anxious for Egg ever since she and Ellie had felt the earth tremble; he was used to these small midsummer shakes but if he got frightened and had one of his ‘turns’ he might not be safe on his bike. So she stood in the doorway and watched them draw up one behind the other and made no move to let them in. Behind her, the girls, laying the table for tea, peered past her curiously. Ellie whispered, ‘’Tis only Mr Warne. And another man. ’Tis the man who brought those two little girls to the library this morning!’

  Barbara whispered back, ‘Rosalie and Lily.’ She lifted Matthew out of the chair where his nose was already investigating what was on the table. Denny did the same with Mark. Both girls buried their faces in soft fur and looked over the cats at the doorway, waiting for their mother to stand aside.

  She did not. Joshua Warne stammered, ‘Mrs Pardoe, this is Harry Membury who is staying at the cove and has been helping us to – to �
�� search. Mrs Pardoe – Lucy – we got bad news.’

  Harry Membury came forward. ‘Would it be best if Mrs Pardoe sat down and perhaps the girls could go out and play for a while.’

  Nobody said anything. Lucy did not move. Ellie came up behind her mother and stood by her. Barbara and Denny, clutching the cats like shields, came the other side.

  Joshua Warne clenched his hands into fists. He had been two hours in his dinghy, paddling from one side of the cove to the other, searching the water for some sign. The strange tidal surge that had engulfed the beach huts and the shop had torn weed from the seabed and the rocks and several times he had thought . . . but it had been nothing; a long strand of kelp, a tightly packed mass of weed. He had volunteered to tell Lucy. The rescue boat was still out but all hope of finding the poor kid had gone. His mother must be told properly and Joshua had gone out often with Daniel Pardoe and knew the family well. But he had not realized how difficult it would be. Lucy’s eyes were fierce; he felt her dislike – hatred – like a physical blow.

  Harry Membury said, ‘I really think it would be best if we went indoors. I can make us all a cup of tea—’

  Lucy spoke harshly. ‘Is he dead?’

  Joshua lifted his balled fists slightly and let them drop. ‘We cain’t find ’im. But ’e must be.’

  ‘The search and rescue boat is still out, Mrs Pardoe. Mr Warne here has been trawling the cove all afternoon—’

  Lucy’s voice rose to a shout. ‘The sea? The sea? ’E’d never go in the sea –’e were frightened of the sea. It were ’is bike, weren’t it? It broke up and ’e . . .’

  Mr Membury said quietly, ‘No, Mrs Pardoe. We understand he went for a swim and there was a tidal surge that swamped the cove.’

  Lucy was rigid. Denny started to cry. Barbara put Matthew gently on to the kitchen floor, took Mark from her sister and set him down too, then enveloped the small girl in her arms. ‘It’s not true,’ she said. ‘Our Egg wouldn’t go in the sea, you knows that.’

  Lucy did not move. ‘Course it en’t true,’ she said fiercely.

  Ellie’s small voice came from her mother’s side. ‘You didn’t see this happen, Mr Membury?’

  ‘No, my dear. The beach was empty because of the rain. Your brother was there with Miss Vickers, who is staying at the same boarding house as my family and me. Miss Vickers decided to go for a swim after the storm. Your brother wanted to join her. She did not realize he couldn’t swim.’ Harry Membury stopped speaking when he saw Lucy Pardoe’s face change.

  Joshua said quickly, ‘’E weren’t frightened. The girl says ’e were smilin’ as if ’e were real ’appy.’

  He realized what he had said when Lucy turned her gaze on him. He took a step back. Mr Membury put out a hand. ‘It’s important to know that, Mrs Pardoe. He had no fear. That is so important.’

  ‘She is safe.’ It was not a question. Lucy ignored the outstretched hand and spat out another time, ‘She is safe.’

  ‘Her fiancé knew she would be in the cove and after the storm he became anxious and went to look for her. He pulled her out of the sea. He resuscitated her and raised the alarm. The coastguards launched the rescue dinghy from the cove and are still out.’

  There was another silence, broken by the strange whimpering from Denny. Ellie reached out and took Mr Membury’s hand. It had been there for so long, unclaimed, an offer of sympathy. She felt its chill against her own warm palm and began to cry helplessly.

  Lucy snatched her back to her side.

  ‘’E’ll be ’ome soon. We’ll go down the towans in a minute and wait for ’im there.’

  She bade no farewells. The door was closed in the faces of the two men. Through the window Lucy watched as Harry Membury put his arm on Joshua Warne’s shoulder and led him back to his Morris. She realized through the numbness of anger and hatred that Joshua Warne was weeping.

  There was no question of tea; the idea of sitting at the table for a meal was irrelevant. Yet there it was; the end of this morning’s loaf on the familiar bread board, the butter, oily in the oppressive heat, the tiny lettuce leaves, tomatoes, radishes from the garden and an empty plate waiting for Egg to bring home whatever was left from the shop . . . some ham if they were lucky, a couple of pasties, some slices of cheese. Ten minutes ago the girls had been laying plates and cutlery. Ten minutes. Another lifetime. It occurred to Lucy that a lifetime was not simply the span of a life but a whole way of life. When she had known that Bertie had died at sea and that she was carrying his child, she had started to make a lifetime for that child. And that time had included – marvellously and miraculously – meeting Daniel Pardoe again and giggling about schooldays and watching him play with baby Bertie on the towans and seeing that Daniel loved her son as well as herself. And now that lifetime was gone. Swept away by the sea again. She realized, understood at last, the full extent of her loss. Her wonderful Bertie, her steadfast Daniel, and now . . . but not now, not again, it could not happen again, God could not be that cruel.

  She saw that Ellie had stopped crying and was cuddling her sisters. She said briefly, ‘Eat something. Then go up to bed.’

  She went through the orchard to where a sandy track led to a stile and then the wilderness of the towans. To her left, in another arm of the six miles of dunes, were caravans and chalets and people and bonfires and sausages and football games. This way, facing the lighthouse and Hell’s Mouth, there might be someone walking with a dog or standing looking out to sea. They would go as the light failed and she could scream if she needed to. Already the sun was sitting on the sea in the west; it was two months since the longest day; in a week it would be her birthday and she would be thirty-six. If she was unlucky enough to last for three score years and ten, she was over halfway there. She could not live another thirty or more years like this. Not even God could expect that. Not when he had given her so much, only to snatch it away. Too much time. Too many lifetimes.

  The long dune faced her and she pulled off her sandals and dug her bare toes into it as she climbed. It was years since she had come as far as this. They all went to Portreath occasionally to see a cousin, but they took the bus from Hayle along the coast road. Daniel and she had done it with Egg on Daniel’s shoulders. Forded the Red River and looked at the lighthouse close to, no longer ethereal, a concrete monstrosity rising out of the sea, covered in gulls’ mess.

  She came to the top of the dune and faced a long beach below. Not a living soul in sight. Not a cottage or caravan. The house, her childhood home, was out of sight behind the enormous piles of sand and rock. Egg had been born there. Had some quirk of fate plucked him out of the cruel sea so close to his birthplace? The sea was much rougher here, curling on to the sand and sucking back, taking what it could with it. She stood looking down. Egg could have been washed up here, dumped among the rocks at the base of the dunes, left for dead. But who said he was dead? Was it the sea? Had he fooled the sea and saved one breath that would make another breath and another?

  She giant-strode down the other side of the long dune and ran as the sand got firmer. There were pools and she splashed her thin frock but there was still the big sun spreading its warmth as it dipped into the sea. She ran – crazily at first, then more systematically. Her bare feet hurt as she searched the shingly patches around the rocks. She thought she had found Egg’s shirt but it was a plastic bag. The whole of the beach was stained sun-red. There were shadows; when she reached them they were not Egg. She became frantic and turned and screamed at the sea, ‘Give him back to me – give him to me – now . . . now . . . now . . .’

  The sun went suddenly but the sky reflected its light as she waded in. Somewhere, right at the back of her mind, she had an idea. If the sea took her it would give up Egg. It was so simple and so obvious. She took another tiny step, felt the suck and pull of it, a wave broke over her shoulder. And behind her a voice screamed like the scream of a gull.

  ‘Mum! My Mummy! Don’t go!’

  She turned her head and looked up at
the long dune and saw Ellie. And beside Ellie was someone else.

  Even in the half-light the girl’s grief was like an aura around her. Ellie saw the whiteness of her mother’s face and knew she had her attention. She screamed again and again, unintelligibly, and then began to come down the long slope at full tilt. When she fell and began to roll helplessly, Lucy dragged her own body free of the water; flailing her arms, she waded through the waves and gathered Ellie to her. The other shape had gone. But she knew it had been there and she knew it had been Egg. He had come with Ellie to find her. The knowledge was at once a leaden weight of acceptance and an assurance that he was . . . somewhere. She was not surprised when Ellie spoke through her tears and told her that Egg’s body had been found.

  ‘Mum . . . you’ve got to come back. Mr Warne is at the house. They’ve found our Egg . . . They want to know if they should bring him home. I said yes. Oh Mum, oh Mum . . . oh Mum . . . oh Mum . . . I said yes.’

  Suddenly Lucy was Lucy Pardoe again. The hatred, the anger . . . it was still there but she was in charge of it. She gathered her daughter to her and held her, rocking back and forth until the sobs lessened. How had she imagined for one second that she could abandon her girls? She had other lifetimes, other lifespans. She did not want them but there was no choice.

  She said, ‘You did the right thing, Ellie.’

  They stood up eventually. The sun had gone but an uncaring moon lit the way for them. Lucy knew her feet were bleeding and that her body was chilled but she felt neither pain nor cold. She tried to speak normally.

  ‘Did you eat something?’

  ‘Barbara had a slice of last Sunday’s cake. Denny had bread and milk.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Some radishes. But I sicked them up. Then I felt better.’

  They went down the other side of the long dune and up into the smaller hills leading to the village. They turned left and found the stile. Already through the orchard Lucy could see the lights of the cottage. She gripped the top of the stile and bent her head.