by Hannah Emery
The castle gardens smelt of ripe fruit and September sunshine and flowers: the perfect scent for such a glorious day. Evelyn hurried down Castle Street with her suitcase, drawn by the sea that glinted as though it was filled with jagged diamonds. She wanted to throw herself into the cool, silver waves, to plunge into the silence of the water, to rise up again and thrash her arms and legs around, and then lie on craggy rocks under the sun. Her legs propelled her further and further forwards, until she saw something that made her stop and stand still, her heart pounding, her mouth wide open to draw in huge lungfuls of salty air.
It was a shop, but it looked more like a cavern or a witch’s den full of twinkling beauty. Evelyn looked at her watch. It was ten to twelve, so if she hurried, she had time to go into the shop before the train to London arrived in fifteen minutes.
As Evelyn stepped inside, she stared around at the gems and pearls and gold and silver that spilt out from every cabinet and shelf. The man behind the counter smiled at her, his eyes tracing her young, curving figure and she blushed with the exotic pleasure of a man’s gaze. He was handsome: broad, masculine and dark, like a king of a faraway country.
The man stared at Evelyn for what seemed like a long time. Then he smiled and his whole face changed. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
Evelyn grinned at him. ‘I couldn’t help but come into your shop. I’ve lived in the castle all my life, but I’ve never noticed it before.’
The man smiled back. ‘I’ve just opened. Only been in Silenshore a few weeks. But it looks like we have bad timing. Have I moved here just as you’re leaving?’
Evelyn felt an unexpected prickle of disappointment about her plans. ‘Yes, I suppose we have. I’m off to London. My train’s in fifteen minutes.’
‘Oh, well, if you’re going to London then I’ll let you off. It’s one of the best places you can go to. Which part?’
Evelyn remembered the address Mary used to write from. She didn’t know many places in London, so that would have to do. ‘Bethnal Green,’ she said. ‘But I probably won’t stay there long,’ she hurried on. ‘I want to see all the different parts of the city.’
‘Have you got someone to show you round?
Evelyn looked down at a table that glinted with a rainbow of colour and fingered some green glass beads. She wanted to tell this man the truth, all about how she was going to arrive in London and try to get a job, to start all over again and take some classes in acting. But if her mother were to ask around… ‘Yes. I’m going to stay with a friend,’ she said reluctantly.
‘That’s good. Can’t have a beautiful lady like you wandering the streets of London alone.’
Something inside Evelyn bloomed at his words, as though he’d unlocked needs she hadn’t even known were there. She looked around: there were clocks everywhere, swinging pendulums and ticking hands that reminded her how close her train was getting.
‘Do you know London well?’ she asked the man, her hands lingering around the beads.
‘It’s where I’m from. I go back all the time to the auctions. I know a lot of people there. If there’s anything you want from London, I can get it for you.’
Evelyn thought for a minute. ‘Do you know any actors? Anybody to do with the theatres?’
The man smiled. ‘Oh, I know plenty of theatre people. So that’s what you’re up to? You want to be famous?’
If anybody else had seen into Evelyn’s soul so easily, past her yellow dress and carefully brushed hair and her mother’s red lipstick, she would have been quite embarrassed. But there was something about the man that made her feel quite at ease.
‘Yes,’ she said, hearing the glitter of excitement in her voice. ‘I do want to be famous.’
‘I’m going to London in a few weeks. We can meet up, if you like. I’ll introduce you to my friends. There’s no way they could turn down a beauty like you. Let me know the address of your friend’s house and I’ll come for you, if she won’t mind. I’m Jack, by the way.’
Jack held out his hand for her to shake and Evelyn took it. His touch was warm, his hands as she had always imagined a real man’s hands to feel: slightly worn, strong. Evelyn smiled, but her words faltered. ‘I’m not sure of her exact address.’
Jack stared at her. ‘I hope this friend’s real. Because if she’s not, London won’t be much fun alone.’
Evelyn felt herself blush and she laughed. ‘Am I that bad a liar?’
‘It was a white lie,’ Jack said, grinning. ‘You best get working on it, though, if I’m going to make you into a famous actress.’
‘Oh, you can’t make me famous,’ Evelyn said, although her flipping stomach betrayed her words.
Jack shrugged. ‘I think I can. I know the right people. And you’ve got the looks. But you know best. Off you go to London and I’ll just have to hope that I find you when I next go. You can always write to me and let me know where you end up. Take those with you, if you like,’ he said, gesturing to the glass beads that Evelyn had picked up.
‘Oh, I…’ Evelyn found herself reaching for her purse, but Jack put a hand on hers and stopped her. He took the beads from their place on the table before them and held them up to Evelyn’s neck, fastening them deftly, his fingers brushing against the bare skin on her collarbone. She could smell his breath on her skin when he came close to her, smoky and dark and like nothing else she’d ever smelt.
‘Like them?’ he asked.
Evelyn nodded, knowing that her life as she knew it was gone, and in its place was one where all she thought of, dreamt of, was this man who stood before her with eyes the colour of chocolate and broad, strong shoulders. ‘I love them.’
‘You can think of me when you wear them in London,’ Jack said. ‘That’s if you’re still going. You could always wait a few weeks and we could go together, make a day of it and meet up with my friends. Or, you could go and catch your train right now.’
As he spoke, a clock above him chimed twelve.
‘I think,’ said Evelyn, ‘I’m already a little too late.’
Chapter 7
Isobel: 2010
My Queen,
I miss you. My days are long. How, when one year ago I did not know you existed, can I find it so impossible to live without you now? It makes no sense.
I can still only thank all the stars in the world that it rained that day when we first met.
I want to find you. I wondered if I should question your father the last time I visited the shop, but his expression told me to leave well alone. What has happened? Find me. Tell me.
H
Isobel watches Tom as he pauses before speaking again. His face is tense and she tries to skip ahead, to guess his solution to having no space in either of their flats for the baby, or its new crib. But she can’t think of what he might be about to say. He has no other properties, no money. He’s just told her that. So how can he have a plan?
‘My mum always offers for me to move in with her,’ Tom says after a minute, breaking into Isobel’s thoughts. ‘She has a big house on West Street, and she lives on her own.’
Isobel frowns and gazes at Tom, at his broad shoulders and perfect face, his wide hands that make him seem strong and protective. He looks like a man who knows what he’s doing, who has life all planned out. He doesn’t look like someone who would suggest moving in with anybody’s parents, especially his own.
‘I don’t know. I don’t think I can,’ Isobel says, then immediately feels guilty. Tom’s trying to help, to work things out. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly. ‘I just can’t imagine it.’
‘I know it wouldn’t be ideal. I’ve always point blank refused to live with her, because I’ll admit that she can be a bit difficult sometimes. But now, for the first time, staying with her for a time seems to almost make sense. Think about it: we could save up our wages and then get somewhere together in a year or two. She could help us with the baby too.’
‘Do you get on with her?’
‘Pretty much. Like I said, sh
e has her moments.’
‘That doesn’t sound great,’ Isobel says.
Tom sighs. ‘Well, what about your dad? Would you feel better staying with him for a while?’
Isobel closes her eyes and pictures her dad’s flat. Even if it wasn’t a mess, it would be way too small. ‘No. No way.’
Tom is quiet for a moment. ‘Shall I ring her, then?’ he asks eventually, his words even and calm. ‘I won’t say anything about moving in yet. I’ll just arrange for us to go round, so that you can meet her. She got back from her holiday last night, actually, so I was thinking we could visit her anyway. Then, once you’ve met each other, we can decide.’
Isobel touches her slightly rounded abdomen and stares at the crushed bed and crib, and thinks of the person inside her who is growing a little bigger, a little more human, every minute.
‘Yes, okay. Ring her.’
On Wednesday morning, Isobel wakes up disoriented, a buzzing sound filling her mind and forcing her away from her dreams. She opens her eyes and takes a moment to realise that she’s at her own flat, not Tom’s. The buzzing noise is Iris’s hairdryer, which Isobel normally sleeps through. How quickly she has become used to quiet.
She closes her eyes again and thinks of the day ahead. Muted sounds from Iris’s bedroom next door resonate through the wall. When Isobel hears Iris’s door open, she swings her legs out of bed and pads out of the room. Iris grins when she sees Isobel. She’s ready for work and is wearing a short skirt with black tights and gold shoes covered in tiny sparkling stones.
‘Morning,’ she says. ‘I was just going, but I’ve got time for a quick coffee if you want one?’
‘I’d love one,’ Isobel says. The novelty of being home at the flat with Iris is strange after almost a week of being at Tom’s. Isobel would never have got up just to see Iris before. She would have stayed in bed for an extra half an hour, oblivious to hairdryers and coffees and Iris leaving for work. They would have caught up later. But she can’t do that today.
‘Are you back at Tom’s later instead of here?’ Iris asks. It’s as though she can read Isobel’s mind. Sometimes they joke that she can: they’ve been friends for so long that they can usually guess each other’s thoughts.
Isobel’s blurred memories of the first days of primary school, the warm milk and the teachers towering above her and the home corner with its naked dolls and battered pram, are tangled with memories of Iris. Everybody thought they were sisters, because they both had red hair. It was a lazy assumption: Iris’s hair was bright and thin, and Isobel’s was a heavy auburn mass. Their faces, even at four, gave clues to how different they would grow to be: Iris’s was wide, her eyes green. Isobel’s eyes were dark brown. Iris had a peppering of freckles on her cheeks and shoulders; Isobel had none. But the differences didn’t seem to be as important as their one similarity. Their names were spoken together by teachers and parents, binding them together as one. Now, over twenty years later, they are still as close as they were then. They love living together. And because of Isobel, it’s going to change.
‘Yes. I’m meeting Tom’s mum for the first time today. We’re going to hers straight after I finish work.’
‘Wow.’ Iris perches on one of their breakfast bar stools and crosses her slim legs. ‘Things really are getting serious now. It’s exciting!’
Isobel is quiet for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath. ‘Tom’s suggested that we move in with her.’
Iris’s eyes widen. ‘Isobel! That’s huge!’
‘I know. I wasn’t sure at first.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a baby in our flat, you know,’ Iris says.
‘Thanks, Iris. I feel guilty for leaving here. I thought we’d live together for ages.’
Iris waves away Isobel’s apologies. ‘Oh, one of us was bound to get swept off our feet and carried off to somewhere else at some point.’
‘Ha, to his mother’s? I’m not sure it’ll be quite like you make it sound!’ Isobel laughs. ‘It’s pretty good with him, though. So I’m hoping it’ll work out.’
‘I’m sure that she’ll be fine. Does Tom say much about her?’
Isobel shakes her head and sips her coffee. It’s caffeinated and tastes better than any coffee she has drunk in weeks. ‘Not much. Actually, I can tell he doesn’t love the idea of living with her. He’s just so logical.’
Iris nods. ‘Well, perhaps it’s time to give logical a try. And if it doesn’t work, then I’m always going to be here.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Well, figuratively speaking anyway. I actually should go to the gallery, really. I said I’d get in a bit early today.’ She jumps down from her stool and gives Isobel a brief, tight hug. ‘Good luck. She’ll love you.’
Tom meets Isobel at the school gates when she’s finished work for the day, his head bowed against the darkening wind, his eyes darting as he looks out for Isobel amongst the swathes of teenagers.
‘Ready?’ he asks as she links her arm into his.
She nods. ‘Ready.’
They walk a little way down Castle Street, the streetlights casting yellow down on them as the daylight fades into a purple darkness. As they pass shops, Tom looks at them, craning his neck to see inside.
‘I love the buildings up here,’ he explains. ‘I’m always imagining my French restaurant in one of these.’
Isobel looks up. The Victorian terraces near to the castle are bigger and grander than those near the promenade, as though the style of the castle floods through them. The turrets on the end buildings, the high arched windows and intricately carved stone pillars between shops are beaten by weather and time, but still beautiful.
‘That’s a great idea. A restaurant would be just right up here. I’d help you set it up. You know, I’m actually related to a long line of Silenshore foodies,’ Isobel says. ‘My grandparents owned a bakery and their parents before them opened it. It was where my dad’s office is now.’
‘Really? That’s impressive! But you don’t cook, do you?’
Isobel laughs. ‘I make nice toast.’
‘Oh, so you’re sticking with the bread theme, then.’
‘Yes, I suppose I am. I’ve never been much of a cook. I definitely don’t feel like I have baking talents in my blood.’
‘And presumably your dad doesn’t either?’
‘No. There was a big family row about it, actually. His parents expected him to carry on the baking tradition. But he just wasn’t into it. He was the oldest child, so the shop was passed to him, even though he was adamant that he didn’t want it. He wanted his younger brother to have it, but he was about ten years younger than Dad, and not really old enough to take on the bakery at the time. Dad ran it for about a year, but hated it. Then he met my mum. She worked in the shop with him and ran it while he did his finance courses. Then he opened his office. If it hadn’t been for Mum, Dad would have been a miserable baker all his life, and wouldn’t have ever done what he wanted to do. But I suppose now he misses her so much that it doesn’t make much difference. He doesn’t seem happy any more. I sometimes wonder if he will ever be happy again.’
‘I don’t know,’ says Tom. ‘It’s the age-old question, I suppose. Isn’t it better to have had something great and then lose it, than to never have had it at all?’
Isobel thinks, her mind whirling with images of her mother and the baby and Tom. ‘I think it must be,’ she says. She turns her head and stares back at the houses near the castle. They look majestic and fairy-tale like, their flaking paint and cracking facades invisible from a distance.
As they walk on, Isobel tastes the bitterness of salt from the sea and sand crunches beneath them on the pavement. Tom is quiet, his grip on her hand firm and warm. They carry on further down the hill before turning right about halfway down, onto West Street.
‘Mum lives in one of the houses up there. It’s not much further.’
The houses on the street are spacious cottages that all bear an individual style. Isobel can see that they were probably built in the sixties
: they are lower and wider than the rest of the houses in Silenshore and don’t seem to belong. Isobel can see a park at the end of the road. It looks deserted and eerie in the winter darkness. A swing creaks backwards and forwards in the wind and Isobel averts her gaze, focusing on the front door that Tom pulls her towards, and then pushes open.
The hall is empty when Tom and Isobel walk in. A strong, shiny scent of lavender and polish wafts through the air. Photographs line the cream walls: Tom at school, Tom at university, Tom on holiday before a grey backdrop of dramatic mountains.
‘Mum?’ Tom shouts as they peer into the empty sitting room on the right.
A voice echoes from further on in the house: a small hum rather than a word. Tom leads Isobel along the hall and gestures for her to step into the room on the right. Isobel looks down at the floor, which is a cool grey slate.
Tom’s mother is standing at an Aga that seems too old for the house. She’s a tall woman, stooped in apology.
‘Tom,’ she says with a small smile. Her voice is delicate.
‘Hi Mum. Good trip?’
‘Oh, as far as they go.’ She replies with a wave of her slim hand. She looks at Isobel. ‘I went on a walking holiday.’ She bends down to stroke the head of the chocolate Lab that has padded into the kitchen.
Isobel nods enthusiastically. ‘I’ve never been on that kind of holiday. But I’ve heard they’re really good.’
Tom’s mother nods vaguely and then turns back to her stirring for a moment. ‘So you’re both well?’
Isobel looks up at Tom. He is more agitated than usual, his features tight with tension. ‘Yes. This is Isobel, Mum.’
She looks at them both and gives a strange snorting laugh. ‘I guessed. And I’m Daphne, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. He’s told me a little about you, Isobel. Do you like casserole?’
‘Yes,’ Isobel says. When was the last time she ate a casserole? Probably in the eighties with her parents. ‘Tom’s very good at cooking. He’s been making me some of his French dishes.’
