‘Do you have Wi-Fi? Is there a code?’
He pointed to a sign on the wall. Hemingway.
‘Is that your last name?’
He laughed. ‘No. I change it to a different author each week. My last name’s Perry. Sam Hemingway, though – that would be cool.’
Kate laughed, then typed in the code and watched her emails swarm in while he grabbed a sesame bagel and sliced it neatly in half with a sharp knife.
She bit her lip as she searched through them anxiously, reading each one with a forensic scrutiny. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t deal with anything until after the funeral, but it was impossible not to when you were a perfectionist. She trusted her team, of course she did, but she found it impossible to let go completely. She assessed each one, forwarding some, asking to be kept in the loop on others, until she was satisfied that nothing needed her immediate attention.
She put her phone back in her bag and smiled at Sam, who was juggling oranges to ‘Papa Was a Rolling Stone’ before lobbing them into the juicer and flicking the switch that would pulp them into oblivion.
‘So – are you here on holiday?’ He layered some plump coral salmon on top of the cream cheese.
Kate shook her head. ‘No. I’m actually from Pennfleet.’
He looked at her with a slight frown.
‘Oh. I haven’t seen you around.’
‘I don’t live here now. I’m …’
She swallowed, suddenly unable to tell him the reason she was here. She realised this was the first proper conversation she’d had since leaving JFK, apart from murmured niceties to cabin crew or passport control.
To her horror, she made an unladylike choking sound as she tried to get the words out.
‘God, are you all right?’ Sam put down the cardboard cup he was about to fill with coffee and came round to her side of the counter.
Kate put her hands to her face, mortified.
‘Sorry … It’s just … I’ve come back for my mother’s funeral. It’s tomorrow. In St Mary’s.’
She pointed vaguely back down the road to the church.
She’d had no idea she was going to react like this. Why now? She hadn’t cried yet at all. And she wasn’t going to now.
Sam could see she was upset, but he didn’t seem unduly perturbed. He put an arm round her and led her to a table.
‘Come on. Sit down and I’ll bring you your coffee.’
She sat down, half laughing at herself. ‘I feel such an idiot.’
‘You’re not an idiot.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Go on, have a good howl. I don’t mind.’
He was so solid, so kindly, so English. One of those people you immediately felt comfortable with, as if you had known them for ever.
‘I’m fine. Honestly. It just suddenly hit me,’ she told Sam. ‘Jet lag, I suppose. And lack of food.’
‘You don’t need an excuse,’ he said.
Moments later he put the bagel, bulging with salmon, in front of her, together with her drinks, and pulled up a chair opposite. He sat there with her while she ate and drank. As she licked the last of the cream cheese from her fingers, he stood up, lifted a chocolate brownie from underneath a glass dome, and put it on a plate.
‘On the house,’ he said.
She stared at it as if he’d handed her a pipe of crystal meth.
‘It’s a brownie,’ he said helpfully. ‘Not a gateway drug.’
‘I never eat stuff like this usually.’
‘Well, you should. There’s nothing much that can’t be sorted by a triple-chocolate brownie.’
Kate had a strict healthy eating/fitness regime. After all, you didn’t fit into size four jeans by eating brownies. But it looked darkly delicious and comforting. And she felt that to reject it would be the worst kind of uptight and, above all, rude.
So she picked it up and bit into it. Sweet but salty, crumbly but moist, she could feel it giving her strength. She crammed the last bite in and washed it down with the remaining drops of coffee. While she ate, Sam moved around the café, wiping down tables and putting the chairs up on them.
‘I’m not hassling you,’ he told her. ‘But I need to get home in time for supper …’ He flicked the coffee machine off. ‘It’s the only chance I get to see my kids before they plug themselves in.’ He mimed thumbs moving over a games console.
‘Ah. The twenty-first-century epidemic has reached even Pennfleet.’
‘There is no escape.’
Kate dug in her handbag for her purse, pulling out a twenty-pound note. She laid it on top of the counter.
‘My name’s Kate, by the way,’ she told him. ‘You’ll probably be seeing a lot of me over the next few days. Cooking’s not my strong point.’
‘I’m Sam,’ he confirmed as he handed over her change. ‘And I do the best breakfast in Pennfleet. Home-cured bacon, free-range eggs, forest mushrooms and vine-ripened, slow-roasted tomatoes.’
Kate groaned with anticipatory pleasure. ‘Sounds amazing.’
‘Or we can rustle you up a super-food salad for lunch. Quinoa … whatever.’ He made a face.
‘To be honest,’ said Kate, laughing, ‘I wouldn’t care if I never ate quinoa again.’
‘Come and have one of my toasties, then. Equal measure of fat and carbohydrate.’
‘Deal.’
He smiled at her. ‘Good luck with everything.’
She gave a sigh, and nodded. ‘Thanks. I guess it’s going to be tough, but I’ll get through it.’
She turned to go.
‘Wait a minute.’ He grabbed an empty cake tin and went over to the window display, filling it with a selection of things Kate would never usually eat.
He handed her the tin.
‘Have these. I won’t be able to sell them here as they’re past their best now, but they might sustain you over the next few days, or if anyone calls in. They’re not off or anything.’
She took the box. ‘That’s so kind. Thank you. Are you sure?’
He grinned. ‘My kids are sick of them. It’s you or the bin.’
‘Thank you,’ Kate repeated, slightly stunned by his generosity. It gave her a warm glow, which went a little towards offsetting the cold lump of dread in her gullet. The one that had been sitting there since she’d had the call.
She left the café and began to make her way up the hill. No matter how fit you were, no matter how many times you climbed it, the steep gradient made your calves scream. Eventually she came to a halt outside the cottage and stopped to catch her breath – her chest was tight, despite the fact that she worked out four times a week.
She looked back down the hill. Below her she could see the harbour, shining silver in the last droplets of sun, the boats rocking as gently as a cradle at bedtime. As the soft evening breeze wrapped itself around her, it seemed to whisper: why did you ever leave?
3
Sam watched his last customer go up the hill as he turned off the sound system and picked up his jacket.
She’d seemed so alien, with her sleek exterior: designer jeans, suede jacket, not a hair out of place even after a transatlantic flight and a long drive. People in Pennfleet, by and large, didn’t much bother with ironing or blow-dries or make-up, except some of the wealthier weekenders with their gin-palaces.
Yet despite Kate’s polish she had been vulnerable. He was glad he’d been able to fortify her, if only with a brownie. As a vicar’s son, Sam had been used to death – or at least its impact – from a young age. He had witnessed his father provide solace to so many parishioners over the years. And it had made him, if not comfortable with, then not daunted by, people’s grief. He found it best not to say much, just to be, to listen. There was, after all, not much you could say. It was always time that healed in the end.
And he knew that better than anyone. Though actually, you never healed. You just got used to it. Somehow, at some point, the grief went from unbearable to bearable. From sharp to dull. But you never went back to being the old you, the you before it h
appened.
He took off his apron and tucked it into the laundry bag along with the other aprons and tea towels he needed to take home and wash. Running a seaside café was never-ending toil, especially as it had been open seven days a week during the high season. And Sam wasn’t confident enough of his profit margin yet to take on any more staff than the three he had helping him, or allow himself the luxury of sending his washing to the laundry. He had survived his first summer, but he had a long way to go before he was in the black. He had the winter to get through, and no way of gauging how busy he would be, or whether it was worth him opening at all: many places shut down in the quiet season. It was all to play for.
Now, it was time to go home. He prided himself on being home by half six for the children, no matter what. Even then, he still had to wash the aprons and tea towels, do the orders, fill in his spreadsheets, do the rest of the week’s staff rota …
He flipped the sign on the door to Closed and slipped out into the street.
As he walked back the short distance from work to home, he thanked his lucky stars he’d had the courage to make the move to Pennfleet. How many people had a daily commute that involved wandering along the riverbank, breathing in the freshest air imaginable? How many people could glimpse their own boat, albeit an ancient and scruffy boat, bobbing in the water on their way home? And how many people had a view across an estuary and out to an infinite sea: a view that made you glad to be alive, despite everything, when you woke in the morning?
If he hadn’t had the courage, he’d be stuck in the car in some snarl-up somewhere, inching along the outskirts of south-east London. Or he may have been on his way to work, rather than from, because being an A&E consultant meant working shifts, so he could have been doing that commute any time of the day or night.
It was the shifts that had crucified him in the end. Being a widower with two teenage children didn’t sit easily with shift work. He’d always loved his job, and when Louise was alive it had worked perfectly, but … well, everything had changed, hadn’t it, the day she died?
It was every A&E consultant’s worst nightmare. A cinematic cliché, to have your loved one brought in and rushed to theatre. It was exactly like being in an episode of Casualty or ER. It could have been scripted down to the last letter. The recognition of the stripy scarf as the RTA was brought in, the realisation that it was Louise, the colleague pulling him away as he tried to rush to her side. Being shut in a room while Louise underwent surgery for a burst spleen, a crushed rib-cage, a punctured lung – courtesy of some motherfucker texting on the school run. Those familiar words ‘massive internal injuries’. Followed by ‘I’m so sorry’. A hand on his shoulder. Sympathy and anguish from his own staff, who were paralysed with the shock, even though they dealt with cases like this every hour of the day. But when it was close, when it happened to one of your own …
Her death turned everything upside down. People said ‘life goes on’, but life as he knew it didn’t. Nothing fitted anymore. Nothing in his life had remained unchanged. Everything was affected. Every tiny little thing.
How did you throw away someone’s toothbrush when it sat in the mug, expectant and upright? What did you do with the food in the fridge they had bought? Did you carry on eating the spreadable butter until it ran out? Even the radio in the kitchen had been a case in point. They’d had a never-ending battle between Radio 2 (her) and Radio 6 (him). Sometimes they agreed on Radio 4, but otherwise, each of them would retune the DAB radio to their preferred station. Only once Louise had gone, Sam hadn’t the heart to move the dial, so now he was stuck forever more with Chris Evans in the morning.
Widower. It was such a hunched-up, grey sort of word. Nothing like widow, which had a hint of glamour, conjuring up images of swirling black capes and spider webs. A widow was a challenge, an intrigue. A widower was someone who was cast aside and forgotten. Someone to be avoided in case the state was catching.
Sam hated being a widower. Not just because it meant his wife, the woman he had loved, was dead. But because no one quite knew what to do with him, socially. Including himself.
Everyone had been amazing. Colleagues, friends, school staff: there was a seamless rota of people who checked up on him, helped him out, offered to have the kids, brought round casseroles, invited him for Sunday lunch.
He didn’t want to be ungrateful, but he couldn’t bear the concern and the sympathy. He wanted to be treated like a normal person again. Every time he bumped into someone he could see the concern in their eyes. ‘Is he managing?’ ‘Poor Sam.’ ‘What else can we do to help?’ And he could tell they couldn’t work out when to stop asking how he was, or offering assistance. When did you stop being a widower? Never?
Anyway, he was fine. He was heartbroken, but he was functioning. He had to carry on. For Daisy and Jim. And actually, for himself. What had happened was cataclysmic, but Sam was not a giver-upper. Life without Louise was empty and difficult and frustrating and made him angry and sad and bewildered, but even the darkest days had glimmers. Moments when he forgot his grief, if only for a short while. Hopefully those moments would start joining up. He would never be the person he had once been, but he could be someone new. Strange though it would be without his wife, his lover, his soulmate.
He and Louise had always been a team, from the day they had met in the refectory at university during Freshers’ Week, and started up a conversation over the rather revolting chicken biryani they had both chosen for lunch. Louise looked severe, her dark hair cut in a too-short bob, her clothes dull, and when he sat next to her he’d done it out of politeness rather than any hope that she might be intriguing. But he soon found out she had a dry bluntness that was refreshing.
‘You’re all right, you are,’ she told him when he made her laugh by deconstructing the food they were eating as if it was a post-mortem. ‘Not like some of the blokes on this course. You’re posh,’ she clarified. ‘But you’re not a knob.’
‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Though actually, I’m not posh. My dad’s a vicar and my mum’s a swimming teacher.’
‘Do you live in a vicarage?’
‘It’s called the vicarage, but it’s probably not what you imagine: some rambling rectory with church fetes on the lawn. It’s a modern box on the edge of the town.’
‘Oh.’ He could see her visualising what he’d described. ‘Nevertheless, one up from a council estate on the outskirts of Leicester.’
Was that her accent? He hadn’t been able to place it.
‘Nothing wrong with being brought up on a council estate.’
‘Some of my best friends live on council estates.’ Louise did an uncanny impersonation of a middle-class person pretending to be down with a working-class person.
Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘Actually, our house was right on the edge of a council estate. So I spent most of my time hanging out there.’
‘Trying to get everyone to go to church?’
‘No.’ Sam frowned. ‘Just because my dad’s a vicar doesn’t make me a Jesus freak. On the contrary. I’m a hopeful agnostic.’
‘Does he mind?’
‘He’s only too delighted to have someone to argue with.’
She put her fork down, unable to face any more of the luminous yellow gloop. ‘I bet you went to a private school, though. Like the rest of them here.’
‘Nope,’ said Sam. ‘Do you know how much vicars earn? Obviously not.’
She chewed the inside of her cheek. ‘Sorry. I know I’m chippy.’
‘Yeah. You need to get over that. Life’s not fair, and so you have to make the most of it.’
She looked at him in surprise. He smiled. ‘Would you like to go for a decent Indian one night?’ he asked her. ‘There’re some great places round here that won’t break the bank.’
They had a wonderful night. Her eyes had sparkled at him over the top of her wine glass. And later he had been surprised to discover that she was not nearly as demure as she looked.
So h
ere he was, trying to make sense of life and keep his little family afloat without the spirit of the woman who had been the centre of their world, the source of light and warmth and laughter. The thing about Louise was she had always been so certain. She wasn’t ambivalent about anything. Which was sometimes infuriating, but at least you knew where you were with Louise. And now, Sam sometimes wasn’t at all sure where he was.
And despite trying his best, every day all he could see was her absence. In his bed when he woke, in the kitchen as he made toast and tea and tried to remember vitamins and permission slips and cookery ingredients and rugby boots – all the things Louise had done while dancing to Blondie on the radio. Her absence was everywhere.
It was the arrival of the letter through the door one Saturday morning that provided the catalyst. It floated down onto the coir mat and lay there, self-important, a cream vellum envelope with thick italic writing on the front, saying ‘To The Occupier’.
Sam picked it up and tried to second-guess its contents. Perhaps an invitation to a Safari Supper from an unknown neighbour? That sort of thing was becoming more commonplace. He slid a finger under the flap, eased it open and pulled out a letter typed on headed notepaper.
We are looking to relocate to this area. We have pinpointed your house as being of particular interest. We are cash buyers in a position to proceed, ideally completing in the next few months. Please get in touch if you would consider selling. We are happy to pay above the current market value. We attach a copy of a solicitor’s letter confirming available funds.
Sam was impressed. He admired the forthright tone of the letter, the fact that it was entirely unapologetic. He wasn’t interested, though. The children didn’t need another upheaval. The house was the one constant in their life.
He went to put the letter in the recycling. Halfway to the bin, he stopped.
Maybe this was an opportunity to change things? Maybe they needed to make their life different? Maybe trying to carry on as before but without Louise was never going to feel right? They were surviving, but they weren’t thriving, any of them. It was early days, of course, but when he thought about it, he didn’t have much time left with the children. In just over two years’ time, Daisy would be off to uni; in four, Jim. He hated the thought that they would stumble through that time trying to grab happiness, clutching at anything that reminded them of the past, stumbling about in the remnants of their former life, trying to make sense of it all.
High Tide Page 2
