High Tide

by Veronica Henry

  ‘You’re to sit there and talk to me while I boil you an egg. Now tell me – how are you, my dear? I’m so sorry about your mother. I was very fond of her. We were on the flower rota together and we used to spend the whole time laughing. Neither of us were natural flower arrangers.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Obviously it’s been hard. But everyone’s been so kind.’

  ‘Well, yes. Joy attracted kindness. Because she was so very kind herself.’

  ‘People keep saying.’

  ‘We need more Joys in this world. One of those people who gives, but who isn’t a sickly saint. I wish I could be more like her but I don’t have the patience for other people that she had.’

  Kate could imagine that Irene didn’t brook any nonsense. Joy had been endlessly patient and sympathetic with people, but it was only now that Kate was starting to realise how unusual that made her.

  ‘When you’re growing up you don’t realise that your parents are special in any way, do you?’ she said. ‘Quite often you don’t see it until it’s too late.’

  ‘There’s no need to feel bad about it. It’s the same for all of us. As parents you don’t expect to be appreciated. Funnily enough, one’s grandchildren can be more appreciative. It’s a much more satisfactory relationship.’

  ‘You and Rupert are very close, aren’t you?’

  Irene gave a mischievous smile.

  ‘Yes. I’ve got the measure of him and I’ve worked out how to get the best out of him. He could have come to a sticky end. He’s what in the olden days would have been called a bounder. Or he was.’

  Kate found herself completely under Irene’s spell. She watched as she moved about the kitchen, filling the teapot, dropping a brace of brown eggs into the saucepan, slicing a fresh loaf of bread. And as she watched, she wondered if perhaps Irene might be able to shed some light on her mystery. She’d lived in Pennfleet a long time. She was a pillar of the community and knew lots of people. Who knows, maybe Joy had even confided in her at some point?

  ‘Can I ask your advice about something?’

  ‘Of course.’ Irene brought over the teapot and placed it in front of her.

  Kate took the letter from her handbag.

  ‘I found a letter in Mum’s handbag. I wondered if you might know who it was from.’

  ‘You’ll have to read it to me.’

  Kate unfolded it and read it aloud, the words affecting her as much as they had the first time.

  ‘Oh,’ said Irene as Kate finished. ‘Oh. How terribly sad.’

  ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? I had no idea. And I don’t know how to find out who he is. “R” isn’t exactly helpful.’ She laughed. ‘I’m assuming it’s not Rupert.’

  ‘I think I know who it is. Robin Jessop. He lives about two miles away, upriver, in Elverscott.’ She shook her head in sorrow. ‘He and his wife retired down here about ten years ago. Then she gradually started “losing it”, as they say. Now he’s a full-time carer for her.’

  ‘Like Mum was for Dad.’

  ‘I imagine they met at the dementia support group in Shoredown.’

  Kate nodded. ‘I know Mum used to take Dad there.’

  ‘And Robin takes Nancy. It’s a bit of respite, I suppose. A chance to meet other people in your position.’ Irene sighed. ‘Oh dear. Other people’s lives. Sometimes we just have no idea, do we?’

  ‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘What do you think I should do? I think he phoned the house the other night while I was there. As soon as he realised it was me, he hung up. I don’t think he knows about Mum.’

  ‘Possibly not. Elverscott’s quite isolated, and I don’t suppose he gets out all that much.’

  ‘Do you think I should go and see him?’

  Kate felt grateful that she could take advice from someone like Irene, who was both wise and analytical.

  ‘I do, actually,’ Irene said eventually. ‘I think it will be difficult and awkward, but I think to fly back home without letting him know would be … cruel.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Irene put her head to one side, thoughtful. ‘Would you like me to come with you? For moral support? I don’t know him terribly well, but it might help him. To have a familiar face.’

  It was tempting to have Irene to lean on, but Kate thought it was the coward’s way out.

  ‘That’s sweet, but thank you. I think it’s something I need to do on my own.’

  ‘I have his address.’ Irene pulled an ancient address book covered in Liberty fabric from the side in the kitchen. ‘He’s a very lovely man. Very gentle and thoughtful. He’ll appreciate you going to see him. He won’t think you’re interfering.’

  Kate was filled with dread at what she had to do, but she felt she had no choice. She had been struck by the depth of feeling in Robin’s letter, and his courage, and his regret. She needed to meet him. She copied the address down.

  ‘By the way, is Rupert here? Or is he out and about?’

  ‘In his office, further down the corridor. But have your breakfast first. Your eggs are just about done.’

  Kate found Rupert in his office, which was utter chaos. He had paperwork piled up around his ears, empty cups, Margo and Jerry at his feet and Classic FM blaring out Elgar. He looked up as she came in.

  ‘You obviously slept well. Some of us have done half a day’s work already.’

  She smiled, perfectly happy to be teased. She handed him a mug of coffee Irene had given her.

  ‘I just wanted to catch up with you before I left. To say thank you for a fantastic evening.’

  ‘My absolute pleasure. It was good to have someone to go out with. It can be a bit isolated here once the summer is over.’ He moved some papers around on his desk. ‘And if you do want to sell Belle Vue, of course we’d be interested in having a look. If you sell direct to us, there’d be no agent’s fee.’

  Kate narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she trusted him. Had he just been buttering her up? Feigned a lack of interest to make her feel bad?

  ‘I’ll let you know the asking price,’ she told him.

  He stood up. ‘Let me walk you round the grounds before you go. Tell you my plans. I’d love your take on it.’

  Kate hesitated. She had a lot to do, but it was tempting. She was curious indeed. ‘That would be lovely.’

  She borrowed a pair of Irene’s gum boots, and a wax jacket, and they made their way outside. There was a lacy mist hanging over the grounds, so they couldn’t see the sea in the distance. Silver dew clung to the lawn, and the air was sharp and fresh, the scent of ozone underlying the woodier smell of dying leaves underfoot.

  They walked over the lawns at the back of the house, towards the cliff that towered over the sea and gave the house its name.

  ‘I know we’ve got the beach at our disposal, but we’re going to have to build a pool, because people expect it. So we’re putting it here. An infinity pool, so it feels as if you might fall over the cliff edge and into the sea.’

  ‘It’ll be spectacular.’

  ‘I hope so. I want it to blend in with the surroundings and be as natural as possible. There’ll be changing rooms and a bar, all in wood. All very mellow.’

  The mist was starting to clear and, gradually, before their eyes, the ocean appeared. Kate wondered how many hours she had spent out there. The playground of her youth.

  ‘Come on,’ said Rupert.

  He led her back over the lawns and round to the walled garden.

  ‘We’ve let this run to seed, because Granny can’t keep it up. But I’ve found a wonderful girl from the agricultural college. She’s going to restore it to its former glory. We’re going to supply all the fruit and vegetables for the house. And there’s going to be a cutting garden, for flowers. And we’re going to keep chickens. For eggs.’ He laughed. ‘Obviously.’

  Kate felt a twinge of envy. ‘It’s a fantastic project. You’re very lucky. And I think it’ll be really successful. It’s exactly what people want – wealthy people who live
in cities. A breath of sea air, luxury, a bit of history …’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Rupert looked anxious. It was the first time Kate had ever seen him less than confident. ‘To be honest, I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

  ‘You just need to keep an eye on your spending. Do things in phases, rather than trying to get everything up and running all at once.’

  ‘But I want it to be perfect. Now!’ He laughed at himself. ‘If you think of anything I’ve overlooked. Or have any brainwaves …’

  ‘Sure. But you seem to have it covered.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Listen, I better go. I’ve got a million things to do before I fly back. My boss is champing at the bit. But thank you – for a lovely night. And I’ll let you know about the house—’

  She felt the warmth of him through his jumper as he leaned in to give her a hug. They both stood still for a moment. Kate felt awkward, and knew damn well that was exactly how she was supposed to feel. Rupert smiled and raised his eyebrows. God, he was a player, even now. A leopard never changes its spots, she reminded herself.

  She raised a hand to say goodbye, turned and walked away as quickly as she could, feeling as if somebody had tipped a tub of glitter into her stomach.

  Then realised she had no way of getting back to Pennfleet.

  She turned. He was standing with his arms crossed, smiling at her.

  ‘I’m guessing you’d like a lift?’ he said. ‘Cos it’s a long walk.’

  25

  ‘Darling,’ said Squirrel to her daughter, ‘there’s something we need to discuss.’

  Vanessa’s heart sank. What now? ‘Is there?’

  ‘This house,’ said Squirrel. ‘It’s like a bloody mausoleum. Please tell me you’re going to redecorate.’

  Squirrel had long thought whoever had been given the contract for the interior design of Pennfleet House should have been taken out and shot. It was more like a tacky Mayfair hotel than a seaside retreat: all marble and high-gloss wood and shiny chandeliers. The drawing room was perfectly suited to a gaggle of hookers, with its L-shaped leather sofas and the smoked-glass coffee table that lay in wait ready to bark your shins. There were hideous paintings of scantily clad women wrapped around wild cats.

  Who on earth had looked at a beautiful house like this and decided to rip the heart and soul out of it? Someone who had only seen Spencer’s cheque book; someone who couldn’t be bothered to teach him that less is more.

  ‘Let’s rip it all out,’ she said to Vanessa. ‘Rip it all out and start again. It will be therapeutic for you.’

  ‘But it cost a fortune,’ Vanessa protested. ‘Do you know how much that marble is a square metre?’

  ‘No,’ said Squirrel. ‘Nor do I care. Someone will take it off our hands. I’ll phone round.’ Squirrel had a magical phone book containing the numbers of people who could provide anything, do anything, and take anything away – sometimes all three at once. ‘Gibbo will take it all out and put down some oak floorboards. He’ll get rid of this lot on some tasteless oligarch.’

  It upset her that Vanessa, with her wonderful eye and her artistic touch, had had to live in such a monstrosity for so long.

  Vanessa looked at her mother and began to laugh. Only Squirrel, she thought.

  Squirrel was on a mission. She threw her arms out.

  ‘It needs wood and chalky paint and linen and velvet. Softness. Pale blues and creams. And Christ – that ghastly artwork. Get a dealer down. Get rid of it.’

  ‘I can’t just wipe all evidence of Spencer out, Mum. I can’t just pretend he didn’t exist.’

  ‘Why not? Come on, darling. It’ll be a project. Something to take your mind off things.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘I don’t understand why anyone would put high gloss and stainless steel in a seaside house. You need pale-grey tongue and groove and soft white marble.’

  Vanessa could see what Squirrel was trying to do. Distract her. She appreciated her efforts, but looking at a few paint charts wasn’t going to do the trick.

  Although maybe it would? From the first day Spencer had brought her to Pennfleet House, she had fantasised about restoring it to its former glory. All the period detail was still there, under the glitz. Spencer had been so proud of what he had made it, almost childlike in the pleasure he took, that she had never had the strength to work on him. So she had concentrated all her efforts on making the shop as beautiful as she could. Adrift was where her energy and spirit lay.

  Now, though, there was nothing stopping her bringing that spirit into her own home.

  And it might, just might, stop her looking at her phone every two minutes. He hadn’t contacted her. Of course not. She’d been a drunken Friday-night distraction. An anecdote. The comfort she had taken from him had been an illusion.

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ she told Squirrel. ‘It could be fun.’ Yep, thought Vanessa. It was time to stop fantasising and join the real world. ‘Anyway, I’m going into the shop this morning. I haven’t been in for nearly a fortnight. I need to catch up with the girls and get back on track. And I’ve got a meeting with an artist later. Will you be OK?’

  Squirrel held up a Farrow and Ball paint chart. Vanessa laughed.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

  Squirrel watched her daughter go. She had such mixed feelings. It was wrong to be glad that Spencer wasn’t in her life any more – she wouldn’t wish anyone dead – but she was pleased that Vanessa had a chance for a new beginning. It was horrible, as a mother, to know your daughter deserved better. She knew she and Spencer hadn’t seen eye to eye, and there had been a clash of personality, but he definitely hadn’t been the person who was going to make Vanessa fulfil her potential, even though he had spared no expense on her. Their life had revolved around him, for the most part. Yes, Vanessa had her shop, but even that had been controlled by Spencer, quietly, in the background.

  She hoped her daughter would blossom and flourish. It was all you could wish for, really, at her age, that your children were happy. She prayed Vanessa would find someone else, eventually, and not end up like she had. Still in love with the man she had married. Even though she couldn’t live with him, and had had to let him go. No one had even come close to David, so she had never bothered. Who wanted a pale imitation? Not Squirrel.

  She wondered how he was doing. Whether he had someone else. Lots of someone elses, probably, in the intervening years. David was profoundly attractive, and a ladies’ man, even though she was fairly sure he had never been unfaithful. Drunk, most of the time, yes. And irresponsible. But not unfaithful.

  They had loved each other. But he had loved the bottle just that little bit more. And that didn’t sit easily with Squirrel, who took parenthood very seriously. Even now, at over sixty. People could call her bossy and controlling if they liked, but it was done out of love.

  She sat at the island. The house was quiet, but for Frank Cooper’s jackhammer purr. She looked at Vanessa’s Mac, on the side. And something drove her towards it. She’d had endless opportunity to Google him before, but something had always stopped her. A sense that the time wasn’t right.

  But somehow, with Vanessa free, Squirrel felt released. As if she could revisit the past. She slid the mouse until the screen came up, clicked on the browser and typed in his name.

  David Brown. Antique dealer. There he was, living in a tiny village in south-west France.

  The girls who ran the shop were delighted to see Vanessa. She was the perfect boss. She left them to get on with things and trusted them to use their initiative, but injected a burst of infectious enthusiasm whenever she came in, full of praise and ideas.

  The three of them spent an hour going over what had sold in the past week or so, debating samples that had been left, making appointments with new artists they were interested in, and deciding on a new theme for the shop windows. The silver and blues of summer seemed too bright now.

  ‘Anything golden or copper or bronze,’ suggested Vanessa. ‘We need to mellow it down. Give it
an autumnal feel. Maybe use the bronze hare sculptures as a centrepiece?’

  The door opened and a woman walked in, carrying a large canvas swathed in bubble wrap. She was dainty, about Vanessa’s age, with a black bob and smiling eyes, in a red military jacket, jeans and boots.

  ‘I’ve come to see Vanessa,’ she said.

  Vanessa came forward.

  ‘You must be Alexa,’ she said, and they shook hands. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. Come into the back – I’ll make you a coffee.’

  They went into the back room. Alexa had sent her some jpegs of her artwork a few weeks previously, and Vanessa had been interested, but needed to see the work in the flesh. Alexa laid the canvas on the table.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ Vanessa said, and Alexa undid the bubble wrap.

  Vanessa took in a deep breath.

  It was recognisably Pennfleet harbour. A very loose impression of the river and the boats and the houses and the sea beyond, it was painted over in a wash of the brightest and most vibrant colours imaginable – turquoise and orange and fuchsia and yellow. It was bold, yet subtle.

  Vanessa felt a flutter in her gut, the one that told her she had found something really special. She was untrained, but she had a good eye, a good instinct. This was one of those paintings that, every time you looked at it, you saw something new. It drew you back in, time and again.

  ‘I absolutely love it,’ she told Alexa.

  ‘Oh!’ said Alexa, looking rather overwhelmed.

  ‘Is this the sort of thing you always do?’

  ‘No. I’ve just started doing this since I moved here. At the risk of sounding horribly, horribly pretentious, I’ve tried to put my urban influence over a more traditional maritime theme. I hope it works.’

  ‘I think these would fly.’ Vanessa held up the canvas to inspect the technical detail. It was flawless. ‘I’d really like to do an exhibition.’