Never Coming Back: a tale of loss and new beginnings

by Deirdre Palmer

  Even if he only stayed in Maybridge for the rest of the summer season, he would need somewhere of his own. However, a preliminary internet search had revealed that, like anywhere else halfway desirable, Maybridge wasn’t exactly overflowing with affordable accommodation. Layla had promised to listen out for any likely leads. But that was before. Twenty-seven and still living like a student, or a dosser. Shameful, when you thought about it.

  Not only did the lack of blinds let in the glare, it also left Morgan on full display to anyone who happened to be using the right-of-way that ran alongside the bungalow. Two heads – one male, one female, both grey-haired – now appeared above the fence, moving slowly along it like plaster heads in a funfair game. Morgan freed his arms from the blanket and took pot shots at them from an invisible rifle, making pow sounds. At that moment, they both turned in his direction, and had the effrontery to look offended at the sight of him, as if he was the voyeur. The heads swivelled round and hurried on.

  The right-of-way passed between the backs of the houses, skirted the school playing fields and the park, and eventually emerged onto the riverbank, not far from the road-bridge. Morgan usually went that way to work. It was a longish walk, but it cleared his head in preparation for the day and he preferred it to taking the car. Connor drove in earlier, often at the crack of dawn. He didn’t expect Morgan until around eight-thirty.

  There was a slight feeling of wrongness about being paid for doing something so enjoyable. Every day was different, every part of the day as varied as the weather. He could be tucked away in the office, working on invoices or publicity material, taking a cruiser out with its load of optimistic trippers, hiring out rowing boats, or assembling cream teas in the café. All in the space of six hours. Wherever Connor needed him, Morgan went, and happily.

  Not so happily now. Being busy all day helped a little, but if Layla wasn’t in the forefront of his mind, she waited in the shadows for his attention to refocus fully. And then the same questions tormented him in a never-ending circuit. What had he done wrong? How could he put it right if she wouldn’t talk to him? What was he supposed to do?

  When, eventually, the questions puttered to a useless standstill, his thoughts turned to their pathetically stunted history; the walks, the talking, the dead-of-night texts – and the kisses. At such times, he would stand on the bank and stare at the deepest, blackest parts of the river, imagining himself slowly sinking as the water closed over his head. Love should never feel like this.

  Ten to eight. He’d heard the front door close earlier, as Connor left. Rolling off the sofa bed, he removed his bedding, stashing it in a tidy pile in the corner, and restoring the sofa-bed to its sitting position – a dosser he might be, but he wouldn’t be a slob as well. Pulling on his jeans, he padded through the hallway and tapped on the door of the studio.

  ‘All right to use the bathroom?’

  Gina came to the door and opened it a fraction, wiping the paintbrush on her purple smock. Below the smock she wore a pair of equally paint-spattered jeans, which frayed out over her bare brown feet. Behind her, Morgan caught a glimpse of a large canvas containing a nude female figure, the paint glistening in the rays from the skylight.

  ‘Sure. You don’t have to ask.’ She gave him a wide, generous smile. ‘I bought Cheerios yesterday. You said they were your favourite. They’re in the cupboard next to the sink.’

  Morgan nodded his thanks. His own smile was bleak. Kindness was hard to take, now that Layla had gone. He padded away.

  ***

  It was Monday – a relatively quiet day on the river after the weekend tourist buzz. Morgan spent the morning in the office, testing out his ideas for revamping the website, and he planned to contact a couple of boating and fishing magazines to see if they would run a feature. Since Ted’s health had begun to fail, Connor had had no time for anything apart from the essentials.

  As a header on one of the website pages, Morgan had used a photo he’d taken himself, of the willows arching over the light-dappled water and, just in shot, the boathouse. As he stared at the picture on the screen, he sensed a neglected air about the place, as if it knew she had gone.

  He had thought about abandoning the boathouse and working on his novel in the bungalow instead, where at least there was internet access, or in Maybridge library. But he functioned well in his wooden eyrie; his writing brain seemed to respond to the steady flow of the river and the rustling trees. He’d even added some items for atmosphere, picked up at Maybridge flea market: a framed theatrical poster for a long-ago Agatha Christie play; a kitsch, plastic model of a poodle; and a little old Remington typewriter with yellowing keys, much like the one in his father’s study when he was growing up. It smelled nostalgically of ink, although the ribbon had long since perished.

  No, he wasn’t ready to give up on the boathouse. He planned to spend an hour or so there this afternoon, if Connor didn’t need him.

  It was around four when Morgan set off along the towpath towards the boathouse. Already he felt dispirited, and not in the least like cracking jokes on behalf of Poodle Chafferty, his fictional detective. The episode with Layla had drained the joy out of his writing – out of everything.

  His feet dragged on the trodden-down earth, his body felt hollow, as if some major functioning part of him was missing. He stopped, and pulled out his phone. There were several backed-up messages and emails – one from his father which he’d read later, others not important or from unknown numbers and addresses. Nothing from her. He began to feel angry and resentful. Why did everything have to be spoilt when it could have been so perfect?

  He couldn’t get over the way she’d rushed off, leaving him with nothing. An argument would have been better than that; at least then he’d have had something to fight against, to measure the strength of his feelings with. She hadn’t even given him that. He’d even moved up to Maybridge to be closer to her – no, okay, that wasn’t strictly true. But knowing she’d be here had made it into something special.

  He kicked out at some branches sprouting low from a tree root. They gave way with a dry crackle, almost pitching him headlong into the undergrowth. ‘Shit!’ he muttered, through clenched teeth. Stuffing the redundant mobile back into his pocket, he stomped on.

  He felt no calmer when he reached the boathouse. The creaky wooden steps fired miniature gunshots as his feet assaulted the treads. Turning the key in the lock, flinging the door open, he marched across to the desk and the cowering laptop. He hesitated, his hand on the shiny black lid. Why waste the next hour when he already knew it would be unproductive and pointless?

  His eye was drawn to the spiral-bound notebook, open where he’d left it, the pages on view filled with his scrawl – the next chapter, roughly planned, the ideas still viable. He may as well get down a sentence or two while he was here, if he could bear it. Dragging out the chair, he sat down.

  Forty minutes later, he was still sitting, his fingers having barely stilled. The writing on the screen was a stream of consciousness affair, devoid of corrections and punctuation. Already he saw that it was working. Sometimes it happened that way. Surprising that it should happen today, though, when he was feeling so angry. Actually, he felt better now; his mood had levelled out.

  Allowing himself a respite, Morgan flexed his fingers, sat back in the chair, and gazed out of the open window. The trees were statue-still, their leafy patterns silhouetted against the dazzling blue sky. One of the hired rowing boats slipped along the sparkling surface of the water, its occupant a lone man, wielding the oars as indolently as the flow of the river, his face turned upwards to catch the sun.

  Morgan put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and listened to the slip-slap of the oars as it grew fainter, then died away, leaving birdsong the only sound. And then he heard something else; the tapping of feet on the wooden steps. Not Connor’s confident tread, but lighter, with a note of uncertainty. A rap sounded on the door – two swift knocks, as if whoever it was might at any second change the
ir mind.

  Morgan’s heart leapt. An involuntary smile spread across his face as he rose out of his seat and bounded to the door. He opened it. The smile vanished.

  ‘Kate!’

  ‘I thought if I let you know I was coming, you’d try and stop me,’ she said, as if they were already mid-conversation.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he said, after a moment’s awkward silence.

  She shrugged. ‘Lucky guess. Besides, there’s only one boathouse that fits the description, as far as I could see.’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Actually, I phoned the office on Saturday. I wanted to find out if you still came here. I was going to ask for you, then put the phone down before they fetched you. The number’s on the website. The woman said she didn’t know where you were right then and to try again on Monday. That’s when I decided to take the bull by the horns and come up.’ She looked up at him, but couldn’t quite meet his eye. Her hands were twisted together in an anxious knot. ‘I messaged you a couple of times, but you didn’t answer. You wouldn’t have recognised the number, though. It’s changed.’

  Morgan stood uselessly, still holding the door knob. His brain wasn’t functioning.

  Kate peered past him. ‘Are you going to let me in then?’

  He held the door wider, stepping aside to admit her, then closed the door after her. At the same time, he tried to marshal his thoughts. The woman she’d spoken to on the phone must have been Maureen, or one of the other café assistants; the phone was put through there when the office was empty.

  Kate walked across to the desk, then turned to face him. The sunlight caught her hair, backlighting her with a fiery red halo. She seemed thinner – a little too thin, perhaps. It gave her a waif-like appeal that was hard to ignore. She was wearing a short, sky-blue dress, nothing like the ethnic styles she usually favoured, and low-heeled sandals. A brown leather bag with a gold clasp was slung from one shoulder. It came to him that she had dressed up for his benefit. He felt nervy and annoyed, yet stupidly flattered at the same time.

  ‘You didn’t let me know where you’d moved to, after you left the flat.’

  Her gaze was more confident now, more like the old Kate. There was a touch of accusation in her tone; he recognised that, too.

  There’d been no reason to let her know his new address. Then again, there’d been no reason not to. He told her he was living in Maybridge, and how it had come about. Then, as she seemed to want more, he tore a page out of the notebook, wrote down the address of the bungalow and handed it to her. She took the piece of paper and, without glancing at it, folded it carefully and put it away in her bag.

  ‘Thank you.’ For the first time, she looked around. ‘I can see why you write here. It’s the perfect retreat. People pay fortunes for places like this.’

  Morgan gave a dry laugh. ‘There’s nothing here, apart from some dodgy wiring and a bit of wet rot.’

  ‘It’s lovely, though. A real hideaway. You’re very lucky.’ Then, when he looked surprised, she added, ‘I mean the whole thing, the writing, the river job and everything. It’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  He frowned, knowing he was being deliberately obtuse. She had walked out on him, cleared out of the flat and gone, without a word. She couldn’t claim to know him any more. It wasn’t for her to tell him what he should or shouldn’t be doing; she’d forfeited that right months ago.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me why you’re here.’

  She gathered her hair up at the back with both hands, then shook it free again. ‘It’s so damned hot…’

  ‘Do you want to go outside?’

  ‘No, it’s all right here. I like it. Okay if I…?’ she pointed at the swivel chair.

  ‘Of course.’

  She sat down. The chair swung round in a jovial way. She stopped it with her foot. Morgan’s eyes strayed to the cushions wedged into the corner by the wardrobe, the picnic rug poking out from underneath. Kate was looking, too. And wondering, probably. Well, she could go on wondering.

  He went over and propped himself against the cupboard where the tea things were, crossed his arms, and waited.

  Her nervousness was back. She fiddled with the strap of her bag.

  ‘I thought it would hurt us both less if I made it a clean break.’ She gave a little humourless laugh. ‘Turns out there’s no such thing.’

  Morgan said nothing; he had no intention of helping her out.

  Kate continued. ‘I thought it was what we needed, a fresh start. I thought we’d gone on too long, that we knew each other too well for there to be any surprises left.’

  ‘So you decided to give me one big surprise. A roast chicken and an empty wardrobe.’ He couldn’t resist the jibe.

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry for the way it ended…’

  ‘The way you ended it.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I meant. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Look, if you’ve tracked me down to apologise, then you’ve wasted your time. What’s done is done. You can’t change the past. You of all people should know that.’

  She nodded. Russet curls bounced. ‘That’s not all I came to say. This isn’t easy for me, Morgan. I don’t often admit I’m wrong – well, you know that – but leaving you was the worst, the stupidest, thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.’

  He sighed. ‘Kate, I don’t know where you’re going with this, but I really don’t want to have this conversation. It’s pointless. You’ve got your life now and I’ve got mine. I refuse to rake over old ground. Yes, I was hurt when we split up, probably more than you ever imagined, but I dealt with it. And, quite honestly, I don’t think about it any more.’

  From the dismay on her face, she took this to mean that he didn’t think about her any more. He had sort of meant that, and it was near enough the truth. For a long time he’d believed his whole future lay with this girl; it was only natural to find her in his thoughts occasionally. And now, so soon, he was facing a new, more intense, heartbreak. It left no room for anything, or anyone, else. He wished she would go. He wished she’d never come.

  She had got up from the chair and was standing in the middle of the room, a few feet away from him.

  ‘Why didn’t you try harder to win me back, at the time?’

  The accusing tone was back. He wasn’t going to rise to the bait; the last thing he wanted was an argument.

  ‘I did, if you remember, that afternoon on the clifftop,’ he said, deliberately keeping his voice even. ‘But you were very determined, and I didn’t try again because, deep down, I knew you were right. We had a great time, a brilliant relationship, but we’d run our course. We weren’t built to last. It took me a while to accept that – pride, I suppose.’

  He was talking too much, fuelling the fire. Shut up, idiot!

  ‘I want you back, Morgan. I love you. I’ve always loved you. Anything else was a blip, a smudge, a moment of madness…’

  Her arms were outstretched, the palms uppermost. She was placing herself in his hands, offering herself up for whatever was to come next. He couldn’t stand it.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head.

  ‘No? Just that?’

  ‘Just that. I’m sorry. It’s too late. Perhaps it always was.’

  She looked down, struggling, he suspected, to keep the tears at bay. When she raised her head, he saw that she hadn’t quite succeeded. Deep inside, he was moved by her distress. On the surface, he had to keep control.

  ‘Kate, you put me through hell, I don’t deny that. But you don’t love me any more, and I don’t love you. Not in that way.’ He spoke gently, taking a step closer to her. ‘You should go soon. Look, why don’t I make us both a cup of tea? Then I’ll walk you to your car, wherever it is. Did you manage to bag a space at the boatyard?’

  Stick to practicalities, that was the answer. She sniffed, then suddenly spun away from him, her shoes slipping on the wooden floor.


  ‘Okay, I may as well tell you. I lied. There was somebody else, at the time. You must have suspected, surely?’

  What? She was making it up, she must be. Kate, strong, independent Kate, who always got what she wanted, had not got what she came for today, so she was lashing out, sticking the boot in. If she wanted to play games with him, he would play along with her.

  He shrugged. ‘So you had somebody else. Why tell me now? Kate, it doesn’t matter now. I don’t care. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘I had an affair, Morgan. Somebody at work. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’ She stood, hands on hips, her chin jutting defiantly.

  ‘No, it doesn’t, not now. I’m over it. Over you. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but there it is.’

  Kate crumbled. The defiant pose vanished, the tears fell properly, turning her green eyes to dark emerald, glossing the freckles on her cheeks. He began to regret his straight-talking – he didn’t like seeing her upset – but anything else would have left room for doubt.

  ‘Come here.’ He held out his arms and she walked into his embrace. ‘Kate, don’t do this to yourself.’ He held her, pressing his mouth briefly to the crown of her head. Then he let her go and moved her, gently but firmly, away from him.

  ‘I’m still in love with you,’ she said, into his eyes.

  He returned her gaze for a moment. ‘No, you’re not. You may not see that now but you will, and I’m sorry if things haven’t worked out for you. You’re strong. You’ll be okay.’

  Few words were exchanged after that. Kate gathered herself and rustled a tissue out of her bag to dab away the remains of her regretful tears. She didn’t want tea, she said.

  Morgan unplugged the laptop, put it under his arm, and walked with her along the riverbank, past the yard, and through to the road that ran parallel with the river, where her car was parked.