The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘I love this beach. I’ll always want to walk along it, no matter how old I am.’

  ‘But…’ She stood up abruptly, her eyebrows knitted together. ‘You won’t always be here, will you?’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘How do you mean? This is my home, I’ve always lived here.’

  ‘Well, yes, but surely you want to travel, to get away?’

  He carried on talking about the village, his home, his friends, his father. She felt flimsy, weightless, as if someone could send her spinning over the sand, the sea, send her flitting up, caught on the breeze, whirling higher into the clouds and away. She felt the shell, perfect in her hand, squeezed her fist around it. She had assumed he would want to leave the village, had dreamt of persuading him to head to America too.

  ‘… I want to build things, Abi,’ he said, pointing to the houses lining the beach. ‘I want to build my own house. I’ve been learning, practising with different cuts of wood and studying how to do the different joints.’

  She looked at him then, fully, drinking in his enthusiasm, watching his mouth, full and fast, talking to her about creating things out of wood and other materials.

  ‘What about a boat? You could build a boat. Imagine owning a boat, where you could go, the places you could see…’

  She did imagine it then, imagined herself in polka-dot shorts and her hair tied up in a knotted scarf or beneath a wide-brimmed hat, sunbathing under large cream sails, the turquoise blue of some foreign sea behind her, maybe a dolphin or two trailing their boat as they steered a path through the water. Diving off the edge of the boat, plunging into the still sea. Turning in the waves to look at him on the deck, bronzed, bare-chested, his teeth dazzling in the sunshine. She could practically taste the salt on her lips, feel the warmth of the sun’s rays, hear the gentle splashing as the boat gently rocked at a standstill. Stopping over in a new port, clambering out to discover another new place.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be heavenly?’ she whispered, returning then to the greys and purples of the pebbled beach in Lynmouth, wrapping her cardigan around her as a cloud sat stubbornly over the sun and the wind picked up.

  ‘I suppose it would, if you didn’t hate the sea.’ He laughed, scooping up a handful of stones and letting them run through his fingers.

  ‘But…’ She felt her body droop then, knowing it was her fantasy, not his.

  ‘I’m saving,’ he said, misunderstanding her sudden melancholy, keen perhaps to prove himself, ‘and Tom said he can get me the timber cheaply.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful.’ The words came out in a monotone. She watched as his face fell, his green eyes dull despite the sunshine overhead.

  ‘I couldn’t leave Dad anyway. I’m all he has.’ He gave her a lopsided smile and a small shrug of apology.

  She didn’t reply, wanted to take his hand and give it a squeeze, to recapture his previous enthusiasm, but she didn’t do anything, just stood in her bare feet, goosebumps breaking out on her calves. She turned in the direction of their shoes. ‘I need to get back.’

  ‘Abi…’ She could hear the confusion in his voice.

  She bent down to pick up her stockings, pulled them on quickly, swearing under her breath as one laddered in her hands.

  ‘Abigail, wait,’ he said, tying up his shoes, going to pick up his jacket. ‘Where are you headed? I can go with you.’

  ‘No. Don’t. Stay. It all sounds brilliant. I’m glad,’ she trilled, marching back over the pebbles, throwing her remarks over her shoulder, feeling foolish as she sank into the stones, waddling away like an idiot, leaving him looking at her, wondering what had happened and what he had done wrong.

  IRINA

  ‘We should definitely go to Devon,’ Andrew said firmly, appearing in the shop the day after the discovery of the brooch, an errant bit of hair poking up, his shirt buttoned up incorrectly. ‘You’re right, it’s all pointing us there,’ he continued, his voice filled with excitement, catapulting Irina back to other days with him. Andrew always wanted to explore, was an adventurer, had dragged her off laughing to the New Forest, to walks in the Malvern Hills, to B & Bs down rambling country lanes in Cornwall. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. He had clearly been thinking about this.

  Irina felt wrong-footed, as she often had, caught on the hop and slow to catch up. ‘What else?’

  ‘I looked up more about that brooch you found and, well, guess where they made them? I contacted the assay office and they say the maker was based in Exmoor.’ He’d got her attention now. ‘We should go there.’

  ‘Oh, I… The shop and…’

  Irina hesitated, knew he was right. She seemed to be moving through treacle that morning, had been exhausted by a dream, dragging her unwilling legs through liquid, thigh deep, knowing it would rise and choke her. When she woke, she felt she’d run a marathon, had wearily pulled her legs round on the bed and onto the floor, pushing her thumbs into the muscle to ease the tension, running a hand up her calf that was aching from the efforts. That was impossible, surely? She’d only been in bed.

  Andrew was still waiting for her response, his smile faltering, one hand patting at the errant strand of hair. She didn’t want more dreams; she didn’t want to feel consumed by something she couldn’t place. She wanted to go to Devon with Andrew. She wanted to know more about the items in the bureau.

  Her face broke into an easy smile. ‘We should.’

  * * *

  The music was on low as they navigated their way past the South Downs, the sunlight inching its fingers over the tops of the hills, dispersing the dark shadows from the clouds suspended in the sky, the greens and lilacs and yellows muted by a mist that cleared as they left Sussex behind and found dual carriageways west. Andrew hummed along to some of the songs, unashamed, starting suddenly at one point, as if he’d forgotten she was sitting in the passenger seat, an embarrassed smile touching his mouth. She giggled with her head back and her eyes closed, feeling the warmth seeping through the glass, a sense that they had left something behind.

  ‘Do you think we’ll find anything?’ he asked her, his cheeks flushed again.

  She opened one eye. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, then added, ‘I hope so,’ in a voice that surprised her with its passion.

  ‘It’s funny,’ he said, glancing quickly her way. She had opened both eyes now and was looking at him curiously. She noticed the mole on his neck, on the left side, that always peeked out of his collar. ‘I felt something in the flat last night. It was strange.’ He laughed once, his words tripping over themselves as he continued. ‘Like a presence, as I learnt more about that brooch. It was an odd feeling.’

  She didn’t respond and he gripped both hands tighter on the steering wheel, so she could see the whites of his knuckles, as if he were waiting for her to say something. She should have commiserated with him, soothed him and reassured him it was simply paranoia, the fact that they had been discussing it, the trip to Devon firing his imagination, but the words stuck in her throat. She felt relieved that someone else had felt something, that she wasn’t going completely mad.

  ‘It was probably nothing. The mind, you know,’ he said without conviction.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said after a pause.

  She thought she saw him shiver. Then he broke the mood, suggested they stop for ice-creams.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s barely spring!’

  ‘Reena,’ he said, ‘we’re going to the West Country, ice-cream is an obligation.’

  ‘Right, my lad,’ she said, stepping out of the car and feeling lighter than she had in weeks. ‘And my treat,’ she said, dangling her wallet between two fingers.

  They ate the ice-creams in the car as the clouds had started to spit. Feet up on the dashboard, Irina nibbled on the choc chips, the creamy, mint-flavoured taste gorgeous. They looked like little kids, devouring th
e small cones, wiping the stray drops from the sides of their mouths.

  Joshua had loved ice-cream. She remembered them both in the garden hearing the tinkle of the ice-cream van in the street outside, both of them pestering their parents to buy them some. Joshua tugging on her hand as they ordered cones with flakes, Joshua getting most of his round his mouth as he gabbled on back in their kitchen, their mother spitting on a tissue to clear his face, which had made Irina curl up in a ball and tell her she was gross. Joshua had giggled at the expression, happily allowing her to slobber over him in the clean-up operation. Wanting another ice-cream straight away, making Dad chuckle.

  ‘Ready?’ Andrew asked brightly, and she forced herself back to the car and this moment, slow to respond, as if she’d had to drag herself back over the years to him.

  A fleeting expression passed across his face, familiar, and she nodded a second later, remembering to smile. ‘Yes, of course.’

  He went to say something, his mouth open in a rounded ‘O’, then pursed his lips and turned on the engine. ‘Let’s get going then.’ His voice was louder in the small car, his knuckles white again.

  She wondered whether Joshua would have liked him; she wondered why she couldn’t tell him more.

  They grew quieter the closer they got. Perhaps they’d both been thinking about the last time they were at a beach together. The flash of his back leaving her on the shore in Brighton. She blinked, removing the image, and then took a sideways look at him in the car. His face blank, his stubbly chin unwavering, his nose perfect in profile, his eyes on the road ahead. Did he think back to that time on the beach? Feelings that she hadn’t recalled in months rose to the surface again, the hurt she felt when they’d broken up making her eyes sting so that she had to look out of the window, away from him, biting her lip to distract herself.

  Her stomach plummeted as they made their way down into Lynmouth, the road into the village at an impossible angle, ominous escape lanes to the side with tyre tracks in the heaped sand left by motorists who had needed to use them. She knew she was holding her breath, her foot pushing at an imaginary brake in front of her, one hand on the glove compartment as they seemed to tumble down the road and out into the openness of the village, the slanted cottages in a higgledy-piggledy line under the cliff of greenery that enclosed the place. They drove around a low stone wall and Irina found her eyes drawn to a bridge further up that was dwarfed by the hills either side of it.

  As they climbed up the other side of the village, past idling tourists eating fudge from paper bags, chips from polystyrene containers, she smiled at the holiday image. They had booked two rooms in a small B & B in Lynton and the satnav informed her they were less than half a mile away. She was looking forward to lounging on her bed, the crisp sheets smelling of washing powder, opening her window to let the sea air in, hearing the gulls calling to each other.

  Andrew put the car in first gear as the engine strained to get up the other side, the road continuing to turn, hugging the edge of the cliff, guarded only by a flimsy-looking barrier that she noticed was dented backwards on one of the bends. She didn’t want to wonder why. As they rounded another corner, the temperature in the car suddenly dropped and she found herself wrapping her arms around her body, shocked by the sudden blast, as if the air conditioning had just been turned up high. She checked the dial, as if she had somehow missed him reaching across to adjust it. The skin on her arms broke into goosebumps as the chill passed right over her, making her clench her jaw and hold her breath. Her heart sped up and Andrew slowed the car, glancing at her without saying anything. The sea was a blank space of grey beneath the clouds that hung stubbornly in an unmoving bank. The roof of a house just below them on the cliff could be glimpsed through a line of trees, its double chimney stacks peeking over them.

  Then they were back on a straight road, the temperature rose once more and they arrived in Lynton village. Andrew stopped the car, said without quite meeting her eye, ‘That was…’ He didn’t finish the sentence and she was left wondering if he had felt it too, the cold seeping beneath his skin and into his veins, pumping round his body so that he wondered whether he would ever be warm again. She looked back over her shoulder at where they’d come from; there was nothing there now, the road darkening as it twisted down the hill and round the cliffside. For a second she thought she saw someone standing at the end of the road staring back at her, but when she looked again it was just a lamppost.

  ‘Ready?’ Andrew called, heaving her worn leather bag from the boot and throwing it over his shoulder.

  ABIGAIL

  She stomped back, prickly with the need to talk to someone. Her moods recently had been as changeable as that day’s weather, shadows crossing her sun, purple clouds sitting heavy in her eye line. She felt trapped, the house surrounded by thickening trees, obscuring more of the view with each passing day, the sea a drop on the other side, untamed and stubborn. She wanted Mary, Mary’s patient understanding, her sympathy, her honest reactions. She wanted to talk everything through. She knew she shouldn’t vent her frustrations on Richard. She saw then his bewildered expression when she’d turned on her heel; he was surely cursing her fickle moods, not knowing when she would take offence.

  Why shouldn’t he plan a life here? It was his home. She should have encouraged him; she should have been gay company. He didn’t deserve her petulant reaction. It was just that he seemed to see his future so clearly, and unless she did something, she would be left in the village, stuck in the house with Connie, hiding in her bedroom, avoiding Larry.

  When she finally reached the house she was out of breath, droplets of rain merging with her sweat, hair plastered to her forehead, clammy in her clothes. She forgot to be quiet as she pushed open the front door, wanted to see her sister, to tell her, at least in part, where she’d been. She felt the urge to confide in her. What she was doing wasn’t something to be ashamed of and yet the creeping around made her feel that she was being disloyal. She should have mentioned her meetings with Richard a long time ago; instead, she’d hugged them close, not wanting to give them up. She was afraid too that saying something might ruin things, perhaps her sister wouldn’t approve, would try to stop her seeing him. She hung up her coat on the hook in the hallway, smoothing her hair back as she pinned another loose strand back into her bun.

  ‘Connie,’ she called out, turning into the living room and starting at the figure in the chair, sitting silently, one hand resting on his thigh, half-turned away from the window, his eyes on the horizon. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I…’ She turned to go, Larry slowly swivelling his head as if he had only just noticed her there.

  ‘Abigail.’ He said her name slowly, stretching out all three syllables as if he wanted to play with them on his tongue.

  She felt her body twitch in response as she looked around the room. ‘I’m sorry, I was after Connie, I wanted to talk to her.’

  Larry was patting the chair next to him with a flat palm, slowly, eyes on her. ‘Sit,’ he said when she remained frozen in the doorway.

  She paused briefly, twisting her hands behind her, both feet stuck in the same place.

  ‘Sit.’ He smiled, his lips stretched across his teeth but not revealing them.

  She moved forward, tentatively patting her chignon, re-fixing another pin. Her hand trembled imperceptibly, the pin digging into her scalp.

  She sat and he folded over the newspaper he’d been reading, leant back and looked down at her shoes, up over her legs and tea dress. She felt flustered under the scrutiny, aware of her ruddy cheeks from the heat of the beach, the brisk walk back, patches under her arms, every lock of hair that wasn’t in its right place.

  ‘Is Connie…?’ The question got trapped somewhere, her throat tight.

  When he leant forward, she imagined the room becoming smaller, everything edging closer to her, shuffling across the rugs. He smelt of smoke, mothballs and spice; the scent se
emed to stick in her nostrils so that she felt dizzy with it.

  He hovered a hand over her knee then lowered it gently. She looked down at it, moving only her head, not able to move her leg away, not able to do anything but sit there and stare at his hand. Sandy hair, like a baby’s, on his fingers, his nails were clipped short, some bitten right down, inflamed red skin on the sides.

  ‘It’s been good to have you here, Abigail.’ That same smile again. ‘Connie likes it, but I wonder,’ he said, releasing her at the same moment, so a second later she wondered if she’d just imagined it. ‘I wonder, Abigail, whether it suits me.’

  He let that last sentence hang there and her eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

  ‘How do I benefit?’ he said, reaching to light his pipe, the match steady in his hand, the other cupped around the flame. He shook the match out. ‘Connie seems to think the house just goes on functioning without hard work.’ His voice sounded brittle. ‘That food miraculously appears, that heating costs nothing, the new television set, the turntable…’

  ‘I can get work,’ Abigail blurted. ‘I would be happy to contribute.’

  ‘A woman in my household working?’ The tone dropped, a soft caress of syllables so that Abigail had to strain to hear the last part. ‘You would make me a laughing stock.’

  She pleated her skirt with two hands, hands not able to stay still, patting, flattening, folding. He was watching them, listening to her breathing, quicker now, her eyes not able to stay on his face but sliding away to the corners of the room, her mouth twitching, biting on her lower lip as if he were admonishing her for something. What could she say? Why did she find herself jumpy and hot?