Emily read the letter they had written. They sent photographs of the farm they lived on. Rolling fields filled with white fluffy sheep overlooking the sea. They promised a pony and a dog and kittens. Endless adventures and fresh air and farmhouse cooking. It looked like a Famous Five adventure come to life.
She knew she could never compete with that. The best she could ever offer her baby was a back-street council flat. Her father had found out from work what accommodation would be available and had driven her past one evening when she’d had a wobble about what she was doing. The block was six storeys high, dilapidated, noisy, not a patch of green. Gangs of youths hung around smoking or riding bikes. One of them had a ghetto blaster blaring out discordant rap music.
‘I can pull strings to get you in here now,’ her father told her. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Everyone kept saying it was her choice. But she only had one option that she could see. As the day of the birth came nearer, Emily repeatedly told herself giving the baby up was the right thing to do.
Deirdre helped her to start putting together a little memory box for the baby to take with her. Emily covered it in wrapping paper decorated with musical notes, for it was music that got her through the dark days and she wanted to pass that on. She put in the cassette of Jonathan playing ‘Ondine’. She thought it might inspire the baby one day. Or bring comfort.
The tape of Liebestraum she kept for herself. Love Dream. For that is what it had been. A dream of love. Nothing more than that.
25
It was nearly a week after his arrival before Gwen had contact again with her new neighbour. She’d heard him moving furniture around, smelt the drift of good coffee from under his door as she passed in the hallway and seen him whizzing up the street in his Porsche, but he seemed to be keeping a low profile. If he didn’t want to be neighbourly, that was fine by her. Gwen had never been intrusive and was mildly curious rather than nosy.
She’d just got out of the bath that evening when she heard someone knock on the door of her flat.
‘Bugger.’ It was bound to be him, because who else could get in to knock directly on her door? She could pretend not to be in but he would know she was. He would have heard the gurgle of her bathwater draining out. She had little choice but to answer.
He was standing on the doormat with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor, like a small boy who’s been told off. He’d obviously just bathed too – his hair was sleek and still damp, and he had a shirt on, untucked, pale violet, slightly creased.
‘I’ve come to apologise for the other day,’ he said. ‘I was really rude. It was very kind of you to ask me for a drink. But …’ he sighed. ‘You got me at just the wrong time. I was in the kind of mood where if I’d started drinking I’d never have stopped.’
‘Oh no,’ said Gwen. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think. I should have offered you tea. I can still offer tea! I have about seven different kinds of tea. Would you like tea?’
‘I hate tea.’
‘Oh.’
‘But,’ he said with a winning grin. ‘A coffee would be great if you have it?’
‘I certainly do.’ Gwen opened her door wider to let him in. ‘You caught me getting out of the bath. Would you give me two minutes to make myself look human? If I point you towards the kitchen you could put the kettle on.’
‘Perfect.’ He strolled in past her. ‘You got the good flat, then? With the high ceilings and the balcony.’
‘I did. Sorry. But yours is nice too. You’ve got the little garden at the back.’ Gwen led him through to her tiny kitchen. ‘Kettle on the side, coffee in a tin in the fridge, cafetière in the cupboard.’
She rushed back into her bedroom, grabbed a pair of jeans and a camel-coloured cashmere polo neck and pulled them on. There was no point in making too much effort. He was going to be living underneath her. She wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life in full make-up with her hair all done just to impress him. But Gwen was the queen of the speedy makeover. All those years in Paris hadn’t gone to waste. A light tinted moisturiser, two coats of mascara, a dot of liquid blusher on the apples of her cheeks and a swipe of nude lipstick: she nodded approvingly. She still had bone structure; her eyes still sparkled. She ruffled some conditioning gel through her hair and popped a pair of diamond studs in her ears.
‘You fox,’ she told herself, as she always did, then kissed the tip of her finger and touched her reflection with a smile.
When she came back into the living room, he’d made the coffee and laid it out on the small table by the French windows. It was dark outside, but there were lights strung all along the harbour, and it looked twinkly and welcoming.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a cup. ‘Boyd, isn’t it? Is that your first name or last?’
‘Both,’ he said. ‘Strictly speaking it’s my last name, but I ditched Nigel a long time ago. For obvious reasons.’
‘If it’s any consolation, you don’t look like a Nigel.’
‘Thank God.’ He seemed a little more relaxed. ‘And you’re Gwen.’
‘Chadwick. I’ve been here about ten years. Didn’t have a pension so I cashed in my London flat and bought this.’
‘Classic,’ he replied. ‘Do you like it here? In Tawcombe, I mean. I can see you love the flat. It’s wonderful.’
For a moment she saw her flat through his eyes: a light, airy and feminine space, filled with clutter and trinkets, most of which had little use but simply pleased her. Ostrich feathers, an inkwell, a pair of china shepherdesses, leopard candlesticks, antique champagne coupes, a tiny pair of leather gloves with buttons, a Polaroid camera with six portraits pegged below it, friends from another age … Her shelves were, she realised, better than a diary. They would mean nothing to anyone else, but to her they meant the world.
She pondered his question.
‘It’s sweet. Dead in the winter and heaving in the summer and the theatre’s more panto than Pinter, but people are kind and …’ She gestured towards the window. ‘You’ll never get tired of the view.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
He stared out into the blackness for a moment. She could feel his mood drop. He had seemed to rally.
‘Are you OK?’
He turned round to face her.
‘You’ll find out eventually, I suppose,’ he said. ‘So I’d rather be up front. But I’m warning you. I hate talking about it.’
‘OK.’ Gwen was wary. What was he going to confess to? Was he fresh out of prison for fraud? Embroiled in some kind of scandal? He had a risk-taking energy that promised things would never be dull.
He paused for a moment, steeling himself. There was a slight tic under his eye, perhaps from nerves. His veneer was thin, thought Gwen, but not through weakness of character. She could sense suffering.
‘My wife died three years ago,’ he said eventually, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Ellen was a bloody angel, smart and funny and never took any crap from me. It was very sudden and very unpleasant and I don’t want to talk about it much …’
‘Of course not,’ said Gwen. ‘But I’m very sorry.’
He gave a nod.
‘Anyway, me being the fool that I am, I lost the plot. Drank myself into oblivion. I’d have lost my business if my two daughters hadn’t stepped in. They effectively sacked me. To save me from myself. They are chips off the old block. Their mum, I mean.’ He managed a proud smile. ‘So I sold our house and looked around for somewhere that had no memories of her. Somewhere I wouldn’t see her out of the corner of my eye, or hear her laugh, or smell her scent.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’d never been here in my life before I viewed this flat. I bought it the same day. I am starting again.’
He punctuated his last few words with determination.
Gwen took a sip of coffee as she surveyed him. She could see a man who was barely
keeping it together. A man who had been tough on himself. A man who was struggling to survive every minute of the day. A man with a thick carapace of bravado.
She put down her cup.
‘Thank you for trusting me,’ she said. ‘And I know there’s not much I can do to help. It’s going to take time. But I am always here if you want a shoulder. Or a chat. Or a coffee. And I hope Tawcombe will bring you peace.’
She wanted to hug him, because that was her instinctive response to anyone in pain, but she could see he was willing her not to. That he would probably crumble at her touch and make a fool of himself, and she didn’t want to humiliate him. He had been very brave and he deserved dignity.
He gave her a smile as if to indicate that the conversation was closed.
‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What’s your story? Your flat certainly hints at a colourful past.’
Gwen did a double take at his candour. His eyes glinted with mischief, and Gwen saw a glimpse of the former Boyd, the Boyd not weighed down by grief and tragedy.
‘Oh,’ she said, flapping a hand. ‘I’m deathly dull. I don’t have a story. No skeletons, no drama. Just me and a load of bloody rubbish I’ve collected that I should get rid of. But no baggage. No baggage at all.’
26
Mick was in the yard, creosoting the fence that led to the exercise paddock, when his phone went. He didn’t recognise the chirrup of his ring tone at first for he hardly ever used his phone. But the ringing persisted and eventually he pulled it out of his fleece pocket, wiping a few crumbled dog treats and some grass seed off the screen.
It was Geoffrey Minard. He remembered he’d told him not to call Hawksworthy.
‘I don’t want to get Sheila’s hopes up just yet,’ he’d explained.
It was a week since he’d been to see him at his office in Tawcombe, and he’d sort of assumed no news meant, well, no news.
But Geoffrey told him the film director had perked up no end when he described Hawksworthy to him.
‘He’s very interested,’ he said. ‘I showed him an aerial photograph, and the ordnance survey map showing the boundaries. He wants to come and have a proper look. I told him you’re only thinking about it, but he seemed very keen. His wife’s jumping up and down because they haven’t found anywhere suitable yet.’
‘Did you mention a price?’
‘I did.’ Geoffrey sounded pleased with himself. ‘I stuck another couple of hundred grand on to what we talked about. He didn’t seem phased.’
‘Get on!’ said Mick with a chuckle.
‘Of course, come the day he’ll negotiate. But like I said, you can go down, but you can’t go up.’
‘Well,’ said Mick. ‘I’d better talk to Sheila then.’
‘He was wondering about the weekend after next? For a viewing?’
Mick ran through his mental calendar.
‘That’s the weekend before the wedding. But I don’t see why not.’
‘Shall we say Saturday lunchtime? I’ll show him around. You don’t have to get involved.’
‘Yep. Sounds good. Saturday week unless you hear otherwise.’ Mick knew it was important to strike while the iron was hot. He didn’t want his potential buyer to fall in love with somewhere else. You had to be cute with the DFLs – Down From London, it stood for. They assumed everyone who lived in the country was a gormless yokel, but you didn’t keep a farm going for generations without being shrewd. And they always underestimated how much hard work it was, managing land.
He stood for a moment in the yard outside the farmhouse, the April breeze ruffling his hair like an affectionate great aunt. It smelled of fresh grass and spring flowers with a hint of sea. He felt a surge of hope and excitement at the chance for a new beginning. An adventure for him and Sheila. Relief from generations of duty and responsibility. It would be hard to leave, but he suspected it would be harder to stay. For both of them, and eventually for their children. The thought of burdening Robyn and Clover with the decision of when to sell the farm, if he and Sheila became elderly and infirm, was repugnant.
He had spent a long time thinking this through, but Sheila was a long way off thinking about selling. She threw herself into keeping everything going, and he was so proud of the success she had made of the kennels and the training school. He could see her now, in the far paddock, working with a client and his cocker spaniel puppy. It was, she always said, a question of training the owner rather than the dog.
She would be resistant to the proposal. Sheila liked change even less than Mick did. If she had her way, every day would be the same. Breakfast with her family around her, a hard day’s work, dinner with her family around her, a good night’s sleep. With one day off revolving around Sunday lunch. With her family around her.
He was going to have to find a way to sell it to her. He picked up his phone and dialled Rocky’s number.
‘Could I come and have a poke round one of your houses?’ he asked. He wasn’t one for small talk, or for beating around the bush.
Rocky was surprised. Mick had always shown polite interest in his enterprises, but never more than that.
‘Of course. They’re only shells at the moment. You’ll need your imagination. But come on over.’
Rocky’s latest development was two miles inland from Everdene on the edge of a small hamlet with a tiny church and a small local pub and a village shop. That might suit them well enough. He didn’t want hustle and bustle and he didn’t think Sheila would either. It certainly wouldn’t do any harm to have a look.
Half an hour later, Mick pulled his car into the new development. Rocky came out to greet him. He was hard at work plastering, dressed in khaki shorts and a sweatshirt.
‘Welcome to Dandelion Court,’ he said, rolling his eyes at the whimsical name. But people liked to think they were buying into nature, and the brochure looked good: pale grey with white dandelion clocks.
‘Don’t want to interrupt you,’ said Mick.
‘No worries. The lads will crack on. Come on, I’ll show you the biggest. The prime spot on the end.’ He led Mick across the mud.
There were four houses built in a rough square around a small copse of ancient trees that had a preservation order on them. Built of local stone, each one was slightly different. Anthracite grey windows and guttering; an oak front door. Bi-folds at the back and a balcony leading out from the master bedroom looking out over the garden. In time there would be three en-suite bathrooms; a luxury kitchen and utility room; plenty of fitted cupboards and a garage.
And Rocky had made each one individual. The one he was showing Mick had a little turret on the side, which made it look very grand.
They would be warm. And dry. There would be no windy draughts coming down the inglenook. No slates falling off the roof. No smell of damp in the passages. No cellar to flood. And even though the sea was two miles away he could still smell the salt in the air and feel the kiss of the Atlantic on his skin. The house had a decent sized garden, too, and over the fence were fields and woods with plenty of footpaths, so they could take Mouse out for a good run without having to get in the car.
He could tell Rocky was curious about why he was here. He thought a lot of Rocky. A hard worker who’d looked after his two boys, bringing them up on his own after his divorce. That took some doing. Mick couldn’t imagine coping with all the trials of parenthood alone, although presumably Jake’s mum Tina had some kind of input when they were younger. None of them had met her. She kept herself to herself up country. Presumably she would come to the wedding though …
Anyway, Mick thought Rocky would understand his dilemma. He was a man of the world. A realist. Practical.
‘I’ve had a little nibble,’ he said. ‘Someone’s after Hawksworthy. Wants to come and view.’
Rocky made an interested face. ‘Do you know who?’
‘I dunno, exactly. It’s through G
eoffrey Minard.’
‘Ah.’ Rocky knew Geoffrey. Lots of the people who bought his houses were selling their own through him, so he’d dealt with him on many an occasion.
‘Some film bloke. He wants a holiday place for his horse-mad wife and kids. He’s interested.’
‘It would be quite some holiday place.’ Rocky grinned ruefully. ‘I trust he’s got deep pockets?’
Mick shrugged. ‘Deeper than mine. Which wouldn’t be hard.’
He checked himself. As ever, he didn’t want to sound bitter. Rocky nodded, nevertheless. He must know what it took to run a place like Hawksworthy.
‘Is it a good offer?’
‘I’ve named my price. No guarantee he’ll pay it, of course.’
‘But if you don’t try …’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you going to go for it? If he offers?’
Mick shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m the fourth generation to farm at Hawksworthy. Only I can’t make it work. It’s bloody impossible without the cash to invest in a new venture. Sheila works her fingers to the bone but we’re running just to stand still.’ He paused, realising everything was coming out in a big torrent. He wasn’t usually this forthcoming. ‘I think Sheila deserves better. It’s not her family farm. It’s not in her blood. So why should she have to bust a gut trying to make it work?’ He looked around the breeze-block walls, the thick grey electric wires poking out. ‘Maybe we need a change? Maybe this would suit us? Easy to run, no responsibility, cash in the bank.’
‘When you put it like that …’ Rocky laughed. ‘Listen, I’m not going to do you the big sell. I’ll get rid of these as soon as I put them on the market. But you’ve got a ten-year guarantee. And the re-sell is watertight.’
‘I feel as if the answer is right here in front of me, but I’m too scared to take it.’
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 16
