On the table stood a card that had arrived the day before. Robyn picked it up to read it again. Inside the words were simple.
To Robyn and Jake,
wishing you a life of happiness together,
with love from Jonathan and Emily
‘They could have come, you know.’ Sheila said, wrapping the stems in a white silk ribbon.
‘No. They honestly didn’t want to. It’s far too soon. They didn’t feel it was right – it’s our day.’
Sheila nodded, snipping the ribbon ends at an angle and putting the flowers in a jug to stay fresh.
‘But thank you,’ said Robyn. ‘For understanding.’
‘When I read that letter, it nearly broke my heart,’ said Sheila, shaking her head. ‘That poor girl.’ She reached over and squeezed Robyn’s hand. ‘I’m glad you found her. For Emily’s sake.’
‘Me too.’
‘And we’ll sort out a day after the wedding. Get them over to meet us. I know it will be tough. But it’s the right thing to do.’
‘Thanks, Mum. I know how grateful she is to you and Dad. I know she’ll want to thank you.’
Sheila nodded, at a loss for words. She still found the subject very difficult.
‘Bacon sandwich?’ she asked, for providing food for her loved ones was far preferable to discussing deep emotions. ‘It’ll be a long time before you get a chance to eat.’
‘I would love one,’ said Robyn. She looked around the kitchen, thinking how much she was going to miss it, the chaos and the cooking and the chatter. It had been such an important part of her life. And Clover’s. She thought of all the birthdays and Christmas mornings; the first time she had brought Jake here for Sunday lunch.
Geoffrey Minard had phoned the day before to say the film director had made an offer.
‘A hundred grand less than we asked,’ he said triumphantly. ‘But we’d stuck an extra two on, so win–win.’
Mick and Sheila had accepted his offer immediately, and put in a firm offer to Rocky for the house at Dandelion Court.
‘You’re sure about selling, Mum?’ Robyn asked now. ‘You’re not just doing it because of Dad?’
‘Not at all,’ said Sheila. ‘To be honest, I can’t wait. To have a house that gets warm at the flip of a switch, with no overflowing gutters. And decent broadband.’
Sheila had a Netflix addiction and was constantly infuriated by the low download speed at Hawksworthy.
‘You don’t think you’ll miss it here?’
‘I’ll miss the view. The sea. But I can come to you if I need to see that.’
‘And the kennels? The dogs?’
‘I love the dogs. You know that. But it’s bloody hard work.’ Sheila put two thick pieces of bacon between two slices of bread and cut it in half diagonally. ‘I’m going to talk to the vets. They’ve been asking me for years to do puppy training classes for their clients. I’ve always been too busy. But I reckon now is the right time. It would just do me, along with a bit of freelance work. I can please myself.’
She put the sandwich on a plate and put it in front of Robyn.
‘I’m proud of you, Mum. For not being afraid of change.’
Sheila shrugged. ‘There won’t be much change. It’s people that matter, isn’t it?’
Robyn chewed on her bacon sandwich. They would all be the same, all of them, whether they were at Hawksworthy, or the Linhay, or Dandelion Court. And they would still all come together at the Shedquarters, on a Friday, to share food, and what had happened to them that week. The little haven that brought all the strands of the family together, that was waiting for them today.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right. It’s people that matter.’
45
Every single work surface in Gwen’s little kitchen was covered in cooling racks, Tupperware boxes, tins and baking trays. Downstairs, Boyd’s was the same. He’d offered Gwen his kitchen as backup, when he could see the catering was getting out of control. He’d even taken some of the cooking off her hands, as he wasn’t a bad chef. She’d trusted him with sausage rolls – followed to her exacting recipe, which involved onion marmalade and poppy seeds – and he’d made his speciality focaccia, with rosemary and sea salt.
‘Blimey,’ said Gwen when he offered her some to try. ‘You’re quite the chef.’
‘I’m almost perfect,’ said Boyd. ‘It’s very hard to live with.’
‘Right, well, we’ll have a dozen loaves for the wedding, in that case.’
‘Consider it done.’
They’d become as thick as thieves after Gwen had done his makeover. They had so much in common. Not specific things – their tastes were quite different, though they enjoyed learning from each other – but they both loved exploring, eating out, cooking, burrowing about for antiques, listening to music. She had taken him to all her favourite local places. The little French restaurant you wouldn’t know about unless you were in the know. The back-street auction rooms that were a treasure trove. Secret coves for picnics.
And he’d offered himself up as her assistant for the wedding.
‘I’ve got nothing else to do. One board meeting a month, that’s all I’m committed to now the girls have taken over. I’ll only get into trouble if I don’t occupy myself.’
‘Right,’ said Gwen. ‘You don’t know what you’ve let yourself in for.’
It turned out that Boyd was very handy and could create the wonderful things she had in mind out of a few old bits of wood and some sacking. All she had to do was show him a picture on Pinterest and off he would go in search of materials.
‘A chef and a carpenter,’ she said, admiring, when he created an archway made of reclaimed wood and muslin and strands of nautical rope, decorated with starfish, to use as a frame for taking photographs.
‘I believe I’m what’s known as a renaissance man,’ he laughed, making no attempt at modesty.
The week before the wedding had been spent in a frenzy of cooking, shopping, decorating and list-making. And now it was the big day. They were up at five, cooking the things that could only be done at the last minute.
Gwen had taped a timetable to her kitchen wall. They had to be out of here by half past eight to get to the beach. They’d loaded up both cars last night and taken a load of stuff to the Shedquarters to be stored overnight.
Boyd was watching her ice a triple batch of biscuits she’d taken out of the oven at six. They were in the shape of beach huts, and she was decorating them with Robyn and Jake’s initials in white. She wore a chambray shirt and rolled-up jeans and sneakers, a big blue apron wrapped round her, icing sugar in her hair and on her cheek.
He watched as she concentrated, the precise flick of her wrist executing the letters to perfection.
‘You really care, don’t you?’
Gwen looked sideways at him. ‘Of course I do. This is so important to me. I love Robyn.’
He felt his heart flutter. He wanted to reach out and brush away the sugar from her cheek. She was incredible. He never thought he would feel like this about another woman after Ellen.
‘I need to say something,’ he said. He could feel a lump in his throat.
Gwen looked at him. ‘Don’t tell me I’m doing it all wrong.’
‘No.’ Boyd wasn’t sure how to go on, now he’d started. ‘I just want to say – you’ve turned my life around.’
‘Oh.’ She looked startled, but she was smiling, which gave him courage.
‘When Ellen died, I thought that was it. That I would never feel happy again. That I would never feel. But you’ve … brought me to life. You’ve given me back my joie de vivre. You make me glad to wake up in the morning. You make me laugh. You make me want to do things. Big things. Little things. You’ve given me a purpose, Gwen.’
‘Well,’ she said, looking pleased. ‘That’s lovely. Thank you.’
>
There was silence for a moment as they looked at each other. Boyd couldn’t tell by her face what she was thinking. Had he overstepped the mark? He didn’t think he’d been too over the top. But perhaps she found it awkward? Maybe she did just find him a helpful pair of extra hands? Maybe she was longing for him to shut up so she could get on with what she was doing?
Gwen put down her icing bag. ‘Shall we just get it out of the way?’
‘What?’ He looked alarmed.
‘I can feel it,’ she said, smiling, her eyes sparkling. ‘And it’s stopping me concentrating.’
‘Feel what?’ His heart was beating. Could it be she felt the same?
Before he knew it, she stepped forward, slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. A proper kiss, not just a peck.
‘Oh,’ he said, surprised.
She gave him a minxy grin. ‘That’s what’s known in the trade as unfinished business. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’
46
‘Will you please stop wriggling?’ demanded Clover. ‘I’m going to end up burning your ear and that is not a good look for a bride.’
‘Hurry up, then.’ Robyn was looking anxiously at the clock. They had only just over an hour before the ceremony, and it would take half an hour to get there, plus parking. And she didn’t want to arrive red-faced and sweaty. She was still bruised from her fall and couldn’t move as fast as she wanted to.
‘OK. Last ringlet.’ Clover drew the tongs through a final strand, then put them down and ran her fingers through Robyn’s hair, giving it a very professional tussle. ‘There.’
Robyn stared in the mirror in delight. Clover had done her an elaborate half-up half-down do, some of her hair caught up in a clip made from fine silver flowers and fresh-water pearls, the rest of it curling down to her shoulders.
‘I didn’t know my hair could even do this.’
‘Right. Out of your dressing gown and into your outfit. Do you need a wee first? It’ll be hours.’
‘I had one just before you started my hair.’
‘OK. Just let me help you if you need to get out again.’
Clover held out the column of sea green silk as Robyn slid herself in, then did up the zip.
‘Shoes!’
Robyn put her feet out obediently and Clover buckled her into the low-heeled silk wedges Gwen had lent her, when time had run out for shoe shopping.
‘Now,’ said Clover. ‘What do you think? Final chance. Do you think I should jack in any ideas about being a high-court judge and be a stylist?’
Robyn laughed. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
She couldn’t believe her reflection. Clover had been right about choosing a jumpsuit over a dress: an inspired choice that suited Robyn down to the ground. It was in a floaty sea-green silk that shimmered when she walked. The legs were wide and flowing, the sleeves fluted. It was dreamy and elegant; it fitted her perfectly, with a sense of occasion that wasn’t too obviously bridal and didn’t make her feel hemmed in. It was far more suited to a beach wedding than any of the dresses they’d seen. It was perfect.
Clover had done her make-up too – glowing skin, sparkly eyes, glossy lips.
Robyn hugged her little sister. ‘Thank you. Because you know if it was left to me I’d stomp up the aisle in my dungarees and Birkenstocks.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Clover. ‘Believe me, I know.’
But she held her sister tight. The accident had terrified her more than she liked to admit.
‘I love you so much,’ she murmured.
‘What?’ laughed Robyn. She was sure Clover had never admitted that before.
‘Shut up. I love you, OK? And that baby of yours. I love it too.’
Robyn’s heart buckled. Clover rarely admitted her true feelings.
‘I’m going to miss you, when you go to uni,’ she told her.
‘It’s all changing, isn’t it? With Mum and Dad selling Hawksworthy. I don’t know if that Dandelion Court place will feel like my home.’ Clover’s face clouded. ‘Not that I’d ever stop them. And I know I’m probably going off to London. But I’ll miss you and me, like this.’
‘You can always come to the Linhay. I’ll keep a room free for you.’
Clover scoffed. ‘That place is going to be full of babies. There’s not going to be any room for me.’
‘There will always be room for you, Clover. I promise.’
In the kitchen, Sheila was putting the finishing touches to the cake, still in her dressing gown. Clover had already done her hair and make-up, and as soon as she finished she was going to get dressed. She stood back to admire her handiwork. Three layers of feather-light sponge, filled with buttercream and then just a scraping of icing on the outside so the cake showed through. It went against all her instincts, but once she had assembled it at the Shedquarters and added the clusters of frosted berries and edible flowers, it would look very pretty.
She stopped for a moment, blinking back tears, finding it hard to believe that here she was icing a wedding cake for that dear little baby that had arrived on a summer’s day, a ray of sun that had never grown any dimmer.
She gasped as Robyn walked in.
‘Oh!’ she said.
‘I know. I don’t look much like me.’ She held out her arms and did a twirl, a shimmer of green silk and dark curls. Sheila clapped her hands.
‘You look perfect. Oh, she’s clever, my girl.’
Robyn spotted the cake behind her. ‘That looks amazing.’
‘Clover’s got to drive me while I hold it. Hopefully it will stay intact.’ Sheila held up two lots of crossed fingers.
Clover bounced into the kitchen, looking as if she was off to Coachella. Never knowingly underdressed, she was in a saffron yellow maxi slashed to the thigh with possibly every item of jewellery she owned adorning her ears, her neck and her wrists.
‘Come on, Mum. Stop faffing and let’s get you sorted. It’s nearly time to go.’
‘I’m nearly finished.’
Robyn stood by the door, watching Sheila boxing up the cake layers and Clover getting more and more agitated, trying to get her to put her outfit on so she could finish her hair and make-up. She’d better leave them to it, she thought, smiling, and realised the next time she saw them would be at the registry office, about to get married. She slipped out of the door without saying goodbye. They were too wrapped up in their preparations to notice.
Outside in the yard, Mick was striding up and down beside the car, which he’d scrubbed inside and out to take Robyn to the registry office. She had asked him to drive her, and then take her into the ceremony on his arm. To give her away.
‘You’re sure?’ he said, obviously secretly worried that now this was not his role.
She was never going to let him think he would play second fiddle to Jonathan. There would be a place for Jonathan in her life, but it wasn’t at her side as she walked down the aisle.
‘You’re my dad,’ she told him. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
Now, she looked at him with pride, dapper in the outfit Clover had chosen for him which set off the softness of his eyes so perfectly.
‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’
Mick gazed at her, slightly in awe, hardly recognising his daughter. ‘Get on!’ he said, his stock response when he was stuck for what to say.
‘And you,’ she said, ‘look very handsome.’
‘You don’t think I should be wearing a tie?’
‘No, Dad. I’ve never seen you in one before, so why now?’
‘I reckon Rocky will be in one.’
‘Rocky’s Rocky. You’re you. I don’t want anyone to be anything other than themselves at my wedding. Let’s go!’
She climbed into the front seat.
Mick drove the car as smoothly as he could along the drive. Robyn could s
ee his gaze raking over the pasture either side, the hedgerows filled with froths of cow parsley, the air bosky with blossom. May was always the best time on the farm, when everything burst into flower and before the sun had got too relentless.
‘You’re not having second thoughts?’
‘I am not,’ said Mick. ‘I’m made up. I feel free. Like a weight’s lifted. I love this bloody farm but I haven’t got what it needs. Time for someone else to take it on.’
‘But won’t you miss the land? I mean, you are a farmer.’
He chuckled. ‘I’ve got a plan, don’t you worry. I’ve got my eye on a piece of ground that’s come up for sale. Just a few acres. Enough for a small herd of Jerseys.’
‘You’ve kept that quiet!’
‘It doesn’t do to blabber. Don’t want anyone else after it.’
Robyn sat back in her chair, grinning. That’s why she loved her dad. He kept his counsel, but he wasn’t afraid to get what he wanted, once he’d figured it out.
He looked sideways at her.
‘Everything always sorts itself out in time,’ he told her. ‘Always remember that.’
47
At the beach, Gwen eyed the sky with anxiety. It had been a grey start in Tawcombe, the spiteful slate clouds taunting her, reminding her they could quite easily ruin her hard work at any moment they chose. But by nine o’clock they relented and slid away to torment someone else. Here, the sun was climbing ever higher in the sky, and Gwen worried about keeping the food fresh and the drinks cold. She had ordered vast quantities of ice to be delivered.
Rocky had done the Shedquarters proud. It stood, freshly painted in turquoise and white vertical stripes, with new ironmongery and shining windows. It had gone from being tatty and weather-beaten to the most immaculate beach hut on Everdene Sands. Inside, all the clutter had been cleared away and the surfaces were pristine. It was ready for the most important occasion it had ever been witness to.
‘Right,’ Gwen said, clapping her hands and calling her team together. She had organised a little team of helpers from the local youth club to carry everything down to the beach. She was giving them twenty quid each for a morning’s work They all had their instructions, all to be executed under her watchful eye. And gradually, the transformation took place.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 28
