‘Wee bit of jealousy on her part, maybe?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’
Beatrice let her memory work and found herself thinking of Helen’s Instagram-perfect family and the effort it must have taken to maintain that flawless, problem-free front. She’d say things like, ‘When I’m at work I know my kids think of me as a role model, and when I’m at home I know they get my undivided attention. Because it’s so important to make happy memories isn’t it? Well, you wouldn’t know, Beatrice, but the greatest privilege of my life is making the kids’ dreams come true and devoting myself to their happiness.’
‘Helen was forever wheeling out the Mary Poppins act, and even when I wasreallytempted, I never once said what I wanted to,’ said Beatrice.
‘Which was?’
‘Which was… is that why you stay at your sister-in-law’s every second weekend and drink yourself into oblivion on Smirnoff Ice? Or is that why I heard you crying in the work toilets the other day after the school phoned yet again about Jeremiah picking fights in the playground and you swore like a navvy at him when you finally got to talk to him on his mobile?’ Beatrice smiled wickedly at Kitty. ‘Best to hold your tongue in those situations, I find. And Helen’s crowing might have hurt more if I hadn’t caught those glimpses of how far from perfect her family life was, like everyone else’s. But why pretend it isn’t? There are no awards for grinning and bearing it. Oh, well,’ Beatrice said with a shrug. ‘You never wanted kids, Kitty?’
‘Nope. Everyone tells me I’ll change my mind, like they dinnae see how offensive that is. I’m happy as I am with my work and my friends and my family. I’ve heard it all, though.But you’re nearly forty!You’ll regret it one day if you leave it too late!I’ve actually had people say that to me, can you believe it?’
‘Yes, I can, unfortunately.’ Beatrice remembered how much those comments had hurt, and how they all suddenly stopped after she lost her baby, only to be replaced by awkward silence on the topic.
Kitty spoke again. ‘All I’m missing is my man to go on adventures with… or just to sit with, like this, and I’ll be sorted. But he hasnae exactly been forthcoming so far, so…’
‘You’ll just wait.’
‘Aye.’ Kitty turned her face to the pale moon. ‘I’ll wait.’
Beatrice stood to go, and when Kitty noticed her leaving she too stood up and pulled her in for a hug. ‘Sweet dreams,’ she said, giving her a gentle squeeze across her back.
‘You too.’
Beatrice swung one leg back through the low window into the corridor while Kitty settled herself down again, cross-legged under the night sky.
‘Umm, Kitty?’ she said, tentatively, remembering again the plans she and Atholl had worked out so carefully that afternoon. ‘If I ever annoy you by acting like a pushy know-it-all, I’m sorry. OK?’
Kitty squinted her eyes and laughed. ‘Unlikely, but all right. I forgive you in advance for any and all misdemeanours. How’s that?’
‘OK. Just remember you said that? OK? Night then.’
Kitty smiled placidly before turning her face away again, closing her eyes and losing herself in the sounds of the waves lapping against the sea wall.
Chapter Eleven
Matchmaking
In August, the evening tides bring the water right up to the sea wall submerging the wide, curving, stony sands of Port Willow beach but by morning the shore is revealed again, the moored boats are stranded once more, the bay is scattered with shells, sea glass, and the occasional frilled pink jellyfish, and the oystercatchers and red shanks gather to stealthily pick the shore clean.
The locals live by these rhythms set by the sea. The men bring home the early catch against the receding tide and the work of sorting it into iced boxes on the jetty begins long before the milk float trundles its way silently along the row of pastel-painted cottages in hues of pale lemon, salmon pink and baby blue.
The postmistress on her bicycle is next on her rounds, followed by teenage twins delivering the morning papers with earbuds firmly wedged in, shoulders hunched and eyes cast down as though unaware of how beautiful their surroundings are.
Beatrice observed it all with her morning coffee from her people-watching vantage point; her bedroom windows on the first floor of The Princess and the Pea Inn. She had woken up early, on this, her third morning at the inn, not long after sunrise, to see it all.
Clattering sounds from the kitchen below told her Gene had started his breakfast preparations and the smell of sausages and bacon began drifting upstairs tempting her appetite – which she was astonished to find was growing by the day.
Rich would be pleased if he knew. ‘You can’t live off coffee and chocolate biscuits forever,’ she’d heard him remark many times over the early summer months before he suddenly extricated himself from their shared life and all of her messy emotions and what she was slowly coming to realise had been erratic behaviour.
She thought for a moment that if her phone ever dried out and sparked into life again she could send him a picture of herself grinning over her breakfast plate, haggis slices and all, before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. They hadn’t spoken for at least a month; she very much doubted he’d want to receive a daft selfie out of the blue. He’d think she was still crazy.
Beatrice swallowed down the bitter thoughts, wondering why she was being besieged by these horrible, intrusive memories so often since her arrival in Port Willow.
Last night on the phone Angela had said again how this whole spontaneous holiday might be a good thing for Beatrice and had urged her to stay on in Scotland until the end of her booking, even though Beatrice protested she still hadn’t fully made up her mind what to do. ‘You need a bit of head space to think things through,’ Angela had said, and Beatrice had uttered the same reply she always did. She didn’t want to think things through. She didn’t want to remember.
What she wanted was to be busy. Looking out at the scenes of village life below her window brought back a small kind of contentedness she hadn’t felt in a while, and she was surprised she could find a little solace seeing the bustling lives of these strangers.
