‘All I’d say is be careful. The only person here that’s going to get hurt is you.’
I nod. ‘Thanks. Anyway, back to Dave.’
‘You’ve fallen in love with Ward, haven’t you?’ I get up to clear the plates.
‘Oh, Jan.’ There’s a long silence. ‘What are you going to do?’
It’s a good question, one I have been thinking about all day, in between worrying about Isla.
I put the dishes into the sink. ‘I know exactly what I have to do.’ I turn to her. ‘I’m handing in my notice, first thing Monday.’
26
‘Whoever sees the sea first gets an ice cream,’ says Granny’s voice inside my head as Isla and I set off in the car to Grandad’s. He said he’d buy some sausages and spuds and make up the twin beds. ‘But you must bring some warm clothes, it’s freezing, January,’ he warned me. ‘These days I sleep in a pair of old salopettes and a woolly hat.’
I feel better the moment we head out of London. It’s a beautiful crisp autumnal morning, cold, but with the sun already shining bright and lifting our spirits. We talk only briefly about yesterday. Miss Miles had assured Isla and me that Gemma will apologise. All this emotion brings back memories of Granny. She’d always wanted to understand why a bully does what a bully does. I also think of Ward and the trouble he’d had. Was Toby Brown or the culprit at Ward’s school acting out what was happening at home? Did he have attachment problems or was he just plain attention-seeking? If Gemma continues to hurt Isla, Miss Miles needs to delve deeper. An apology, a detention and time in isolation is all very well, but not if she’ll only go and do it again.
The further we drive, the more relaxed Isla becomes. We talk about the enormous box of praline chocolates we have bought for Grandad, and Isla wants to make sure I packed the bottle of Reggae Reggaesauce. She likes to splash it on to her sausages. ‘It tastes so nice, I had to name it twice,’ she sings to Spud in a Jamaican accent, a different girl to the one yesterday just from knowing we’re going to see Grandad.
Soon I’m turning on the music and we’re singing along to Katy Perry and Taylor Swift. Isla tells me about a photography competition that she’s going to enter at school. She has to take a series of photographs that tell a story. It’s open to all the years, and the deadline is in two weeks; the winner will be announced at the end of the Christmas term.
After over four hours driving, we turn left, towards Porthpean Beach.
‘I can see it!’ Isla calls out.
I love turning down this winding road and catching a view of the sea and the headland. In the depths of winter it is dark and desolate, no families trekking down to the beach with their toys and picnics. We’re almost into November now, a time when I worry about Grandad being in a large cold house on his own. My favourite time is the spring when this road is lined with brightly coloured camellia bushes. Granny’s kitchen garden is planted with asparagus, baby carrots, neat rows of lettuces, radishes and shallots. Isla toots the horn for me as we turn round another sharp, blind bend. The road gets narrower and narrower, me praying not to meet another car coming the other way. We turn left through a green wooden gate and I toot the horn again. When I see the white house, the small stone bench on the lawn and the blanket of blue sea in the distance, my heart fills with joy.
I am home.
After lunch and lucky old Grandad being treated to the Reggae Reggae sauce song many times, Grandad, Spud, Isla and I totter down to the beach to catch the last of the sunlight, wrapped in jumpers, hats and coats. Isla is determined to walk Spud on the lead. Off she stomps in her blue beret. ‘Keep your feet flat on the ground,’ I call out to her. ‘No dragging that left foot!’
‘You’re so slow you two, like snails, ha ha,’ she says, glancing over her shoulder before carrying on, stomp, stomp, Spud trotting by her side.
‘Cheeky monkey,’ Grandad says, clutching on to my arm. We don’t venture down the higgledy-piggledy garden path leading from the house; instead we make our way gingerly down the steep coastal path, past the sailing club. The air smells of salt, seaweed and the sea. At the end of the path I help Grandad down on to the beach. The small hut that is a cafe during the spring and summer months is closed, but I only have to shut my eyes to see Grannybuying Lucas and me each an ice cream from this hut after our long car journeys from London. ‘Can I have a lick?’ she’d ask, chasing us on the sand. Lucas would snatch his ice cream back, saying, ‘You said a lick, Granny, not a bite!’, all of us laughing.
A few boats are in the distance and the sunlight glitters on the sea. It’s magical. ‘It looks like there are lots of silver birds,’ says Isla, taking a picture with the new digital camera Dan gave her for her birthday. We watch a young woman wearing a pink fleece walk her heavy-breathing black pug. ‘He’s old,’ she says, when Isla bends down to stroke him. ‘But he still likes to come out for some fresh air.’
‘Sounds rather like me,’ Grandad says.
The tide is out so an elderly couple are helping one another across the rock pools, where Lucas and I used to take our nets in search of the odd crab, starfish and shrimp. I also used to collect shells, and Grandad and Granny would ooh and ah when I brought them back into the house. I smile thinking how I now ooh and ah when Isla shows me anything she’s found. Grandad tells me he never tires of the beauty of this beach with its small sheltered bay and soft sand. Most days, before breakfast, he comes here for a walk and listens to the sound of the waves.
After our walk Grandad puts me to work with a list of things to do, while I insist he has a rest. I’ve noticed he’s more doddery than usual, his walking increasingly unsteady. Bella, his actress friend and neighbour, who often helps Grandad with any chores, has been away for a few weeks so the list has mounted up. Over the next couple of hours I am a hive of industry, sewing a button on to one of Grandad’s ancient dark pink cardigans, given to him by Granny. He likes to wear it with his dapper red trousers. I sew a leather patch on to the elbow of his old tweed jacket. Grandad also shows me a section of the kitchen floor, near the sink area, where the lino is peeling away and in need of urgent sticking-down attention. We’d laughed at his broken tooth mug, Grandad wondering if I could fix it with a steady hand and a spot of superglue. Finally I’m in the old dining room, where Granny and Grandad used to serve breakfast to their B & B clients or produce fabulous suppers for their friends, especially the actors Grandad had met through the theatre. The old Belling, used for heating plates and dishes, is now rusty and home to a few cobwebs. I hop up on to a rickety chair and hook the lopsided curtain back on to its ring. The curtain, an old-fashioned chintz, weighs a ton. By the end of the afternoon I need a strong gin and tonic.
Grandad passes round the box of chocolates and we watchStrictly Come Dancing. ‘How’s work?’ he asks, peering at me from behind his glasses, a question I was dreading him asking almost as much as how is my love life.
Before I have time to answer Isla gets up, saying, ‘Ward’s like this, OK! You ready, Grandpa?’
He nods.
She puckers her lips and points at us in turn. ‘Right you guys let’s crack on! We need to sell much more, much more, much MORE!’ She jumps up and down, almost falling over in her excitement. ‘And the best person gets a promotion.’
I find myself smiling.
‘You!’ She points at me again. ‘What you laughing at? Are you dissin’ me?’ She stands, hands on hips and says, now in an American accent, ‘Go sell that kitchen.’
Grandad laughs.
‘And you!’ Isla looks right into his face. ‘I got my eye on you. You need to step up your game otherwise you’re in the bin.’
