His parents’ marriage was hardly an advertisement for marital harmony, not with Dad’s lack of sensitivity and Mum permanently finding fault with him, but then from what he could see, even those relationships that gave the appearance of being perfect were no such thing. One marriage in particular, one that he had always thought was perfectly balanced and set the benchmark of what he aspired to, had turned out to be anything but. He had been shocked when he’d discovered that, and it still troubled him now.
In comparison, throwing himself into his work was a whole lot more straightforward than trying to find the ideal relationship. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it was more satisfying or rewarding, but it won hands down in all other respects. But then he was lucky to be doing something he loved.
He’d moved to the Broads part-way through his time at Loughborough University, having gone there to do a degree in Commercial Management and Quantity Surveying. When he’d admitted to Mum and Dad that he felt like a round peg in a square hole, they’d given him the chance to re-apply and do something that might suit him better. Unable to think of any course that really appealed to him, and while taking time out to decide what to do with his life, Alastair suggested he spend the summer at Linston End and see what casual work he could get. He’d fluked a job at Snazzell’s Boatyard in Linston, probably after Alastair had put in a word for him, just doing odd jobs here and there. At the end of the summer, Bob Snazzell declared Callum a quick learner and offered him a permanent job, effectively as an apprentice to learn the craft of boat building. Callum didn’t think twice; he leapt at the chance. He moved out of Linston End, where he’d been staying with Alastair and Orla, and moved into the loft space above the boatyard office. In exchange for being on-site more or less 24/7, there was no rent to pay, which suited Callum perfectly.
With its reputation as a traditional Broads boatyard, Snazzell’s specialised in repairing and restoring old cruisers, and it was restoration work that Callum particularly took to. He loved the smell of wood and varnish and glue. The modern boats built of fibreglass were all well and good, but they didn’t have the soul of the classic old craft.
Thirteen years on and Callum still could not quite believe that he now owned the boatyard. Five years ago, Bob Snazzell, who had never married or had children of his own, had left him the boatyard in his will; a will he’d had drawn up some weeks after he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and with only a couple of months to live. Not a word of his illness, nor his intentions, did he mention to Callum, or any of the others at the boatyard, and it was only on his death that Callum learned of the contents of Bob’s will. He was stunned, but also determined to do his best by a man who had put his trust in him.
It had not been easy, what with the financial crisis that had dragged on and on, but somehow they’d kept going. Callum had long since accepted that it would always be a precarious way to earn a living, but there wasn’t anything else he’d rather be doing. As a sideline, Snazzell’s – Callum had kept the original name in honour of Bob – now owned a modest hire fleet of boats, just run-of-the-mill picnic boats that punters took out for the day. Callum was considering extending the fleet to include a few larger cruisers, but his first love would always be boat-building.
He checked his watch. Another two minutes and the Norwich train should be here.
He wondered what latest relationship drama Rachel would be bringing with her. The opposite to him, she seemed determined to throw herself into a full-on relationship with one goal in mind: to be married. Every time a new boyfriend came along, she was convinced he was husband material and devoted herself to the task of falling in love. It was hardly surprising when the boyfriend would disappear into the distance faster than Usain Bolt making for the finishing line.
Whatever latest drama his sister brought with her, he was looking forward to the weekend ahead, of them all being together again, and under happier circumstances. The last occasion when they’d been brought together was for Orla’s funeral.
This was their first summer without her. For as long as Callum could remember, his childhood summers had revolved around Linston End and Alastair and Orla. How would everyone feel being back here, but without Orla when she had been such an integral part of the tradition that had been set in place so many years ago?
Only once had the tradition of the whole gang staying at Linston End been broken, and that had been when Mum had insisted on that fateful trip to France. It had been the worst holiday ever and since then no one had ever broken rank again and opted out.
Another Linston End tradition to be upheld was for him to pick up fish and chips for their supper that evening. He couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t done that on their first evening together, whether it was for the start of their summer holiday, or for a weekend like this one. When it wasn’t warm enough to be outside in the garden, they would gather around the table in the large kitchen, not bothering with plates or cutlery, eating the fish and chips with their fingers straight from the paper – much to Mum’s censure, but at Orla’s insistence.
Orla always had to do things differently; it wasn’t in her nature to conform. As a young boy Callum had been fascinated by her, and the sculptures she produced. He had often spent time watching her at work in her studio. Normally she hated being watched, but she had granted him special permission to join her so long as he promised to sit absolutely still and keep quiet. She could be quite stern when she wanted to be, and he had grown up being a little in awe of her. She was the kind of woman who could turn her hand to most things without a second thought and assumed others could do the same.
She had also been something of a practical joker who loved to play pranks on them as children. She once made a birthday cake for Rachel that was flavoured with mustard and chilli powder. Pranks can sometimes have an unplanned element of cruelty to them, and Rachel hadn’t seen the funny side of the cake that had looked so delicious, but which had tasted so awful. She had cried great crocodile tears until Orla had presented her with the proper cake she had made for her.
Orla’s treasure hunts in the garden had been one of the many highlights of any stay at Linston End, along with being allowed to camp out at night. It was a freedom their mother – always mindful of the terrible what-ifs of life – had never permitted back at home in Suffolk.
This weekend gathering hadn’t come as any surprise to Callum. Of course Alastair would want to see his old friends the moment he was back from his travels. Everyone would be so pleased to see him again.
Linston really hadn’t felt the same without Alastair around. Or Orla for that matter. But then, for Callum, it wasn’t just their absence that had felt like the flow of the river had been disrupted; it was what kept going round inside his head.
He spotted Jenna first and thought how well she looked. Better than when he had last seen her. But that was understandable; it had been at the time when her father had been taken into hospital. As soon as the news had reached them, they had all, apart from Alastair who had been away and deliberately kept in ignorance of events, rushed to visit Danny, to reassure themselves they weren’t about to lose another of their number.
Behind Jenna came Rachel. At the sight of the predictable eye-rolling expression of disapproval on her face when she caught sight of the van, Callum smiled and went to greet them.
Chapter Seven
The gin and tonics and wine had flowed freely for the evening as Alastair, breathless with chatter, filled them in on what had to be just a fraction of all that he’d got up to while he’d been away. Simon, although not given to fantastical flights of fancy, would swear that Orla’s presence was here with them. It really was as if he could feel her hovering amongst them in the flickering candlelight, shooting those clever sidelong glances of hers when something amused her.
Was he the only one to feel it?
Was he also the only one to detect, beneath the surface of Alastair’s conversation, a few false notes, a strain to his manner, a wary watchfulness in his eyes? Eyes that never quite settled or met theirs?
Looking around him where they were seated in the pavilion at the end of the garden – the wood and brick pavilion that he and Danny had helped Alastair design and build one summer many years ago – Simon thought of the countless meals they’d eaten here. He thought of the laughter shared, the teasing, and the differences of opinion, usually between Orla and Sorrel, and settled by Frankie. Maybe it was maudlin of him, but he couldn’t help but feel there had been a smugness to their happiness back then, a careless belief that they’d cracked it, had life thoroughly sewn up. Invincible, that was how they’d seen themselves.
Until Orla’s death.
Until Danny’s heart scare.
The last of the evening light had given way now to a smoky dusk that had yet to form into complete darkness. Facing out towards the river and Linston Mill, their wineglasses refreshed and the fish and chip wrappers tidied away, a hush had fallen on the group. It was the first time it had all evening.
In the deepening quiet, Simon glanced at Danny, and then at Alastair, his two oldest and closest friends, neither of whom he could contemplate not having in his life. Danny’s heart attack had frightened the living daylights out of him. It had forced him to face up to his own mortality, and to the one inescapable clichéd truth: they only had one shot at life and there was nothing else for it but to make the most of it.
It was strange that Orla’s death had not induced the same reaction in him. No sooner had he thought this, than once again he could have sworn he felt her presence moving amongst them. He had to be imagining it, but he could even smell the perfume she used to wear.
What nonsense! It was nothing more than psychosomatic, a case of one thought leading to another. Nonetheless, he found himself gazing around the assembled gathering, as if searching for Orla in the shadows cast from the flickering candles on the table, and as he did so, a memory crystallised in his head, a memory that had no right to come to him.
