‘If it was me, I would tell Martha straightaway. Whoever was right or wrong all those years ago, let’s hope that after the initial shock of finding out they are both in the same village…’ Bea took a breath. ‘You never know, a miracle might just happen.’
‘Thanks, Bea. There’s nothing else I can do except hope for that very miracle.’
‘Always here if you need anything. Can I ask, did Martha ever marry? Where’s your grandfather in all this? Could he maybe play peacemaker?’
‘It’s always been just Granny. Which isn’t a bad thing because I could imagine her being a handful. Some things don’t change.’ Isla swigged back her drink and smiled. ‘Dutch courage. I know Granny always goes for a walk at this time of night so I’ll go and see if I can catch up with her. Wish me luck.’
‘I really do and I hope you can bring your family back together. A walk at this time will be very picturesque. I bet Martha is delighted she found those binoculars and is putting them to good use.’
‘I didn’t know they were lost. She’s had them almost permanently attached around her neck for many years.’ Isla stood up. ‘And thank you for the chat. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.’
‘Sometimes it’s good to get it off your chest to someone who isn’t directly involved.’ Bea stretched a leg and wiggled her ankle. ‘I have to say, this ankle is feeling a whole lot better today. I might just take a small walk over the bridge and get some fresh air myself, before I settle down for the night.’
‘If you walk over the bridge, you can catch the water taxi back.’
Bea was thinking that was a good idea and maybe she would get a glimpse of The Hemingway and Nolan on her travels.
‘I’ll walk out with you, and I do hope all goes well with Martha.’
‘Me too. The wrath of my granny isn’t something I’d wish on my worst enemy. Hopefully I can somehow get my mum and her in the same room, but there’s only one way to do that … emotional blackmail.’
They walked down the path together and Isla held open the gate. ‘Be careful on that ankle. Don’t overdo it,’ she ordered.
‘I won’t.’
They parted company at the bottom of Love Heart Lane and Bea made her way towards the bridge. There were a couple of private kayaks out on the water but everywhere else was quiet. The Hemingway was still anchored where it always was, by the riverbank, and with numerous paintings sold today, Bea knew that Nolan would be busy replenishing his stock.
The water taxi was heading from The Little Blue Boathouse towards the far end of Glensheil and Bea knew she had time to walk to the nearby river stop at the end of the bridge. Enjoying the fresh air, she noticed a small aeroplane soaring through the clouds and a banner trailing behind it with the words ‘Freya! Marry me!’ When Carl had proposed, he had used a Moonpig card that he hadn’t even written inside. She should have known at that moment it was never going to last.
She noticed a woman standing in front of The Little Blue Boathouse and realised it was Martha. Bea watched as she mounted the ramp and boarded The Hemingway.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Nolan was more than a little surprised to see Martha walking onto his boat. Glancing towards the painting, he guessed why she was here.
He smiled. ‘How are you? It’s a lovely night for a walk.’
‘It is.’ Martha looked over her shoulder and up the river path. There was no one in sight except the people on the river taxi. ‘Have you got time to chat?’
‘Of course.’ Feeling a slight tension in the air, Nolan gestured towards the seat. ‘Shall we sit?’ he asked.
Martha nodded and sat down on a chair opposite him. There was silence and he followed her gaze towards the church, its steeple towering at the top of the hill. Her eyes were watery and she was visibly upset.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Why now?’ Martha asked hesitantly.
‘I don’t understand,’ replied Nolan. He gave her a warm reassuring smile that whatever it was, was going to be okay, even though she looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.
‘Some things are better left in the past.’
The mood was sombre and Nolan could guess this had something to do with his grandfather. Taking a bold step, he asked, ‘Martha, did you know my grandfather? The painting in your van of Castaway—’
‘Yes, I knew Morgan.’
‘Are you Patsy?’ he asked, cautiously.
Martha nodded. She pressed her hand to her chest and her gaze fell to the floor. ‘It’s been a long time since anyone has called me Patsy. It was your grandfather’s nickname for me, which was silly as it was only one letter shorter than my own name.’ She gave a tiny smile.
