‘We don’t get many tall Danes in here.’ Gaynor pointed out the obvious.
‘You could always both move to Nan’s, you know that.’ She rather liked the idea; the thought of having eight-year-old Sonny around was a lovely one. She was certain that part of her cousin’s decision not to do so was to shield her son from the grubby life of Annalee.
‘I know, but I think Dad likes having me around.’
‘Oh, he does, love.’ Gaynor spoke with conviction, suggesting if nothing else that she and Sten Gunn were more than friends.
‘He drives me mad, but I think that’s what families are supposed to do; that way it makes it easier to leave when the time comes.’ Connie flipped the egg and reached for another.
Tawrie nodded, having little to add as she had never left. Right now, as it sometimes did, this felt like a failure on her part, and not for the first time her thoughts strayed beyond the harbour wall.
‘But I mean it, I’m holding out for Zac or at least a Zac lookalike. Needle doesn’t exactly fit the bill.’
Her cousin’s tone made them all laugh. Tawrie knew she was right: settling was not an option.
‘Didn’t realise we were talking about the rest of your life, thought he was just asking you out on his yacht.’ She laughed, as Connie lobbed a tea towel at her that thwacked her on the head.
‘May as well take your break, Taw. ’S’quiet now.’
She stepped outside and looked up at the big blue sky. The café backed on to the cobbled quayside where there was a row of wooden benches with views out over the busy harbour. Each had at least one little brass plaque on it, commemorating the life of someone who had enjoyed the view as much as the person staring at it. Tawrie loved these seats; not only were they the perfect placeto sit and rest, to take in life, but they were also a salient reminder that their time here was temporary. This she understood more than most.
Inevitably her thoughts returned to her dad. Not that she’d ever admit it but her memories of him were sparse. The day he died, however, was vivid. Not the events themselves, but the feeling of panic all around her: the fear, the sound of screaming, crying and the constant stream of visitors had been enough for her to learn not to speak about it, not to ask too many questions, as the thought of invoking that uproar again, sending the adults into freefall – it was more than she could contemplate. But those first seven years with him reading her bedtime stories, tucking her in at night, taking her out on his boat, teaching her how to skim stones, kick a ball, lifting her up so she could see over the heads of the crowds at carnival or over the harbour wall ... It was all learned second-hand from the tales Nana Freda told her. Nana Freda who, upon hearing that her son’s boat had washed up on Lundy, had grabbed Tawrie and held her close, folding her into her lap where she did her best to use her granddaughter’s soft form to plug the hole left by her son.
Tawrie had held her breath, sitting as still as possible, wanting her nan to stop crying, to stop rocking, although she had sensed in that moment thatshewas the thing of comfort for which her nan would reach. And she was still reaching for her nearly three decades later. And in some ways, Tawrie was still keeping still, holding her breath.
Maybe that was unfair. They shared a special bond, she and her nan, which was lucky when she considered the state of her mother. Tawrie wished she’d had the chance to get to know her dad better, wished she’d had the chance to ask him questions. In particular she wanted to know why, when according to Uncle Sten and others who had known and loved him, he had been a smart man, anengineer, clever, he’d chosen an old soak like Annalee to be his wife. It made no sense. None at all.
With her head tipped back and eyes closed she let the August sunshine kiss her face and felt the tingle of warmth on her skin. She knew her cheeks would flush red, but it felt good, healing, like drinking in the rays. Time was skewed as she daydreamed away the minutes, lost to the sounds around her, the clank of metal against the masts and the clement weather that wrapped her in its soft embrace.
‘Taw!’ Connie bellowed from the side door of the café.
Her cue to get back. Her break cut short as customers gathered. Not that she minded, she was slightly restored by her brief sit in the mid-morning warmth.
She opened her eyes, letting her vision settle. As she stood to let a large family pass by, something made her heart take a double beat. She was aware of him before she actually saw him – or maybe that was only how she would remember it. She looked to the right and held her hand over her eyes to block the sunlight and see better.
He came into view and she held her breath as she took in his floppy hair, shot through with auburn, green eyes and the less than taut bod that nestled inside his pink shirt. He was a little doughy, real. She had never found the muscle-bound, gym-honed, Speedo-wearing type attractive. This guy looked like someone who would be good to hold and be held by. He looked ... kind, and Tawrie felt all kinds of fireworks leap in her gut as she followed his advance along the quayside.
A group of day trippers shuffled along, stopping to ooh and ahh at the boats bobbing on the sea, masts swaying in the gentle breeze. Some were holding ice creams, others cameras, most were in hats of one form or another. He seemed taller than most, surrounded by the group, his face clearly visible, looking right at her, or so she thought. And he was smiling. Smiling at her? She waited,as if they were meeting by appointment. The breath stuttered in her throat and her pulse raced.
There you are. . .
This her overriding thought, as if she’d been waiting for him, waiting for him without even knowing it. And now the wait was over because he was walking towards her.
Self-consciousness kicked her in the shins, and she took a step forward and then one back, the dance of the overly aware, not sure where to look, where to stand, folding then unfolding her arms, and by the time she took up the exact position she’d only just left, he waltzed past her.
Transfixed, she stared at the way his heavy fringe lifted and settled on his forehead, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to just below his elbow, the front misbuttoned with the shirt tails hanging down unevenly. His freckled forearms hairy and a little sun-kissed; his orange digital wristwatch; his purposeful stride, the soles of his deck shoes worn flat on the outer edge, the leather stained by salt water and the laces thin. All this detail was taken in quickly and filed away for further dissection later. It felt important. It was important. Then just like that he was gone and she dared not turn to look at his back, couldn’t be that obvious. She needed to take a deep breath, recalibrate, calm down.
Love at first sight.
That was rubbish, complete and utter bunkum. There was no such thing, of this she was certain. Anyone who expressed such a sentiment was a little soft in the brain department, overly romantic, gullible. Possibly all of the above. Tawrie was convinced that the truth was no more than the desperate elaboration of someone who was quickly smitten and needed to add seasoning to the mundane tale of how they’d started. She was entirely committed to this belief, and yet, and yet ... She felt the rise in her stomach of something close to happiness, of pure joy, excitement. This man,who’d done no more than walk past her in a crowd, had captured her attention. And yet she knew nothing about him: not his name, sexuality, nationality, job. Was he creative? Local? Smart? Deviant? Dangerous? Dull? Funny? Married? These and many other questions pinged inside her mind.
She glanced to her left but he had disappeared.
‘For the love of God have a word with yourself, Tawrie Gunn!’ she snapped to herself, as she navigated her way through the ice-cream lickers and the pasty nibblers who sauntered on the cobbled quayside back towards the café on the corner.
CHAPTER FOUR
HARRIETSTRATTON
