‘Women’s talk,’ Maudie yelled at him and he nodded. Knowing better, it seemed, than to enquire further.
Tawrie felt invigorated as ever by the feel of the cold morning on her damp hair and wet face as she cycled home. It was her happiest time of the day. Buoyed up and refreshed, she felt ready for anything. Her mood slid accordingly as the hours since her body had been held by the water ticked on. The connection with the oceanweakened as the day passed and when finally she climbed into bed, just as darkness stole the day, she was already dreaming of her dip in the big briny when she awoke.
Her swim was also the only time in the day she didn’t have to pretend. Didn’t have to find a smile for her heartbroken grandma, didn’t have to avoid contact with her mother – the prospect of hearing about her drunken exploits always enough to crush Tawrie’s soul and spirit.
With her bike stowed and the front door closed behind her, she kicked off her trainers, abandoning them on the stripped wooden floor, and raced up the wide creaking stairs to her bedroom.
‘Is that you, Taw?’ The voice came from the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘Yep. It’s me, Nan.’ She paused on the half landing, calling down through the bannisters, while resisting the temptation to be sarcastic, swallowing the suggestion of irritation at the fact that her nan called this out every morning when she climbed the stairs at precisely seven fifteen.
‘Where’ve you been?’
She bit her lip and dismissed more ludicrous and fanciful scenarios:It’s been quite a night, just got dropped off, been wined and dined by the man of my dreams. We had a picnic and sat on the beach watching the sun go down and got on so well, we stayed there until the sun came up...
‘Just the usual, been for my swim!’
One,two,three. . .
‘Swimming again?’
Theeeeere it was.
‘At this time of the morning, must be freezing!’
‘Yup.’No colder than it was yesterday and probably as cold as it’ll be tomorrow... ‘Just going to get changed and head off to work.’
She plopped her towel and swimming costume over the metal rail that was attached to the radiator in her bedroom and abandoned her duffel bag on the chair behind the old pitch pine desk. It was the place she loved to sit, in the bay window of her bedroom on the top floor of Signal House. The desk was busy but ordered: the drawers neatly packed with stationery, correspondence and the general administration of life. To the casual observer the set-up might have seemed cluttered, but not to Tawrie, who liked the tumble of books on which her tasselled bedside lamp teetered. She was happy to have an array of pens, pencils and paintbrushes in an old jam jar, which, when the sun caught it, sent tiny prisms over the wall. And she appreciated the cool touch of the old hand-painted floral tile, dug up from the shoreline over at Barricane Beach, on which she rested her morning cup of tea.
Also on her desk sat a framed black-and-white photograph of her dad, Dan, and his brother, her Uncle Sten, when they were no more than teens. Everyone knew Sten, and everyone loved him. Never without his grotty beret, a new joke or advice on anything from how to reverse out of a tight space to world politics, he liked to stick his oar in. She happened to know that there was a little more to his happy life than the ‘four Ps’ – namely his investments in construction that meant he owned large chunks of real estate all along the North Devon coast. Her nan often hinted at a king’s ransom stashed away, yet to look at Sten, you’d think he slept in a skip. And in truth this would not have been a surprise.
She felt warmed now at the thought of her beloved uncle, glad that he and her dad had shared so many happy days and beyond grateful that Daniel Gunn had had a good life, as the alternative – that his shortened time on the planet had been miserable – was more than she could contemplate. She tousled her damp hair and reached for her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, over which she’d shove an apron when she arrived at work.
August was the busiest time of year. With the café full of holidaymakers day in and day out, she had to run for her entire shift, grabbing glugs of water and bathroom breaks where she could, and falling into bed each night with muscles that throbbed on her bones with fatigue. With more dry days than not and the sun showing its face for longer periods, tourists and day trippers were filling up the car parks and wandering the harbour in search of cups of tea, ice creams and snacks.
She loved the business and excitement of this time of year, but June was her favourite month, when the town slipped into summer. The changes were subtle at first: noise levels grew, tables that had been stacked neatly for the off-season began to pepper the pavements, and the winter moss and slime that sat on rocks and walls dried up and disappeared. Any journey took longer, whether on foot, by bike or car, as she moved en masse with people who didn’t share her sense of urgency.
Restaurants, bars and shops that had slumbered through the cold months had their doors thrown open and their frontages scrubbed with buckets of hot, soapy water until the windows sparkled. Deliveries arrived, floors were swept, fresh paint licked the walls and festoon lights were strung up around awnings.
It was impossible not to feel the buzz of excitement, the hum of activity, and for her spirits not to become infected by the laughter of those who were in holiday mode and could, just for a few days, forget all that ailed them in the real world. By August, however, her energy was starting to flag.
‘How d’you get on?’ Her mother’s voice from the bedroom doorway startled her.
Tawrie glanced at her as she slipped into her jeans and scraped her thick hair back into an imperfect ponytail. Her mother looked awful. And while this was not a surprise, it was no less jarring to see. Her skin looked almost grey in the morning light, her eyesbloodshot, her thin shoulders as ever hunched inside her silky kimono, and her fingers shook as she lit the cigarette that clung to her bottom lip like sticky seaweed to a rounded stone. The sight of her smoking at this hour, at any hour, made Tawrie’s stomach roll. She detested the habit but had long since given up trying to get her mum to stop. Like everything that bothered her about Annalee’s life, any comment or criticism would only fall on deaf ears. Her mother was wrapped in an impenetrable shell, hardened by her years of widowhood. Tawrie carried a vague memory of Annalee holding her hand and laughing as they skipped along the quay. At least, she thought she remembered this, but could have spun her desire for such a memory into life, tricking herself with this sliver of happiness that in times of need punctured her loneliness.
‘All right.’
Her mother drew on the cigarette like it was fresh air and Tawrie watched as the end lit up and crackled like a tiny firework. A firework held between fingers with long nails, where red, red polish clung on despite being chipped in places.
She saw a flash in her mind of purple nails, purple with flecks of glitter ...
‘Well, you’ve stuck to it, that’s for sure.’ Her mother sounded neither impressed nor judgemental, not that Tawrie cared either way.
‘Yep.’
‘You said you’d swim every day of the season, and you have. So far.’
‘Yep.’
