‘I might.’ Eyes closed, she spoke into the ether. ‘I just bloody might run from this bloody house and the view of Corner bloody Cottage, and Ed bloody Stratton, and the bloody café and all the bloody misery!’
‘Have you finished your bloody tea, darling? I came to get the bloody mug.’
She hadn’t seen her nan in the stairwell, who saw fit to emulate her outburst.
Their laughter was sudden and welcome. It was mere seconds before this turned to tears and Tawrie sobbed as her nan put her arms around her and held her close. It felt as if a volcano bubbled inside her. Rocks of pain, hurt and desperation were rising on the lava of regret. What scared her most was how unsure she was that she could keep it contained.
A hot shower had done much to restore her sense of calm. Guilt over her exchange with her mother sat at the forefront of her mind, a jagged boulder around which all other thoughts and ideas had to circumnavigate. It had thrown her and left her spent. It felt very much like she had reached a crossroads and was looking for a signpost. Did she have the courage to put herself first? This quandary on top of the sleepless night, preceded by another sleepless night, and the news that the feeling of euphoria that had gathered up and whistled her along was based on nothing true.
Connie did a double take as she walked in.
‘Didn’t think we’d see you today, my love.’
‘Yet here I am!’ She made her way to the sink and without further discussion, grabbed the scouring pad and a heavy pan and began to scrub, running the hot tap and dousing everything in suds.
‘Is your mum okay?’ her cousin asked casually from behind the fridge door where she wrapped a block of cheese.
‘Oh, she’s peachy!’ She gave a false grin and a double thumbs up, before turning her attention back to cleaning the pot, scouring it hard on its blackened base and working mercilessly on the blobs of hardened food that clung on like limpets at low tide.
‘Hello, Taw! Didn’t expect to see you, my lovely!’ Jan smiled as she handed the order to Connie.
‘And yet, as I just said to Con, here I am!’
‘Ignore her, Jan,’ Connie interjected. ‘She’s pissed off at the world and it appears we are today’s lucky recipients of all that anger. She’s taking her frustration out on the washing-up and us apparently. So tighten your apron strings, I think we’re in for a rocky old shift!’
‘Blimey, better hide the glasses,’ Jan suggested.
‘And the sharp knives!’ Connie winked and Tawrie couldn’t help the thaw to her demeanour. It was almost impossible to be in the company of these women, this loving community, and not feel the benefit of it.
‘That’s more like it, an actual smile!’ Her cousin came up behind her and slipped her arms around her waist, resting her pretty head on Tawrie’s shoulder. ‘It’ll all get better; it’ll all get easier. Your heart will heal. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I, Tawrie Gunn? You’re a survivor, a bloody warrior woman! You’ve got this. And as for that arsehole Sebastian Farquhar—’
‘No!’ Tawrie shook her head, her voice firm. ‘Nope. We are not going to mention his name. We are not going to discuss him, and we are not going to analyse events or think about what might have been. He’s like early morning sea mist: forgotten by lunchtime. Okay?’
‘Okay, my love. As you wish.’ Connie whistled as she went back to the fridge.
Instantly she regretted snapping at her cousin, knowing her frustrations went way further than anything Connie said or did, and to react like this was as unfair as it was out of character. She paused with the scourer in her hand, understanding that what she needed to do was heed Maudie’s advice and get a grip, take control! She stood tall, knowing that now was the time to galvanise her thoughts and make a plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HARRIETWENTWORTH
SEPTEMBER2024
As was her evening habit, Harriet watered the roses in the back garden, standing with the hose at a particular angle, and using her thumb over the end to get the right level of spray, she stared at the tiny, hypnotically beautiful rainbows that appeared in the mist. With a rare few days’ holiday her time was more or less her own and she loved idling in her cottage garden.
Bear’s visit a month ago had thrown her. Not that it wasn’t wonderful to have his company, to hear about his life – it was – and she was of course more than thrilled that their closeness meant he could confide in her. It was more that she was worried about him, having rarely seen him so distraught nor so resolute. The thought of him getting hurt was more than she could stand. She was also disturbed by what had risen to the top of her thoughts as they raked over old sand. She rarely, if ever, thought about Ilfracombe and that life-changing summer. It was easier not to. That, and she was far too busy with life in the present day and all that her career at theresearch lab and being mum to the twins threw at her. And that was before she considered that in approximately six weeks, she would become a grandmother to a baby girl, who with any luck would be born in the image of her mumma, with fingers that grasped for a book the moment she was able. The idea alone was enough to make her smile.
There was a new thought that sat in her mind like a pebble in her shoe. The matter of Hugo, that terrible summer. She was conscious of the fact that it had been years since she’d had a meaningful conversation with Hugo, particularly about a topic that was like kryptonite to her. She was fearful still of it being raised. They had interacted little outside of the handing over of the kids and the odd chit-chat about due dates for his babies and how they were faring. Small talk. It felt easier to keep a little distance. But right now it bothered her; was it unfinished business or was it best to let sleeping dogs lie?
It had taken her a long time to recover from the way her marriage had ended. Not only the loss of him and the dismantling of their little family, the rewriting of the rules she had taken for granted, the fragmented nature of their living arrangements and the way her heart ached at every single goodbye. But also the damage to her faith in humanity, which ran deep, maybe deeper than she’d realised. It was when she finally began to heal that Charles had come into her life, quite by accident, when Ellis had dragged her along to a lecture on ‘The Art of Ancient Greece’, given by none other than Dr Charles Wentworth, esteemed classicist. Dragged was an often misused exaggeration, but in this case entirely true, as she’d dug her heels into the pavement and pleaded with her sister that they do anything but this. The future lovers had met in the crowded lobby beforehand, only for Harriet to roll her eyes as he smiled at her. Yet she’d liked his worn tweed jacket and his heavy-framed glasses. A little different.
‘Can you think of anything more tedious than an evening with some old bore waffling on about statues and artifacts? I could be at home watching paint dry!’ she’d laughed. ‘I’m Harriet by the way.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Harriet. I’m Charles, by the way, and I’m the waffling bore you’re consigned to listen to, although there’s a bit more to it than statues and artifacts.’
A sweet man who could not have been more different to Hugo – he made her feel safe. He was kind and open. But what if Hugo had not been the problem? What if ...?
‘Penny for them?’ Her husband crept up beside her in the garden.
