His eyes rove into the distance, taking in the gorse-coated hillsides, the soaring clifftops. I follow his gaze, and gulp. It really is a long way down.
‘The locals were all of the opinion that the cliff would probably have come off worse, because she’s a tough cookie, but it was a bad accident, and she was only found because someone spotted her bright orange trainers, apparently. She had to be airlifted to Aberdeen, and nobody’s really sure if she’s going to regain the use of her legs or not.’
He nods, his face stony. His hands go to his back, and I’m not sure if he’s in pain or he’s just remembering his own problems.
‘My God. That poor woman. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.’
‘I know. What happened to you?’ I ask, because, well, I want to know.
He frowns, his lips tight. ‘Long story. I didn’t fall off a cliff. I was thrown from a parking lot. Hmm. Not that long a story after all, I guess.’
He strides on, leaving me playing catch-up. ‘What?’ I say, touching his arm. ‘You werethrownfrom a parking lot?’
‘More pushed than thrown I suppose, but the end result was the same. Two fractured vertebrae, broken ribs, and a body full of contusions. I was… lucky.’
‘It doesn’t sound very lucky!’
‘I was. I should have died. Shannon always jokes I was too stubborn, and maybe she’s right – but I knew I couldn’t leave her. It was a long road back to fitness, or at least this current version of fitness.’
He sounds vaguely disgusted with himself, and I shake my head. ‘That’s amazing. To recover from that. You’ve done so well. And you still look pretty fit to me…’
As soon as the words are out of my mouth I feel embarrassed. ‘I’m not flirting,’ I add quickly. ‘Don’t worry.’
There’s a moment when our eyes meet, the waves behind us, the birds crying overhead. Neither of us seems quite ready to break it, but eventually he shakes his head, and mutters: ‘I wasn’t worried. Look. Sand martins.’
He points behind me, and I turn in time to see a small flock of pretty brown birds with white bellies flying past us. They disappear off into tiny holes in the cliffs, and I smile at the sight. By the time I turn back around, he’s on the move again, marching past the now-open café and towards the bookshop.
I dash to join the rollercoaster that is Brody, and he’s using the keys Moira gave us to let ourselves in. I notice the little signs of neglect: the dirty windows, the drooping flowers in the baskets, peeling paint on the blue door. Brody manages to get it open, but it takes a hefty shove of his shoulder. As he pushes it inwards, the little metal bell mechanism drops from above, and lands at our feet.
I lean down to pick it up, feeling so sorry for it. Once, it would have let out a sweet little tinkle every time somebody came to visit – now it’s broken and discarded. The smell seems stronger today, probably because of all the rain. Dust, damp, mould. The dead flowers giving off a Miss Havisham’s wedding bouquet vibe. I look around, and try to call up those pictures in Moira’s cottage – the way it used to be, so warm and lively, at the centre of things.
Brody prowls off to inspect the corner of the room, the bulging plasterwork from the leak. The books beneath it are stained and soggy, their pages swollen with moisture. I love books, just like my gran did, and I hate to see them like this. So much effort must have gone in to writing them, printing them, designing their covers. All that effort, all that magic, and they end up like this. It makes my heart feel heavy.
He goes into the kitchen, comes out with a broom. He pokes the plaster and it seems to burst some kind of bubble inside,water gushing out. I try to rescue the books, but he pulls me back.
‘They’re beyond help, Kate. Leave them. There are plenty more in here, and maybe they’re okay…’
He’s inspecting the room, but undoubtedly seeing it through different eyes than mine. He’s seeing structural defects and rot; I’m seeing the end of somebody’s dream. I squeeze away tears, and head into the back rooms. There are three, and one of them is a tiny kitchen. There’s still a kettle, and from the look of the place some mice too, so I decide against making a drink. Besides, I only came in here because I didn’t want to cry in front of him.
I spot a cork noticeboard, and look at the photos pinned up on there, tucked away amid flyers for long-gone village fetes and curled-up business cards. There’s one of Robbie, holding up a trophy in one hand and a football in the other, and another of Moira and her husband, Angus. He’s wearing a chunky sweater, a big man with silver hair and sparkling blue eyes. They’re standing together outside the shop, and it looks so different. So loved. I shiver, and it’s nothing to do with the temperature.
Once I’ve gathered myself, I walk back through, finding Brody on his hands and knees in one corner. He’s going through a pile of books, throwing away the ones that are too far gone, setting the others aside.
I pick up a waterlogged copy ofPride and Prejudice. I love that story, and it breaks my heart to see even one version of it get thrown away.
Brody sits back on his heels and looks up at me. ‘Why are we here again? It feels like a lost cause…’
I nod, and wrap my arms around myself. ‘I know. It’s pretty bad isn’t it?’
He rubs his face with his hands, like he’s washing it, gazing around at the neglected room. ‘Not what we signed up for, huh?I’m sorry, Kate. I know you were hoping for something… I don’t know, special?’
‘Well, if hopes were unicorns, I’d have a zoo full of zebras. Or whatever. I can’t remember the saying. This is what it is. And I know it might be a lost cause, and I know she’s planning to sell, but I’d still like to tidy it up a bit – as much for my own benefit as anything, so I don’t have to remember it quite like this. If I’m only here for a day, I’d like to spend it making a difference. What do you reckon?’
He thinks about it for a few seconds, and I realise that’s one of the things I like about him. He’s not a man who just says the first thing that comes into his head. He gives everything some consideration.
He nods, and climbs to his feet. I’m reminded, now we’re back indoors, of exactly how much space he takes up.
‘Yeah. Okay. But first I’ll go to the café for coffee. This is a coffee kind of day.’
