FORGOTTEN LAUGHTER
A WEEK IN WINTER
WINNING THROUGH
HOLDING ON
LOOKING FORWARD
SECOND TIME AROUND
STARTING OVER
HATTIE’S MILL
THE COURTYARD
THEA’S PARROT
THOSE WHO SERVE
THE DIPPER
THE CHILDREN’S HOUR
THE BIRDCAGE
THE GOLDEN CUP
ECHOES OF THE DANCE
MEMORIES OF THE STORM
THE WAY WE WERE
THE PRODIGAL WIFE
THE SUMMER HOUSE
THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL
THE SEA GARDEN
POSTCARDS FROM THE PAST
INDIAN SUMMER
SUMMER ON THE RIVER
THE SONGBIRD
For more information on Marcia Willett and her books, see her website at www.marciawillett.co.uk
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Marcia Willett 2017
Cover illustration © Hannah George.
Title lettering © Sarah J. Coleman.
Cover design by Becky Glibbery/TW
Marcia Willett has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
The author thanks Jenna Plewes and her publishers, Indigo Dreams, for allowing her to quote from her poem ‘The Final Session’.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473540842
ISBN 9780593076873
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1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
To Tom Dunne
SUMMER HOLIDAYS: ON the journey from Truro to the Beach Hut, the twins are either singing or talking.
‘Good grief, Charlie Brown,’ cries Baz, their grandfather, turning round from the front passenger seat to smile at them. ‘Do you two never stop?’
‘Good grief, Charlie Brown,’ they shout back at him in unison, and roar with laughter – and their mother, who is driving, laughs with them.
Liv adores her father-in-law. He and Matt are so alike: both tall and elegant, though Baz is broader than his son, both comfortable in their skins, always ready for an impromptu party. The prospect of two weeks at Baz’s beach house on the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge fills Liv with delight. She feels slightly guilty at leaving Matt to cope with their bistro, The Place, tucked away in the shadow of the cathedral, but it’s barely two hours’ drive from Truro and Matt will be able to spend some time at the seaside with them.
She glances in the driving mirror, stretching up to see her twins in their little chairs, butter-blond mops of hair, wide blue eyes, heads close together: Freddie and Flora. Her heart contracts with love and tenderness and fear: they are so precious to her.
‘It’s kind of weird,’ she says to Baz. ‘Mum showed me a photograph of Andy and me at that age and it’s uncanny how like us they are.’
‘Genetics,’ Baz says.
‘I know,’ she answers, as she turns on to the A38 at Liskeard and heads towards Saltash and the bridge that crosses the River Tamar. ‘I suppose it’s the twin thing that gets me. They’re really going to enjoy the Hut this year, Baz. Nearly five is just such a lovely age, isn’t it?’
He laughs at her. ‘You think I can remember that far back? Do me a favour.’
‘I bet you loved the Beach Hut when you were four,’ she says.
Baz stares ahead, frowning a little, as if casting his mind back more than sixty years.
‘My mother loved it,’ he says. ‘We spent whole holidays there while my old pa commuted from Bristol at the weekends.’
‘And you gave wonderful parties in the atrium,’ she prompts him.
Baz chuckles reminiscently. ‘Oh, we did. I used to sit under the table when I was tiny and watch people’s feet. Very revealing, you know, foot-language.’
‘I’ll remember that. And your parties are still legendary. The neighbours will all be waiting for you to turn up. The word will have gone round that you’re on your way.’
Baz sighs with satisfaction mixed with regret. ‘I don’t get down as often as I should. The road from Bristol seems to get longer and the traffic worse every time. This was a good plan of yours, Liv. For me to catch the train to Truro and for us all to go together.’
‘Totally selfish,’ answers Liv. ‘I need my seaside fix. I love Truro and The Place and everything, I love the buzz and the events we put on, but I still need to get up and go when the sun shines.’
‘But you’re a North Cornwall girl at heart,’ he teases. ‘Those towering black cliffs, and the Atlantic rollers, and “surf’s up” and all of that. You’re not really a South Devon, placid little sandy beaches and rock pools girl, are you?’
‘I do love all of that, but I’m a Beach Hut girl, too,’ she says. ‘I love it there on that secret sandy beach, and the twins love those little warm pools. It’s perfect.’ She slows the car slightly. ‘We’re nearly at the bridge. Look, twinnies. Look at the River Tamar and the boats.’
They sit up straight, craning to peer upstream towards Bere Ferrers and then down-river to the shining water of the Hamoaze, where white and blue sails that look like tiny wings flitter to and fro.
‘You’ll be able to take them out in the boat this year,’ Liv says mischievously as they cross from Cornwall into Devon and begin the drive round Plymouth’s ring road and on to resume the A38. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’
‘Not both together,’ protests Baz at once. ‘Or, at least, not unaccompanied. It’s a very small boat.’
‘They’re very small people,’ says Liv. ‘And they can both swim now.’
He laughs. ‘Spartan mother.’
‘It’s the way we were brought up,’ says Liv. ‘Dad used to quote that Swallows and Amazons thing. “Better drowned than duffers if not duffers won’t drown.”’
‘I’m not sure that would go down well in this politically correct age,’ murmurs Baz. ‘Your old dad is a law unto himself. How are he and Julia enjoying the US of A?’
‘They’re loving it, and loving seeing Zack and Caroline and the grandchildren. I think Dad’s got a new idea of chartering a yacht and sailing himself across next time.’
Baz gives a snort of laughter. ‘Good old Pete! And what does Julia say to that?’
‘Mum would rather eat her own arm than get into any kind of boat with Dad. Not a water person at all, Mum. She just doesn’t get it. Not that Dad minds. He’d much rather go off with an oppo occasionally.’
‘It’s all those years in submarines,’ says Baz. ‘All that comradeship and runs ashore. Old habits die hard.’
The twins begin to grizzle: they’re hot; they need a drink; they need it now.
‘OK,’ says Liv pacifically. ‘You’re doing well. Let’s stop and have a little something. And Jenks can have a walk.’
A black and white collie cross retriever, curled down amongst the luggage, hauls himself upright and looks hopeful. The twins twist in their seats to talk to him, promising treats if he is good.
Liv pulls off the A38 into smaller roads and then at last into narrow lanes. Immediately a sense of peace engulfs them. In the tall hedgerows sweet-scented honeysuckle loops and tangles amongst thorn and ash, and slender foxgloves lean, heavy-headed, to brush the car’s sides. Liv backs into a field gateway. The crop has been harvested, the gate left open, and she climbs out, lifts up the tailgate and allows Jenks to jump out and run into the field of golden stubble. Baz opens the back doors and soon Flora and Freddie are racing around in the field whilst Liv makes coffee for Baz with hot water from a Thermos and hands him the mug.
On journeys with the twins she’s always prepared for breaks, sudden snacks, and she prefers to be out in the open than in stuffy roadside cafés.
‘Look at Jenks,’ she says, taking a refreshing swallow from her bottle of water. ‘He’s loving it, isn’t he?’
Jenks is running towards a small group of crows drilling for worms amongst the stubble; the twins are close behind him waving their arms and shouting. The crows swoop up with harsh discordant cries and a beating of black wings, and Jenks barks triumphantly as if he has scored a victory. Freddie tumbles and cries out. Flora pauses beside him, bending to look at him, he gets up and they both come running back.
‘My knee,’ shouts Freddie. ‘It’s bleeding, Mummy. The grass is all sharp.’
He arrives beside her, panting for breath, stretching out his leg to show her his wounds, his eyes indignant, mouth turned ominously down.
‘This grass is too stiff,’ says Flora, rubbing her bare legs. ‘It hurts.’
Liv is getting wet wipes and a small jar of cream from a bag and making sympathetic noises. She cleans the scratches and anoints them with cream.
‘There,’ she says. ‘All better now. Would you like a smoothie?’
She smiles as Freddie hesitates, clearly wondering whether his injury has received the full sympathy and attention it deserves, but Flora is jumping up and down shouting ‘smoothies’, and he decides that this treat will be recompense enough. They go back into the field, drinking their smoothies and calling to Jenks. Liv watches them, relishing the beauty and the fragility of her children and this warm summer morning: so much happiness can be frightening.
She perches on the tailgate, lifting her face to the sunshine, eyes closed. Her lips curve upwards at the prospect of the holiday ahead: two weeks at Baz’s Beach Hut set in its pretty secluded cove, with no school run, no dashes to the bistro, free of the usual routine. Of course it’s disappointing that poor Matt has to remain behind; awful for their bar manager, Joe, that he should snap his Achilles tendon diving into a swimming pool.
‘The timing is dire,’ Matt said, ‘but it would be crazy to cancel, with Dad here all ready to go. I’ll try to get something sorted out and meanwhile I can drive up to see you when I have some time off.’
Despite her sense of guilt, the feeling that she’s made a dash for freedom, Liv allows herself to relax. The holidays have begun.
Baz strolls along the hedgerow, drinking his coffee. A pheasant breaks cover, running stiff-legged in the ditch, and small brown butterflies flutter over the brambles where blackberries are ripening. Swallows dive and skim above his head, and beyond the far rim of the bleached field he can see the dazzling blue flash of water, a charcoal scrim of roof-scape at Outer Hope, and the stony black outcrop of Bolt Tail. He sighs with pleasure. These are the cliffs and beaches of his childhood: Bantham, Bigbury, Thurlestone. Staying at the Beach Hut, walking the cliff paths, sailing his dinghy round to Salcombe and up the estuary to Kingsbridge was a crucial part of every summer holiday. Though nothing would tempt him for very long from his elegant flat in Caledonia Place, or his art gallery in Clifton Village, he still loves his excursions to the Beach Hut. He’s always enjoyed inviting a friend to stay for the weekend, giving a little party for his local chums, sailing his small dinghy. And now he is able to share it with Matt and Liv and the twins so that the jaunt to the Beach Hut for a few weeks each summer has become an annual family event for them, too. It’s unfortunate that Matt will have to remain behind in Truro, though Baz has a slight suspicion that his son might welcome a little break from the exuberance of Flora and Freddie. Matt is probably looking forward to the quiet emptiness of the little town house when he gets home after busy, noisy evenings in The Place.
Jenks runs towards Baz, drops a stone at his feet, and looks up hopefully at him and then down at the stone, willing Baz to throw it. The plumy tail waves with anticipation, his ears cocked; Jenks’ whole body is tense with excitement.
‘Daft animal,’ mutters Baz affectionately.
He bends down to pick up the stone and spin it across the field. Jenks is after it, tail rotating, paws sending up the dry, dusty earth, and the twins laugh and cheer him on.
Baz’s phone pings and he fishes it out of his jeans pocket and flips it open: a text message from his old friend Maurice.
‘Fancy one last canter for old times’ sake, mon vieux?’
Baz stares thoughtfully at the message, snaps his phone shut, and wanders back to Liv, who has made herself a cup of camomile tea and is watching the twins. Jenks is back with the stone and Baz hurls it away again.
‘He doesn’t seem to be missing your parents too much,’ he observes. ‘He’s a nice chap. Did you say he’s a rescue dog?’
‘Poor Jenks,’ says Liv. ‘He probably does miss them but he’s too much of a gent to show it. Yes. Mum got him from the Cinnamon Trust when his elderly owner died. He’d had him as a puppy. Apparently the old fellow was a Times reader and a great fan of Sir Simon Jenkins so he named the puppy after the Great Jenks. He’s such a gentle dog and he’s adapted so quickly to his new home. He and Mum bonded at once. Luckily he knows us pretty well so he’s coping with them being away. Thanks for letting him come to the Beach Hut, Baz. He won’t be a nuisance. He’s really the most obliging dog. He’ll love the swimming.’
‘The more the merrier,’ answers Baz – but he is just the least bit distracted. He finishes his coffee, thinking about Maurice’s message, the old excitement stirring. Would it be madness to have one last throw of the dice? He knows it would; of course it would. Yet this morning he is restless, aware of the passage of years, and just at this moment such recklessness is appealing.
The twins arrive back with Jenks, and Liv prepares to get packed up and on their way.
‘Shall I drive?’ asks Baz. He suddenly feels the need to be active, in control, driving them down that familiar narrow lane and bringing them all to the Beach Hut.
‘If you like,’ says Liv, seeming to sense his mood. ‘I can get out and do the farm gates.’
‘Great,’ he says, easing himself into the driving seat, putting the seat back so as to accommodate his long legs. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go!’
Liv fastens the twins into their seats, parts Jenks from his stone and shuts the tailgate. She climbs into the passenger seat and turns to smile at the twins.
‘Ready?’ she asks. ‘All set for the Beach Hut?’
‘The Beach Hut,’ they shout. ‘Hurrah!’
And Jenks lets out one short bark as if he is joining in with the excitement.
‘Onward,’ says Baz, and turns out into the lane, heading towards the sea.
AS BAZ DRIVES them across the cliff-tops, through deep narrow lanes where the few hunched trees turn their backs to the sea, the high wide spaces of blue sky indicate that they are near the coast. The car swings off into a track and Liv gets out to open the first of the farm gates. Baz’s family used to own all this wind-scoured land but now only the Beach Hut, with its wild-flower meadow and the tiny secret cove, belongs to him.
Liv climbs back into the car, they begin the descent to the beach, and the twins fall silent with expectation, craning to get their first glimpse of the pretty, faded blue, seaside house. Even in its earliest days the Beach Hut was no simple Victorian seaside structure. Baz’s great-grandfather had an eye to the housing of his large brood on their future visits to the farm and the Beach Hut was just the place for it. True, the solid stone dwelling was clad with painted clapboard, with a high pointed roof so that it looked the part, but a wing each side of this large central space made it possible to create bedrooms and a kitchen and, as the years passed and water and electricity became accessible, lavatories and shower-rooms. The ‘Beach Hut’ was the family name for it, a kind of affectionate joke, and visitors seeing it for the first time were taken aback.
‘Not quite what we imagined,’ they’d murmur, gazing around the atrium with its long French farmhouse table, comfortable sofas covered with striped ticking, and wood-burning stove. And Baz would enjoy their surprise, planning his first party of the holidays.
‘I suppose the faithful Meggie will have been busy,’ murmurs Liv as the car bumps gently down the track and the twins stare out at the grazing sheep.
Baz beams at the prospect of his reception. ‘She texted me earlier. She’s been in this morning to open up and then gone home to do some cooking. We must keep up the annual tradition. Arrive on Friday. Party on Saturday. The invitations have gone out. She knows the form.’
‘You are so lucky to have Meggie,’ says Liv.
But she knows that Meggie is lucky, too. Since her husband had an accident that makes it impossible for him to work, Meggie is glad to have the income that Baz puts her way: care-taking the Beach Hut, cooking and cleaning for his guests and for Baz when he can get down. Liv guesses that Baz is very generous to Meggie, and she smiles sideways at him. His ability to love, to share, is just one of the reasons that Liv is so fond of him: a quality Matt has inherited, which is why she fell in love with him. There is a humility to Baz’s giving, a true generosity of spirit that is never patronizing.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘But I approve of Meggie. She doesn’t whinge and whine. She grafts. Ever since poor old Phil fell off his ladder and crushed his leg and then had that ghastly C. diff she’s worked like a beaver to keep them going. And he’s a lovely bloke.’
The twins begin to shout, and Jenks struggles up again to see what’s happening, and here they are at last. With its paint the colour of faded bluebells, the top half of the front door open to the sunshine, the Beach Hut has a kindly, welcoming appearance. The tide is on the turn, exposing small rock pools and shiny seaweed; the sand is washed clean and smooth.
Liv climbs out of the car and hastens to release the twins and Jenks, to let them run free.
‘No paddling,’ she shouts. ‘Wait till we’ve got the car unpacked. Look, your spades are here and your buckets.’
They run back to her to collect the brightly coloured plastic buckets and spades.
‘I’ll keep an eye,’ Baz says, opening the bottom half of the door and then heaving Liv’s cases inside. ‘Get yourself organized. We’ll have a “Find the Best Shell” competition and then you can watch them while I make us some lunch.’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’d like to just get a bit organized,’ but she hesitates for a moment, looking around her. Remembering her childhood spent on Bodmin Moor, and the wild grandeur of the North Cornish coast, she finds this south-facing cove almost domestic by comparison; sheltered from the westerlies by a protective rocky arm, backed by cliffs and farmland, flanked by a small meadow richly painted with wild flowers.
Liv smiles with pleasure – and suddenly is pierced with a pang of longing for Matt. He should be here, too, striding down the beach, shouting to the twins, laughing at Jenks’ antics as he bounds in and out of the withdrawing tide.
‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Matt told her yesterday morning, phoning her from The Place, ‘but Joe’s snapped his Achilles tendon diving into the swimming pool. He’s in A and E.’
She stood in the twins’ bedroom, clothes, toys and books piled on Flora’s bed, with their little cases and rucksacks ready to be packed, holding her phone and listening in dismay.
‘Oh God. Poor Joe. Will he be OK?’
‘Yes, but not mobile for a few days.’
‘But what does that mean?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I mean, shan’t we be able to go to the Beach Hut tomorrow?’
Matt was silent for a moment.
‘You can’t disappoint Dad and the twins at this late date,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have to stay and sort something out and then join you in a few days’ time.’
Liv still feels guilty when she thinks of how relieved she was that the holiday wasn’t to be cancelled. But a bar manager is not easy to replace and Liv isn’t too sanguine. Matt loves the Beach Hut – he loves to swim and sail Baz’s dinghy – however, she is not so naïve as to suspect that he won’t enjoy a brief separation from his little family. Perhaps, she tells herself, Matt will be refreshed by the break even if he will be kept busy at The Place. Though she still wishes that he could be with them this reflection makes her feel less guilty at her willing defection. She goes inside, picks up one of the bags, pauses to glance around her approvingly at the familiar atrium with fresh-picked wild flowers in a jug on the long polished table, and then goes upstairs to the twins’ bedroom.
Baz strolls along the littoral on the soft shingly sand. The twins crouch over treasures left by the tide amongst the long brown tresses of rock weed: shells and pebbles, a starfish, a faded old beach shoe. The starfish is put tenderly into Freddie’s bucket and carried to a rock pool where the twins argue about exactly where it should be placed to its best advantage.
Baz pauses, hands in his jeans pockets, listening to their voices mingling with the gulls’ cries and the endless sigh and suck of the retreating sea. Memory plays a little trick, the scene dislimns and re-forms, and it is Matt he is watching: a small Matt who is preoccupied by the mysterious life in the warm pool. His young mother, Lucy, stands smiling down at him, her hands placed with unconsciously protective tenderness across her swelling belly.
Grief strikes Baz, sharp as a blade in the heart; remembrance of the grief and rage and the familiar sense of impotence that was only partly ameliorated by that crazy canter with Maurice. Locked into the pain of losing Lucy and the baby, leaving small Matt motherless, the gamble was a furious gesture of revenge, though against what or whom he was taking revenge would have been difficult to answer. Fate, perhaps?
How long ago it was and yet the pain of loss is fresh; his sense of guilt, that he should have done more for Lucy, still keen.
‘It will pass,’ people told him, usually people who had never experienced anything so tragic. His friends were shocked. It coloured the relationship they shared with him so that he grew to dread their quickly adopted doleful expressions of sympathetic gloom, their hushed voices. Nothing was normal any more. It was as if he were a skeleton at their feasts and they could not quite enjoy themselves so much if he were present. Their watchful restraint indicated that their laughter and jokes seemed disrespectful to his grief so that he in turn felt guilty if he found joy or amusement in any situation. He began to avoid them and was glad to move to Bristol to begin a new life.
Jenks bounds up, lays a stone at his feet and bows down on his front paws, his stern high in the air, his tail waving hopefully. Baz takes a deep breath, the pain recedes slightly, and he bends to pick up the stone. He flings it far down the beach with a violently dismissive action as if he is tossing away far more than the stone – but he smiles involuntarily at the sight of Jenks, the sand spurting beneath his paws, as he races after it.
The twins call to him in high reedy voices carried on puffs of salty wind. They are digging in the cold wet sand, their spades slicing and turning, patting and shaping.
‘It’s a castle,’ they tell him, their small faces bright with excitement and exertion. ‘We need shells to decorate it, Baz. Lots and lots of shells.’
‘Well, don’t look at me,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m too ancient to go crawling round the beach looking for shells. Think of my poor old knees.’
‘But we need them, Baz,’ they cry. ‘Please, Baz,’ and they thrust a plastic bucket into his hand.
‘Tyrants,’ he says, taking the bucket, turning to his task but looking hopefully towards the Beach Hut for Liv.
Jenks returns with his stone, triumphantly retrieved, and Baz groans and throws it again far towards the retreating tide. He walks slowly, head bent, looking for shells, pieces of sea-smoothed glass, pretty pebbles, which will win the twins’ approval. His pain has dissolved; his natural cheerful optimism restored. So engrossed is he in his task that he doesn’t see Liv emerge and wave.
‘Time for lunch,’ she calls.
Baz straightens up with relief and takes the bucketful of shells to the twins.
‘Mummy’s calling,’ he says. ‘We’ll finish this afterwards. Come on. Lunchtime.’
The twins complain and prevaricate but they are hungry and suddenly they abandon their spades and the sandcastle and run up the beach, shouting to each other and to Liv. Jenks reappears with his stone and they head back to the Beach Hut together.
The table is set with pretty earthenware bowls of salad leaves, tiny red and yellow tomatoes, and a quiche.
‘This looks good, doesn’t it, twins?’ says Baz. ‘Thanks, Liv. I was going to do lunch.’
‘It’s a bit of a picnic, really,’ says Liv. ‘And I could see that you were enjoying yourself throwing stones for Jenks and collecting shells.’
She grins at him mischievously as he helps Flora to scramble on to a chair, pushing it in close to the table, and he smiles back at her.
‘Just for that I shan’t take you out in the dinghy after lunch,’ he says, sitting down.
The twins immediately set up a clamour: they want to go in the dinghy.
‘We shall all go in the dinghy,’ Liv says firmly, putting slices of quiche and some salad on to their plates, ‘but only if you promise to sit very still and do exactly as Baz tells you.’
‘No jumping about,’ he says sternly. ‘No leaning out over the side.’
Freddie and Flora look at Baz and Liv knows that they are deciding whether or not to promise to behave. She can see that they are silently communing with each other as they eat, just as she and her own twin, Andy, used to do. How odd is that secret, inexplicable connection; how mysterious and important. She can tell the exact moment that they silently agree that to go sailing with Baz is worth being on their best behaviour – and they beam at him angelically with open, innocent faces.
He looks back at them suspiciously and Liv chuckles.
‘They’ll be good,’ she promises, ‘and we’ll take some photographs to show Daddy.’
‘Hmm,’ says Baz, unconvinced by this unexpected show of docility.
‘Do you think Jenks will like sailing?’ asks Freddie.
‘No way,’ Baz answers at once. ‘There is no way Jenks is coming in the dinghy. He is not a sea dog and anyway he might be sick.’
The twins, who are on the point of vociferous protest, pause to look anxiously at Jenks lying outside the open door.
‘Would he be sick?’ asks Flora.
‘Yes,’ says Baz quickly, staring challengingly at Liv, daring her to contradict him. ‘Dogs like Jenks are always sick at sea. He’s a collie, he herds sheep and stuff like that. He’s a land dog.’
The twins look for confirmation at Liv and she nods.
‘Poor Jenks is too old to learn to be a sea dog,’ she tells them. ‘And he’s worn out with all his exercise this morning. He can have a good sleep and then we’ll take him for a walk on the cliff after tea. Now if you’ve both eaten enough go upstairs and unpack your rucksacks while I clear up here and then we’ll get ready to go sailing.’
The twins climb down but first they go out to Jenks and crouch beside him, stroking him and murmuring to him. He raises his head and thumps his tail upon the floor and stretches out again in the sunshine. Liv watches them: how cute they are in their pretty seaside clothes. Her heart brims with love. They come back inside and climb the stairs and she turns to the table and sees that Baz is watching her with an odd expression in his eyes.
‘Men love their women, women love their children, children love their animals,’ he says.
She stares at him and for some reason she thinks almost guiltily about Matt. It is true that since the twins’ births she and Matt haven’t had quite so much quality time together. There is always so much to do, juggling The Place and the twins. Sometimes – more often than she likes to admit – Matt sleeps in the spare room when he gets back late from the bistro so as not to disturb her, and those precious intimate moments, pre-twins, have become far fewer. Perhaps, because she loves the twins so much and is so preoccupied with them, this worries her less than it should. But how does Matt feel about it? It’s just such bad luck that he isn’t here with them now to have some downtime. She’ll send him a text to say they’ve arrived and they’re missing him.
Liv smiles quickly at Baz and goes to find her mobile phone.
MATT IS SITTING in his small office, crouching in front of the accounts, when Liv’s text pings in. He pushes the papers aside and leans his elbows on the desk to read it.
‘Safely here. About to go sailing! Help! We miss you. How are you doing? xxxx’
He smiles wryly. There are several subtexts here. The main message is simply to tell him of their safe arrival; another is sharing a joke about being in that small dinghy with the twins; the third is more complicated. He knows that Liv feels guilty about leaving him to manage without the capable Joe but he suspects, too, that absence is making the heart grow fonder, though he hadn’t expected it quite so quickly.
Matt turns, swivelling away from the computer, staring at nothing in particular. The last few years have been busy, stressful and demanding. There have been times of great fun, of joy and laughter – they both love their twins to bits – but those old days of easy companionship, spontaneous sex, carefree intimacy are past. He and Liv were free spirits until their late thirties and this new kind of responsibility – the full-on, relentless task of parenting – has changed the dynamic of their relationship. It’s a little easier now that Freddie and Flora spend more time at nursery, but it doesn’t help during those evenings when special events – local author talks and book signings, poetry readings, quizzes, live music – on which The Place has built its reputation, require Liv’s front-of-house presence. She is quite brilliant on these occasions: hosting, chairing, simply being there talking to the punters, making them laugh.
Matt folds his arms across his chest and stretches out his long legs. He and Liv built The Place together, moving it beyond being a bistro to a special venue for events, for parties, receptions. The first floor, The Place Upstairs, is always fully booked for all kinds of functions and has an individual charm: a mix of clean minimalist modern artworks alongside bookcases full of much-read books, straw-pale cane chairs amongst dark-brown rubbed-leather sofas. Somehow it works. Liv’s instinct is invariably spot-on and Matt has a great respect for it.
It is difficult now to manage these events together if a baby-sitter cannot be found, and they both miss that sharing, the excitement and relief when all goes well, and the return home full of content to fall into bed together – not always to make love, they are often too tired, but to lie closely entwined, still high on the success of their hard work.
Now, more often than not, these evenings have to be hosted by one of them whilst the other one stays with the twins. Now, thinks Matt resentfully, the subject with which Liv greets him on her return from The Place is no longer to do with the excitement of the event but much more prosaic: ‘Did you put the washing machine on? Did you remember to put the rubbish out?’
Sometimes, when he hosts the event, he will find Liv in bed and already asleep when he gets home and then he goes into the spare room so as not to disturb her. But he misses those nights of intimacy, of shared physical release after the excitement of a successful evening, and it worries him that Liv seems not to mind as much as he does.
‘I’m so tired,’ she says – and so is he – and he knows that he is often grumpy and impatient, and they both understand why. He knows, too, that just lately Liv has been indicating that she’s ready for a change. He first met her when she’d been helping a university friend and his wife to establish a holiday home complex, Penharrow, over on the North Cornish coast at Port Isaac. One of Liv’s great strengths is an ability to envisage a project and then to make it work. She has such energy, such commitment, such vision – and a business head to go with these gifts. Yet once everything is up and running, she begins to lose interest and to look for pastures new. Hearing of her reputation, Matt found her at Penharrow at just this point, when she was ready for a new project, and took her down to Truro to see The Place; to discuss its possibilities. She saw the potential, accepted the challenge, moved into the little flat at the top of the building and started on the new venture.
He fell in love with her very quickly. She was so original in her humour, her directness, and her absolute need to get up and go when the sun was shining and the soft west wind was sweeping across the peninsula. Yet she had a strong work ethic; she was reliable. He learned to adapt to those odd dashes for freedom, to respect the way she lived and worked, and could hardly believe his luck when she told him she loved him. Within eighteen months the business was becoming a great success, they married and two years later the twins arrived.
But now Liv is becoming restless. She’s been very happy living in Truro but Matt knows that Liv is a country girl. She grew up on Bodmin Moor, not far from Tintagel, and she misses the moors, the beaches, the surfing – and she would like to try running a glamping site.
Matt sighs. He can’t quite bring himself to contemplate this change and he is beginning to dread the subject of yurts and conversations that start: ‘I’ve seen a nice little camping site up for sale …’ It’s becoming increasingly difficult to prevaricate and it is slightly worrying that, whilst he is cross that he can’t be with his family at the Beach Hut, he’s actually looking forward to a rest from the ongoing round of marriage and fatherhood. Being a bachelor again for a week or so has its attractions.
Matt uncrosses his arms and taps out a text.
‘Tell Dad not to drown you all. x’
He can imagine them: out sailing, walking on the cliffs, planning the party Baz always gives when he arrives each summer. Meanwhile Matt has work to do. He puts his phone in his pocket and goes out into the bar. They don’t take lunchtime bookings but it’s already busy, the bar staff hurrying around, the room bright and noisy: the gleam of light on the bottles behind the bar, the hiss of the coffee machine, the clash of ice cubes being ladled into a glass. As he pauses to check with one of the girls that all is well he hears someone speak his name.
‘Hi, Matt.’
She stands at his elbow: thin as a pin, chic in black linen. How oddly attractive that close-set slant-eyed look is, he thinks, and he feels a conflicting sensation of pleasure and apprehension.
‘Catriona,’ he answers lightly. ‘Down for a holiday?’
She smiles. ‘I’m at the cottage at Rock, yes. I hear that Liv’s taken the twins and gone off with your old dad and you’ve been left here to mind the shop.’
It’s typical that she invests the facts with less than flattering implications.
‘Something like that,’ he agrees, refusing to take the bait and explain the truth of the matter. ‘I hope someone is looking after you. Are you having lunch?’
‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ she says at once, completely wrong-footing him. ‘Lovely. Shall we sit in the corner?’
Matt begins to laugh; he can’t help himself. And after all, why not? He knows that Liv would be furious – ‘Cat is bad news,’ she always says after one of these impromptu visits, ‘she’s a troublemaker’ – but Liv isn’t here and suddenly he decides to go with the flow.
‘I don’t usually have time for lunch,’ he begins.
‘But today you’ll make an exception,’ she finishes, black eyes glinting. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, no. I have to work. What about you?’
‘I’m driving,’ she says. ‘Tiresome, isn’t it? I’ll come one evening and find somewhere to stay the night. Then we can relax.’
Her raised eyebrows encourage complicity, a whiff of danger, and he feels irritated and flattered both at the same time.
‘A cold drink then?’ He remains standing as she sits down and picks up a menu. ‘Have a look at the specials board.’
She keeps him waiting whilst she scans the menu. ‘I’ll have the charcuterie board,’ she says, ignoring his suggestion. ‘And a cool ginger beer. No ice.’
He gives a little shrug at her almost peremptory request and goes to the bar. As he waits to order he can see her reflection in the long mirror behind the bar. She doesn’t touch her hair or fiddle with her phone or her bag, she simply stares at his back with an expression in which amusement and calculation are mingled.
‘We always called her Cat when we were children,’ he remembers Liv telling him. ‘Now she prefers to be called Catriona but she’ll always be Cat to me. Just take my word for it. She’s trouble.’
But just this once he doesn’t want to take Liv’s word for it. Today he’s going to take a chance and decide for himself.