The sun hung low over the harbour, a disc of pale yellow thinly veiled in mist. Anchored, small boats tilted this way and that on the incoming tide. Gulls swooped and screamed overhead. Elder had walked into St Ives along the Coffin Path, passing small farm after small farm, low stone wall after low stone wall, climbing stile after stile. Burs clung to his trouser legs, mud to his boots.
At Wicca a black-and-white sheepdog ran warning circles around him, barking noisily, harrying his heels along the lane towards Boscubben before dropping back content, job done. It was close to here, where an arm of the path forked down towards the sea, that Elder had first made his home, years back now, in the wake of the breakdown of his marriage and his retirement from the Nottinghamshire force.
Originally a farm labourer’s cottage, walls of bare stone save for one unevenly plastered room, in its barrenness and austerity it had suited his mood perfectly. The farm to which it had formerly belonged had stood dilapidated and abandoned, sacking covering the windows, rough hasps and padlocks on the doors — the sad result, Elder had heard, of a family feud that had turned brother against brother, cousin against cousin, father against son.
Only gradually had he felt the need for more company than that of the beasts other farmers paid to pasture in the surrounding fields and the hail-and-well-met of occasional ramblers passing by. Now, both the farm buildings and the cottage had been restored, the farm itself with new owners who had found turning over their fields to the cultivation of maize as fodder for livestock more profitable than keeping the animals themselves, and the cottage was in its second season as a successful holiday let.
Times changed. Some people went under, others survived.
Both he and Joanne had made new lives for themselves, neither perfect, but then whose life was? As his own father had been so used to saying, look around you, lad, there are plenty others one hell of a lot worse off than you.
Which was doubtless true, and amongst those he knew it was Katherine, always Katherine that he worried about most. Now especially, when she had seemed to be getting herself together again after a myriad setbacks: a flat share in London with friends, genuine friends; enough work, almost, to keep the proverbial wolf from the door. Cheerful, almost, on the rare occasions they spoke, the even rarer occasions they met.
Till now.
Those bandaged wrists. Winter’s sudden death.
She was still avoiding his calls, not responding to his texts.
Elder had phoned Joanne to see if she’d heard from her and apparently they’d spoken briefly the day before. Aside from feeling a bit under the weather, Katherine had assured her she was okay, possibly coming down with a cold but nothing more. Nothing to worry about though, basically she was fine.
‘Are you going to go down and see her?’ Elder had asked.
‘Are you?’ Joanne snapped back.
Elder thought perhaps not: it was a long way to go to have the door slammed in your face as had happened in the past.
It’s my life, Dad. Why don’t you let me fuck it up whichever way I choose and then you can sod off and find a life of your own. Fuck that up. It’s what you’re good at, after all.
He pushed his coffee cup aside, folded the paper he’d been sporadically reading, and went inside the cafe to pay. He’d take a walk around to the other side of the bay, stroll around the island, and then head for home. Vicki was back from what sounded as if it had been a successful trip to South Wales and he’d promised to meet her in Newlyn later.
They had supper at Mackerel Sky — scallops and monkfish helped down with a bottle of decent wine — Vicki keen to tell him about the highlights of their tour. Audiences had been small, she said, but enthusiastic, and there’d been cash in hand enough at the end of the evening to cover expenses, plus the money made from the sale of the band’s new CD. Added to which, it had been a laugh. Even when the van they were travelling in broke down on the way from Cardiff to Swansea at three in the morning.
They went for a stroll along the front, the lights of Penzance hazy in the distance, Vicki’s hand in his. It didn’t have to be true love, not at their age, that was what she’d said. Nor was it. The truth was he felt comfortable in her company, was happy to listen to her stories, laugh at her jokes, liked to hear her sing. In bed, where she took the lead, he was pleased to follow. Her need, he guessed, roughly equal to his own.
‘You’ll come back?’ she said, leaning her head on his arm.
‘If I’m invited.’
She thumped him playfully in the ribs.
At her place in Marazion, no need to rush, she made tea, brightened his with a taste of Scotch, poured a small brandy for herself. When she asked after Katherine he shrugged, non-committal, he didn’t really know.
‘You can’t blame yourself for ever, Frank.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘That’s how it seems.’
‘Then maybe that’s how I feel.’
‘Because you haven’t always been there for her?’
‘That’s part of it.’
She stroked the back of his hand. ‘You’ve been there when it’s mattered, that’s what’s important. When it’s mattered most.’
‘Have I?’
‘That man who took her, when she was just a girl. Keach, was that his name? You were the one to save her.’
‘And if it hadn’t been for me, he might never have taken her in the first place.’
‘If it hadn’t been for you, Frank, she’d likely be dead.’
Elder rocked back, pushed her hand away.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I just don’t like to see you punishing yourself unnecessarily.’
‘It’s okay.
But it wasn’t, they both knew that.
Neither spoke for some little time.
‘I think I’d better go,’ Elder said, edging back his chair.
He got as far as the main door, the street, a jolt of cold air snapping him to his senses.
Vicki was standing in the centre of the room. ‘Forget something?’
Elder shrugged. ‘I thought I might apologise.’
‘What for?’
‘My quick temper.’
In bed they made spoons, her arms first around his, then his around hers. Closeness, what they both needed then, nothing more. A short while later she was fast asleep, leaving Elder feeling the quiet, settled pulse of her body against his, the night outside vast, unknowable and dark.