‘Hi, Dad,’ Bel said, surprised to hear her father’s voice, as he seldom called her, these days. She hadn’t stopped worrying about him and still phoned and texted him regularly, communications he often chose to ignore. But she’d been so busy recently that he no longer occupied centre stage on her radar. If she’d had time to think about this, it might have felt good. But she hadn’t.
Between shifts at the farm shop Bel had been wrangling unforgiving chunks of wood, sawdust on every surface, terrifying drills and hacksaws, nails and screws, blistered palms and bruised knuckles, all of which had resulted in such aching muscles it was painful for her to lift even one of Mr A’s crates. She was, in all areas of her life, on a steep learning curve. It was the third week of June – she’d been in Cornwall more than five weeks now – and her kitchen was all but ready. It just needed a lick of paint, once the plaster behind the stove had dried.
Micky and JJ, despite her protestations that she could do it herself, had helped clear the debris from her wrecking-ball moment. Then Micky had steered her towards a salvage place that sold reclaimed wood. It was more expensive, but because of that, not as popular as the new timber that was currently in such short supply – and she didn’t need much.
Bel had insisted on paying him to show her how to render the wall behind the stove and put up shelves, paid him, too, for fashioning the worktop, which Micky crafted in wide planks of reclaimed ash. Bel didn’t do all the work by a long chalk, but she’d measured and sawn wood, mixed plaster, sanded and drilled, levelled brackets – although Micky wouldn’t let her near his SDS drill – done enough to feel a real satisfaction in the open shelves and pale-wood worktop that fitted snugly around the Rayburn and sink, giving the place a lighter, airier, more rustic feel.
The room felt properly hers, now, the last vestiges of Lenny finally drifting away. And his absence seemed to leave room for the warmth of Agnes’s spirit to return. Bel was more and more conscious of her mum, sensing her loving aura all around her in the little cottage that had meant so much to her. She felt closer to her now, in fact, than at any time since she’d died. It was almost as if her father’s overbearing presence in the flat had kept her spirit away. Bel didn’t find this notion far-fetched or fanciful, didn’t question it at all, just welcomed her mother back into her life with open arms and began a comforting dialogue.
Chuck it, or repair it? Bel asked her mum one evening, for instance, as she eyed the stained teak coffee table, although she already knew the answer. ‘Repair it, of course,’ would have been Agnes’s reproving reply: her mum had never thrown anything away. So Bel set about sanding the table, removing all the seventies varnish until the teak was light and unmarked. It was much harder than she’d anticipated, especially around the legs, the tips of her fingers rubbed raw by the sandpaper, the task taking till late into a couple of nights before she was satisfied and could rub Danish oil – recommended by Micky – into the wood with a soft cloth, to protect it. But it did look lovely by the time she’d finished.
Now, her father was speaking and she forced her tired brain to concentrate.
‘I’m coming down on the seventh of July,’ he declared. ‘You were doing sod all about it, so I booked myself in with that Scottish fella at the pub. Says he knows you. Seemed to approve.’
It was true that Logan and Bel had got to know each other a bit these last weeks. As the summer took hold, she would sometimes sit with Patsy and friends at one of the pub’s outside tables, with a beer and boxes of triple-cooked chips. The chef’s speciality.
‘Everyone knows everyone round here,’ Bel said, feeling a strong twinge of guilt. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten to arrange her father’s visit. She’d just kept putting it off. ‘Great, Dad,’ she added, not really focusing as she realized the loaf she was baking in her new, almost finished kitchen was nearly ready, the timer telling her three minutes. She was already enjoying the tempting waft of warm toasty smells leaking from the oven. ‘How long are you staying?’
‘Ten days. He was fully booked after that.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said. I can cope with ten days, she told herself. How bad can it be?
‘You’d better get rid of that chap you’ve got hidden away down there. No room for two men in your life, girl.’ Her father snorted, obviously in a high old mood.
‘OK, will do,’ she said, with equal cheer. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve been baking and the bread’s nearly ready. I’ll call later.’
The moment of truth, she thought excitedly, as she put her phone down and reached for the cracked Bakelite oven handle. She’d waited for an age to get the Rayburn up to temperature, but she wasn’t sure the gauge was even vaguely accurate any more.
She opened the door to a cloud of steam, and sighed with disappointment. The bread had not risen above the rim of the tin. It looked dense and a little burned around the edges. Discouraged, she tipped the loaf into her oven-gloved hand and inspected the bottom, tapping it with her finger. It responded dully and seemed to weigh a ton. More brick than bread. Almost as bad as last time in Dad’s oven, she thought, setting it on its end – because she didn’t have a cooling rack – with a wry smile. But, after the moment of let-down had passed, Bel was undeterred. She hadn’t really expected to get it right first time in another unfamiliar oven.
Leaving the loaf to cool – she might just be able to eat it later – she hurried out of the cottage in her swimsuit and dry robe. JJ and Micky were taking her and Jaz – who had just finished her exams – windsurfing at Praa Sands, where their mate ran a surfing school. The wind was just right, JJ insisted, the swell perfect. Jaz was quite an accomplished windsurfer, so it was only Bel who was nervous as they piled into the van.
As they drove up the lane to the main road, a vehicle coming in the opposite direction took the corner too fast and JJ had to swerve. ‘Arse,’ he shouted, out of the open window. Bel was turned, chatting to Jaz on the back seat about her last exam the day before, and hadn’t seen what happened. When she heard JJ curse, she checked the side mirror and saw the back of a red van careering down the lane and out of sight.
Bel, as it turned out, was not as useless as she’d feared. It took a mighty heave to get the sail upright, and the strain on her arms as she held it in place, at the same time balancing on the surfboard, knees cracking, thighs screaming, took up every ounce of concentration. She fell off more than once. But the thrill as the sail filled and she began gliding along the shore was worth the effort. Afterwards, they stopped at a pasty pop-up along the main road and had their supper, all of them damp, sandy, salty, exhilarated, lined up on a bench against the shack wall as the sun went down.
It was after nine when JJ dropped off Bel and Jaz.
‘That was brilliant,’ Jaz said, as they parted at the gate. Her eyes were bright and she seemed happy and relaxed, not the depressed teenager Bel was more familiar with. It was lovely to see.
‘Let’s do lots more over the summer,’ JJ said, as they waved goodnight.
The cottage, in its new guise, always made her smile when she walked in. It smelt of her now, of baked bread and damp, salty beach towels, pine cleaning spray and burning logs. There was sand underfoot and cat hairs on the orange chair, a pile of books she’d bought from Anne – an old lady who lived in the centre of the village and sold second-hand knick-knacks and junk from her garage for charity – decorating the rejuvenated coffee table.
Settling down with a cup of tea, delicious warmth coming from the stove, she felt her limbs tingling, her skin pleasantly tight and salt-dried by the sea and sun, and closed her eyes. You should have seen me windsurfing, Mum, she whispered silently.
Bel had no idea how long she’d slept when she was awakened by a cautious knock at the door. JJ? she wondered. But he would rap cheerful and loud and just walk in, not wait for a response. She stumbled sleepily to her feet and cautiously pulled open the door.
She was instantly jolted awake. Louis? Her ex was standing hesitantly in the porch. But when he saw her, his face broke into a wan smile. ‘I wasn’t sure this one was yours … I’ve been prowling along the lane for hours.’
Her instinct was to slam the door in his face. But he looked so haggard, despite his South of France tan, his normally immaculate appearance marred by black smudges under his dark eyes, creased, grubby jeans and sweatshirt, his hair – forever tied back in a pristine ponytail – now hanging lank around his face. The look he gave her was hopeless and beseeching. Bel, naturally soft-hearted, had received much kindness lately when she had been in a bad way … So she hesitated, and the moment was lost.
Dazed, she regarded the man who had caused her so much pain and heartache.
‘May I come in?’ Louis asked softly, glancing around and shivering. It was not a particularly cold night, but it was late, the sky a deep navy towards the horizon.
Bel felt completely discombobulated. It seemed beyond her to do anything but stand back, allowing Louis to step past her, over the threshold and into her little sanctuary.
As soon as the door was shut, he turned to her, arms wrapped around his thin body. ‘God, Bel, I’m so, so sorry.’
She watched him in silence, her whole body tense. Make him go away, she begged the universe.
Blinking tiredly, he looked around distractedly. ‘This is nice.’
‘What are you doing here, Louis?’ She managed to speak at last and was surprised to hear how detached she sounded.
He exhaled loudly. ‘Would it be possible to have a cup of tea?’ He coughed pathetically. ‘Things have been a bit tight and I haven’t had anything all day.’
What can I do? she asked herself. Refuse the man she’d loved – and with whom she’d shared her life for almost two decades – a cup of tea? Reluctantly she went over to the sink and filled the kettle, lifted the stove top and put the water on to boil. Louis, standing stock still behind her, remained silent.
She handed him the mug, but didn’t offer him either chair – the orange one or the wooden upright. They stood propped against the new ash counter top in silence as she watched him sip the tea, hearing his stomach rumbling loudly. The failed loaf sat between them, still on the wire rack. ‘Do you want a slice of bread?’ she offered.
He nodded. ‘Please, if that’s OK.’
None of this is OK, she wanted to shout. But she wasn’t going to have a starving man on her conscience. She sliced three thick chunks from the solid loaf. ‘It’s probably disgusting. My first attempt in this stove,’ she apologized, feeling a horribly familiar sense of inadequacy in the face of Louis’s culinary prowess. Then she was immediately angry with herself for minding. She pushed the plate towards him, followed by butter in the yellow pottery dish she’d found, like so much else, in the treasure trove that was Anne’s garage.
‘Not kneaded enough?’ Louis couldn’t help himself. But he was chomping the bread with relish, clearly ravenous. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said, maybe feeling he had to be generous in the circumstances.
‘What are you doing here?’ she repeated doggedly.
He seemed almost to ignore her insistence. Swallowing a mouthful, he took his time to lay the remains of the bread on the plate and say, ‘I know I’ve done a terrible thing, Bel. I can’t even imagine how much I’ve hurt you. It was a disastrous mistake on my part –’
‘I don’t want to hear any of this, Louis,’ Bel interrupted him briskly. ‘I asked, why are you here, in this village, in my house?’
He gulped, his Adam’s apple leaping in his thin neck. ‘Because I realize what a fool I’ve been. I threw away everything that was precious to me –’
‘Oh, OK,’ said Bel, her voice bright with sarcasm. ‘So when you said in your letter you hadn’t been “happy for a long while”, that things seemed to have “fizzled out” between us, that wasn’t true?’ She held up her fingers in quote marks as she spoke, remembering every word of the devastating script.
Louis had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘All I can say is that I was completely nuts back then, Bel. I wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe it was Covid, or a full-on midlife crisis – call it what you will – but I was drinking too much, as you know, and destroyed by the failure of the restaurant. Things just came together in a perfect storm in my head and I took off.’ He reached out for her hand, but she stepped away. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Bel inhaled sharply but said nothing.
Louis gazed at her, clearly disappointed by her reaction.
What did he expect? she wondered angrily. ‘I’d like you to go,’ she said.
He held up his hands, palms outward. ‘OK, OK, I understand you’re angry with me. Of course you are. I just desperately wanted to apologize for the way I’ve treated you.’
‘You’ve done that,’ she stated.
Louis bowed his head. ‘Thing is … God, this is hard … I’m totally broke. I spent my last penny on petrol for the van. Is there any chance you could lend me something? Just to see me through until I get a job?’ He must have seen the incredulity in her face because he hurried on. ‘Which, in this current climate … There’s a pub on the main road advertising for a chef, for instance. The Lantern? I saw it when I passed. So it shouldn’t take long, not with my skills.’
Bel was horrified, her throat choked with bile even at the idea he might be gunning for a job up the road. She cringed, too, noticing the tiny spark of pride in his voice, pained to see the man she had so admired fall to these depths. Is he sleeping in the van? She wasn’t going to ask him. There was no sofa in the cottage he might crash on. And he certainly wasn’t going to share her bed. Reluctantly, she asked, ‘How much do you need?’
He hesitated, obviously calculating how to calibrate his request, but she detected immediate relief in his eyes. ‘A hundred and fifty? Can you afford that much? I’ll pay you back, obviously, as soon as I’m employed.’
Bemused he had the nerve even to ask her, she replied, after a moment’s thought, ‘I could run to a hundred. There’s a cash machine at the Co-op. I’ll cycle up tomorrow morning.’
She watched in dismay as weary tears formed in his eyes. ‘Oh, God, thank you, thank you, Bel. I don’t deserve your help, of course, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. I couldn’t ask Tally.’
She nodded briefly. Go, she whispered silently. Just go.
As if she’d spoken out loud, Louis gulped down the remains of his tea and bread. ‘I suppose I’d better be off.’
‘Where’s the van?’
‘In the car park down by the beach, the one with the honesty box.’
‘I’ll bring the cash in the morning.’
Louis, clearly disinclined to leave the cosy warmth of the cottage for the cold, unwelcoming van, hovered a moment longer, perhaps hoping against hope that Bel would relent and ask him to stay. But when he read the implacable expression on her face, he gave a resigned nod. ‘Thank you again,’ he muttered, as she showed him out into the chilly darkness.
After he’d gone, Bel slumped into the chair. She felt exhausted. Louis seemed, in a short space of time, to have sucked the lifeblood out of her. A job at the Lantern? Seriously? The pub, which she’d never set foot in, was a slightly down-at-heel joint only five minutes from her cottage. She rode past it on her bike every morning on her way to the farm shop. How could he do this? How could he? she kept asking herself. Setting up his life within spitting distance of where she lived, when she’d gone to such lengths to find her own path … to be free. The thought made her groan out loud.
Bel tossed and turned all night, still stunned by Louis’s sudden appearance and unable to stop thinking of him sleeping only a few minutes’ walk from her front door. He’s not going to ruin things, she kept telling herself. But sleep wouldn’t come.
She gave up at five and went for a swim, holding her breath as she crept past the red Berlingo, not even looking inside. Powering through the chilly dawn water, back and forth, she slapped her hands through the waves, taking out her anger and her sleepless night on the cold sea. As she slipped into her dry robe and wrapped it across her body she at least felt fresh and awake as she stared out towards the horizon, taking in the soft, hazy beauty of the summer morning. But calm, like sleep last night, eluded her. All she could think about was Louis, huddled in the dank confines of his van at the top of the steps.
‘Your dad’s here.’ Bel called Tally before she left for the Co-op. ‘Banged on the door late last night looking like something the cat dragged in, begging for food and money.’
‘Oh, shit.’ There was a pause. ‘Sorry, Bel, that might be on me. He asked about you, and I told him you were having a great time in Cornwall. I didn’t … He was safe in France back then. I never thought …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, sweetheart. He’d have found me soon enough.’
‘Is he OK?’
Bel heard the understandable concern for her father in her stepdaughter’s voice. ‘He’s bedraggled and feeling sorry for himself, but fundamentally all right, I think.’ She sighed. ‘Problem is, he’s threatening to apply for a job in one of the local pubs.’
Tally groaned. ‘Oh my God. What are you going to do?’
‘I honestly don’t think I can do anything. He’s obviously desperate. It’s grim, seeing him like this.’
‘He’s not staying with you, is he?’
‘Certainly not. He’s sleeping in the van. I know it’s hard-hearted, but I really can’t handle him being in the house.’
‘It’s not hard-hearted, Bel. Have you agreed to lend him money?’
‘Didn’t feel I had much choice.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, he’ll charm his way into a job in no time, the way things are.’
‘But he’ll be round the corner!’
‘Yeah, well, you know your dad. He’s not going to settle for some crummy job in a rundown pub in the furthest reaches of the country, is he? Not for long, anyway. He’ll be off as soon as he has a bit of cash and a better offer, I imagine.’ Bel was almost a hundred per cent sure she was right about this. But she said it to make them both feel better. Hard enough for her to see Louis like that. How much harder for poor Tally to hear about it?
It was still early as Bel mounted her bike. Turning to check for traffic, she caught sight of Patsy striding up the lane from the beach. Bel waved and Patsy came over, tanned face glowing from her walk, breathing hard, tendrils of grey hair wild around her head. She seemed indignant.
‘I just saw this dodgy guy climbing out of a red van in the beach car park. He must have slept there, because he looks really grubby and rough.’ She shook her head. ‘No one checks the place since Bert died.’ Bert had lived in the cottage next to the car park and made it his daily duty to run off anyone who looked as if they might be settling for the duration and clogging up the limited parking area with their mobile homes and attendant rubbish.
Bel felt her cheeks flush. ‘My fault, I’m afraid. It’s Louis … my ex.’
Patsy’s eyes widened.
‘Turned up on my doorstep last night. Long story.’
Her neighbour gave her a concerned look. ‘You asked him to come?’
‘No. God, no.’ Bel shook her head vehemently. ‘I haven’t slept for worrying and now I can’t think straight.’
Patsy laid a gentle hand over Bel’s, as she clutched the handlebars. ‘Don’t panic, love. Take a breath. Whatever this is, we can sort it out together.’
Letting go of the bike, she clutched Patsy’s warm hand but couldn’t speak the thanks she felt, or acknowledge the comfort brought by her words. It’s the sort of thing Mum might have said, she thought.
‘Where are you going?’
Almost ashamed to admit it, Bel replied, ‘Up to the Co-op to get him some cash.’
Patsy nodded slowly. ‘OK. Well, I’ll see you later, anyway. We can talk then.’
Bel looked blankly at her friend. In her shock at seeing Louis on her doorstep, she’d momentarily forgotten it was tonight that Patsy was throwing a supper for Jaz and her friends, to celebrate the end of GCSEs. She’d promised to help and was making the broad bean and mint couscous, the salads.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Patsy was asking.
Bel tried to focus and managed a weak smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said unconvincingly.
‘And I’m a Dutchman,’ her friend declared, with a sympathetic grin.