September was golden, as if it had decided to leave something worth remembering before handing over to the harder months to come.
‘This used to be the view from my grandmother’s drawing room,’ Meg said. ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful it could be on a good day.’
She sat at a window in the Emerald East Hotel and gazed out to the open expanse of the Irish Sea, green and blue and silver at the spot where the midday sun touched it. The waves of a gentle tide unfurled onto the tiny beach below, polishing layers of speckled granite stones.
‘Well, it solves one mystery,’ Elizabeth said.
‘Which is?’
‘At least I know now what you wanted to talk to me about that night and that you were involved with someone all that time. And. . . she whispered,’ leaning across the dining table and pointing a fork at her friend, ‘I was right. He was married.’
It was the subject which had occupied them all the way down in the car. Just for a second, looking at the sea, Meg had managed to take her mind somewhere else.
Elizabeth turned from her and resumed cutting up the plate of fish fingers in front of Catriona. They were at a table in the hotel dining room, with the toddler strapped into a high chair beside them. The grown-ups were having open prawn sandwiches on wheaten bread but Meg eyed the fish fingers enviously.
It had been her idea, in this run of good weather, to get out of the city and she had suggested going for a drive along the coast to see what her father had done with the old house. It had been beyond repair, he had explained when she had expressed shock and dismay that it was gone, full of dry rot and damp because it had not been lived in for so long. In its place now was some sort of nouveau stately home, comfortable but overpowering, and apparently people spent the earth to stay in it.
She looked around the room with its light oak panelling and gold-plated fittings, watching waiters moving among the few other early diners, most of whom were in bright golf sweaters. She felt as if they were all intruders, invading the privacy of her childhood memories.
‘Somebody tried to burn this place down,’ she said, not overly disturbed by the notion.
‘Really? Who?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Some nutter. My father told me about it. He got sent to prison.’
‘There you go, darling. Now you eat those up like a good girl.
You should go to the police, you know,’ Elizabeth said, refusing to be diverted.
Meg made a face. ‘Elizabeth, we had all this out in the car.’
‘And we’re having it out again. You know I’m right.’
‘I’m not sure,’ Meg said. ‘What would it achieve? He had nothing to do with what happened that night. I just want to forget about him.’
Elizabeth was unmoved. ‘What makes you so sure he’s completely innocent in all of this? Look – here’s a theory. What if he followed you and saw you with Everett? There was a car that ran you off the road, wasn’t there? Well then, what if it was Noel Kennedy’s car? Maybe he thinks you’re dead and he kills Everett in a fit of jealous rage.’
‘That’s impossible. The police called him at home that night. He got up and drove down to the hospital.’
‘Ah – but was he at home all night? Maybe he’d just got in.’
‘Rubbish. They would have checked.’
‘No, they wouldn’t. They’d no reason to think Kennedy was in any way connected, other than that he was your employer. They could check now, though – if you told them,’ she said with emphasis.
Meg frowned.
The gaps in her memory – she appeared to have blocked out not just the events of the day but anyone she had come across during it. Had Noel Kennedy played a bigger part? Had something else happened that day that he was not revealing, something she had forgotten? Could there be anything in Elizabeth’s suspicions?
‘Well?’ Elizabeth said.
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.’
Later, with the sun-roof open, they drove along twisting roads, heading for Ardglass.
Near the shore, wild violets were a purple mist amid oceans of green fern. They crossed a little stone bridge and watched cows grazing among the bulrushes at the water’s edge. They spotted a heron and pointed it out to Catriona. It moved with stiff, slow strides, then its long neck dipped swiftly and suddenly there was a fish wriggling in its bill.
All of it took Meg worlds away from everything that was on her mind and led her back to the County Down coast of childhood summers.
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve been along this way in my life,’ Elizabeth remarked.
‘It’s that Van Morrison song, you know,’ Meg said.
‘What is?’
‘Coney Island. We pass it just along here. You know, that one where he kind of narrates. This is the area he’s talking about. Buying potted herrings in Ardglass and stuff. On and on over the hill in the jam jar. You know the thing.’
‘Potted herrings in a jam jar?’
‘No, they’re in the jam jar – the people in the song. It’s rhyming slang, I think. This is a jam jar.’ She slapped the steering wheel.
‘I don’t like Van Morrison,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I like jam,’ Catriona announced and they laughed.
When they reached Ardglass, they parked at the side of a new marina. Gleaming racing yachts and smaller boats bobbed in the sheltered water, ropes clinking against their masts in the breeze.
Meg looked around. ‘I don’t remember this.’
‘You do surprise me,’ Elizabeth said, lifting Catriona out of the car.
Much further along the quayside, there were vessels for work, not play. They counted half a dozen muscular trawlers tied up, watched over by tough-looking herring gulls standing like guards on the harbour wall.
‘How about an ice cream?’ Meg suggested to Catriona.
The little girl smiled and nodded furiously.
‘We’ll all have one,’ Elizabeth said.
She and Meg each took a hand and swung Catriona in the air between them as they walked along the harbour towards the nearest shop. They bought three cones with chocolate flakes and sat on a bench to eat them. Sunlight sparkled on the water and an oily, fishy smell from the trawlers, not at all unpleasant, drifted in the wind.
‘Apart from the marina, I would say this place hasn’t changed much since I used to come here when I was a kid,’ Meg said.
‘What’s that over there?’ Elizabeth asked.
Meg looked to where she was pointing. Just beyond the marina there was an old stone building, like a warehouse of some kind, that seemed to have been renovated. There was a colourful sign above its doorway: Harbour Pottery.
‘That looks new as well,’ Meg said. ‘Want to go and have a peek?’
‘Why not?’ Catriona’s ice cream had turned to mush. Elizabeth took it from her and dumped it in a litter bin. Then she wiped the child’s sticky face and hands with a tissue.
A bell jangled as they opened the door of the pottery and they smelled the instant heady odour of scented candles and baskets of pot pourri. Soft jazz was playing from speakers hidden somewhere. The place was dark, a welcomingly cool retreat from the heat of the afternoon.
When their eyes had adjusted to the dim light they began to take in what was around them. Hand-painted glass and dishes in rich glazes were in carefully lit display cases. Everyday ware, bowls and mugs in earthier hues, was lined along shelves or hanging from hooks, and there were silvery trinkets with Celtic designs as well as the inevitable array of tiny aromatherapy bottles.
Elizabeth looked down at the bare flagstones. ‘Just don’t touch a thing, Catriona,’ she warned. ‘This floor won’t take any prisoners.’
‘Can I help you with anything?’ a man’s voice said.
He was sitting on a little stool behind the counter with a paperback open on his knee and they had not seen him. He stood up.
‘Oh, hello,’ Meg said, laughing. ‘We didn’t notice you hiding there.’
He wore jeans and a checkered shirt that looked a bit heavy on such a day. But then it would get cold stuck away in here out of the sun. She looked at him. He was dark-haired, with shy brown eyes, and she felt as if they had disturbed him in his lair.
‘No,’ she told him, ‘we’re just having a look around. Haven’t been here before. Have you been open long?’
‘About eighteen months, I suppose. I’m not the actual proprietor, as a matter of fact. He’s away in Japan. I’m just looking after the place for a while. That’s why we don’t have a lot of his own pieces on display at the moment.’
‘His own pieces?’
‘Yes, he’s the potter.’
He picked up a sturdy side plate and turned it upside down, pointing to the stamp on the bottom. ‘Harbour Pottery – you see?’
‘Oh, right,’ Meg said. ‘They’re made on the premises?’
He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Thrown and fired in the workshop back there. But there’s lots of other stuff, of course. Give me a shout if there’s anything you need to know.’
‘Thanks,’ Meg said.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied with a little smile and sat down with his book again. It was a Milan Kundera. She had read a couple of his in hospital and found them demanding but absorbing.
‘Laughable Loves,’ she said. ‘I’ve not read that one. Are you enjoying it?’
‘I might be if I knew what he was on about,’ he said, giving her a confused look. They both laughed.
‘Have you seen these?’ Elizabeth said from behind. She was holding a bulbous beaker with an intricate design which looked as if it had been sponged on. ‘Flash, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ Meg said, walking over. Something occurred to her. ‘It’s my mother’s birthday soon, you know. I really ought to get her something nice to cheer her up. I feel so sorry for what’s happened to her.’ She had told Elizabeth about the letters.
‘You think she’d like something like this?’
Meg made a face. ‘Not sure. Maybe a bit gaudy. Something a little more subdued, perhaps.’
They wandered through the shop, idly lifting things and putting them down again. Elizabeth kept a firm grip on little Catriona who wanted to touch everything.
‘Look, Mummy, look.’
‘Yes, dear, very nice.’
‘Something like this might do,’ Meg said. It was a small coffee cup in a deep brown with a blueish purple coming through the glaze. She checked the price sticker, then looked on the bottom and saw something squiggled into it. ‘These aren’t yours, I take it?’ she called to the shopkeeper.
He stepped out from behind the counter and came over to her.
He moved softly and she thought he looked agile.
‘No,’ he said. ‘These are made in Staffordshire. Believe it or not, this is the last one but we’re getting more in.’
‘That’s what people in shops always say, isn’t it?’ she teased.
He smiled. ‘Except in this case it happens to be true. I was talking to the suppliers yesterday. There’s an order due any time now. Part of the Christmas stock.’
‘Christmas?’ Elizabeth said. ‘Oh my God, how can you think about Christmas on a day like this?’
He looked at her and shrugged. ‘We have to. It’s just around the corner. Nice afternoons like this make you forget.’
He turned back to Meg and caught her studying him. Their eyes met.
‘My mother’s birthday’s on the twenty-fourth,’ she said hurriedly, embarrassed. ‘They’d make a nice present. Do you think you could guarantee to have more by then?’
‘No problem at all. How many would you like?’
‘Half a dozen, I suppose. Do they do jugs, sugar bowls?’ For a moment in her mind she saw the mess on her mother’s kitchen floor.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, I’ll have a jug and sugar bowl as well, please. How much are they?’
He had to go back behind the desk to look it up and then he told her.
‘That’s fine,’ she said.
‘Well then, if I could take your name and address and maybe your telephone number, I could call you or drop you a note when they arrive. It shouldn’t be very long. And, eh,’ he sounded a bit apologetic, ‘would it be possible for you to leave a small deposit?’
For a second she thought ludicrously of a little pile of salt or something. A small deposit. She almost laughed.
‘Look, why don’t I just pay for the whole lot while I’m here.’ She put her bag on the counter and took her credit card out of her purse.
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘Yes – why not?’
‘I’ll just take a note of your name first,’ he said, grasping a pen and a pad.
‘It’s Winter,’ she said. ‘Meg Winter.’
He had his head down and she could not see his face. ‘I’m sorry. Winter, did you say?’
‘Yes, Meg Winter,’ she told him again and gave him her address and telephone number. He wrote it all down.
‘That’s great, Miss Winter,’ he said. ‘Or is it Mrs?’
‘Mizz,’ Elizabeth said in the background.
‘Doctor, actually,’ Meg corrected.
He smiled, then moved to the till to tot up the bill. He took her card and ran it through the machine. While they waited, Meg glanced round. Elizabeth was at the other end of the shop looking at something. She had let go of Catriona for a moment. The credit card slip clattered out and Meg turned again to sign it. He gave her back the card and her copy.
‘That’s great,’ he said.
‘Look, me a witch.’
Catriona was in a corner where there were wicker baskets and brooms. She had straddled one and she was starting to bounce through the shop on it.
‘A witch,’ she said again, giggling.
The handle swung violently towards a rack of tumblers. ‘Catriona!’ Elizabeth shouted but Meg was ahead of her. She reached the child first and grabbed the broom, just inches before it brought the whole lot down.
‘Very good, sweetie,’ she said calmly. ‘But I think we should put that back.’
‘And I think it’s time we got out of here,’ Elizabeth said, taking her daughter’s hand, ‘before we do any more damage.’
‘It’s OK,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘You haven’t actually done any yet.’
Meg looked at him and they shared a smile of relief. She lifted her bag. ‘So I’ll leave you to get in touch with me?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
They went out into a warmth they had forgotten about. The sharpness of the sunlight made them blink.
‘God, the car’ll be like an oven,’ Meg said as they walked to it.
‘I’ll have to leave the doors and windows open for a while.’
‘Well, you liked him,’ Elizabeth said.
‘What do you mean?’ Meg said with a little too much surprise in her voice.
Elizabeth laughed at her. ‘Don’t give me that.’
That night she lay in bed with a magazine, wondering about what Elizabeth had said.
Had she been that obvious?
She had liked him, right enough. She thought they had made some kind of a connection, too, and she hadn’t felt crowded by him.
She threw the magazine aside, thumped the pillow and turned out the light. He was only a guy in a shop, that was all. She lay down and closed her eyes. In the end, it would be nothing. She didn’t even know his name.
In her dreams she heard a telephone.
It was on the counter in the Harbour Pottery and Catriona ran to answer it, although when she picked it up it kept on ringing.
She woke with a start, realising that it was not a dream but her own phone, beside the bed.
She looked at the luminous dial on her clock. One fifteen. Who would call this late? Something had happened to somebody. Her father, maybe. She always worried about that.
She lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’
There was no answer, just a couple of seconds of silence and then the dialling tone.
She put on the light and dialled 1471. The computer voice spoke to her. ‘You were called – today – at one fourteen. The caller withheld their number.’
She sat there blinking, tiredness and anxiety fighting for control of her.
And then the phone went again.
She grabbed it on the second ring. ‘Hello?’ There was silence once more but it lasted longer this time.
‘Hello? Who is this?’ she said. There was a tingle on her skin. She felt certain someone was there and for a moment she could swear she heard breathing.
‘I’m going to ring the police,’ she said and then the line went dead.
She tried 1471 again but she knew what the result would be. Anxiety won. Tiredness retreated.
She got out of bed and put on a robe, then turned the bedside light off. She went to the window and pulled back the side of the curtains. The street was empty and quiet, the houses opposite dark and wrapped up for the night, pavements cooling down after the heat of the day.
She went downstairs and checked that the windows were shut and that both the front and back doors were locked securely, then she sat in darkness and silence, listening, trying to convince herself that she was getting alarmed over nothing, thinking of Florence Gilmour asking her if she was happy about being alone.