The two women leave the reception area as the old man subsides into a lounger and closes his eyes. Lu waves to the others to follow as she walks behind Naomi to a pitch, as promised, right on the edge of the site, a stone’s throw from the beach.
‘I think you made a fabulous choice here, Poll,’ she says, as the others pile out of the van. ‘Two nights of peace, the sound of the sea, and some stupendous, home-cooked bar food. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
Peter laughs. ‘You and me both,’ he says happily.
They soon make camp, and Lucia looks round proudly at the sheltered pitch, now filled to bursting point with the van, the large green and cream awning and Isaac’s little khaki tent. There’s just room for a picnic rug and the four folding chairs donated by Peter. Isaac subsides onto the grass with Reggie, spreading the rug for them both and lying down on his back with the little boy on his chest. Reggie murmurs contentedly and sucks his fist.
‘These chairs are a bit shabby but that’s because they’ve seen a fair few journeys in their time,’ Peter says, brushing the seats down before lowering himself into the sturdiest looking one.
‘Four? Who used to sit in the others then?’ asks Isaac.
Lucia winces, imagining as Tommy had done that Peter’s holiday memories might make him melancholy after all these years, but he smiles. ‘My wife, Frances, and our best friends, Cecil and Fenella. Oh, we had some good times, travelling through France and Italy. Fabulous food, delicious local wine and good company. Cecil and I each took our own car so we had some space away from each other with our wives and we usually stayed in family run hotels or camped. What more could a person ask for?’
Tommy hands Peter a small bottle of beer with condensation running down the sides and the older man gasps. ‘Where did you get this, my friend? It’s freezing cold. How heavenly.’
‘The shop finally opened,’ Tommy says.
Isaac strokes Reggie’s back as he snuggles into his favourite position. ‘So what happened?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘What happened to Frances?’
‘Don’t tell us if it’s too upsetting,’ Polly says quickly, joining them and settling down with Reggie on her lap.
Lucia holds her breath. Peter doesn’t seem fazed by Isaac’s clumsy question but he leans back in the creaking chair and swallows half his beer in one go before replying.
‘Not at all. It’s a very long time ago now. Frances and I began our travels abroad when we first met and carried on until our son was born. After that we tended to stick to Wales because my wife had relatives there and they wanted to see the boy as often as possible, naturally enough. We both loved Wales. We toured there often.’
Lucia waits, sensing sadness in the air. She doesn’t know if she really wants to hear the rest of this story but the warmth of the afternoon, the roar of the waves just beyond the dunes and the sound of Peter’s wonderfully plummy accent are soothing. His voice reminds Lu of the old BBC announcers she’s seen in black and white documentaries.
‘I was just forty when Frances … was killed. We had our boy, Miles, when we were first married and he was at university in Plymouth when his mother passed away. He was … is … a complicated person, and I think he blamed me for the accident. In fact, I know he did. And still does.’
There’s a long silence, punctuated by Reggie’s sleepy snuffles as he drinks his milk. Seagulls cry to each other and wheel overhead. The sound is mournful and makes Lucia want to weep for Peter, for his wife, for all that they lost. She waits to see if he will tell them more about Frances.
‘As I was saying,’ he continues eventually, when Lu has almost given up hope, ‘my darling girl was involved in a terrible accident. She was running for the bus and she tripped and fell in front of a car. She always wore the most impractical high heels. The car was speeding, and the driver had been drinking. She didn’t stand a chance.’
‘That’s awful. But how could that have been your fault? Why did your son blame you?’
‘That’s easy. It was because I could have given her a lift into town that day but I was impatient when she took so long getting ready and dashed off to work without waiting for her. She had a lot of good traits, but keeping to a timetable and hurrying up … well, that wasn’t one of them.’
His expression is bleak, and Lucia is tempted to change the subject as soon as she decently can, but they’ve come too far now. Her own guilt at the memory of her part in Eddie’s death forces her on.
‘Peter, you might not want to answer this now, but was timekeeping important in your job?’
‘How do you mean? What’s that got to do with anything?’
Lucia struggles with how to phrase her next question tactfully but decides she’s said enough. Unfortunately Isaac doesn’t have his mother’s knack for leaving well alone. He ploughs on.
‘Did Frances know how much you needed to be at work on time, Peter?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, yes of course. I was an accountant. It was in the days when my father was hale and hearty so he was running the estate and we lived in the west wing. It took me a good forty-five minutes to drive into the city and the traffic was hellish at that time of day.’
He falls silent, deep in thought. Eventually, he stirs himself. ‘I think what you’re both trying to say is that Frances should have known better than to be so slow in getting ready when she knew I was on a tight schedule?’
Lucia says nothing. Her heart is aching for the proud old man. The pain in his eyes is plain to see, but maybe this will help to loosen the tight bands of blame, even a little bit.
Peter clears his throat. ‘I have thought about that point. It was always a bone of contention between us. Frances was terribly disorganised when it came to doing anything in a hurry. A wonderful wife and an excellent mother, but … somewhat dizzy about timing. It caused quite a few rows, and we had one that very morning before I stormed off. I had a meeting with a very important new client and I really couldn’t risk getting caught in the rush hour.’
There is silence again, apart from the sound of the gulls and the gentle murmur of the sea on the other side of the dunes. Lucia waits, hoping she won’t need to say more, but Isaac is on a roll now.
‘So, I reckon what Mum’s getting at,’ he says, ‘is that your Frances should have got her act together sooner when she knew you were in a rush.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, Isaac,’ says Polly. ‘There were lots of other factors too. Sometimes an accident is … well, just that. Circumstances coming together and bad stuff happening.’
‘And a drunken driver in the mix too,’ adds Lucia, wanting to gag her son. Why did he always have to be so black and white?
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Isaac acknowledges, ‘but I’d have stormed off too, if I was Peter. Frances should have had more sense. Bloody annoying woman.’
Everyone stares at Isaac for a moment, shocked at what he’s just said, but Peter begins to laugh, and they all smile nervously. He rocks in his chair with mounting hysteria and gasps for breath, tears trickling down his cheeks. The others look at him warily. Is the old man laughing or crying? Maybe both? Lucia wonders if all this soul-searching has been too much for Peter but he pats her arm reassuringly.
‘I love your refreshing honesty, Isaac,’ he says, when the wave of laughter has waned. He gets out another of his trademark snowy handkerchiefs and wipes his eyes, taking the beer and downing half of it in an enthusiastic gulp. ‘If only it were so easy to shift the blame.’
‘I wasn’t trying to make Frances sound like the bad guy exactly,’ Isaac says, glancing at his mother’s forbidding expression. ‘It’s just something to think about, you know?’
‘Or not think about,’ says Polly. ‘Why would Peter want to feel worse than he already does? He doesn’t want Frances to be blamed.’
‘But it was her fault,’ says Isaac, looking round at the others, a bewildered expression on his face.
‘There’s always more than one side to a story, lad,’ says Tommy. ‘Nothing’s ever that straightforward.’
‘But …’
Peter smiles rather wearily. ‘You’re quite right, Isaac. Frances should have hurried herself up. And in fairness, I knew there was always someone around at Meadowthorpe Manor to give her a lift into town later.’
‘Absolutely. You wouldn’t have left her stranded,’ says Lucia.
‘No indeed. It was just unfortunate that the estate worker she chose to ask could only take her part way on that particular morning. And because she still wasn’t ready on time for him, he hadn’t got time to take her all the way, so she had to run for the bus when he dropped her off on the edge of the city. And that’s how her story ended. Way too soon.’
‘There you go then.’ Isaac glances around at the rest of the group as if daring anyone to argue with him again.
‘I hear what you’re saying, but I’ve carried this guilt for a long time. I’ll give your idea about letting Frances share the responsibility some thought though. And thank you, Isaac. Your clear-eyed view is a breath of fresh air.’ Peter blinks back more tears.
‘So, moving on from all that, how did you cope?’ Lu asks, reaching for his hand.
Peter makes a wry face. ‘In the only way I knew. I worked even harder than before, drank too much vintage cognac in the evenings when I finally got home, ate barely enough to keep myself alive and avoided talking to anyone as much as possible. What a charmer I was, eh?’
‘But if Miles thought it was your fault, you must have found that even harder? Don’t beat yourself up. You were grieving. It affects everyone in different ways at different times,’ says Polly.
‘Yes, one tends to be able to recognise the look on the face of fellow sufferers,’ Peter says quietly, looking at Polly and Lu. They both gaze back.
‘We’re on a mission to offload some of this guilt we’ve been carrying around,’ says Lu. ‘It’s very heavy and it’s not going to be easy, but we’re part of the way there. Let’s keep going. We’re in this together now.’