Endless Blue Seas Page 5

  Helen was pruning the roses, wearing thick rubber gloves and handling a pair of cutters like she was about to torture the plant instead and was meaning to enjoy every fucking moment of it.

  “I thought I’d start on the summer house.” I stayed silent until I was sure she was aware of me being there. I had no intention of surprising her while she had something almost sharper than her wit.

  “Good.” She turned around, brandishing the cutters. “We’ve a rake of kids staying next week and I could really do with having it usable by then so I can stuff the buggers inside if they get on my nerves. Is that possible?”

  “Just about. I’m not on the boats for another week.”

  “Covering holidays?” She started to prune again. “You’ll need cloning.”

  “Pretty much. Do you want me to take over?”

  She shook her head. “I want you to go sort my summer house. Make a start. Then tomorrow, I’ll need some help sorting the barbecue out.”

  That was me put in my place. No point in arguing.

  I liked the woman. She wasn’t the sort of cuddly old lady my grandmother was. She was to the point and sharp, no nonsense. I figured that what had happened with the car crash was common knowledge around these parts, someone had googled my name when I wasn’t giving up much information. It would’ve been there, a handful of articles about the death of the driver who caused it and the death of Ryan, before there was one about my award for environmentally friendly architecture.

  I’d never divulged any of the details though because no one needed those and no one had asked. Helen was the last person to ask; and if she had known, she’d have just told me that life carried on, pretty much like I’d heard her telling someone about her granddaughter, I’d just never had all the context about Anya.

  The summerhouse was situated on decking and built into a tree. It was more of a posh tree house that needed patching up. I’d ordered wood the week before and found it inside where I’d left it, along with a few other bits and pieces I hoarded there. Although I was an architect, and my trade had lent itself to drawings and plans rather than the getting dirty, I’d fallen into it because of my dad.

  He was a handyman. His background was as a joiner, but along the way he’d picked up qualifications so he could do the plumbing and electrics as well, meaning that he didn’t have to outsource to other tradesman and could keep a job cheaper. I’d spent summers helping him, fascinated with how a house was put together and from that, I’d gone into designing them, always wanting to find different ways to make a statement about where somebody would live.

  A summerhouse was fun; it was meant to be for kids to play in, teenagers to skulk away to, maybe a place for a for couple to escape to. I started to pull away any wood that looked rotten, figuring in my head how I could add an extension or create a bunk room with hammocks. The ideas were there, appearing like bees bringing nectar to the hive.

  “You’re completely oblivious right now to the fact I’ve been standing here for nearly five minutes.”

  The words made me jump and I dropped a hammer, just avoiding my toe.

  Anya stood in the doorway, holding a glass and a jug that appeared to be full of lemonade.

  “Sorry. I really wasn’t trying to encourage you to maim yourself. Nan told me you were working out here and needed watering, so I brought homemade lemonade.”

  She entered and sat down on the bench I’d created. It needed sanding and painting, but that would be a job for in a few days.

  “Thank you. I’d forgotten how long I’d been doing this.” I held the glass as she filled it. “Did you make this?”

  Anya nodded. “It shouldn’t be too sweet. When my sister makes it you need to see a dentist within five hours for four fillings. I like a bit of bite.”

  I tried it. It was as she said, but not too tart either. The rest of it went back in two gulps and I held out the glass for another helping. “Can I have all that?” I was suddenly thirsty.

  “Sure.” She passed me the jug. “I’ve made a couple of gallons of the stuff.”

  “How was the beach?” I wanted to keep her there for longer, talk to her, even if it was about nothing at all.

  “It was good. So good to catch up with Cat. And get some proper sun and fresh air. I have no idea how I’ve stayed in London so long without coming home.” Her expression changed, a shadow crossing over her. “Actually I do know.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  It was almost as if lightning had struck me down. I wouldn’t say anything about the crash, scared to relive what had happened, too afraid to acknowledge how I survived and they didn’t, but I was more than happy to have her confide in me. As long as reciprocation wasn’t required.

  “No. I’ve talked about it enough today.” She leaned back against the wooden wall. “Tell me what you’re thinking of doing to your house.”

  I laughed. She hadn’t even excused the change of conversation. “Part of it’s still liveable. It just needs modernising. That’s the old bit, which I guess was from the eighteen hundreds or maybe a bit before judging by its style. The rest needs to be dropped and rebuilt.”

  “Tell me how you’d do that.”

  It had been a long time since I’d talked buildings with a woman. It had been a long time since I’d talked buildings with anyone.

  “Seriously? You want to hear drivel about what I’d do, including all the environmentally friendly shit I’m into?” The beast that was insecurity came out of its cave. The women I picked up in bars I rarely held a conversation with; that wasn’t what either of us were in it for.

  “Tell me. I’ve had a morning and a piece of the afternoon talking about me to Catrin. I need to hear about something else. Tell me about your house.”

  She looked young. I’d figured she was in her early thirties, given the ages of her brother and sister and what I’d heard about her childhood, but she looked younger. Innocent.

  “I want to make it self-sufficient in terms of power. The obvious source is solar, so I’m looking at a roof that can support enough solar panels. Then I’d like to use glass for pretty much the whole of the front, maximising the view.” As I explained, the ideas became concrete and I started to see the elevations I would draw later, the dimensions. I told her about the master bedroom, trying not to picture her in it, and the master bathroom with its large bath and walk through shower.

  Anya nodded and asked questions, not about the interior design but about the shape of the building and the elements, telling me about the island and how features of it could be incorporated.

  By the time the lemonade was finished she had a hammer in her hand and was helping place new boards in parts on the summerhouse. She was sweating, working in the sun. Her vest was a different one than she had on earlier, tighter, and I kept having to be aware of where I was looking, finding myself becoming bad-tempered when she almost caught me.

  It was almost sunset when we finished, more completed than I thought we’d get done today. Her sister had brought out a couple of plates of food for us, and more of the lemonade, then a couple of beers.

  “I should go get some sleep.” Anya stood with her hands in the pockets of her shorts, eyeing the summerhouse. “This was great. I needed to tire myself out.”

  “So you can sleep better?”

  I knew the answer to that; it was the same for me.

  “Yep. Then my mind will stop running a marathon before I try to sleep.” She gave me a very faint smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the barbecue?”

  “You will. It’s my attempt this week to be sociable. I aim for once every seven days.”

  This time she laughed. “You’ve been good company today.”

  It struck me then. I didn’t feel as empty. Maybe it was the island or the sea, or just the simpler pace and way of life that revolved so much around the elements. Or her.

  Because she and I had something in common.

  We both had to be survivors.

  Anya

 
Kim looked and waddled like a penguin that had eaten far too much Sunday lunch and was struggling with digestion issues. I found her watching her son outside, telling him to be careful as he tore around the gardens, pretending he was Superman and hunting down some imaginary enemy. At some point he would be demanding that I joined in with his games too, as he had at Christmas, but I wasn’t sure that I was able to play with a five-year-old at the moment. Some things were still hard.

  “Morning, An.” Kim tore her eyes away from her son as I sat down next to her. “What plans do you have for today?”

  “Maybe help Gabe out some more on the summerhouse.” I’d enjoyed it yesterday, the feeling of being active and busy, and outside. I had missed the fresh air more than I’d thought I would, and I hadn’t realised just how much until coming home.

  Kim nodded and cast me a sly look. “He’s all kinds of gorgeous.”

  “Don’t let your husband hear you saying such things.” There was no point protesting about Gabe’s good looks. Every female and some of the men would be aware of those biceps, no argument. Plus, Kim had always had an eye for man candy.

  “He knows there’s no way I’d be doing anything more than looking. I’m not capable of doing anything more than looking for the next three weeks. Probably more than three weeks, because this little bugger is going to end up being late, I can tell.” She pressed both hands to her stomach.

  “You chose to have another.”

  Kim shook her head. “Nope. We didn’t. We were stupid and drunk. The one time I’d had more than a bottle of wine and we had a night to ourselves. And no condoms.”

  I laughed. “I have no sympathy. You have a degree in biology. You know how these things work.”

  Her hands became full of Superman Junior who was worried about the bee he’d just found. The boy had a bit of phobia of things that buzzed since he’d been stung at Easter and still got a little freaked when something that looked stingy came by.

  “The bee won’t sting you unless it thinks you’re going to bother it. So, guess what? Don’t bother it! Go play superman away from its flowers.” Kim gave him a light tap on his butt.

  “Can we go to the beach later?”

  “Maybe. If I’m not too tired. Or maybe Aunty Anya can take you.” She looked at me pleadingly.

  I bit my bottom lip. Calen had been the same age; part of my class for a year. Seeing my nephew running about the beach made me think of what he should be doing now, if his father hadn’t lost his mind somewhere between parents’ evening and his ex’s house then Calen might’ve been looking forward to playing on the beach too.

  It smarted. Every lesson I’d taught for the past few months, every trip I’d taken the group on, every time I’d written out certificates for good work, I’d missed him and wondered why the hell I hadn’t spotted anything that night when his separated parents sat down in front of me while I talked them through the progress their son had made and how well he was doing.

  They were taking him for pizza as a treat with his two-year-old sister and he was so happy that Mummy and Daddy were there together, and not apart as they had been for the last three months.

  That was the last time I saw any of them. The phone call from my headteacher was the worst I’ve even taken.

  “I’m not sure.” My voice was low and quiet, not wanting my nephew to hear my reluctance to take him.

  “I get it.” Kim said, quietly, as he took off again, away from the flowers. “But at some point you have to stop punishing yourself for something you had absolutely no power over. It isn’t fair to everyone else.”

  I’d heard it before. I didn’t disagree, but I wasn’t ready. I’d pushed myself too much in the last few weeks, trying to bury my anxieties and my grief about Marcy and it resulted in my bed being my safe haven. My headteacher came round, my colleagues having gone to her to tell her that I was in bed by six every night and refusing to speak to anyone, sleeping, not eating, all the signs of depression. I’d have recognised it in someone else, but I didn’t see it in my own reflection at the time.

  “I know. And I get that everyone wants me to move on and be happy again and I will. Just not overnight. It’s a longer process than that. I’d like to say I’ll be able to look after him when the baby comes, but I’m not sure I will be able to. I still have moments, you know, when I don’t really know where I am.” They were fewer in number and were never as long as they had been when I’d first been told to take medical leave from school.

  Kim shook her head. “I get it. I just want you back to how you were. Why not hand in your notice and move back here? I miss my sister.”

  I didn’t respond, staring instead at the endless sea. It wasn’t the first time she’d said this since I’d moved away and like before, I wasn’t certain what her motivations were.

  “Anya, you have family and friends here who miss you and want you to be here. Think about us and how much living here would mean.” She stood up, one hand going to the small of her back which probably hurt from the pressure of being pregnant.

  If it had been last summer, when I was hearing the same patter from her then, I’d have turned and walked away. I didn’t have the energy right now, despite having slept well, despite having enjoyed myself yesterday.

  “It sounds as if I should put what makes you happy before what makes me happy.” The words were out before I’d thought too much about them.

  “I didn’t mean that!” I heard the sharpness in her words.

  “That’s what it sounds like. I get you and Mum and Nan would love it if I moved back. But if I came home just because of that, I’d resent you all if I wasn’t happy. Think about it. And think about how you say things.”

  I did stand up now, and walked away before she could say anything, the day suddenly seeming cooler, despite the sun. I loved my sister and I knew that her heart was in the right place. She’d been the one who listened to me cry down the phone when I was homesick and heard the envy in my voice when she told me about events that were happening on the island which I’d missed.

  She’d never wanted to leave, and she’d never understood why I had to.

  I headed into Marcy’s old room, the boxes containing some of her belongings still there. Mum had left them for me to look through when I was ready, which I hadn’t been sure would ever happen. I sat down and opened one, taking out the contents and perusing through. There were old photographs and books, some jewellery that was tarnished and a folder of letters.

  Curiosity got the better of me, and I opened it, taking out the first sheet. Marcy had never married, staying in the same village all her life and rarely leaving the island. She’d arrived here well before my Nan, growing up here as a girl after her dad died. She’d been the youngest of several and had been our rock, the village’s rock really. One with several sharp edges but an amazing view when you took the time to sit with her and get to know her thoughts.

  I hadn’t yet dealt with my grief for her. I’d shed no tears and I wasn’t sure what would happen when I did or how I would hold myself up.

  I felt the age of the paper with my fingers, fragile, light. The paper smelled musty and old, a little damp. Inside was my aunt’s name, writing in a cursive script that was no longer taught with a type of pen no longer used. The paper was thick and soft and for a moment, I felt closer to her. She’d written in this, spent time pouring words into it. She may never have meant for any of us to read it – hell, I could hear her now telling me to keep my nose out of others’ business.

  I turned over the first page without guilt. She would understand that need to capture memories of her. I ran my finger over the blue ink, imagining her sat at her desk in her room, writing down her thoughts of the day, telling what had happened. And I started to read.

  Dear Alice,

  I hope you’re enjoying the summer in Cardiff. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in a big city like that, how busy it must be with all those people. I’m not sure I would like it although it would be nice to leave the island o
ccasionally. The guesthouse is full for the summer though, so I have to work most days. Jennifer is working too, which is good for everyone. All the guests really like her, she’s so chatty and friendly. I feel a tad young compared to her and I can never talk to people like she can.

  We have a married couple staying for the summer: Donald and Julia Stretton. Donald is the son of the Henry Stretton who owns the jetty and the pier, as well as a dozen fishing boats. Donald is meant to be running his father’s businesses on the island so he’s here for the summer to get to know the place and check up on the managers and captains, to make sure they’re doing their jobs right. I felt a bit nervous of him because he’s important, but Charlie Nelson, the baker’s son who’s just moved back, said that he’s a good man and nothing to be bothered about. I’m not sure I trust Charlie. I wondered if he was trying to seem like he wasn’t afraid of anyone to show-off. He’s asked me if I want to go dancing with him. I know you’d tell me to go, to have some fun and Charlie has always been good to look at, plus he can dance! But I told him I need to help out at the guesthouse.

  You’ve missed a ton of gossip! Frankie, the postman, has finally proposed to Gwendolyn, but she turned him down! He’s apparently going to ask her again – must be mad, the fool, but he’s been in love with her since he was a lad. Leonard Davies has moved back home with his new wife. She’s lovely and apparently she knows Julia Stretton too. I thought she would have airs and graces like Mrs Stretton, but she’s nothing like that, thankfully. She wants to have a ladies’ bridge club where we can play cards. I hope it goes ahead because I miss our cards afternoons when we used to play for toffees.

  Someone said that Don Stretton is looking to cut wages when he takes over from his father to increase profit. I’ve heard a few more pieces of gossip about him as well; someone said he’s very arrogant and I heard Lindy Griffiths say that he was a divorcé, not that anyone cares anymore.