‘Oh, Claire, that’s unbelievable, incredible,’ Maggie said, as they hugged. ‘I don’t know what to say… about anything any more, frankly.’ She went over to be with Rain who was sitting in the corner, watching and listening to the goings-on, though quietly indifferent with a fearful look in her eye. Her legs were curled up on the chair and her arms clutched an oversized cardigan around her body – so unlike the Rain any of them knew. She needed her mother more than ever now.
By the time Marcus came back, plans were being made amid a cacophony of speculation and unanswerable questions. Claire had arranged for Amy to stay on and sleep over at her friend’s house. Explaining everything to her daughter was not something she could deal with tonight. Besides, Amy had witnessed enough upheaval and drama these last few days, and time with her best friend would do her good. She knew she’d be perfectly safe.
‘Mum, that’s totally incredible,’ Marcus said, wide-eyed. ‘It’s just, like, amazing.’ He didn’t know what else to say so he pulled his phone from his pocket and began thumbing the keys.
‘I’d keep quiet about it if I were you, mate,’ Nick said. ‘Don’t put anything on Facebook, and I wouldn’t text your friends either. Once the story gets out, there’ll be no peace.’
Marcus sheepishly stuffed his phone back into his pocket. ‘Anyway, where’s Dad? I’ve been trying to call him all afternoon, ’cos he was going to give me a lift later.’
Claire looked away for a moment, breathing in deeply. ‘He has some things to take care of, love.’ It was a placeholder lie that she hated telling, but it would have to do for now. She had no idea where Callum had gone or what she would tell her children. They had a right to know everything, but how would she explain that their father had been charged with a sexual offence against a child? The police had put Marcus through the mill, grilling and almost accusing him while Callum had looked on, knowing what he’d done.
But any further thoughts were interrupted by the telephone. ‘Yes,’ Claire said several times after answering. She gripped the worktop, drawing in breath – a breath that was deep enough to signal either a scream or a long sigh of relief. In the end, it escaped as a small gasp. A gasp that said Nothing more can shock me today. She hung up and stood perfectly still. ‘That was the police,’ she said. ‘They’ve found Dad.’
Chapter Seventy-Three
Easy As
I’m humming a little tune and my teeth are chattering. I wish I’d put on my cardigan. The water swells around my ankles, then draws out again, sucking me down an inch or two into the sand with every step. I glance behind me to check I’m not leaving a trail of footprints, the wind whipping my hair across my face. With every wave that rolls in, with every footstep washed away, it’s as if I never even existed.
Claire watched me like a hawk when I set off, but she isn’t any more. It’s just her bright green towel left on the sand as she leaps in the surf with Nick. Everyone knows she fancies him.
I’m going to buy ice cream, and no one can stop me!
‘Ha ha,’ I call out to a dog as it gallops past me in the breakers. ‘I’m off on my own like you.’ Its owner trails the dog’s lead in the water as he plods along.
I’m running! Running like the dog, bounding through the waves in my plastic sandals, water splashing up everywhere. Up ahead on the flat expanse of beach, the sand blows in horizontal streaks as if it’s coloured with pastel chalks and someone’s smudged their finger through it. The pound coin is hot in my salt-sticky palm.
Rum and raisin or chocolate?
I glance back at the others again for good luck. They are dots in the distance now and my heart picks up speed as I wade knee-deep in the sea. ‘My sea’, I told Claire, as we raced down to the shore after our picnic. ‘My sea and I’m in it first.’
‘Stupid Len-monster’, she called out and I’d laughed, falling head first into the waves. ‘You’ll get a stitch swimming so soon after eating, silly!’ She only said it because Mummy always does.
Why are they always so worried about me? It’s not as if I’m going to die.
There aren’t many people on the beach today. It’s too windy, though the holiday season has begun – swarming with tourists, Mummy told me, as if they were insects. They pay her money to stay at the farm – Trevellin Farm Bed & Breakfast, ￡18 per person per night. We get a lot of guests in the summer. There’s that weird man in the lilac bedroom at the moment. He smells of wet dogs and always has crumbs stuck in his beard. Claire says he’s saving them for later. She also says that he’s come away for a dirty weekend because she found a rude magazine under his pillow when Mummy made her do his room. Claire gets a pound every time she makes a bed and wipes around the bathroom.
I wade out of the water and head inland across the ridged sand.
‘Where you off to, young lass?’
My heart leaps. Don’t speak to strangers. I glance sideways at the man, breathing a sigh of relief.
‘To get ice cream,’ I tell Mr Headley. He’s the headmaster at my school. My cheeks flush red because he’s looking at me in my swimsuit – Claire’s swimsuit – and it’s a bit big. I clamp my arms around my chest.
‘I’m off to get a breath of fresh air,’ he says, as if there might be one tumbling along the sand.
‘I hope you find one,’ I say, and begin walking again. But Mr Headley grabs hold of my arm, making me swing around on my heel.
‘How’s your mother?’ he asks. There’s a glint in his eye.
‘She’s fine, thank you.’ I remember to be polite even though he’s hurting me.
‘Send her my regards, then.’ When he lets go, I run off without looking back until I reach the scratchy grass up on the sandbank. Only then do I turn, panting, hands on knees, looking down at the beach. Mr Headley is nothing more than a speck on the sand.
The marram grass stings my bare legs as I push through. I step over it like a circus pony – big high strides with my skinny legs. Finally, I reach the road. To the right, the track stretches back towards the rocky cliff end of the beach near where the others are. I could have come that way as it would have been quicker, but Claire said not to take the cliff path. It’s perfectly safe after a quick scramble up the scree track, which is just plain fun, taking three giant leaps up and sliding back another couple on the slate chips. Your toes go dusty blue.
I look both ways and cross the road. No cars except for the ones parked outside the row of shops opposite. There’s the ice cream shop, which is quite famous – people come from all over to buy their Cornish ices. Imagine owning a shop that sold only ice cream. I know what I want to be when I grow up! Then there’s the little café that Mummy won’t go in because Daddy fell out with the lady. Although Claire says that it’s because Daddy likes the lady in there, what with her blue spotty dress and pinned-up hair and her thinking she’s a movie star even though she just serves tea and scones and has jam on her apron. There’s a newsagent shop where Claire and I sometimes come to fetch milk or bread, and then there’s the surfers’ shop that has giant, colourful boards outside on the pavement, all standing upright in a giant toast rack.
Nigel, the surf shop boy with curly blond hair, is standing in the doorway. He smiles and waves at me. He’s smoking a cigarette. ‘Where’s your big sister?’ he asks.
‘Down on the beach. I’m getting ice cream.’
‘Choose wisely, then.’ His long hair blows across his face and gets caught in the tip of his cigarette. ‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath.
I go inside the ice cream shop, tucking my salty, tangled hair behind my ears. The glass freezer counter stretches the width of the shop and there are a few little round tables in front in case you want to eat your ice cream sitting down. I like to eat mine walking along. It tastes better with every step.
‘Hello,’ the lady says. ‘What can I get for you?’
‘Not sure,’ I say without looking at her. The tubs are arranged in colour order – from the palest, most delicate lemon sorbet on the left to the deepest double chocolate on the right. In-between is a rainbow of tastes – pink, blue, green, red, yellow, beige, orange. My tongue fizzes at the thought of them all.
‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to a bright blue one.