It was a cold winter’s day and, even before he left home for the day, Ben was looking forward to returning, kicking off his boots, a hot bath and an evening in front of the fire. He would never admit it to his wife, but a small part of his joy at coming home after being out at sea on the Sally-Mae had been missing since Merrin had left Port Charles. Ruby was an ever-present source of happiness with her spiky manner and lack of filter and he loved nothing more than to hear about her day spent working at the fishmonger’s in town. It was, and always had been, interesting to him how much folk were willing to pay for what he hauled from the sea. He used to joke with the girls when they were little, explaining the role of a fisherman and how his catch went from his boat to tables far and wide.
‘’Magine that, liddle ones?’ he’d laugh. ‘One minute you’re swimming about in the briny, a happy little lobster, and the next you are facing a boiling pot while a fat man in an expensive suit sits on a velvet chair with his napkin tucked into his shirt collar, willing to pay over the odds for nothing more than a bite of your bum!’ The girls had found this hilarious, but there was, as ever, truth in his joke. He smiled now at the memory of them at such a young age.
Not that there was anywhere on God’s planet he would rather be than in this small plot of land that was his home, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t mind the fact that one of his daughters was so far away. It was a dilemma. He of course wanted his girls to find their feet and fly. Doing whatever it was that made them happy, but if he had his wish, no matter that it might be a selfish one, he wanted them close. His little family, his greatest achievement, within reach for a shared cup of tea, a glass of blackberry wine or a good old chat in front of the fire.
He knew, too, that Heather, as much as she tried to hide it, now carried a certain sadness about her. He understood; it was as if all was not quite right in the world with their littlest so far away. She might only have been on the outskirts of Bristol, three hours away on a good run, but it felt like she was on the other side of the world when she wasn’t under their roof. They had raised two strong women and yet the thought he kept to himself was that at some level he felt it was his job to be there if and when anything went wrong. Not that there had been much he could do when things had gone so horribly wrong last summer. His impotence surrounding it was like a paper cut in his mind that just wouldn’t heal.
Those damned Mortimers . . .
Climbing down the rickety stairs, he felt his fingers flex and form a fist as they did when he pictured Merrin’s face in the vestry, as she sat upright in the chair with her dress puffed up all around her, looking at once like a child and yet somehow older, as if the reality of life, something truly terrible she had not known existed, had been revealed to her. He exhaled deeply and tried to settle his pulse, which always raced when he pictured the face of the boy he had welcomed into his home for cosy suppers and anecdotes recounted around the table.
‘I could still bloody kill him!’ he muttered under his breath, wondering if this feeling would ever subside. He rubbed at the top of his arm, where a shooting pain had a tendency to spark, due to the cold, no doubt, and the effect of hauling heavy nets and crates of fish at his age in all weathers.
As he rolled his shoulder and walked into the parlour, Heather called from the stove, where she stirred a lamb stew, the rich, peppery aroma filling the air.
‘Where you going, Ben?’
‘Old Boat Shed.’ He grabbed his old oilskin jacket and pulled on his sturdy boots.
‘That’ll make a change.’ She sighed.
‘Where else am I to go? This is Port Charles! There in’t that much choice!’
‘I know where we are. And well you know that my point is that you can’t keep hiding up there. It won’t bring her back. It’s been nearly six months.’ She spoke over her shoulder.
‘You think I don’t know that? I just need to sit and think and look at the sea. Ain’t too much to ask, is it?’
‘If that’s what you need to do, love, but as far as I can see, you’re in danger of growing gills: you’re either on the sea, in the sea or looking at the bloody sea.’ Heather turned her attention to the salting of her stew.
‘That’s about right. I’m a Cornishman.’ He chuckled.
‘Yes, you are. A proud Cornishman, but you used to be a proud and happy Cornishman. You can’t live sad. You have to live happy!’
He gave a wry smile; this from the woman who wept behind closed doors when she thought no one was listening.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes! Merrin seems okay, she really does, so it makes no sense to brood. You’ve heard her on the phone and read her letters: she’s working hard and has found her feet. She seems settled.’
‘Didn’t even come home for Christmas.’ He remembered what it had felt like to wake for the first time on a Christmas Day without both his daughters under his roof, and the rather subdued celebrations that had occurred in light of the year they had had.
‘For the love of God, let it go, Ben! That’s her busiest time, she couldn’t get away.’
He snorted, not fully believing this and suspecting that Merrin would use any excuse not to come back to the place that now held such negative associations.
‘That Mortimer boy,’ Heather began. The mention of him enough to make his pulse race.