The Holiday Home

22


Henry hadn’t slept a wink. All night he’d been tossing and turning, trying to decide what to do. Should he confront Greg? Tell Connie? Upset Abi before her birthday? Early the next morning he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. His slippers made track marks in the dewy grass as he walked across the garden to Atlantic House. He managed to catch Jem before he went to work.

‘Ah, Jem. Just the chap. I appear to be picking up your Uncle Greg’s emails on my iPad and I wonder if you could show me how to stop that?’

Jeremy, swallowing a large glass of orange juice, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Yeah, no worries, Poppa. Can it wait till tonight? You can delete anything you don’t want.’ He grabbed his bag and packed lunch. ‘Drag the arrow to the dustbin icon and left click.’ He gave his grandfather a quick hug. ‘Laters.’

Back in the solitude of his bedroom, Henry did as instructed and removed the incriminating email, along with all the others addressed to Greg.

Then he snapped closed the iPad cover and hid it in his wardrobe.

Dorothy was still in the shower. He didn’t want to face her until he’d come up with a solution to the Greg problem, so he slipped out of the house to go and get the boat ready.

As he walked across the lawn to the fortified door that led to the cave, he saw Greg and Connie waving to him from the kitchen. Greg was looking pleased with himself, standing there with his arm draped round Connie. It was all Henry could do to stop himself running over there to confront his philandering cheat of a son-in-law. His hand clenched into a tight fist as he imagined landing a punch that would wipe that smirk off Greg’s face. Instead he smiled grimly and walked on.

Opening the door into the old stone room, now used as a store for household detritus, he took in the familiar smell of sea damp and the sound of the water lapping at the bottom of the rough flight of rock steps ahead of him. He often thought of the young girl who had died down here. Such a tragedy. How would any parent recover from that? A painful stab of loss made him catch his breath, and he was aware of a lump forming in his throat. God, what was this? He put his hand out to the damp wall to steady himself. Tears stung his eyes and he swallowed hard. He fumbled for an old stool and sat on it. He told himself that what was past was past. He had Dorothy and Connie and Pru. He was blessed. But what should he do with the knowledge he had about Greg? If he told Connie, it would kill her marriage. Could he do that to her? He didn’t know. He hoped the answer would come to him. Standing up, he switched on the boathouse lights and descended the steps to the cave.

The Dorothy was resting in her hammock hoist, suspended above the water. He checked the boat’s bottom and twin propellers and ran his hand along the sleek curves of the hull. Satisfied that everything was in good order, he lowered the hoist and eased the boat into the rising tide.

Forty-five minutes later, he was putting away his cleaning cloths and thinking about turning on the engine, when he saw Dorothy enter the cave with Belinda. Belinda was carrying a large cool box.

‘Hi, Poppa.’ She waved to him. ‘Dorothy asked if I’d like to join your little cruise, so the least I could do was to pack a picnic.’

‘Well, you are very welcome, my dear.’ He got off the boat and stepped on to the rock floor that doubled as a harbour wall. ‘Let me help you aboard.’

The women got themselves settled and Henry gave them each a life jacket, untied the ropes securing the boat to the wall and turned on the engine. The deeply pleasing throb bounced around the cave.

‘OK, girls, duck your heads as we go out. The ceiling is a bit low.’ Henry confidently manoeuvred his pride and joy round to face the cave entrance. Belinda couldn’t see the outside world yet. The narrow passageway took a twist to the left and then to the right before she could see daylight ahead of them.

Coming out into the warm sunshine they surprised a basking pair of seals, who flopped from their rocky ledge into the sea.

‘Seals!’ Belinda laughed.

Dorothy patted her hand. ‘We might be lucky and see the dolphins.’

‘Really?’

Dorothy nodded as she tied a cotton spotted handkerchief over her hair. ‘If we’re lucky!’

Now that they were clear of the rocks, Henry gently opened the throttle. Within moments they were bouncing over the waves with the wind in their faces.

Belinda trailed her hand overboard so that her fingers were in the water. ‘This is heavenly!’ she shouted above the engine.

Henry was in his element. The Dorothy always had this effect on him; it was as if all anxious thoughts were whipped away by the breeze and scattered in the turbulent wake behind him. He took them out to sea and round a small island that was home to a reasonably large seal colony. He slowed the engine and let it idle as Belinda foraged for her camera and took photos.

The weather was fine and the sea flat. ‘Would you like to pop across to Trevay?’

Dorothy shook her head. ‘No, let’s go to Shellsand Bay. We can eat Belinda’s picnic.’

‘Righto, Number One.’ He pushed the throttle on again and for the next twenty minutes they raced and bounced the waves to Shellsand Bay.

He dropped anchor just offshore and the three of them sat in the comfortable leather seats munching the houmous salad wraps and sticky slices of flapjack that Belinda had made.

‘I love the sea,’ she said. ‘I grew up on the South Coast and loved going on day trips with my mum. Brighton was my favourite; it was always so busy and full of life. The pier scared me, though. I didn’t like seeing the water between the planks.’

‘Is your mother still alive?’ asked Dorothy.

‘No, she died just over a year ago. She’d suffered a massive stroke that left her almost paralysed. It meant she had to go into a nursing home, because she was unable to do anything for herself. But she still had all of her marbles, which made it so much harder to bear.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorothy.

‘Not your fault,’ said Belinda, taking a bite of flapjack.

‘What about your father?’ asked Henry.

‘I don’t remember much about him. He walked out when I was a baby. I found some bits and pieces about him in Mum’s papers. I’ve been wondering about tracking him down.’

‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Henry, reaching for his second piece of flapjack.

Belinda looked at him steadily. ‘Mum never told me.’

‘Where did you grow up?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Pevensey Bay. We had a little flat just off the seafront. My mum was very beautiful. She had a few boyfriends in her time. They helped her with money, I suspect, but she worked in T J Hughes, the old department store. On the cosmetics counter.’

‘Where was her nursing home?’

‘Oh, in Eastbourne – God’s waiting room.’ Belinda gave a rueful smile and started to pack up bits of sandwich bag and tinfoil.

Dorothy thought about her own family. ‘It must have been horrible for you all.’

‘Yeah. It was … Is.’ Belinda shrugged and put on a smile. ‘But life is what it is. Me and Emily, Brett and Steve – we’re OK.’ She gave a laugh. ‘And get me: sitting on a swanky speedboat with one of the most handsome captains in Cornwall! Can it get any better?’

*

Connie was reversing into a perilous parking space on the edge of a quay next to the River Fal. Greg was blocking her view as he turned to see what she might hit.

‘For God’s sake, woman, there’s a bollard behind us.’

‘I know, and I could see it better if you sat back in your seat and let me park. That big head of yours is not see-through, you know.’

She moved forward a little and then slid back into the space.

‘Bloody hell, Connie, there’s a thirty-foot drop behind us!’ Greg yelled, making her jump.

She stamped on the brake and shouted back: ‘I’m doing you a favour, you stupid man. I don’t want Abi to have a bloody boat for her birthday, but I have brought you here because you have a broken arm and I’m trying to be nice! OK?’

A youngish man in faded red cotton shorts with a navy blue jumper was coming towards them. They both immediately plastered on their best fake smiles.

Connie got out. ‘Hello! You must be Peter. I’m Mrs Wilson and this –’ she waved vaguely to where Greg was struggling to get out of the car – ‘is my husband.’

‘Nice to meet you.’ Peter shook her hand and that of the advancing Greg. ‘I’ve got a super little boat for you. Perfect for your daughter. Come and have a look.’

The small grey RIB was bobbing gaily on the water. Peter handed Connie and then Greg into it.

‘You sit here in the front seat, Mrs Wilson and your husband and I will sit behind the console while I take her out.’

The men discussed torque and trim and engines and stuff while Connie enjoyed her comfortable seat and view of Falmouth from the water.

‘Why’s it called a rib?’ she ventured.

Greg tutted and said impatiently, ‘Rigid Inflatable Boat. It’s got a rigid hull and blow-up sides. I thought you’d know that.’

Peter added more kindly, ‘Many people ask the same question, don’t worry. It makes the boat very light and easy to handle.’

‘What happens if you get a puncture?’ asked Connie.

‘You have to be careful of barnacles and such, but you can get it fixed.’

Connie would have liked to ask more, but Greg was monopolising Peter’s attention again.

Later, as they left the sales office with their invoice and a promise that the boat would be delivered in time for Abi’s birthday, Greg was buoyant.

‘What a little corker we’ve got there. Perfect for the family.’

‘It’s Abi’s, not the family’s,’ said Connie, opening the door for Greg and helping him in.

‘Of course it’s Abi’s,’ he snapped. ‘But while she’s at uni it’ll need to be taken out and used.’ He fixed his seat belt in place. ‘Great name, though, eh? Am I genius or what?’

‘It’s OK,’ said Connie, starting up the engine.

‘OK? It’s genius. Abi’s Gale – she’ll love it.’

*

‘What shall we get for Abi’s birthday?’ Dorothy asked Henry over a lunchtime prawn sandwich in their local pub.

‘Money. That’s what she wants.’

‘Too boring. I’d like to give her some jewellery. It’s a custom for grandmothers to pass their engagement rings to their granddaughters.’

Henry ignored this and continued eating.

‘If I had an engagement ring to give. Or a wedding ring,’ needled Dorothy.

‘Good God, woman. You are my wife. There has never been anyone can hold a candle to you.’

Dorothy rounded on him. ‘Oh, I’m your wife, am I?’

Henry put his hand to his forehead and winced. ‘You know what I mean. In every sense that matters, you are my wife.’

‘Except in the sense that really matters.’

Henry tilted his head towards the nearby tables that were filled with lunchtime diners.

‘Dorothy, lower your voice. Do you want the whole pub to hear? This isn’t the time or the place.’

‘When exactly would be a good time for you, Henry? It’s been more than forty years and you still haven’t told me when would be a good time. You never want to talk about it. I’ve had enough – and I don’t care who bloody well knows about it!’

Henry raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Darling. Why all this now? Let’s finish lunch and then I promise we will talk about this later.’

Eyes brimming with tears, Dorothy pushed aside her plate. ‘I’m not hungry any more.’ She picked up her bag and got to her feet. ‘You may not want to discuss it, Henry, but the fact remains: I am not and never have been your wife. Susan is your wife.’

Henry watched helplessly as she stood and fumbled with her handbag. Finding her sunglasses, she did her best to make a dignified exit.