“Yes,” says Jana, her smile growing still more rigid. “Various people have suggested updates over the years. However, Ms. Adler has chosen not to reengage with Young Love. Obviously we support her artistic integrity and are very excited about her new direction.”
I bite my lip, feeling a bit sorry for Jana. Obviously she’d die for a lovely new romantic painting from Mavis Adler, but instead she has to be super-excited about metal girders. I’m sure the metal girders are very powerful, only I can’t see anyone putting them on a pencil case.
“And you’re positive she isn’t doing any messages on the beach at the moment?” I return to my original inquiry.
“I don’t know.” Jana spreads her hands. “It’s possible. She’s currently in Copenhagen, of course.”
“Copenhagen?” This ruins my theory. She can’t be simultaneously in Copenhagen and planting messages on the beach.
Although now I think about it, it was always more Finn’s theory than mine. So I still win.
“She’s back in two days, and we’re running a special event at the Rilston ballroom. Ms. Adler will be unveiling Titan,” she adds momentously.
“Wow!” I say, feeling that some response is required. “Titan!”
“Exactly. It will be a big moment. There’s a drinks reception, if you’re interested? The details are in there.” She nods at the leaflet in my hand. “Now I’ll let you browse.”
I drift around the gallery, looking at watercolors and oversized pottery vases, then return to the gift shop area, which is about 90 percent Young Love merchandise, mixed with a few postcards of her messages on the beach. I pick up a Young Love tote bag and approach the till.
“Lovely choice,” says Jana, as she scans it. “And would you like the catalog for the new exhibition?” She’s already reaching for one, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that I’ll buy it, and I quail inwardly. Oh God. I’m going to have to admit that I am a philistine cheapskate.
“Um, just the tote bag, thanks.” I clear my throat. “I’ll … think about the catalog.”
“Of course!” she says, replacing the catalog with over-deliberate movements. “No problem.”
There’s a massive pile of catalogs on the floor behind her, I notice. Clearly everyone thinks like me. Which makes me feel bad. But not quite bad enough to spend twenty quid on photographs of metal girders I’ll never look at.
When I get back on the street, I reach for my phone to see if Mum or Kirsten has replied to my WhatsApps, but there’s nothing. So I turn my steps toward the beach.
As I’m striding along the sand, the wind kicks up, and soon it’s blowing gusts of top sand across the beach. I stop to watch for a bit, because it’s kind of eerie. Swathes of sand are traveling in whorls and patterns, all streaming in the same direction. It looks as though the ground is moving beneath my feet.
I film a bit on my phone to show Finn, then resume marching on, my eyes fixed on the Surf Shack, which is the natural focus of this part of the beach. As I get nearer, a few raindrops hit my face and I roll my eyes. Honestly, the weather. Just as you think you’ve got it tamed, it rains on you again. But even so, I’m enjoying this stride, this fresh, bracing air, this eerie whirling sand, the gulls circling overhead. I’m communing with my surroundings again, I realize. Go, me! I knew I could crack it—
Then, midway through my train of thought, I freeze. Everything else vanishes from my mind. What am I seeing?
There on the deck of the Surf Shack is a figure I didn’t notice before, but now I can see him clearly. It’s Terry. Terry, back in his spot, standing on the deck, arms outstretched, for all the world as though he’s about to assemble a surf class.
What the … ?
I pick up my pace, walking faster, then almost running to get to the Surf Shack.
“Hi!” My voice tumbles out eagerly as I approach. “Hi, Terry! It’s Sasha, d’you remember me?”
He’s dressed in loose corduroy trousers and a fleece, rather than the wetsuit or board shorts I remember, but I guess I never saw him in winter, or even off duty. He was only ever on the beach, tanned, dressed for surf lessons, and ready to command the action.
As I get closer, my stomach flips over as I realize that his clothes aren’t the only thing that’s different about him. His face is thinner, his hair whiter and more tufty. His legs are scrawnier, I can tell from the way his trousers fall. His hands are bony. And they’re trembling slightly, I notice. He looks frail. Terry Connolly looks frail.
Of course he’s older, I tell myself, willing myself not to be shocked by his appearance. Of course he is. Twenty years have gone by since I last saw him. What did I expect? But there’s a secret dismay inside me, a sadness, a kind of longing for Terry as he was. Strong and barrel-chested and master of the waves. Master of the beach. Master of life.
“Hi, Terry!” I say again, and he turns his head as though only just noticing me. His face looks kind of caved in, with deep-etched grooves running down each cheek. He doesn’t have his stubble anymore but is clean-shaven, and it makes his face look soft and vulnerable. His blue eyes are vague for a moment, then they light up as though he’s worked out who I am.
“Have you come for a lesson?” he asks, his voice feebler than I remember but with a shade of his old gusto. “First class is at ten o’clock. Have you surfed before?”
“It’s me, Sasha.” I step up onto the deck, trying to catch his wandering gaze. “I used to learn surfing from you!”
“Ten o’clock,” repeats Terry, nodding. “Do you need a board? Speak to Sandra, my wife; she’ll sort you out.” He glances behind him as though expecting the door to be open, Sandra standing at her table, children in wetsuits spilling in and out.
But Sandra died three years ago.
“OK,” I say, swallowing. “OK, I’ll do that.”
Terry’s gaze travels over the empty beach as though puzzled. “Not many here yet.”
“No,” I manage. “No, there aren’t.”
My heart is crunching. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to react.
“You’ll have to take that off!” He gestures at my anorak in amusement. “Can’t surf in a coat!”
“I’ll … I’ll take it off for the lesson,” I say.
“That’s good. That’s good.” He nods vaguely. “Beginner group, are you?”
“I … yes. I’m a beginner.”
“You’ll make a fine surfer!” he says encouragingly. “You’ll do well.” Then his eyes roam over the beach again in confusion. “But where are the others? They’re all late! Go and tell them, will you?”
“I … um …”
“Sandra, how many in the first class?” he calls, then seems to wait for an answer. He heads across the deck to the closed door, surveys it for a full minute, then shakes his head as though in bemusement. “Don’t know where she’s got to,” he mutters after a bit. “Ah well …” He looks at me and his faded gaze refocuses. “Oh, it’s you!” he exclaims in sudden animation.
“Yes!” I say, feeling a clutch of relief. “It’s me, Sasha! Remember my sister, Kirsten? We used to—”
“Now, I’ve had to put you in the first class,” says Terry, without appearing to hear me. “The ten o’clock class. I know you’ve surfed before, but …” He pauses, looking surprised. “Love, where’s your board? You’ll need a board!”
I can’t find a reply. I’m gripped by sadness, by shock. As I gaze at Terry’s kindly, inquiring face, I feel two tears trickle down my face. When Tessa said her father wasn’t himself, I thought …
The truth is, I didn’t think. I didn’t imagine. I wanted Terry to be like he was in my memory, forever.
By now Terry has spotted my tears, and he shakes his head sorrowfully.
“Oh dear! You’re in the wars, my dear, aren’t you? Now, look,” he says, stepping toward me. “Look, look, look.”
I wait breathlessly. This is how he began every pep talk. “Look, look, look,” he’d say, before dispensing some nugget of wisdom. But how’s he going to give me a pep talk about this? How can he?