“Flora?” The person held her by the elbow to stop her from falling, and when she turned it took her a moment to recognise the man out of context, clothed and vertical: Richard. She pulled away from him and ran down the stairs to the ground floor, her face burning. Out on the pavement he caught up with her.
“Who was that?” he said. “What were you doing?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.” She marched past the café, up the high street, Richard jogging to keep up. “Anyway, shouldn’t it be me asking you questions? Like what the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to find you. You weren’t answering your phone.”
“It’s broken.”
“I had to get a train and then the bus—no idea where to get off. I went into the library to ask directions.”
“So you were stalking me.”
“I was worried about you.”
“There’s no need. I’m fine.”
“Flora,” he said, touching her arm. “Slow down. Who was that woman?”
Flora stopped walking, flung her arms up in the air, and let them flap to her sides. For a moment her voice wouldn’t come, but she swallowed the lump inside her. “I thought she was my mother. OK? But she wasn’t. Happy now?”
“I’m sorry,” Richard said.
“For following me or because she wasn’t my mother?”
“For both.”
“Well, you don’t need to be sorry. As you can see, I’m fine.” Flora was aware she was shouting and that people walking past were staring. “You can go home now.” She opened her satchel and groped in it for Richard’s car key, then remembered that the Morris Minor was in the garage. “I had an accident, last night. In your car.”
Richard’s eyes widened. “Were you hurt? Are you all right?” He dropped the small rucksack he’d been carrying and put his arm around her; she let it stay.
“I’m fine. But your car . . .”
His arm fell away.
“It’s the fan belt. I got it to the garage. They’re mending it now. It should be ready in a couple of hours.”
“As long as you’re OK,” he said. “Come on, let me buy you a cup of tea.”
“I’d bloody well rather have a proper drink,” she said.
Richard and Flora sat on the veranda drinking Gil’s whiskey as the sun went down. Richard had found it under the kitchen sink behind a box of tools after she had sent him into the house without her. She’d also got him to drag the cover off the bed so they could wrap it around them. The tide was in and the deep water crashing against the cliffs boomed where it hit hollows in the rock, the sound like distant thunder.
“This used to be a swimming pavilion?” Richard said.
“Changing rooms to you and me,” Flora said. “When Daddy sold the big house up the road, this was all that was left. I think there were debts and death duties when my grandfather died. Daddy doesn’t talk about it.”
Headlights swung around into the drive, illuminating the gorse flowers, yellow jewels in the black. Nan’s car pulled up.
“Where have you been?” Nan said as soon as she got out and saw Flora standing at the top of the steps.
“Where have you been, you mean,” Flora said. “You were meant to be home hours ago. How’s Daddy?” She went towards the car.
“He’s sleeping. Leave him.” Nan blocked Flora’s route to the passenger door. “I’ve been calling the house phone and your mobile all afternoon. There was some stupid delay with the doctor wanting to see him again. Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I thought I saw Mum in Hadleigh,” Flora said. “But it wasn’t her.”
“Oh, Flora,” Nan said, her puff gone in an instant. She stepped forwards as if to take her sister in her arms.
Deflecting her, Flora said, “This is Richard.” She turned towards the veranda, and Richard moved out of the shadows and down the steps to shake Nan’s hand.
“How do you do?” Nan said, unable to resist her natural inclination to be polite no matter the circumstances.
“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Is there anything I can do?”
“Well,” Nan said, running her hands through her hair, “perhaps you could help me get him into the house. I think he might need to be carried.”
“Carried?” Flora said. “Why can’t he walk?”
“I’ve told you,” Nan said. “He’s tired. Why don’t you go and put the lights on so we can see what we’re doing.”
“There’s a power cut.”
Flora stood close by with a candle while Nan woke their father and introduced Richard. In the end Gil struggled out of the seat by himself, brushing off any helping hands but allowing Richard to tuck his arm under Gil’s elbow as they walked around the car.
“Oh, Daddy,” Flora said, her hand going to her mouth. The candlelight showed butterfly stitches across Gil’s left cheek; the eye above it was dark and swollen shut. A graze speckled his forehead. He looked smaller, thinner, than when she had last seen him.
“Flo,” Gil said sleepily. “Do you have the book?” He reached out for her hand with his right, and Flora saw that his left arm was held in a sling.
“He keeps going on about the book he had with him when he fell,” Nan said to Flora. “We don’t have it, Dad.”