given me the cold shoulder for years. I just want to know why, that’s all. Because you’re not the sort of person to be stand-offish for no reason, I know that now.’
There’s a long silence, but May can be patient when she needs to be. Eventually Julia clears her throat. ‘I suppose it all goes back to Charles.’
‘I thought as much.’
‘But really, I don’t see why we have to drag bad memories up after all this time. Can’t we just draw a veil over it?’
‘Well, we could, if I had some idea what it is. And what’s Charles got to do with you not liking me?’
Julia gets up and goes over to the window. With her back to May, she says, ‘I told you, it’s not about whether I like you or not. Look, I’m not ready for this sort of talk just now, May. It’s hard enough to get through the days without Don. I can’t tackle any more emotional memories. Can’t we just get on with the letters?’
May sighs and gives in. They start to work their way through the heap, putting the photographs on one side. The rush of memories is potent, and May is soon overwhelmed. She realises she mustn’t start reading the letters properly otherwise she’ll be comatose before long, so she settles for just checking the dates. Even so, she can tell her face is giving her away. She can’t stop smiling.
‘We’ve done enough for now,’ says Julia, after an hour of intense sorting. ‘I’ll just read you a bit of this one, though. It’s from Elsie.’
She clears her throat.
Thanks for having us to stay again, Don. I know it wasn’t one of our more successful visits. Blame Will and his weird moods for that. I can’t believe he dashed off like that before the holiday was even over. I had to come home on the train alone, which wasn’t much fun, and to think he hitch-hiked all that way in the middle of the night! I still haven’t got to the bottom of it, and now he’s jacked his job in and gone off to Ireland. It’s that Catholic Church at the root of it. He’s never been the same since he turned his back on the Methodist chapel and started going to Mass.
‘What’s all that about?’ May asks. Something’s tugging at her memory, and it’s making her feel sick.
‘I have no idea. The date’s 15 March 1963. Does that mean anything to you?’
May closes her eyes, suddenly dizzy, and Julia leans forward.
‘You look a bit … well, Emily would probably call it “spaced out”. Are you OK to work a bit longer or shall we have a break?’
May really is feeling quite peculiar now. The thought of a little lie-down on the bed is very tempting. March 15 1963. Her eleventh wedding anniversary. And the day after Charles drowned.
The hire car smells vaguely fishy, and also as if someone’s been smoking in it. Maybe it was previously lent to a kipper manufacturer? It’s started making rather strange clunking and creaking noises after fifty or so miles, but Emily ignores them and eventually the sounds die away.
The last fifty miles are the worst. Even with the radio playing full blast, it’s hard to stay awake. She passes the time thinking about holidays past. Long days by the sea, making sand castles when she was younger, shell-gathering later, hanging out with the local kids and visiting some of the more friendly villagers. May Rosevere has always been Emily’s favourite. May has an endless supply of slightly scandalous stories about her neighbours and a wicked sense of humour. Not only that, she let Emily rootle through her jewellery box and try everything on. Better still, her biscuit tin seemed to be bottomless.
At last she reaches Pengelly after more than five hours’ driving with only one short break. As she coasts down the main street, she remembers how her grandfather always met her by the pub on the green, and jumped into the car to travel the last couple of hundred yards with her. She was never able to give him an exact time of arrival, so he waited on a bench outside. He never minded how long he sat there.
The awful realisation hits her, once again, that Gramps is gone for good. There are so many things to miss about him: the way he hugged her as if she was the most important person in the world; the happiness in his voice as he said, ‘You’re home, Little Em!’; the sparkle of those blue eyes so like her own – all gone.
Blinking hard, she sees a tall figure sitting on the rickety seat outside the Eel and Lobster. Gramps’ bench. Her heart skips several beats and she slams the brakes on, causing the Range Rover behind her to toot madly. The man in it gives her a V sign as he screeches past, but the figure on the bench is on his feet now and giving one back.
It’s not Gramps – of course it’s not. Emily never thought it was, really. She winds her window down.
‘Hello, Andy,’ she says, rubbing her eyes.
‘Oh, hello, Emily. I was afraid I’d miss you going past.’
‘No chance of that with the noises this car’s been making. But it got me here eventually.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you just yet. I’ve only just started my pint. Fancy joining me for one?’
He holds up his glass, beaded with moisture. It’s true, he’s not made much headway into it yet. Emily’s taste buds spring back to life after the long, fetid drive. It’s been ages since she’s drunk anything but tonic water with a mean-spirited splash of vodka and a lot of ice and lemon to bulk it out. Even at the most lavish publishing parties she’s gone easy on the prosecco in case she misses vital undercurrents or starts to babble to an important client.
‘What about the car?’ she says, rather feebly. ‘I’m driving. I know it’s only down the road, but I’d hate to fall at the last fence. It’s been a long day.’
‘Geoff at the pub says it’s best if you park it up here anyway, because May’s car park’s full. Your grandpa’s old banger’s taking up all the space on the drive at number sixty, and the battery’s flat so we haven’t got around to moving it yet. The garage is full of all sorts of junk … I mean, things being stored.’
Emily laughs. ‘Junk is about right. OK, I’ll park in the corner under the oak tree – then if it’s hot tomorrow I won’t singe my legs getting in.’
She drives into the car park and tucks the car away as neatly as she can. Her bag isn’t heavy – she was determined to travel light this time – but Andy’s already reaching an arm out to take it from her.
‘You look shattered,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you go and sit round the back so we can see the harbour and you can have a slurp of my beer while I go and get you one of your own. Or would you rather have some wine? They do quite a good sauvignon blanc.’
‘Beer would be brilliant,’ says Emily, doing as she’s told.
The view is spectacular. Stretching out to one side she can see the curve of the sandy beach, and to her right are the harbour walls, encircling a row of little boats. She can hear the mournful cry of the gulls and the hammering noises of someone making repairs to a wooden dinghy dragged far up onto the pebbles.
Pengelly in early June. Emily can’t remember ever arriving at this time of year. Christmas breaks,
