Edie raised her eyebrows. A dead father definitely made her interesting again.
‘I think I come over a bit weird because of it.’
Edie didn’t say anything.
‘Sorry. Maybe I should have told you sooner. I—’
‘How old were you?’
‘Ten.’
Edie felt a small twist in her stomach. Ten years old. A little younger than the age she’d been when she first found her mother passed out on the floor, pale and still. For a while she’d been convinced she was dead and it terrified her. She’d sat beside her for ages, holding her hand, stroking her, begging her to wake up. Then her father appeared and sent her out of their bedroom. As she left she heard him muttering crossly, saying ‘at this rate she’d be dead before Christmas.’ Shortly afterwards Edie returned to school and every night she went to bed convinced she’d get a message in the morning that this time her mother hadn’t woken up.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked, sitting down beside Tamsyn on the bed.
‘He drowned.’
Edie rested her hand on Tamsyn’s knee.
‘He was a volunteer with the RNLI.’ She hesitated and glanced at Edie. ‘The lifeboats? He was called out in a storm that had come in too fast. There were a couple of tourists who’d got caught in a dinghy. Idiots. They died too. His body was washed up the next morning a few miles down the coast.’ She paused and blinked slowly, then whispered: ‘Sometimes it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I miss him every day.’
Tamsyn became animated as she talked about her father’s death. Her shyness evaporated. Her raw grief was palpable, but so was the inner strength which Edie had seen a flash of the day before.
‘That’s dreadful. I’m so sorry,’ Edie said. And she meant it. ‘You poor thing.’
Without thinking she put her arm around Tamsyn and for a while they sat like that, peaceful, no sound except the lilt of the breaking waves which rolled in through the slightly open window.
Tamsyn
July 1986
There had been a moment in Edie’s room, when she caught me staring at her, that I’d thought I’d ruined it all. I’d been distracted by her. Carefully studying the slope of her nose, the tiny silver stud that glinted in one nostril, her flawless eyeliner drawn into extravagant sweeps on each eyelid. But when she challenged me I noted the sudden cooling in her. I’d seen the look she gave me before, many times, on the girls and boys at school. It generally came with a dismissive sneer and a silent promise not to be seen dead with me.
When I saw it on Edie’s face I panicked.
Offering up my father’s death as an excuse was risky. It could have easily scared her off. She might not have seen it as an explanation. She might not have cared. I was trading information for a second chance. But the gamble paid off and within seconds her face softened and her body opened up like a flower in water, arms uncrossing, fists unclenching, eyes widening.
I’m so sorry. You poor thing.
Then she held me and let me rest my head on her shoulder. Of course, I froze like a marble statue. There was no way I was going to move for fear of spoiling the moment. Nobody had ever shown me sympathy like that. Especially not people my age. At school his death was a topic to be avoided in case it made me cry or shout or punch a wall.
Eventually she stood up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry.’
As I followed her down the stairs the reality of where I was, and how I’d come to be there as an invited guest, made me light-headed. I was so used to being in the house illegally with the constant threat of being discovered hanging over me. Being there legitimately was suddenly a little overwhelming and for a moment I had to pause, grip hold of the banister, and take three deep breaths to steady myself.
We walked through the living room and towards the back door. The windows were open and the gauzy curtains danced like ghosts in the billowing breeze. A wall of late afternoon heat hit me as we stepped outside. I gasped when I saw the table. I hadn’t noticed when I arrived, too intent, I suspected, on following Edie up to her room to listen to music. I’d never seen anything like it. The iron table was laid up as if for a banquet. A white tablecloth had been laid over it and there was a large glass bowl in the centre which was piled high with a rainbow of exotic fruit I’d never even seen before. There was a small dish of butter which had softened in the sun and rolled-up serviettes encircled with silver rings and a silver bucket on a stand which held ice cubes and two bottles. The table had been set for four places and my stomach turned over with the thrill of realising one of them was for me.
‘Typical. Wine but no water,’ Edie said. ‘Wait here. I’ll go and get some.’
As she left a movement caught my eye. I looked across the gleaming surface of the pool and saw Max Davenport. He stood with his back to me in front of the brick barbecue in the far corner of the terrace, poking a pile of smoking charcoal which sent clouds of sparks into the air with each prod.
I decided to try to talk to him. My stomach fizzed as I neared him and I focused on the voice in my head which was telling me to be brave, be brave, be brave.
He must have heard me and turned, face broken in half by a smile, and raised his tongs in greeting. A film of sweat coated his forehead and there were two patches of damp in the armpits of his snow-white shirt, which was open to his stomach revealing white skin with a light thatch of greying chest hair. He wore long red shorts with a crease ironed down the centres of the legs and on his feet the soft blue shoes. I’d seen them a hundred times through the lenses of my dad’s binoculars, but had never noticed the two gold coins slipped into slots in the leather on the tops of the shoes.
He must have seen me staring at them. ‘They’re penny loafers,’ he said, with an unmistakable glint of amusement. ‘You’re supposed to put a penny in them, but I put pound coins in mine.’
‘Like a wallet?’
He laughed. ‘For decoration.’
I hadn’t realised money could be used for decoration. When I looked back down at the coins they seemed to shine like the beams from a lighthouse.
‘Mum’s not sure about the new coins,’ I said. ‘She likes money you can fold, not pockets weighed down with shrapnel.’
‘Your mother sounds supremely sensible.’
I smiled. His voice was different to how I’d imagined it. Posher and gravelly as if he’d swallowed a handful of sand before talking.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tamsyn Tresize.’ I hoped he wouldn’t notice me blushing.
‘A good Cornish name.’ He smiled again. ‘And pretty too.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Davenport,’ I said, remembering my manners.
‘Max,’
