to the cliff edge. Perhaps she’d just remembered it wrong.
She paused as she peered past the tree. At the edge of the cliff was a withering bunch of flowers. Pink roses, edges browning, green stems wilting. A memorial to a life long lost.
‘Oh Alice,’ she whispered to herself.
‘I thought it was you.’
She turned to see a man in his fifties with glasses and greying hair standing behind her. She frowned. ‘Do I know you?’
He smiled sadly. ‘I’ve aged that much, have I?’
She looked at him in shock. ‘Mr Tate?’
He nodded. He had aged. Mr Tate had been the school’s most beloved teacher, one of those hip teachers who let you sit on your table and discuss the interesting anthropological learnings from last night’s Eastenders when you should have been learning about the Treaty of Versailles. And yet he still managed to get top marks for his students.
Estelle had been particularly impressed by him. She’d come to Lillysands being suspicious of teachers, her first experience of them in her old primary school chequered. But soon she grew to adore Mr Tate just as much as everyone else did.
‘I’m surprised you recognise me,’ she said to him with a smile.
‘The famous chef? Of course I do. So, what brings you back to Lillysands? Autumn’s sixtieth?’
Estelle closed her eyes. Oh god, she’d forgotten it was Autumn’s birthday that weekend. This was the woman who’d been like a mother to her for several years. But, then, Estelle hadn’t been in touch with her for even more years.
Thinking that made her feel even worse.
‘It’s going to be quite the party,’ Mr Tate continued. ‘I hear they’re even getting in caterers.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But then the Garlands have always known how to throw a party.’ He’d never been a fan of Autumn and Max. Maybe as a self-proclaimed leftie, he found their excesses a bit much.
‘No, it’s just a fleeting visit,’ Estelle explained.
He flinched. ‘Look, there’s something I’ve been meaning to get in touch about.’
‘The journalist?’ Estelle asked, thinking of what the journalist who’d visited her had told her about speaking to Mr Tate.
He nodded. ‘It was Mary. She answered the phone to him, he got her talking. By the time I realised who it was …’ He sighed. ‘Sorry. I tried to remedy it by talking to him but I probably just made it worse.’
‘It’s fine, really. How is she?’
He peered towards the blue cottage where he lived with his wife, another teacher who’d been at the school when Estelle was there. His brown eyes filled with sadness. ‘She’s ill, I’m afraid. Cancer.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’
‘We’ll fight it, don’t you worry,’ he said, clearly forcing himself to be bright. ‘I retired early to make sure I’m there for her.’
Her heart went out to him. She’d always liked them both.
He looked towards the dried flowers at the side of the cliff. ‘It still pains us to think of what happened to Alice. She was such a bright girl, had so much promise.’
Estelle followed his gaze. ‘Yes, she did,’ she whispered.
Fifteen years ago, Alice had jumped from this very cliff. They’d discovered Alice’s body the day after Estelle gave birth, swept up on the beach at the foot of the Lady Lillysands cliff, a suicide note eventually found in her room.
‘She’d have been proud of how far you’ve come,’ Mr Tate said. ‘I’m proud. You did it. You really did. And with a recipe book too.’ He put his hand on her shoulder, looking into her eyes. ‘You’ve come a long way, Estelle.’
‘Thank you.’
He sighed, peering back over his shoulder. ‘I better get back to Mary. I just saw you here and thought I’d come over to say hello. Hopefully see you around?’
Estelle smiled. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Take care, Estelle.’ Then he walked off towards his cottage.
She watched him go, noticing how he limped slightly. Would Autumn and Max appear aged as well? Somehow, she couldn’t imagine it. They’d always seemed invincible and timeless to her. Only one way to find out.
She shrugged her bag over her shoulder, walking up the road towards Seaview Terrace, home to the huge house where the Garlands lived.
When she’d first arrived there as a child, a large sign had welcomed her: ‘Seaview Terrace. Luxury 5- and 6-bed clifftop houses for sale, the ideal seaside home or holiday let.’ Her foster father Max had developed these houses with an investment from his rich friend Peter. They were so grand and modern, a dozen pastel-coloured houses, the jewel in Lillysands’ property crown.
Estelle approached the Garlands’ house now, the first of the houses, heart thumping. Its pale lilac walls felt so familiar to her, the pebble-lined lane that ran up to the glass front door like a walkway through her memories. She remembered how it had felt to look at the house all those years before. She’d been used to the houses she was carted off to getting progressively worse (cause enough problems with foster carers and word gets out). But this house had blown her mind.
Autumn was the first one to come to the door when Estelle arrived there as a girl. Estelle had been as awestruck at her as she had been the house. Autumn was so glamorous, with blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders, wearing a long-sleeved blue dress, neckline plunging. She’d met Estelle’s eyes, compassion in her own green ones, as Estelle had trudged up to the door.
‘Come here, darling,’ Autumn had said, opening her arms to her.
Estelle had recoiled.
‘Come on,’ Autumn had coaxed.
The social worker had shoved Estelle towards Autumn and Estelle had taken a reluctant step, peering suspiciously at a man who’d appeared in the hallway behind the woman. He was tall with short spiky white hair and sparkling blue eyes.
‘It’s only a hug,’ Autumn had said. ‘It won’t kill you.’
So she’d stepped into Autumn’s arms, flinching, and Autumn had held her close.
‘You’re home,’ she’d whispered into Estelle’s ear. ‘You don’t ever have to be scared or alone or hungry again.’
Estelle had seriously thought about bolting then. But she knew if she did, that would be it, her social worker had told her that. No more chances. She’d be thrown into the melting pot, a lost cause. A small part of her feared that. So she’d let Autumn hug her despite hating every minute.
That was the thing back then, she was so unused to affection. Her father had come from a family who’d rather die than show anyone anything close to warmth. Estelle still remembered the occasional visits to her grandparents’
