less material pace, placing value on free time, socialising with friends, and partaking in hobbies such as amateur dramatics.
Their dad was the same. Charlotte had imagined an emotional reunion, whereby Tony Saunders enveloped his eldest daughter in a bear hug, told her he’d missed her and everything would revert to how things had been before her mum had died. Instead, she’d spent one brief evening with him before he’d had to rush off, something about a fishing boat caught on the nearby rocks. It was all highly depressing. All she’d been able to glean from Lauren was that he lived on a narrowboat, worked for a local fisherman, and spent his free time manning the local RNLI boat station.
The only people that were pleased to see her were Freddie and Florence. She’d quite enjoyed reading them bedtime stories, picking them up from school, and teaching them to bake cupcakes. They were surprisingly good company.
She checked her watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Lauren was working at the café, and the kids were at school. What was there to do on a Thursday in Penmullion?
She guessed there was only one way to find out.
It wasn’t the warmest of days, so she slipped on her navy rain mac over her silk shirt and white pencil skirt. She considered changing her footwear, but decided she wasn’t going far, so stuck with her nude courts. It took a lot for her to ditch the heels.
Dobbs Road wasn’t in the desirable part of town, so she had to walk down to the main quayside if she wanted anything other than pound shops and budget supermarkets.
The road was extremely steep; the houses either side were cut into the rock face, their driveways at acute angles to the road. Her slow walk turned into a speedy trot as her momentum increased on the downhill slope. Thankfully, the road levelled out before she reached the water’s edge, preventing her from landing head first in the sea. Quite apart from the embarrassment that would have caused, her shirt was dry-clean only.
In order to reach the other side of the quay, where most of the boats were moored, she needed to cross the narrow footbridge. Determined not to be defeated by the drop below, she focused on the view ahead, and tried to slow her breathing, as she negotiated the unstable walkway. It wasn’t the sturdiest of bridges, with lengths of rope supporting the wooden slats. She tried not to look down, ignoring the sound of splashing water beneath, which evoked memories of falling into a weir when she was a child and nearly drowning.
The sound of a cockerel startled her. She turned to see a huge bird waddling across the bridge. It was making the most godawful noise. Was it normal for random animals to be wandering about? Keen to avoid any contact with the bird, she hurried to the other side.
Her father’s boat was moored somewhere along this side of the quay. She hadn’t consciously decided to visit, but now she was here, it seemed appropriate to call in and say hello. If nothing else, it would show a willingness to ‘bond’. Besides, she was curious to see where he lived.
A long line of narrowboats were moored along the water’s edge. She instinctively knew which boat belonged to her dad. The sight of The Lady Iris brought a lump to her throat. He’d named his boat after their mum? Emotion rooted her to the spot. She took in the teal paintwork and abundance of potted flowers adorning the upper deck. The side of the boat was decorated with painted, purple irises, her mum’s favourite flower. The image allowed her mind to drift back to a happier time before their family had been ripped apart.
She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, with a kind, doting mother, a relaxed, chilled father, and a congenial younger sister. She’d worked hard at school, had a few close friends, and spent her time listening to music and drawing pictures of grand houses with swimming pools and vast landscaped gardens. She hadn’t been a big socialiser, but she’d started to come out of her shell at university, loving her design course and finding a few kindred spirits. A few months into the course, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Iris Saunders died before Charlotte had finished her first year.
Her mother’s death affected them all differently. Lauren became rebellious, dropping out of school, entangling herself with a boy who ditched her the moment she fell pregnant. Her father sank into a deep depression, gave up work, and lost any desire for life. It’d been left to Charlotte to hold the family together, picking up responsibility for paying the bills, buying food, and keeping Lauren on the straight and narrow. She’d encouraged her father to seek counselling, and urged him to take the medication he’d been prescribed. Unable to deal with her own grief, she’d focused on her career, knowing it was the only way to provide security and structure for her family. She’d thrown herself into study, spending long hours training, trying to impress in a tough industry. She lost touch with friends and rarely had any free time, but it was necessary if she was to help them all recover from the loss of their mother … and then Lauren and her dad had moved away. After all she’d done, all the sacrifices she’d made, they left without even a thank you for having looked after them.
She dug out a tissue. She hated crying.
Over the years, she’d tried to make peace with her feelings. Her dad had been so consumed by grief that he wasn’t in any fit state to realise what his daughter had given up. It wasn’t his fault. Depression was a crippling illness, she understood that. And Lauren was barely sixteen when their mum had died, she couldn’t be expected to realise the impact it had had on her older sister.
But life had moved on. Her dad had recovered, and he and Lauren had built a life for themselves in Cornwall … A life that didn’t include her.
Recovering from the shock of seeing the boat’s name, she made her way onto the gangplank, or whatever it was called. It certainly felt like she was walking to her doom. Don’t look down, her brain instructed – which was challenging when the wood beneath creaked, threatening to tip her into the murky water.
A woman appeared from inside the cabin, her bright-orange jumper and yellow capri-style trousers blending with the hanging baskets tied to the rigging. ‘Well, hello there,’ she called, sounding surprised, but not unfriendly. ‘No prizes for guessing who you are. You’re the spitting image of your sister.’ She offered Charlotte her hand. ‘Mind the step, there you go. Much as I admire your shoes, I’m not sure they’re suitable for wearing on a boat.’
Charlotte stepped onto the deck, relieved to be on solid footing. ‘You may have a point.’
The woman’s big laugh drew attention from passers-by. ‘I’m Sylvia Johns, a friend of Tony’s. And you must be Charlotte. Your dad’s told me so much about you. Goodness me, he’s proud of you.’
A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. Her dad was proud of her?
‘Fancy that, a fashion designer in London. How thrilling! He follows your career, you know. Always keen to know who you’re working for.’
Her good feeling disappeared. ‘Interior designer, not fashion.’ So much for her dad following her career. ‘And unfortunately, I’ve recently been fired.’
The woman stilled. ‘Oh, dear.’ She quickly rallied. ‘A blip, I’m sure. Now come inside, let’s make you feel welcome. Tony!’
Her dad appeared, his expression affable and relaxed. He’d aged a bit. He wasn’t quite as jovial as he used to be, but other than that, he hadn’t changed. He was wearing galoshes, a knitted hat, wellington boots and a yellow jacket. She recoiled when he hugged her, the stench radiating off him was toxic. ‘Dad, you stink.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been working on the fishing vessels.’
She pushed him away. ‘I
