that was OK.
‘Cash?’
‘If that's OK?’ Tess thinks, please say it is.
‘No problem. We'll walk to the bank tomorrow morning, if you like – assuming you'll be taking Emmeline out. Been to the beach yet?’
‘I told you – I don't like beaches.’
Joe is about to ask why ever not, but there's something about the way she has lowered her face, how her look has gone all inward, that stops him. It appears sand is dangerous territory so he moves their conversation to neutral ground and they chat easily about bridges and fingernails, dogs and babies, late into the night.
‘Cash, then?’ Joe confirmed, standing outside the bank the next morning.
‘If that's OK.’ She fought to sound casual and nonchalant though the notion of money soon fleshing out her purse filled her with near manic relief. She hoped Joe might just think it was the whip of the mid-March wind making her quiver a little.
‘You guard the Wolfster,’ he said, handing Tess the retractable lead, which Wolf took advantage of just as soon as he was in her hands and his master was out of sight.
An unbelievable length of cord spewed out of the casing and though she said, shit, and pressed anything she thought could be pressed, Wolf was around the corner in no time and she was having to set her feet against his almighty lug.
‘So, I'm taking it that you don't water-ski either, let alone surf?’
Seb. She'd met him only the once and he'd been semi-naked. Today he was fully dressed and appeared taller than she remembered, but his accent was as distinctive as the shaggy fair hair spiralling out from his black fleece beany. He put his thumb and index finger in his mouth, blasted out a long whistle and within an instant, Wolf was back. ‘Universal Language of Dog,’ he shrugged and he placed his thumb over Tess's. ‘Push it forward – don't press it in.’
‘Does my dog know you?’
‘Nope – but that whistle always works. Well, it does for the larger, stupider dogs – no offence, big guy. Whereas the little 'uns – they'll just give you the canine equivalent of the finger.’ He didn't have to pause long for Tess to smile. ‘I have another whistle I use on the ladies.’ He gave a lusty wolf whistle through his teeth and finished with a wry, cocky grin at Tess. ‘Never fails,’ he shrugged and he laughed when Tess raised her eyebrows at her gullibility. He fanned a paying-in book. ‘I ought to go.’
Tess found herself hoping Joe wouldn't come out just yet and Seb wouldn't go in just yet. And would bloody Wolf stop his frisk and frolic.
‘Pop by,’ Seb said. ‘You know where to find me. And if I'm not in – just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you?’
‘Of course I can whistle.’
Funny girl, this one. With her blonde baby and oversized dog.
‘Do you know him?’ Tess asked Joe who'd come out of the bank at much the same time as Seb went in.
‘Who?’
‘The guy from the surfing place?’
Joe looked back briefly, not sure to whom in the queue Tess referred. ‘Er, no. Do you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really – he said hi the first time I went to the pier. He's friendly.’
‘We are, mostly,’ Joe said.
‘He's Australian.’
‘They're friendly too, mostly.’ He gave Tess a fold of banknotes which she put in her jacket pocket. He could see that her hand remained curled around them, clinging on tight. But he did note that her eyes were watery and her cheeks red. But there again, the wind was particularly brisk this morning. ‘Beach?’ He said it very, very casually.
‘Not today,’ Tess replied briskly, as if she already had plans. ‘Em and I will see you at home.’
See you back at the house, Joe said to himself, watching Tess walk away.
What is it about the beach, Tess? And what is it about home?
She says she's eaten, when he offers to cook again later that day. He doubts it, though. She looks pale and tired. It seems her daily tea quota is down too – her two china cups and saucers have not been moved from the dresser.
The baby has been fractious; Tess working hard not to appear harried. But he's heard her cuss the dog and the singsong voice she usually employs to feed the baby has a strained edge to it. Her smile is there, but her eyes, which appear dark and dull, do not confirm it. Bath-time jollities have been less audible too.
She disappeared into Em's room long ago.
All is quiet. So quiet that Joe hovers on the first-floor landing, then again halfway up the second flight of stairs.
He looks up and there she is. He can see her, she's all in a crumple outside the baby's room. She's slumped on the floor, her back against the wall, her knees up, her head in her hands. Her shoulders are heaving. She's crying soundlessly – she appears to be consumed by utter sadness. He detects the effort it's taking her to counteract the need to let go with a stronger need for silence and invisibility. Mustn't wake the baby. Mustn't let anyone know. But her desolation descends the staircase heavily and every now and then, he can hear how her voice breaks through involuntarily; hollow and desperate.
Joe backs away.
What does she have to cry about?
Why so sad?
He wishes he could ask. He oughtn't to. He senses it is unequivocally private.
He'd like to make her a cup of tea.
Or offer her a glass of wine.
A chat.
But she doesn't appear again until the next morning.
She looks so fragile she's practically transparent.
It's so windy today, Joe thinks to himself. If she goes out in this, she might be blown away.
‘I'd stay in if I were you, Tess. I'm not venturing out myself in this weather. Thank God April's round the corner. Cup of tea? Kettle's just boiled. No? Later then – lunch too, perhaps.’
‘My father was a doctor,’ Joe told her, ‘and his father before him. And so on. Right from the beginning. When Victorian Saltburn was thriving, they required the finest doctor around – so they perused the revered physicians from York to Durham and offered the position to my great-great-grandfather.’
They were standing
