Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

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       FOUR

      I slept fitfully and, as usual, woke before dawn. In my half-asleep state I reached out for Rick, longing for his warm body, then, with a pang, remembered where I was. I lay staring into the darkness for a while, then I showered and dressed and drank a cup of coffee. Steeling myself, I set off for the beach.

      I strolled past villas screened by dry-stone walls and fuchsia hedges still speckled with red flowers, then a converted barn that offered B&B. I came to Lower Polvarth where, set back from the lane, a row of houses stood with pretty front gardens and evocative names – ‘Bohella’, ‘Sea Mist’ and ‘Rosevine’.

      I stopped in front of ‘Penlee’. I remembered the bank of hydrangeas and that lilac tree – I’d snapped a branch trying to climb it and Mum had been cross. The bedrooms were on the first floor. We’d had the one on the left, with bunk beds; she was in the room next to it.

      Suddenly the curtains in ‘her’ room parted and I saw a woman framed in the window. She was in her mid-fifties – my mother’s age now. She gazed out to sea but then saw me standing there. I looked away and walked quickly on, past the old red phone box; and here were the stone gateposts of the Polvarth Hotel.

      I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside, and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.

      The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a wind-blasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.

      I crossed the lawn then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.

      I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug ‘cob’ cottages jostling for position along the harbour walls.

      I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.

      Ignoring the thudding in my chest I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the lifebuoy in its scarlet case.

      I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there; the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.

       We’re making a tunnel …

      I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.

       Mum’ll be so surprised …

       She’ll be amazed.

       Can I go in?

      As I crossed the sand I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holidaymakers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.

      It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door my hands were still trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then – six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.

      I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice soothed and consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had СКАЧАТЬ