The Family Secret. Tracy Buchanan

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СКАЧАТЬ output. For December, she created a Christmas feel with stag emblems and snowy scenes, fir-tree bunting and icicle lights, the walls lined with shelves to display local artists’ creations. On dry days, Amber placed more product on the veranda outside on top of four crates she’d painted the same colours as the huts. It caught the attention of people on the beach and in the café nearby, drawing lots of tourists eager to take home keepsakes during the summer months.

      But it was so quiet in the winter. So much so that her mother suggested she only open in the summer months, and find a winter job elsewhere. Amber liked the peace of the beach though, the feel of the biting wind against her face. It reminded her she was here, surviving, despite what had happened to her as a child.

      She rubs her bad hand again before unlocking the padlock on the three shutters and yanking them up with her good hand. She leans down and switches on the fairy lights that hang across the ceilings of each hut, then sets up a chalkboard outside, declaring ‘Wonderful Winter Discounts!’

      She pulls her stool out and sits on it, closing her eyes and enjoying a moment of peace before getting on with the painting.

      ‘Caught you sleeping on the job!’ a familiar voice rings out. She turns to see her mother Rita and her aunt Viv walking down the beach, bundled up in their winter coats, red hair like hers lifting in the wind. Their arms are linked and they’re both wearing long, fur-lined boots, woollen coats that reach down to their calves, and colourful scarves that seem to go on for ever, wound around their necks. They claim to be six years apart in age, but Amber sometimes wonders if they are secretly twins.

      ‘Not really catching me in the act if I wasn’t trying to hide it in the first place,’ Amber says, keeping her eyes closed just to prove her point.

      ‘Here, this’ll wake you up,’ her mother says, handing her a plastic mug of steaming coffee. ‘Shot of gingerbread too, before you ask.’

      Amber smiles as she takes the drink. ‘Thanks. Do I have the pleasure of both your company today then?’ she asks as she takes a sip, enjoying the sweet hint of gingerbread she so loves in her coffee at this time of the year.

      ‘Listen to that sarcasm, Rita,’ her aunt Viv says, shaking her head at her sister. ‘You really ought to take more control of your child.’ There’s a wicked glint in her blue eyes that shows she’s just joking.

      ‘Child,’ Amber says, shaking her own head. ‘I’m five years away from forty.’

      Rita flinches. ‘Don’t remind me. You better not have a party, Len down the road still thinks I’m fifty.’

      Viv laughs. ‘Fifty? With those wrinkles!’

      ‘Wrinkles are the new dimples, don’t you know?’ Rita drawls. They all laugh.

      ‘Seriously though,’ Amber says, ‘are you going to hang around like you did last week and scare the customers off?’

      The two older women look at each other in horror. ‘Us? Scare the customers off? We ran this place for over thirty years!’

      Amber can’t help but smile. Truth is, she loves having her aunt and mother there. It makes the day go faster when custom is slow. And while some customers find the two eccentric redheads laughing and joking outside the shop a tad scary, most find them endearing. In fact, they often make a few sales themselves, even if they do sometimes halve the price without checking with Amber first.

      ‘Anyway,’ Viv says, looking around her, ‘what customers are there to scare off?’

      Amber rolls her eyes as she heads to the back of the hut to grab the red paint.

      ‘You need to get yourself on eBay,’ Viv continues.

      ‘Or Etsy! That’s the new sparkly thing, isn’t it?’ Rita chimes in.

      ‘I’ve told you about ten million times, I am not going online,’ Amber says, carefully lifting the tin of paint with her good hand. ‘People need to touch these items, smell them. It’s all part of the experience.’

      Viv picks up a small mirror made of shells and sniffs it. ‘Smells like rotting crabs to me.’

      ‘Not to mention the smell of paint,’ Rita adds, wrinkling her nose. ‘I don’t know why you don’t just stick with the pastels.’

      Amber puts her hand on her hip and looks her aunt up and down. ‘Gee, thanks for your support.’

      Viv laughs and pulls her niece into a hug. ‘Come on, you know we’re joking around.’

      ‘When are you ever not joking around?’ Amber replies, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t mind it really. It’s part of the three women’s camaraderie, the push and pull, the jokes and sarcasm. They drive her crazy sometimes, the two of them. But Amber isn’t sure where she’d be right now if it hadn’t been for their constant presence. They are all the family she’s known, being born and brought up in Winterton Chine. Her dad, a lorry driver, had cleared off a few months after she was born.

      ‘He always moaned about having to put up with two crazy redheads,’ her mother would say. ‘Then you come along, another redhead, screaming your lungs off every hour of the night.’ Some might take that as rejection. But from what Amber had heard from her mother, aunt and half the people in town about her hard-drinking, verbally abusive dad, she took it as a compliment. For years, it had just been her and her mother in their little terraced house in town, her aunt Viv a few doors down with her husband. But then they’d divorced and now it was just the three women – or ‘The Three Reds’ as the locals called them.

      ‘Getting really cold,’ Rita says, unfolding a thick fleece blanket and placing it over hers and Viv’s legs as they sit on a bench. ‘They’re saying on the news we might get snow.’

      Amber twists at the wool of her jumper. ‘Hope not.’ She looks down at her left hand and the centimetre-long stubs that are an excuse for her fingers. Cold days like this always make her loss even more pronounced. She grabs a glove and pulls it on as her aunt and mother exchange a look. She worries that the sight of her fingerless hand puts customers off. Though her mum and aunt tell her she’s imagining it, she sees the way some customers’ eyes sweep over her right hand, a fleeting look of confusion. Better just to wear gloves when she can.

      She sighs and grabs her paintbrush as her aunt and mother sit in contented silence.

      ‘Oh! Here we go, first customer of the day,’ her aunt says, voice puncturing the silence.

      Amber follows her aunt’s gaze to see a woman walking down the beach. No, not a woman. More a slip of a girl with shoulder-length hair the colour of white birch, streaks of blue through it. Amber shades her eyes from the hard winter sun, taking in the girl’s woollen dress and snagged tights. ‘She’s not wearing a coat.’

      ‘No shoes either,’ Viv adds in surprise. ‘My God, she’ll catch her death.’

      The girl stumbles slightly then pauses, looking down at herself in confusion.

      ‘Looks like she’s drunk,’ Rita says.

      ‘No, something’s not right with her.’ Amber grabs the blanket off her mother and aunt’s knees, steps off the veranda and rushes towards the girl.

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