A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018. Judy Leigh

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       Chapter Twelve

      Evie held the dog by its collar. She was about to knock. The door marked ‘Privé’ was ajar and she paused and listened.

      ‘I hate it here. You’ve ruined everything.’

      ‘Kat, that’s not true. We decided—’

      ‘You decided—’

      ‘We agreed—’

      ‘You wanted to live here; it’s always about what you want …’

      ‘We were going to make it our home.’

      ‘Yes, me and you, Maddie. Now you’ve invited that bloody woman to stay with us.’

      ‘You don’t mind, do you, Kat?’

      ‘You didn’t even ask me. She was in the back of the van, saying, “Isn’t the beach lovely, do you have any idea where can I stay for a few days?” and you were like, “We have a room here with us.” And she was all simpering, “Oh that would be grand,” and you didn’t ask me what I thought.’

      Evie pulled a face at Kat’s awful attempt at an Irish accent. Iggy looked up in sympathy, his eyes round. Maddie’s voice was placatory. ‘She’s sweet. And she can help. She said she’d do a few jobs for us around the place.’

      ‘Look at her, Maddie. She’s an old woman. That’s typical of you, picking up any old waif and stray, doing just what you want. She’ll have to pay rent.’

      Old woman? Evie wrinkled her nose, raised a hand to knock and then changed her mind.

      ‘Kat—’

      ‘You didn’t even ask me if she could stay. You made the decision. Because I don’t bring anything to the table any more, do I?’

      ‘I didn’t mean—’

      Evie pushed the door and stepped inside. Both women looked horrified. The dog broke away from Evie’s grasp and ran over to Maddie, sniffing her outstretched fingers. Evie held up the lead. ‘Thought I’d help everyone out by taking Iggy for a little walk on the beach.’

      ‘Thanks, Evie,’ said Maddie, her expression uncomfortable, and Kat rushed out of the door, brushing against her. Evie thought she heard a sob.

      She had never been sure about dogs. There was something a bit unpredictable about the way they lurched and leaped and barked. The one she was holding on a lead now was tugging her along the beach, pulling forward with relentless enthusiasm. Evie muttered grimly, ‘It’s a shame the fecking case couldn’t do this.’

      Evie’s brow furrowed as she thought about Kat and Maddie. She would offer to help them to renovate the other two buildings, which had once been a piggery and, to be honest, still looked more like pig sties than gîtes. She might enjoy a short working break. She could cook and clean and chop wood for a week or two, but she wouldn’t stay long. A couple of weeks would give her time to think. She would be able to arrange something back in Dublin, perhaps.

      A damp blanket of warmth hung in the air. She passed the campervans, parked up for the night by the sea wall. The rich smell of cooking onions came from inside a grey camper with a German number plate; a bearded man was on the steps and he greeted Evie by raising his glass as she passed. Iggy tugged at the lead and she hurtled forwards at a fast pace. Her sore arm ached and was still mottled with dark blotches, which were spreading to pale yellow. The sea breeze whipped at her newly blonde hair. It was late now and the wind scattered a few smudges of people to the edges of the beach. The horizon spat out scraps of sunset, red scars across the darkening skies, and the wide stretch of sand merged into the blue of the sea.

      ‘What do you think of Pentrez beach, then, Iggy?’ The dog had put its nose into something it found in the sand and was snuffling. The beach was like life should be: open, uncomplicated. There were just a few people with dogs who smiled and said, ‘Bonsoir’, and moved on, and Evie had a clear view of where it would eventually end, suddenly and in a flurry of soft mounds. She turned the dog and headed back towards the farmhouse, the little gîtes and the bare stones of the renovation project. She was ready to sleep; the day had been a box sprung full with surprises. Above her, a moon was rising, an ancient bronze disc, hard and thin. Iggy strained at his lead and Evie tugged him back, surprised at the strength of her resolve. She looked at the sky. ‘I wonder if you ever look back at me, Jim.’

      Her voice sounded quiet against the hushing of the waves.

      ‘I wonder about the babbies, the should-have-beens. I gave them special names in my head. I dreamed them, each one of them, after every time, a little girl with no face, who knocked on our front door and looked at me with no eyes and said, “Don’t cry Mammy because I will come back to you again.”’

      Evie swallowed a lump of unresolved emotion. Brendan had been number four, the lucky one, the one who had stuck. Iggy pulled her forwards, his mouth gaping and eager. Her sob turned into a laugh, brittle and short. Jim was not up in the sky; Evie was not even sure there was a God there, or anywhere. She was not sure about anything at all.

      ‘Is this what it is now for me, Iggy? Am I lurching onwards at a lick, so fast I don’t know where I am going? Is that what it’ll be until I find it, the meaning or whatever it is?’

      Iggy barked and Evie decided she liked the dog. The sea breathed in and out like a sleeping child and Evie wondered how long this peaceful beach could hold her there. As the sun sank low, she thought about time as a smudge of light dimming in the sky. You couldn’t hold onto it for long.

      Both of the postcards’ glossy pictures were the same, divided into three images, all summer yellows, sands and sunshine and bleached prickly gorse. The words ‘Pentrez Plage’ were blazed red inside a sea-blue ribbon. Evie wrote on the back of the first card: Thank you all at Sheldon Lodge. I have decided not to come back though. Please can you give my things to my son. I will be in touch soon. With best wishes for the future, Evie Gallagher. On the other, she wrote Brendan’s address and the words, I’m having a holiday. I am living two minutes from this beach. It is wonderful. Sending love, Mammy.

      She asked the proprietor for two stamps. He frowned at her and she waved the cards. She tried again. ‘Deux … stamps.’

      ‘Anglaise?’ he asked.

      ‘Irish.’

      ‘Irlandaise,’ СКАЧАТЬ