A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December. Kat French

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ignored them all and her trusty woody van had fast become one of her most prized possessions, and right now it held a good chunk of her life in the back of its hatch. There had been little room for sentiment whilst packing up; the essential contents for her makeshift workroom filled the lion’s share of the space.

      Realising that there was little to gain from standing in Violet’s way, Della had valiantly set aside her own feelings to assist her daughter, all the time dropping the words ‘temporary’ and ‘coming home again soon’ into the conversation to make sure they lodged well and truly in Violet’s subconscious. Her dad had been typically low-key, although he’d insisted on giving her two hundred pounds in fresh ten-pound notes drawn from the bank that morning, just in case of emergency.

      She’d hugged them tightly, then watched them stand arm in arm on the pavement as she drove away with a lump lodged in her throat. Simon wasn’t there; he’d sent her a bon voyage card in the mail, vowing to keep the home fires burning until she returned ready to plan their wedding. Violet couldn’t help but feel like an Amish teenager. She’d seen a programme a few weeks back on how they were allowed one wild summer before they settled down to the traditional ways; Rumspringa, they called it. Was this her own personal Rumspringa? Were her family indulging her in the hope and expectation that she’d get it out of her system and return to the fold?

      All such thoughts flew out of the window as she passed a road sign welcoming her to Swallow Beach, twinned with a French town she couldn’t pronounce the name of. Well, that had to be a good omen, right? Anywhere that was pretty enough to be twinned with a French town had to have something going for it, surely. She couldn’t see anything yet; the skinny country lane was the kind where you pray nothing comes in the other direction, the high hedges batting her wing mirrors on either side. And then a few twists later, the lane widened and crested a hill, and for a few seconds Violet paused the car and just sat and looked at the scene spread out before her, entranced.

      From her lofty hilltop position, she could clearly see the curved sweep of the bay down below. Her eyes scanned the beach, her heart in her mouth, terrified of disappointment, but sure enough, still standing there on the far right, was the old Victorian pier. Her breath whooshed from her chest, pure sweet relief. She’d told herself over and over that there was every likelihood that it had crumbled into the sea, but there it was, looking almost exactly as it had in the photos in her mum’s battered album.

      Sliding the car into first gear, Violet followed her nose slowly down the hill into the bay, her heart still banging around in her chest in a way that had nothing to do with the Traveller’s springy suspension. The town, if that’s what it was, felt like most out-of-season English seaside towns: closed up and waiting. April showers were the order of the day; it had dried up for now, but grey skies ruled and a damp, low hanging sea-mist clung to the air. Hardly the most welcoming weather, but Violet brimmed full of nervous optimism nonetheless. She was here. Now what was she supposed to do?

      When she reached the seafront, she nosed the Traveller into one of the empty car park spaces facing the deserted beach, clearly placed there for people to pull in and watch the sunset. If the sun ever came out, that is. Not that it mattered all that much to Vi as she turned off the engine and let her eyes drink in her first good look at Swallow Beach Pier. At her pier. Ornate black ironwork reaching out into the sea. It wasn’t overly long; and considering its age and the fact that no one would have looked after it in years, it looked to be in pretty decent shape. The scrolls and arches were almost delicate, and balanced over the waves at the far end stood the prettiest of glass pavilions.

      ‘Oh,’ Violet whispered, steaming up her windscreen. ‘Will you look at that.’

      Climbing from the car, she fastened the oversized wooden buttons on her kingfisher-blue felt coat against the brisk breeze, wound her hand-knitted cherry-red scarf around her neck, and locked the Traveller even though there wasn’t another soul around. She didn’t have a plan; she just felt the need to get closer to the pier.

      Following the cobbled pavement along, she slowed as she neared the land-bound end of the pier, coming to a halt in front of two tall, wonderfully ornate gates closing the pier off from the rest of the town. A heavy metal chain bound the gates together, wound several times between the bars and scrolls. A huge old padlock held the chain in place, ensuring that no one set foot onto the wooden boards that lay beyond the gates.

      Almost tentatively, Vi stepped closer and reached out her hands, closing her eyes as her fingers made first contact with the cold metal. Sighing deeply, she curled her fingers around the iron and leaned her head forwards to rest against it, imagining her grandmother standing in the exact same spot all those years ago. How had she felt the first time she’d been in Swallow Beach? She’d been on honeymoon, probably full of optimism and excitement. A strangely comforting wash of emotions swept across Vi’s skin, making her open her eyes and fill her lungs to the brim with bracing, salty sea air. If she’d been asked to give the emotion a name, it would have been hope.

      ‘Monica?’

      Violet twirled around, startled by the voice behind her. She found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, cornflower bright and wide as they stared at her face. The tall, distinguished man was probably eighty or more, and he looked nothing short of incredulous as he narrowed his gaze and peered closer, then shook his head as if to clear it.

      ‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else then for a mo.’

      ‘You called me Monica,’ Violet said. ‘Monica was my grandmother.’

      Again, the stranger stared, then nodded slowly and sighed. ‘Of course she was. Blow me, if you’re not the living image of her.’

      ‘You knew my grandmother?’

      The man laughed then, those blue eyes glittering and wishful. ‘Oh, I knew Monica,’ he said. ‘And Henry, of course. Is he still …?’

      Vi shook her head and bit the inside of her lip, holding in the sharp stab of longing for her grandpa. ‘No. He died a few weeks back.’

      Lowering his gaze, the man removed his fedora. ‘Sad news, mon chéri.’

      A thought occurred to Violet. ‘I wonder if you could help me?’ she said, digging in her coat pocket for her phone to check the address of her grandparents’ apartment. Or her new home, as she needed to start to think of it, temporarily at least. ‘I need to find the Lido building?’

      The stranger didn’t say anything for a second, then he held his hand out. ‘I’m Bartholomew Harwood,’ he said. ‘Everyone calls me Barty these days, you should too.’

      Ingrained politeness had Vi reaching out to shake his hand. ‘Violet,’ she said.

      ‘Violet.’ He repeated her name, as if deciding whether or not he approved. ‘How perfectly glorious. Lilys are two a penny these days. Violets are rarer by far.’

      Glorious and rare? Well, no one had ever said that about her before. Vi decided she rather liked Barty Harwood. He had a rakish, old-school charm and the hint of a wry smile hovering around his mouth, and going on his bright floral shirt, he didn’t seem to care much for convention. Tall and well dressed, he looked like a man who had many anecdotes and would be happy to share some of them over a few glasses of good whisky.

      ‘How about I show you the Lido?’ Barty said. ‘It’s not far at all.’

      Violet glanced back along the seafront towards the Traveller. ‘Is it walking distance? We could go in my car.’

      Barty followed her gaze. ‘As you wish,’ СКАЧАТЬ