Chapter 9 #3
Her mother was the least spontaneous person she knew, but Abby was keen to move away from that topic of conversation.
“You did a lot to the house when you moved in?”
“I lived in it for six months without changing a thing because I felt guilty about erasing my grandmother from a place she’d
lived all her life. But then I pulled myself together and gutted it. New kitchen. New bathroom. French doors onto the garden.”
“You did it yourself?”
“Mostly, although people dropped by to help me. And I don’t touch electrics, so Jay did that for me. He lives in the village.
Everyone uses him. And there’s my dad of course. He can do everything. I try to be an adult and handle things that go wrong
in the house, but I admit that sometimes I cave in and call him.”
Abby relaxed a little. This topic of conversation was much easier to navigate. “He seems like a capable man.”
“He’s great. How about you? Is your dad in your life?”
“He died before I was born.” She hadn’t intended to reveal anything personal, but she couldn’t see a way not to answer that
question. And part of her wanted to, particularly knowing that Evie had also never known her mother. They’d both been raised
by one parent. They had that in common.
Evie pulled a face. “Sorry to hear that. Your mother didn’t marry again?”
“No.” Talking about her father had felt natural, but talking about her mother?
That was different. Heat prickled her skin.
Her mother wasn’t some third party, removed from all this.
She was part of it. Any moment now Evie would be asking what job her mother did and Abby would have failed in her task less than forty-eight hours into the job.
Hoping to head off those questions, she stood up and stretched. “What next? I’m pretty hungry.”
“Me, too.” Evie crammed the hat back on her head. “Let’s go back. We can eat in the garden.”
They ran back towards the village, Abby relieved at having managed to cut the conversation off and rehearsing future conversation
topics in her head. She’d talk about the house, about the garden. She’d ask questions about the village, about the fishermen,
about shipwrecks. Maybe she’d ask a question or two about Tristan.
Anything, as long as they kept away from the personal. Her family. Her history.
It would be fine.
Her optimism lasted as long as it took Evie to put the key into the door of her pretty cottage.
“So you grew up without a dad and I grew up without a mum. That sort of makes us tragedy sisters, doesn’t it? Although I had
my grandmother too, and obviously everyone in the village.” She stepped into the house and dropped her keys onto the little
table by the front door. “How about you? Did you have extended family? How did your mother manage? Come through to the kitchen
and I’ll make us both a drink.”
“No extended family. It was just the two of us.”
“No grandparents?”
“My grandfather walked out when my mother was eleven, and my grandmother died when my mother was eighteen. It’s not something my mother ever talks about much.
” Abby followed Evie through the house, noting the pretty yellow walls and the splashes of blue in the form of quirky pots and cushions.
There were photos of sea-birds and boats, and the evening light flooded through the windows and bounced off the white painted floor.
Her gaze rested on a photo on a bookcase, a man and a woman laughing together.
Evie followed her gaze. “That’s my mum.”
“You look like her.”
“So everyone tells me. I like to keep photos of her around. It makes me feel as if she’s with me. Are you the same?”
“I—er—no. It was a difficult time. My mother preferred to put it behind her.” That, at least, was the truth.
“Sounds as if your mum had a tough time. What does she do?”
Abby’s mouth was dry. “She’s a businesswoman. She has her own business.”
“Successful?”
“Yes.”
“Well, good for her. You must be proud. And she must be proud of you.”
Fortunately, that was a statement, not a question, so Abby didn’t have to answer but the words disturbed something inside
her.
She watched as Evie opened the fridge. Was her mother proud? There was no evidence to suggest it.
“It’s weird,” Evie said, “because although I didn’t know my mother, I feel as if I do. My dad talks about her all the time,
and so do other people. I’ve sort of formed a picture of her over the years. I expect you’re the same. You build your own
impression of someone.”
Abby managed to nod, signifying that she knew what Evie meant.
In fact she had no idea what Evie meant.
She had no impression of her father. He was a ghost. Nothing more than a name.
Evie pulled out a jug of lemonade. “I bought too many lemons by accident so I made lemonade. That sounds like one of those annoying sayings, doesn’t it? Don’t be impressed. Usually when I have too many lemons I don’t make lemonade—I forget about them and they go mouldy in the fruit bowl.”
She put ice into two tall glasses and topped them up with the cold lemonade. She handed a glass to Abby.
“Are you hungry? We can eat in the garden. It’s such a warm evening it’s a shame to be indoors.” She drank the lemonade and
put the glass down. “I have fresh mackerel which I picked up this morning, and salad. Is that okay?”
“It sounds more than okay.” Abby was relieved that the conversation had moved on from the personal. “What can I do?”
“You could mix up a salad while I fry the fish. It came straight off the boat so it won’t take much cooking.” She pulled the
fish from the fridge, picked up a sharp knife and filleted it like a pro. Then she seasoned it with sea salt and black pepper.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Abby poked around in the fridge for salad ingredients.
“My dad. We used to go mackerel fishing when I was little. Then we’d cook whatever we caught.” She heated oil in a heavy-based
pan. “When the fish is this fresh you don’t have to do much with it. Sometimes we used to barbecue it on the beach. Can you
make a lemon dressing? It will go perfectly with this, and it will also use up the last of the lemons which will make me feel
virtuous and stop me hearing my grandmother’s voice scolding me. She hated waste.”
Talk of family peppered Evie’s conversation. Even gone, they were still part of her life. And she seemed to know everything
about them. All Abby knew about her grandmother was that she’d been hit by a car when she was thirty-eight and the resulting
injuries had left her in need of almost constant care. Abby’s grandfather had walked out, leaving responsibility for that
care on the shoulders of eleven-year-old Alexandra.
Pulling herself back to the present, she picked up her phone and searched for a recipe for lemon dressing.
The fish sizzled in the pan and after a couple of minutes Evie flipped it over.
While it finished cooking, she grabbed a couple of large plates. They were a summery shade of blue with a border of sea-birds.
“Those are pretty.” Abby took them from her. “Unusual.”
“I bought them from Harbour Pottery last summer. A birthday present to myself. Do you remember Mia? We ran past her on the
other side of the harbour. She was carrying a bucket and spade and gripping the hand of a sandy, cross toddler.”
“I think so.” They’d met so many people it was hard to remember each individual. “Short dark hair?”
“That’s the one.” Evie dressed the salad, served it onto the plates and added the fresh mackerel. “She’s a local artist. She
paints, too. Mostly seascapes. I have one in my bedroom. But she is best known for her range of gorgeous ocean-themed kitchenware.
I thought it was perfect for my cottage. She sells a ton to tourists and I often wonder how it looks when they get it home
to a city. Is there a place for sea-birds in Shoreditch? I have no idea. Bread? It’s fresh from the bakery.” Without waiting
for Abby’s response she cut a couple of thick chunks and added a wedge of butter. “I’m telling myself we ran off the calories
earlier.”
Despite a busy day Evie seemed to have boundless energy. She bounced from one task to the next, chatting the whole time. What
did Abby think about this? About that?
Abby found her enthusiasm infectious. “You seem more upbeat than you did earlier.”
“Yes.” She handed Abby a plate. “That’s down to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, talking everything through made me feel better. It gave me some clarity. You’re a good listener, so thanks for that.”
They settled themselves in Evie’s pretty garden and Abby tasted the fish.
Evie watched her expectantly. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s delicious.”
“But you have seafood in Boston?”
“Yes. We have excellent seafood.”
“But you don’t spend a lot of time there because you’re always travelling and working in new places? Did you know that The
Alexandra, Cornwall is the oldest hotel in the group?” Evie spread butter thickly on her bread, not waiting for an answer
to her first question before she asked a second.
“I—yes, I did know that.”
“A staff perk is to get a discount on other hotels in the group. I was thinking of having a few days in Scotland at some point
but now I’m wondering if that’s sad and unadventurous. Which hotel have you liked best out of all the ones in the group? The
one in Cape Cod where you worked last—is that good?”
“It’s beautiful. Sandy beaches, dunes and whale watching.”
“And what was the best thing you ate when you were there?”
“Probably fried clams.” Abby put her fork down and admired the garden. “Are you a keen gardener?”
“No. I’m a terrible gardener, but it was my grandmother’s pride and joy so I feel compelled to try and keep things alive.
Dad helps me sometimes. A coastal garden isn’t easy, particularly here on the north coast. Plants have to be able to withstand
howling Atlantic winds. So do the locals. We’re hardy specimens.” Evie’s dimples showed as she smiled. “So it’s mostly perennials—are
you impressed that I know what those are? Sage, rosemary and lavender.” She waved a hand vaguely at the tumbling garden. “That