Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
WREN
Some people say that being by the sea should be available on prescription, and Wren thought there might be something in that. She was sitting in her dad’s back garden on a tired old bench, a blanket over her knees and a cup of tea in hand. Beyond the short fence was the beach, and then the sea, and last of all, the sky. Three constants of fresh air, space and tranquillity. Even the sound was soothing – the rustle of beach grasses and the hiss and thrum of the waves was like a dose of medicine.
She’d been in bed at her dad’s house for two days straight, and in case she was still infectious, she hadn’t dared go back to Libby’s. The last thing her heavily pregnant friend needed was a hefty dose of flu. Wren couldn’t quite believe how hard it had hit her, as a usually fit and healthy woman. Well, that was if she didn’t count the fact she had a touch of asthma. She’d religiously taken her inhalers up until her teens, but after a few missed doses, and a surprising lack of symptoms, she’d stopped bothering.
It turned out she’d just been lucky to avoid the trigger of a particularly nasty virus for all that time, and whatever she’d been infected with in the last week or so had gone to town on her lungs like an all-you-can-eat buffet. She’d left Libby’s and signed off sick from work when she started to feel really ill. And then, at her dad’s, she’d gone downhill fast. A chest infection that had bordered on pneumonia, by all accounts. She was still cringing about the scolding she’d received from her GP and had reinstated her twice-daily puffs with cowed obedience.
So here she was, back recuperating in her teenage bedroom, taking in the sea air like a convalescent in an old novel. Her dad had been fussing around her like a mother hen, bringing her his culinary specialities of tinned soup and microwave lasagne. The cottage had once again become as cluttered as an overflowing skip since Alan had focused on his nursing duties.
As if on cue, he walked down the garden path with a little tray bearing a fresh cuppa for each of them and a small pile of letters. John was following him closely, wagging his tail.
‘Thank you, Carson,’ she said, taking the hot cup and swapping it for the almost-empty one she’d been nursing. ‘I feel like I’m in Downton Abbey , having my post brought to me on a tray.’
‘It’s my pleasure, m’lady. Mind you, it makes a pleasant change from the Holby City drama we’ve just weathered.’ He shook his head.
‘You still cross with me?’
‘For getting poorly? No. For trying to outwit a diagnosed medical condition? A little bit.’
Wren picked up the reliever inhaler from beside her on the blanket and waved it. ‘I’m a reformed character.’
‘Good. Because as much as I love having you here, I’d rather you were popping in for a visit with a normal lung capacity next time.’
‘Noted.’
John jumped up, putting his front paws on Alan’s lap, sniffing eagerly at the tray between them.
‘Hey, buggerlugs, them’s letters not biscuits.’ He shooed John down and patted his head. ‘These came for you.’
Wren considered the pile. She’d been expecting them – she’d asked for her post to be forwarded on to her from work. She wanted to do some work on her laptop now she was feeling back in the land of the living.
She reached for the top letter, saw it was just a circular from a recruitment agency and put it back down again. It felt like a portent of doom – one she had no intention of exploring at that moment.
Alan sighed easily. ‘Eeh, just think. It wasn’t that long ago we were sunning ourselves in Italy, riding chairlifts and whatnot – now look at us.’
Wren smiled. Her dad was still high on the holiday. He seemed to have had the time of his life and hadn’t stopped reminiscing, especially about the friends he’d made from the lighthouse. Wren, meanwhile, had kept her own holiday friendship to herself.
‘Lina texted me this morning, asking after you. I told her you’re on the mend. And Carlo sent me this, looka.’
He produced his phone and gleefully showed her a meme about seagulls, which Wren didn’t get. But she laughed appreciatively anyway. Seeing her dad being enthused about new friendships was such an unexpected bonus of the trip. He’d even started making murmurs about seeing some of his mates from ‘back in the day’ that had been in touch via his new Facebook account.
‘Now, I’m going to have to go in to work the morra. It’s the kiddies’ open day, remember?’ he said, giving her an appraising look. ‘Do you think you’ll be alright?’
‘Well, as it happens, that’s meant to be my first day back at work. Zara’s asked me to go to St Nicholas Lighthouse and do a piece for the paper since I’m in the area and I’ve got a man on the inside. Easing me back in gently.’
‘Oh well, that’s smashing! You’ll get to see the old man in action.’ He looked very pleased with himself.
‘And I’ll be out from under your feet in a couple of days. I’m going to stay at Libby’s again so I’m closer to work.’
‘You can’t stay there forever though, Wren. Not when the babby comes along.’
‘I know. I’m going to look for a flat this week too.’
‘There’s no rush. I know it’s not ideal for work, staying here. But you know you’ve always got a place with me.’
‘I know,’ she said, smiling. But she also knew that even if she wasn’t here, she wouldn’t have to worry about him so much anymore. The house might still be a mess, and John might still be her dad’s closest friend, but she could see a change in him since their holiday. A new-found confidence with other people that he must have lost while being a single parent to her for all those years.
Her hand reached for her missing necklace again, as it did several times a day. Each time it landed on bare skin, it was like it had been ripped away afresh. Alan noticed her doing it and gave her a rueful smile and a pat on the shoulder. He’d tried to cover his disappointment at the loss of such a special tie to her mam, clearly for Wren’s benefit, but she could see he still felt upset.
He leaned back, sipping his tea and looking out at the sea, so she picked up her pile of post again and thumbed through it. More circulars. An invitation to the AGM of one of her professional subscriptions. And then, in amongst the dull-looking window-envelopes, there was a handwritten one in spidery letters. Serenity Rowbottom – and the address of the newspaper office. Her heart spiked.
She opened it and stared down at a greetings card which bore a photograph of a field of blue flowers. Inside was a short note.
Dear Serenity,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you that; I’ve thought of you with that name ever since you told me. It’s a pretty name, and a memorable one, and it’s a shame for it to be hidden away.
I’m writing, first of all, to thank you for the lovely present. What a lovely surprise seeing the Kitchen back in the old days – such a thoughtful gift that I will treasure.
I read your note, pet. When you’re back from your holidays, I’d like to talk to you again about your mam. We did meet, and I remembered her the moment you told me your real name, but I was frightened that I was doing the wrong thing by saying so. And when you showed me that lovely photo, I still didn’t dare. I was thinking of your dad – it seemed like he hadn’t told you the whole truth. I’m sorry I did that, but now I realise, you’re a grown woman, and if you have questions, then I should really answer them.
Can you pop in and see me, and I can tell you all about it?
All the best, Edie
The paper fluttered from her hands, and her dad caught it before it was picked up by the breeze. She stared into the distance, her fingers tingling as though the card had been hot. It was literally a letter from beyond the grave. One that was taunting her with an answer that was almost in her grasp. But it was cruelly out of reach. Edie was gone, and so was what she’d wanted to say.
She was dimly aware of her dad next to her and that he was reading the note. He folded the card neatly and placed it on top of the pile. Neither of them spoke for a while.
‘I think we need to have a chat,’ he said eventually.
The next day, Wren stood on the narrow cliff edge beneath the lighthouse, thinking. She’d finished taking photographs and notes on the children’s event inside. Dozens of little people were darting from one activity to the next, sometimes under people’s legs, and the noise was deafening. She had a headache that persisted from her bout of flu, or maybe from the cacophony of thoughts in her mind, and she needed some fresh air and a bit of quiet. There was still so much to process.
Caron Rowbottom hadn’t died of cancer, like she’d been led to believe. She’d died of a drug overdose while living rough in Newcastle when Wren was too young to know her. Her dad had cried when he’d told Wren the truth.
‘Oh, she was wild when I met her,’ he’d said in the garden, over cups of tea that had gone cold. ‘I was sheltered really, never got up to much more than sneaking a cheeky ciggie out of your granda’s pocket. But she used to take me along to parties, where all sorts of things went on.’
Wren’s eyes must have popped.
‘That stuff wasn’t for me, pet. But she was. And when we got married and we came out to the cottage, I felt like my life was beginning. The trouble was, she thought her life was over. She started drinking, you know… secretly.’
‘Dad…’ She’d reached for his hand.
‘But you came along, sweetheart, and she stopped all that. For a time. She got depressed, then I started finding the bottles again, then bits of… What do you call it…? Paraphernalia.’
Hearing her dad talking about it had been like an out-of-body experience. The idea of him in that world, even at its edges, was bizarre. His voice had trembled as he’d carried on.
‘Eventually she started disappearing for days at a time. It was just you and me, pacing the floor. When I begged her to stay, or begged her to leave, she chose the latter. Then I found out she was homeless, and I tracked her down to the Community Kitchen. She wasn’t happy to see me, so Edie said she’d have a word. But the next I heard, she’d died.’
‘Dad, I… I can’t believe you’ve kept this to yourself this whole time,’ she’d said, breathless.
‘I’m sorry, Wren. I’m so sorry for not telling you sooner and for pretending it was me that Edie was talking about. I just didn’t want you to remember her as anything but perfect. And she was, except for this one thing.’
‘No, I mean, I can’t believe you’ve coped with this on your own.’ She’d hugged him tightly for a long time.
Now, she’d left her dad in the lighthouse, holding court with a tour group gathered around him, flamboyantly waving his arms as he told stories of near disasters off the Northumberland coast. He was always in his element talking about the history of the lighthouse, but he seemed to have an extra spark about him today. It was as if telling Wren the truth about her mam had lifted a heavy burden she never knew he’d been carrying. And now that he was gathering new friends like clams on a rock as well as catching up with old ones, he seemed to be finding a new version of himself. Or, more likely, resurrecting an old version of himself that Wren had never seen, that had existed before caring for his troubled wife and becoming a single dad.
The summer wind was surprisingly chilly and was fairly strong this high up on the cliff. She pushed her hands into her pockets and walked closer to the edge, peering down at the sea below. She thought of the Bay of Naples and the bright turquoise waves compared to the steely grey-blue of the North Sea and wished she was back there. With Nick.
Up above, at the top of the lighthouse, she could hear the voices and shrieks of lots of children. The outdoor platform had been opened up for a stream of visitors to climb up and have a look out from the highest point. She smiled at the thought of how busy the day had become – her dad would be so proud of the open day’s success.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something arc through the air to her left and land a few inches from the cliff edge. She looked over to see what appeared to be an orange plush toy in the shape of a lobster. She glanced up at the platform, hearing loud sobs, and through the railings could just make out someone crouched with their back to her, comforting a small child. They must have dropped it over the edge.
The wind blew, and the lobster rolled a little closer to the precipice.
Looking up again, she tried to signal that she would retrieve it for them, but they’d stepped out of sight. Never mind; she would take it up and wave it around until she found them.
Walking across the grass, she could see the lobster teetering on the edge. It was past the stakes in the cliff edge that warned against crossing beyond, but she stepped just a shade over so she could reach. And as she closed her hand over the soft toy, the ground under her right foot shifted. And then it crumbled. Screaming, she felt her foot slide away from her and wheeled her arms, trying desperately to fall backwards rather than forward. The horizon in front of her came in and out of focus, then she felt a strong grip on the back of her jacket.
A hand wrenched her backwards, and she heard a familiar voice.
‘Whoa there. I’ve got you.’