Chapter 3
Chapter Three
KIT
‘Dad! Cap’s stealing my toast again!’
I look up from the peanut butter sandwich I’m mangling – too much spread, not enough patience – to find our dog Cap halfway on the table, one paw on Maisie’s plate, toast clamped between his teeth like a prize.
‘Cap. Off.’
He freezes, busted, then slinks under the table like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to have arthritis. Toast and all.
I let him go. He’s old. I hope someone lets me keep my toast when I’m eighty-five and cranky.
‘Sorry, kid. Last slice’s gone.’ I hold up the empty bread bag like proof of incompetence. Which it totally is. ‘Should’ve hit the shop yesterday.’
I wince. Bread’s basic. Running out of it is a dad fail. Big one.
Maisie just sighs, eight going on middle-aged.
‘’S okay. I wasn’t that hungry.’
Liar. She’s always hungry.
The truth is, I didn’t go to the shop, didn’t remember because Bill Tanner came chasing up to me as I locked the boat shed yesterday afternoon, using the voice he uses for tide charts and Sunday footie scores to announce, She’s back. Maggie’s girl. Fish bap with vinegar and everything.
Just like that.
One minute my day was fine. Perfect even. The catch had been good, waters behaving, Dad had managed to stay off my back and Jude was being less of a dick than usual.
Until, in a split moment, it shattered and the day went to shit.
Because Isla Quinn is back. And having a fish bap, apparently.
And yeah, I’ve seen the newspaper headlines, ISLA QUINN in big black bold lettering. I’ve also seen the side-eye glances from most of the town while they all burst at the seams desperate to talk about the girl who left here.
But Isla Quinn is safely locked in a box deep within my memory and I stopped unlocking and lifting that lid years ago, so sure, she can be back, and she can be in the headlines. She can also stay the hell out of my way.
I take a moment to study my daughter. They say when you have a baby it changes your life.
That I guess is a given; all lie-ins and Sundays at the pub evaporate with the intake of one tiny set of lungs preparing to take on the world.
What they don’t tell you is how profound that change is.
How in that instant, in that pause of a breath, the very fabric of your universe tears apart and weaves itself into a new tapestry.
A new love. A new life that you know you’d die to protect.
She’s so much of me, with the dark wilful curls and the shape of her long-lashed eyes. But she’s also her mother in the curve of her mouth, the freckles on her nose. Those freckles break my heart every morning.
Right now, she’s got mismatched socks – one purple with stars, one green striped, and those wild curls are half in, half out of the ponytail I wrestled it into earlier. That one YouTube tutorial hack with the vacuum cleaner lied. It’s not ‘dad-proof’. It’s a trap.
Two years in, and I still can’t nail a bloody ponytail.
‘There’s cereal,’ I offer, knowing damn well the milk’s probably turned.
‘Nope.’ She’s picked up my phone, thumbs tapping like a hacker. ‘Dad, can I help you find someone?’
‘Someone?’ I’m busy scraping together what’s left of the sandwich into something vaguely square-shaped for her lunchbox. ‘What do you mean, find someone?’
‘Like a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Tommy’s dad has a boyfriend. They play football together.’
Jesus Christ.
‘What are you doing on my phone?’
I grab it back – gently, but firmly. Sure enough, one of those bloody dating apps is open. Jude. Has to be. That idiot’s idea of a joke.
‘Maisie, we’ve talked about this. My phone’s private.’
She shrugs. All casual eight-year-old meh. ‘You looked sad yesterday. And the day before. Miss Trent says sometimes people just need a little push.’
Miss Trent can push herself off a cliff.
‘I’m not sad.’ Close enough to a lie that my throat tightens. Life’s just … heavy. I swipe the app away. Rows of desperate smiles disappear. ‘I don’t need a push. I need…’ Sleep. Silence. A way to go back and undo every bit of grief I watched Maisie survive. ‘…to get you to school. Shoes. Now.’
Maisie rolls her eyes and slides off her chair like I’ve asked her to walk the plank. ‘You’re always grumpy in the morning.’
‘I’m always grumpy, full stop.’ I mutter it under my breath as I stuff the sad excuse for a sandwich into her unicorn lunchbox. She’s not wrong. She rarely is. Got that from her mum – the bullshit radar. Razor-sharp.
Cap crawls out from under the table, tail wagging. Toast crumbs on his face like battle trophies.
‘You’ve got to lose weight, old man,’ I say, scratching behind his ears. ‘Vet says so.’
He leans into it like he’s proud of every extra pound. Doesn’t worry about cholesterol or how long he’s got left. Just wants toast and ear scratches. He’s got life figured out better than I do.
‘Dad!’ Maisie again. ‘I can’t find my black shoes!’
I check the time. We’re already late.
‘Wear the red ones!’ I shout back as my phone pings. It’s Cal: Don’t forget to sign off the new rota. PS. Have you seen who’s back?
I groan and shove my phone away in my pocket.
The RNLI rota can wait until later. Cal’s been on my case about it for weeks – who’s on call, who can launch, who’s trained for night shouts.
‘Deputy launching authority’ sounds impressive until you realise it means paperwork and the weight of deciding when to send men into hell.
‘They’re not school shoes!’ Maisie screams back down the stairs, and I wince, pinching my nose.
‘They’ve got soles, haven’t they? They’ll do.’
Her sigh could power the national grid.
‘Don’t forget we need pumpkins,’ Maisie says, tugging on her shoes after she’s skidded back down the stairs, like the world might end if we don’t start now. ‘Proper ones. Not from Dot’s shop.’
‘It’s still at least five weeks away, and a pumpkin’s a pumpkin,’ I mutter, half wrestling with the zip on her coat and then opening the door so the wind barrels in, smelling of woodsmoke and wet leaves.
‘Four, Dad. Four weeks,’ she says, holding up four fingers to make sure I understand. I’ve noticed her doing this a lot of late, checking that her slow-ass dad can keep up with societal pressures, like remembering to buy an overpriced and inedible vegetables.
I watch her bounce ahead of me down the path, hair sticking out from under her rain hat, full of opinions and plans.
Pumpkins. Costumes. School disco drama. I used to spend Halloween with a pint in one hand and no idea what day it was. Now I’m comparing carving tools and pretending I understand Pinterest.
God help me when she’s a teenager.
After I’ve dropped her at school I head back to the cottage to grab my stuff and check on Cap before heading down to the harbour for the morning. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror while scraping engine grease from under my nails. Christ, I look rough.
Thirty years old and I look forty. The beard needs a trim – more grey creeping in than I’d like. Hair’s too long, curling at the edges the way it did when Jess used to run her fingers through it, laughing when the salt made it stick up.
There are lines around my eyes now. Grief lines. Sleepless nights and early mornings and two years of single parenting. My hands are rope-scarred, knuckles swollen from the cold, calluses so thick I barely feel pain anymore.
I used to be someone else. Someone whole. Someone who believed love lasted.
I splash water on my face and head out. The boats won’t fix themselves, and standing here staring at the ghost in the mirror won’t change a damn thing.
I make it until the afternoon before Jude finally catches up with village gossip. Slow for him. He’s clearly distracted. ‘Heard the news then?’
He drops his toolbox with a bang loud enough to startle seagulls. He’s grinning like he knows exactly where to stick the knife – and how deep.
I don’t look up from Harding and Sons’ boat engine. The Mary Jane is being stubborn this morning, and so am I.
‘What news.’ No question mark. I already know where this is going.
‘Someone’s back.’ Jude leans against the gunwale, easing weight off that busted leg of his.
It’s a permanent reminder of a storm I still see in my sleep.
He’s wearing the classic fisherman uniform of navy wool, but his is paired with a Yankee baseball cap pulled down onto his sandy hair.
We have totally different colouring, which, when I was young and he was trailing me like a clinging weed that won’t let go, I used to say was sure evidence he was adopted.
My grip tightens on the wrench.
‘Someone famous,’ he adds, smirk miles wide.
Twenty-four hours. I should’ve stopped giving a shit by now.
I tighten the bolt too hard. Something snaps.
‘Don’t care.’ Metal clunks to the deck. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Jude chuckles. Bastard. But he doesn’t walk away. I don’t know if it’s a younger brother thing, to be as annoying as hell and take enormous pride in it, but he nails it daily. ‘Frankie said she looked good. Bit thinner than you’d remember, but—’
‘I said I don’t care.’ My voice cracks like an oar across a bench. ‘And in case you haven’t noticed recently, I’ve got my hands full of real life.’
Jude whistles low. ‘I can’t believe you’re still bitter. After all this time? Most blokes would be bragging they—’
‘Don’t.’ I straighten slowly, turning to face him. My glare usually ends conversations. ‘I’m not bitter. I’m busy.’ I wipe my hands on a rag. It smears more grease than it clears. Appropriate. ‘Some of us have work to do, instead of flapping our gums like old biddies at the post office.’
He grins. Doesn’t budge. He’s always been like a dog with a bone when he smells blood in the water.
‘You loved her.’
‘I was eighteen. And stupid. Then I grew up.’
‘First love—’
‘She left, Jude, I couldn’t give a crap about her.’ I slam the rag down. Can’t believe he’s pushing this. ‘I’m still mourning my wife. I don’t need you banging on about a woman I once used to know, before I lost the love of my life to a bastard disease that ruined everything.’
‘Who left?’