Chapter Nine
I’m not sure which way to go. If I can find the hotel, or the station, I can easily work out the way to the theatre from there.
Before I set off, I take a good look at the house and commit it to memory.
I don’t want to forget where I live. I immediately recognise the building as Queen Anne.
Ulysses would like it, for that’s his favourite style.
It’s charming, as Queen Anne houses tend to be, set a few yards back from the road behind an iron gate.
It’s built in red brick with two big windows either side of the front door, five in the row above and three dormer windows peeping out of the grey tiled roof.
There is a row of tall chimney stacks. Wisteria scales the brick around the door, right up to the first-floor windows.
Its purple flowers tumble over each other in extravagant heaps of fragrant petals.
On the York stone paving between the house and the gate, intrepid weeds have begun to poke out of the cracks in the pointing, their bright green foliage basking greedily in the sunlight.
There are giant terracotta pots of hydrangeas slowly blooming, and the cherry tree I saw from the sitting room window has shed its blossom and is now a bright green.
It is, without doubt, a stunning property.
I take a left and set off up the cobbled street.
No reason for choosing that way, just following my nose and trusting my instinct.
Seacombe is incredibly pretty. The houses are painted in a rainbow of colours, with grey slate roofs and window boxes full of bright spring flowers.
The breeze is fresh and damp, and smells of brine. I sense the sea is close.
Sixty-six.
As I wander over the shadows, from dark to light, I fear that perhaps I’m reading too much into it.
That I’m overthinking, because I want there to be a greater design – a purpose.
I want it very badly to be significant. But the more I think about it, the more impossible it seems that he will be here.
Why would he be? He lives in America! Why would he be in Seacombe?
I worry now that I’ve been a fool, that he’s on the other side of the Atlantic, thousands of miles from here.
My blind belief in the Law of Attraction bringing us together stalls horribly.
Perhaps I haven’t started anything at all.
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking – putting undue significance on the fact that we met in two different slides.
Perhaps they were just coincidences? I slow down to an amble as my dreams crack like mirrors, splintering the beautiful images I’d cultivated in my mind into a hundred pieces.
I have to accept that there’s a strong possibility Cavill will have no part to play in this slide.
My heart shrinks and I lose courage. Have I been so blinkered by love that I’ve created a possibility where there isn’t one? Perhaps there will be no last encore.
With these gloomy thoughts the street ceases to look so pretty, and the sun slips behind a cloud, casting me in shade.
But I lift my chin and rally, as I always do.
It’s in my nature to look for the light, always.
I remind myself that this is my job. This is what I do – I settle lost souls, and poor Nessa Blunt needs my help, even though she doesn’t know it. I must forget Cavill and focus on her.
I walk down cobbled streets, following my nose, not having a clue where I’m headed, trying to shake off the feeling that this isn’t real, that it’s an Agatha Christie film set.
The odd car motors by. It’s fascinating to see those beautiful old vehicles which are so small and elegant compared to our large, chunky four-by-fours.
But cars are still rare in 1923. Most people walk, or cycle, and there are horsedrawn carriages, and carthorses pulling all sorts of things, from vegetables to barrels and building equipment.
I jump at the sudden hooting of a motor car and step out of the road to watch it pass.
A woman in a ruby red convertible, sitting at the wheel in a hat and veil, waves at me enthusiastically.
I wave back gamely and smile. As she rattles on up the street, I brace myself for the inevitable ‘stop and chat’.
In a town of this size, Eddie Skipton is bound to know a lot of people.
I’ll have to keep my wits about me in order not to expose myself as an imposter or let the real Eddie down.
I take my time. Apart from the occasional car, the pace of life here feels slow and unhurried. Seacombe in 1923 has the energy of a large village rather than a thriving town. It’s sleepy beneath the big blue sky and the lazy white clouds that drift idly across it.
Eventually, I emerge onto the sea front.
The air smells marshy. There’s a gusty breeze.
I set off up the promenade, taking everything in.
Various people mull about. There are a few shops whose awnings give shade to the wares stacked tidily beneath them.
A pair of elderly women converse on a bench while fat gulls waddle about their Mary Jane shoes, hoping for crumbs.
Two young children play with a bucket full of something exciting, for they’re dipping their fingers inside then extracting them quickly to squeals of delight.
I can’t see where their mothers are, but various women stroll arm in arm beneath parasols, deep in conversation, while others browse the shops.
Fishermen tend to their boats moored in the harbour, their sails down, the masts pointing skyward like toothpicks.
Seabirds circle them, both in the air and on the water.
The sea is calm. The waves gently lap the shore.
The scene is one of early summer, of enjoying the warm sun while it shines.
It must be well after midday now. I wonder where the ‘usual place’ is and who is waiting for me there. I feel sorry for them. I hope I haven’t let Eddie Skipton down.
I want to ask directions to the theatre, but I can’t be sure that I won’t wind up asking someone who knows Eddie, and that would be very odd.
As in all slides, I must be mindful of the woman I’m inhabiting.
I will leave once this job is done and Eddie will have to deal with whatever situation I’ve left her in.
It’s paramount, therefore, that I act responsibly.
I come across a sign that reads Town Centre.
It’s likely that the theatre is there, so I follow it.
I’m setting off in that direction when a young woman in a pair of tweed knickerbockers, thick ribbed socks, lace-up brown shoes and a baggy brown sweater detains me.
‘Tallyho, girlie!’ She comes to a breathless halt in front of me.
I’m taken with her eyes, they’re very big and round, like blue marbles, and fiercely animated.
I notice too that her eyebrows are drawn in thin arches above them and her lips are ruby red and bleeding into the edges of her mouth, giving her a dishevelled look.
Her black hair is cut in a fashionable bob, and she has what appears to be white paint beneath her fingernails.
She must be in her thirties. She grins, revealing small, crooked teeth.
‘Darling, are we ready for tonight?’ Her accent is cut glass, like our Queen’s, and her voice shrill.
‘I think so,’ I reply, mimicking her accent. She doesn’t seem at all surprised by it, so I must have got it right.
‘Jolly good. It’s going to be tremendous. Have you decided what to wear?’
I recall Mrs Crocker laying the dress on the bed. ‘Green sequins, I think,’ I answer. ‘And perhaps an ostrich feather in my hair.’
‘Too magnificent!’ she cries, clapping her hands gleefully.
‘I can’t wait to see what Gilda is going to do.
She’s built it up into a tremendous surprise, so it had better be spectacular or everyone will be frightfully disappointed.
All to raise money for the theatre.’ She smiles wickedly.
‘But don’t be fooled that she’s being altruistic.
She’ll make it all about her beneath the guise of selflessness.
That poor long-suffering husband of hers.
Truly, I don’t know how he puts up with her.
I bet he secretly rues the day!’ She laughs mischievously, crinkling her large nose.
‘Still, we all need to support her, don’t we? For the good of darling old Aphrodite.’
‘We most certainly do,’ I reply, feeling quite out of my depth. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Meeting Aunt Wallie for lunch.’
‘Oh.’
My tone must have surprised her, for she pats me on the arm and pulls a face. ‘Come now, Eddie. She’s a good egg, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘She’s just outspoken. One of those women who thinks it’s her duty to be honest, and, in her position, entitled to be.
She’ll berate me for reading low-brow books and lecture me on finding a husband, and I shall listen patiently as I always do and then ignore everything she’s said.
That’s the only way to deal with a narcissist. But we must keep her sweet.
We simply can’t do without her patronage. ’
‘You’re so right, my dear,’ I reply evenly, trying not to sound stupid.
‘Anyhow, see you tonight, girlie. I’ll be suffering in blue. How I hate a dress!’
‘You will carry it off beautifully,’ I reply, then take a punt. ‘Blue is your colour.’
She laughs again and widens her sapphire eyes theatrically. ‘God didn’t give me much choice, did he?’ she says and sets off towards the quay with a bounce in her step. ‘Tallyho!’
Who the hell is she?