Chapter 18
CLARK
It’s a long way to Pixie Cove in Devon. The roads are busy, and an accident on the motorway sends me and my satnav into meltdown. Luckily, the weather has been on my side, sunshine all the way.
I stopped at the services for the loo, and as I was on my way back to the car, I saw that my father had left me a WhatsApp message:
Looking forward to sitting in your house and drinking a cuppa with you soon. Make sure you buy some decent biscuits for your old man.
It made me smile and think about how grateful I am that he and I bumped into each other again.
I started thinking about all the things we could do after he visits: go watch the football, play golf, or spend a weekend in London.
But as the sun crept behind a cloud, my worries over the afterlife’s test returned.
Dad and I might not get a second chance.
I briefly thought about Mum and whether I should tell her about how I’m back in touch with him.
If I die, he will tell her we’d been in contact and she’ll get upset or throw a plate of food over him at the wake.
The thought left as quickly as it arrived.
I will be dead and they will just have to deal with it.
I stuffed my phone in my pocket and hurried back to the car.
I’m ten miles away from Pixie Cove – the home stretch. I find a sports radio channel and listen to the commentary of a snooker match.
My mind has zoned out. I’m thinking about Harry, who loved snooker.
When Dad left, it was Harry who helped me through the ordeal.
He’d turn up and take me for a pint and a game.
We’d talk about everything, and I always felt better once we’d said goodbye.
I will never forget how he rescued me from a dark place.
I remember his last words to me – Promise me you’ll look after Florence.
If he’s looking down from heaven, will he be proud? Will he think I did what I promised?
At first, I started doing little things for Florence – things she wouldn’t notice; when a storm took off some roof tiles, I made sure my mate, a roofer, knocked on her door the next day.
I caught the pastry thief who kept nicking stuff from the café, and when Yvonne (her mum) told me that Florence wanted a new car, I made sure my mate, who owns a car garage, put a leaflet through her door.
Florence’s miscarriage changed everything.
When I was seventeen, Mum discovered she was pregnant.
It was a shock for her and my father. She’d assumed her symptoms were the sign of an early menopause.
Even though there was going to be seventeen years between me and my new sister or brother, I was over the moon.
Then Mum had a miscarriage. It affected all of us, and I think it led to their marriage breaking down, and me not speaking to my father for ten years.
Florence’s miscarriage stirred something in me. It brought back all my pain.
I had been so pleased for her when I found out she was pregnant.
I had to stop myself from telling her how proud I was of her for keeping Ben’s baby and raising their child herself.
Even though Florence is the most annoying person in the world, I knew she would make a fantastic mother.
Bossiness and being a pain in the arse are essential qualities for being a good mum, and Florence had those in buckets.
When her mum texted me that Florence had lost the baby, I cried in my car.
That was when I started masquerading as Chris.
I just wanted to make sure Florence was okay.
At first, it was just innocent interactions.
As Chris, I traded friendly bookish messages and liked all her book review posts.
But over time, it’s developed into something deeper and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop.
Guilt gnaws away at me. It’s wrong to make her think I’m someone else.
Once I pass the afterlife’s test, I will stop sending her messages.
Maybe Chris could admit he has a girlfriend or something?
Pixie Cove looks idyllic. The coastal village lies in a crescent around the small sandy cove and is hemmed in by tall, craggy cliffs. As I park in the main car park, I see I’m surrounded by whitewashed cottages. The air smells of sea-salt and fish and chips, and my stomach groans with hunger.
I walk to the edge of the stone quay and look out across at the fishing boats bobbing around in the water. To the right of me is the little strip of beach where tourists are busy enjoying the late afternoon sun.
This is the place where Mr Beaver has chosen to live out his retirement. I can’t fault him. Pixie Cove is beautiful.
Florence missed out on choosing not to come with me, though it’s probably for the best. We would have argued all the way here.
I walk up the path to the little town and head towards the local bookshop.
It’s been made from weather-beaten timber and has a hand-carved sign that creaks in the breeze.
Inside is a cosy maze of narrow aisles and mismatched shelves.
The owner, a woman, has a mass of dark, unruly curls and a pair of thick, red-rimmed glasses.
She smiles, bright and breezy, as I approach the counter.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘This sounds weird, but do you live locally?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She repositions her glasses. ‘Lived here all my life.’
‘Ah. Do you know of a man called Rodney Beaver?’
Her smile dissolves, and her face darkens. Bingo.
‘I am afraid I do.’
I chuckle. ‘He’s an acquired taste. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’
She shakes her head with disapproval. ‘He lives in a blue cottage on the outskirts of the village. We all breathe a sigh of relief when he decides not to come into town.’
‘I can see he hasn’t changed.’
She blinks in surprise and her mouth falls open. ‘Are you related?’
I laugh. ‘God, no. He used to teach me maths when I was a kid. Someone I know is trying to track him down, so I offered to help her.’
‘I have never met such a miserable man,’ says the woman.
‘Be thankful you didn’t have him for a teacher.’
She laughs. ‘His cottage is duck-egg blue. You can’t miss it if you take the old road along the cliffs.’
I look at the array of glittery notebooks and pens for sale on the counter.
On her Instagram, Florence is always raving about her notebook collection.
Maybe Chris could give her an actual gift?
I could take a photo of the bookshop and stick it on Chris’s Instagram story.
I buy a notebook and thank the woman, but as I step outside and get ready to take a photo, I’m distracted by an older woman with silvery hair passing by.
She looks like Hilda from the afterlife. Surely not? I must be tired.
The urge to take a photo has faded. I need to find Mr Beaver.
The cottage sits alone on the winding cliff road.
Its blue paint has faded, and I can see parts of weathered grey stone peeking through in places.
I park on the road and walk up the little gravel path.
From his windows, Mr Beaver must have a fantastic view of the sweeping wild Devon coastline and the sheet of silver-blue sea below.
I’m praying he’s in because I don’t have a plan B.
His front door is painted white and has an angry face brass door knocker. After knocking, I hear movement and a lot of muttering.
The door opens, and I find myself staring at Mr Beaver.
His appearance hasn’t changed. His grey hair still looks like one of those satellite pictures of a cyclone heading for land.
He’s wearing a knitted sweater, riddled with holes and loose thread.
There’s a quick glint of light from his chest, and my eyes dart to the left, where he’s pinned a silver brooch.
I can feel a smile spreading across my face.
It’s the musical-note-shaped pin. After all this time, he’s still wearing his and Pearl’s keepsake, and she has her necklace with the same charm laid out on her dressing table.
Silently, I say the words ‘Test passed’ to myself.
‘Clark Fielding,’ he says, fiddling with his spectacles. ‘Is that you?’
‘Hello, Mr Beaver.’
He ushers me inside, and I bow my head as the cottage is filled with low beams. His living room is small and cosy.
The old windows resist letting the mischievous sea breeze in, rattling to vent their frustrations.
A lonely armchair sits before the impressive stone fireplace.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he barks.
‘I could murder a cuppa, Mr Beaver.’
He mutters something under his breath and storms off to his kitchen. I can hear the banging of cups and a whistling kettle.
I sit down on his armchair, stretch out my legs and listen to the creaking of the old cottage and the rattling windows. My eyes feel heavy. It’s been a long drive.
I’m seconds away from nodding off when a cup of dark brown tea is thrust in my face, which makes me jolt. ‘Drink this,’ he orders. ‘Get out of my chair.’
With a smile, I take the cup and perch on the little windowsill.
‘Well?’ he growls. ‘Why are you here?’
I take a sip of the tea. It’s bitter and strong, which is not how I like it, but I’m not going to complain. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
‘Clark, why are you here?’ he repeats.
I place the cup down. ‘Well, Mr Beaver, I know someone who has been looking for you.’
He stares at me. ‘What?’
‘Pearl Frances Sanders.’
He looks like he’s been frozen in time.
‘Sir?’ I say, softly. ‘Are you okay?’
Still silence, and I gulp.
‘Say something,’ I say, waving my hand at him.
His face flickers back to life. I watch his moody, piercing eyes darken, and suddenly I am back to being a schoolboy, and he’s about to shout at the class about how useless we are at fractions. Fear engulfs me.
‘Can you leave, please?’
My heart sinks. ‘What? But I have come all this way…’
He rises from his chair. ‘I want you to go.’
‘But Pearl has been…’
With a shake of his head, he ushers me to the door. ‘Out.’
‘You and Pearl…’
He opens the door, shoves me with the force of a young man and slams it shut. I stumble, then turn to bang on the door. ‘Mr Beaver, please listen to me.’
‘Go away,’ he shouts.
‘Crabby old git,’ says a voice from the road. I look up to see a man with a sheepdog on a leash. ‘Stay well away from that old man. Go home, he’s best left alone.’
With a heavy heart and the feeling of failure, I get in my car. I’m about to turn on the engine when I glance back at the cottage. An idea takes hold of me. If the afterlife wants me to reunite Mr Beaver and Pearl, then I must leave him a way of contacting me once he’s calmed down.
I look in my glove compartment and find a scrap of paper. On it I write my address and phone number.
As I post the folded piece of paper through his door, I wonder whether this will be enough.
Will the afterlife reward me for driving for over two hours to track my old maths teacher, who is my neighbour’s true love?
What have I changed? I now know his identity, and I tried to talk to him, but that’s it.
My stomach performs an uncomfortable spin.
His door opens, and I look round to see him chucking out the piece of paper I put through his letterbox. ‘I don’t want your contact details,’ he growls before going inside.
As I walk back to my car, I angrily kick a few stones across the large driveway in frustration. Florence and I are doomed.