Chapter Thirty-Seven
The cool, shaded interior of the old harbour warehouse was a welcome relief from the bright afternoon sun. The air smelled faintly of salt water, damp timber and old ropes, carrying the soft, rhythmic gurgle of filtration pumps from the Northumbria University marine wildlife display.
Several long, low touch tanks were arranged across the concrete floor, illuminated by soft blue lights that made the shallow water shimmer. The Parker children fanned out instantly, their earlier fatigue vanishing at the sight of the pool surfaces.
Jake was the first to reach the nearest tank, scrambling onto a sturdy wooden step.
He leaned over the edge and carefully placed his red toy car on the wide rim.
A small hermit crab was tracking its way along the shallow gravel border just inside the glass, its shell clicking lightly against the pane.
“Look, Lydia,” Jake whispered, his face inches from the water. “It’s a racing crab. My car is faster.” He rolled the wheels of the red car along the wooden ledge, keeping perfect pace with the crustacean’s deliberate progress.
Lydia crouched beside him, her dark hair slipping over her shoulder as she watched the race. “I think it’s a very close competition, Jake. But the crab has a built-in helmet, so he might have a safety advantage.”
William stood a step back, the heavy canvas gear bag resting by his boots. He watched Lydia interact with his youngest son, warmth settling into his chest.
“Thank you for staying with them on Tuesday,” William said quietly. “And for joining us today. I know how much work you’ve put into the Carnival.”
“Tuesday wasn’t about the committee,” Lydia replied. “You needed help. And honestly, this is the most relaxing part of my day.”
A few yards away, Ollie had discovered the starfish tank.
He stood with his clipboard tucked firmly under his right arm, his high-visibility vest zipped to his chin despite the afternoon warmth.
His bright blue plaster cast rested safely as he used his plastic drawing ruler to point at a large, mottled orange starfish clinging to a rock.
“You see, Lydia,” Ollie announced authoritatively as she and William walked over. “The starfish doesn’t have a regular brain. It uses a hydraulic system inside its legs to move around. It’s basically a water-powered valve mechanism.”
“It is.” Ollie nodded. “If the pressure seals fail, the steering stops working. It’s exactly like the pumps on Dad’s station tender.”
William bit back a smile, catching Lydia’s eye over Ollie’s untamed halo of hair. The shared amusement felt natural, a quiet bridge built over the ordinary chaos of the afternoon.
Mia and Sophie stood beside another touch tank, where a volunteer was showing Sophie how to touch a sea anemone gently with one wet finger. Mia hovered protectively, ready to pull her sister back if needed.
“Dad! Lydia!”
Ethan’s voice broke through the low hum of the filtration pumps. The fourteen-year-old walked into the warehouse from the harbour entrance, his tech-crew lanyard swinging against his T-shirt. His lanky frame looked relaxed, his serious eyes bright with rare enthusiasm.
“Simon and I have finished setting up the desk,” Ethan said, stopping by the starfish tank. “The band’s doing its final sound check in ten minutes. Christopher says the sandcastle results will be announced in about an hour, and afternoon tea’s being served now.”
William looked at the children, noticing the hopeful lift in their postures at the mention of food.
“Right then,” he said, ruffling Ollie’s hair. “I think the carpentry squad and the chief architect have earned a sit-down.” He looked at Lydia. “Are you coming with us?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Lydia said softly.
William picked up the canvas bag, checking that Jake’s sun hat and the children’s water bottles were still tucked inside, then guided them back into the bright afternoon sun.
? ? ?
The main refreshment marquee was buzzing with life, the canvas ceiling capturing the rich, sweet scent of warm scones, fresh strawberries and brewing tea. Lydia guided the family to a long, empty trestle table near the side panels, where the coastal breeze kept the air moving.
They collected platters of crustless cucumber and ham sandwiches, warm scones with clotted cream, and generous slices of Victoria sponge. Alongside the teapots stood jugs of ice-cold lemonade and elderflower cordial, beaded with condensation.
The meal was relaxed. Ethan sat beside his father, explaining how he and Simon had balanced the stage levels, while Mia and Sophie helped Ollie prepare a scone because spreading the cream one-handed was awkward.
Jake sat sleepily beside Lydia, contentedly munching on a sandwich while his red car rested safely between the plates.
Lydia took a long, cool sip of her lemonade and looked across the table at William.
He was listening to Ethan with quiet, attentive focus, one hand wrapped around his own glass, the other resting lightly on the table beside Jake’s plate.
The sunlight filtering through the marquee canvas softened the lines of tiredness around his eyes, leaving him looking unexpectedly young, unexpectedly at ease.
It struck her — not sharply, but with gentle clarity — how natural this moment felt. How unforced. How easy it was to sit here among them, sharing scones and sunshine and the hum of village chatter as if she had always belonged at this table.
William glanced up at that exact moment, catching her gaze. His expression warmed, slow and steady, as though he were quietly acknowledging the same thought. Lydia looked away first, a faint flush rising to her cheeks as she reached for the lemonade jug.
Across the table, Sophie was constructing a second scone for Ollie, spreading the cream with the precision of a surgeon.
“There,” she said proudly. “Perfect.”
“It’s structurally sound,” Ollie agreed, inspecting it with the seriousness of a building inspector. “Thank you, Sophie.”
Mia giggled, nudging her sister. “You should get a certificate for that.”
Jake leaned sleepily against Lydia’s arm, his red car tucked safely between their plates.
“Lydia,” he murmured, “the crab won the race.”
She smiled, brushing a crumb from his cheek. “I think it was a photo finish.”
The children dissolved into soft laughter, and for a moment the whole table felt wrapped in a warm, golden stillness — the kind that settles only when everyone present feels safe.
A bell rang outside the marquee, followed by Christopher’s cheerful voice calling for attention.
“That’ll be the announcement,” William said, pushing back his chair. “Shall we go and see how the fortress fared?”
Ollie straightened immediately, his vest rustling with purpose. “Yes. We need to be present for the results.”
Ethan rolled his eyes affectionately. “You’re nine, not ninety.”
“I have responsibilities,” Ollie replied, utterly unbothered.
Lydia watched the laughter ripple around the table, a quiet contentment settling over her like sunlight on water.