Chapter 6
SIX
Jules banged her head against the steering wheel.
That had been so rude. He was just trying to make polite conversation.
But what did it matter? She’d never have to see him again.
Except here he was accompanying Tasha across the car park.
Maybe he thought the girl would make a bolt for it if he didn’t deliver her personally.
As he opened the passenger door and leaned in a little, she got a waft of clay mixed with something fresh and green.
‘Just a thought,’ he said, looking decidedly awkward and holding out a leaflet.
‘If you’re at a bit of a loose end one day.
Not that you will be probably. There’s a lot to see and do here.
It’s just… well… I thought if you get fed up with beaches’ – he half laughed – ‘which is a stupid thing to say because no one ever gets fed up with beaches, do they?’
Jules’s eyes widened.
‘Anyway, if you want something to take your mind off things – which we all do sometimes, don’t we – throwing a pot or clay modelling is very good for that.’
She kept her palms, which were beginning to sweat, fixed to the steering wheel.
‘I really don’t think…’
‘No,’ he said, his cheeks turning pink. ‘Stupid of me. Of course. Not your thing. I’ll leave it with you anyway. Perhaps you could put it in the cottage for future guests.’
He rested the leaflet on the dashboard. Jules felt relieved when he stood back to allow Tasha to climb in even though the girl still oozed resentment.
‘See you tomorrow, Tash,’ he said through the open window.
She didn’t reply, but Jules noticed that, half hidden by the bag on her lap, she crossed both of her fingers.
‘And enjoy your hol… enjoy your stay on the island,’ he said to Jules without really looking at her.
She gave him a cursory nod and turned the ignition key. The Land Rover made a horrible coughing sound followed by silence. Jules felt her heart begin to race. Please, please don’t break down here, she silently begged. Sweat was gathering at the nape of her neck.
‘We may have to walk after all,’ she muttered.
‘It always does that,’ Tasha replied. ‘You need to give it more gas.’
She was acutely aware of Lance watching.
At the second turn of the key, she pressed her foot down hard on the accelerator and the engine roared into life.
She heaved the gearstick into reverse and the car shot backwards, peppering stones at Lance’s legs.
He jumped out of the way and she knew she should apologise, but all she could think about was getting out of there and back to the sanctuary of Hideaway Cottage.
Tasha kept her face turned to the window for the whole ten-minute drive. The silence was a relief as was the air from the open windows rushing across her face and lifting her hair to cool the back of her neck.
‘Here you are,’ she said, pulling into the entrance to Orchard Farm.
‘You can drop me here,’ Tasha said. ‘I think I can be trusted to walk the rest of the way without getting squashed.’
Jules slowed down and swerved to avoid a particularly bad pothole.
‘I’m sure you can, but Rita asked me to leave the car at the farm.’
Tasha shrugged. The redbrick farm with tall sash windows and a yellow rose growing up the front of the house appeared on the left.
‘Any idea where I should put it?’ Jules asked.
Tasha’s hand was already on the handle ready to leap out, even though they were still moving.
‘We usually park the cars in the yard at the back.’
She pointed further down the track, past the house.
‘Can you give these keys to Rita?’ Jules asked, when she’d positioned the jeep in what seemed to be a sensible place out of the way.
Tasha took them and slid out, striding towards a back door flanked by tubs of brightly coloured geraniums. Jules stood by the side of the car for a moment and watched her before turning to head back up the track.
‘Thanks for the ride,’ Tasha called.
‘It’s okay,’ Jules called back, barely turning her head as she carried on walking.
‘And for not snitching on me yesterday.’
She slowed. A tribe of sparrows flew out of the hedge to her right. She could feel their wings stirring the warm air.
‘Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Not rea…’
‘Everybody’s out. It feels a bit weird when there’s nobody here.’
Jules stopped and looked back. In the half shadow of the house Tasha looked vulnerable and unsure of herself. She sighed and unclenched her hands, which she realised had been balled into tight little fists, before retracing her steps.
‘A cold drink would be good.’
Tasha’s whole demeanour softened.
‘Granny’s usually got some homemade lemon barley in the fridge.’
‘That sounds delicious.’
The kitchen was large and square with a dresser in the centre of one wall crammed with random pieces of pottery.
The kitchen cupboards were painted sunshine yellow, a pile of magazines formed a tower next to one of the large leather chairs in the big bay window, and gleaming copper pans created a higgledy-piggledy line on a shelf above the range.
Tasha took a couple of tall glasses from a glass-fronted cupboard and placed them on the table.
‘You can sit down if you like,’ she said.
Jules pulled out a chair as Tasha lifted a large glass jug from the fridge. She took a long spoon from a drawer and gave the cloudy liquid a good stir before carefully filling the glasses, making sure they each got a slice of lemon.
‘That’s very good,’ Jules said, taking a sip.
‘There’ll be cake if you want a piece.’
Jules put up her hand.
‘Not for me. I’ve already had some.’
Tasha sat down opposite her.
‘Sorry I was rude. I’m sure you didn’t want to break into your holiday to pick me up.’
‘It’s not really a holiday.’
Tasha gazed at her from over the rim of her glass.
‘I suppose you’d describe it as an escape,’ Jules said.
‘Escaping is good,’ Tasha replied, ‘isn’t it?’
‘Depends what you’re escaping from,’ Jules said, with a shrug. ‘Must be lots of places to escape to around a farm.’
‘The barn’s my favourite,’ Tasha said, ‘and The Pottery. I like going there. That feels like an escape.’
‘You’re making a jug?’
‘I like making jugs, different shapes and sizes, different types of handles or no handles at all. Lance says I’m good at it.’
‘I think that I was a bit rude to Lance.’
‘He won’t mind.’ She looked directly at Jules, her eyes a mixture of greys, greens and hazel. ‘He’s right about pottery being therapeutic. You forget everything when you’re throwing a pot. You should give it a try.’
‘I’ve done a bit in the past, at school.’
‘You’re an expert then,’ Tasha said, a broad smile suddenly lighting up her face. ‘Erin’s my best friend. Is Carrie your best friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘I like Carrie. Have you been friends since school?’
‘No. I haven’t known her that long actually.
She moved in with me when her relationship broke up.
She had to move out of her place, and I’d put an advert in a local newsagent’s window looking for someone to share because my previous lodger had moved out.
We hit it off straight away. Sometimes that happens. ’
Jules felt breathless. Apart from Carrie that was the longest communication she’d had with anyone for over a week.
‘I haven’t got lots of friends.’
‘That doesn’t matter. It’s the quality of your friendships that’s important.’
‘That’s what Granny says. Mum thinks I’m a bit of a billy-no-mates. She wants me to be one of the cool crowd.’ She pulled at her sweatshirt. ‘She thinks I’m scruffy.’
‘Well, there’s no point wearing anything special when you’re working with clay.’
‘Mum’s got big plans for Will and me. Will’s my brother.’
‘Where’s he today?’
‘On the farm with Dad. That’s all he wants to do, all day, every day. He wants to take over the farm when he’s older.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’d love to be a potter, but Lance says there’s no money in it and I need to get other qualifications.’
‘He’s probably right.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a midwife.’
‘Cool.’
‘Yes, it is. Stressful, though. Quite a lot of responsibility.’
‘Writing things down helps with stress,’ Tasha said. ‘I keep a diary, and it helps me sort my head out.’
Jules nodded.
‘I know. I used to write a diary. Got me through some tough times, especially when my dad died.’
She felt the tears begin to well up. She must not cry, not in front of Tasha who would be so embarrassed.
‘How old were you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I’m fourteen. The only person I’ve lost is my grandpa. It’s four years now and I still miss him a lot. Granny talks about him all of the time, sometimes as if he’s still here. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse. Perhaps you ought to write a diary again now,’ Tasha suggested.
‘Maybe you’re right. I filled hundreds of pages after my dad died. I sort of stopped speaking and wrote everything down instead. I used to reply to my mum with notes, if I replied at all.’
‘My mum would be apoplectic if I did that. Did you get in trouble?’
‘No. She was extraordinarily patient. I’ve only just realised that. It must have been very difficult for her.’
Jules gulped and a tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
Tasha went to the dresser and brought back a box of tissues.
‘Sorry I upset you,’ she said.
‘Sorry I’m crying in your kitchen.’
‘It’s not my kitchen. It’s Granny’s and it’s okay. She won’t mind. I’ve cried a lot in this kitchen. She understands. Mum says I need to get a grip. Says crying won’t get me anywhere. She just shouts.’
‘Everyone has their thing.’ Jules sniffed.
‘Means her mascara doesn’t run and her nose doesn’t go red.
She’s got this vertical line between her eyebrows though.
It’s like an anger line. She uses these things called Frownies at night to try and make it go away, smooth it out.
If she just stopped shouting, it would probably soften all on its own. ’
She paused. ‘Or maybe not.’ She looked up at the clock above the back door. ‘She might be back soon. I’d better go home. There’ll be hell to pay if she finds me here again.’