Silver Bay (37 page)

‘I don’t trust anyone else.’

There was a short silence.

‘Thanks. Thanks, Mike. I . . .’ She was distracted now, as if she was reading through her notes. ‘I reckon I could make it sympathetic. I’ll have a chat with the lawyer here – no names, of course – but I’ll get her view on the legal position. I don’t want to write anything that may turn out to be sub judice . . . that might jeopardise any case that comes to court.’

I stared at the receiver, hearing in those words the unwelcome truth of Liza’s situation and what it might mean. ‘And you think . . . she could highlight the cause?’

‘If she made it clear that the reason she was coming forward now was not just to put things right but to protect a load of baby whales people might be well disposed towards her. The public love all that whale stuff and, more importantly, they love an eccentric. Especially a pretty blonde one.’

‘If you did the interview yourself you could make sure it all came out right. That her words weren’t twisted.’

‘I’m not going to stitch you up, Mike. I’m not that much of a reptile. But you must talk to her very carefully about whether she really wants to do this. Because if everything you’ve told me is true, I can’t guarantee what’ll happen to her once it’s in the open. Other papers will pick it up and twist it – they’ll take their own line on her. It’s not going to look good that she ran away.’

‘Her youngest daughter was dead. She heard Steven was critically ill. She had to take steps to protect Hannah.’

‘But even if I and everyone else make her sound like a bloody angel she could still be arrested and end up in prison. Especially if this bloke – the ex-partner – died too. If the prosecution can prove that she gave him those pills knowing he’d been drinking, knowing he would get in his car, well, I hate to say this but that sounds like manslaughter at best.’

‘And murder at worst.’

‘I don’t know. I’m not a crime correspondent. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Spell out his name for me again. I’ll see what I can find out and get back to you.’

It would be nice to be able to say that, along with those of Nino Gaines, the fortunes of Silver Bay’s other inhabitants began to look up, but that wasn’t the case. The objections to the public inquiry, while lodged, were widely predicted to be disregarded. The newspapers began to talk of ‘when’ the new development went up, rather than ‘if’. And, as if to prove as much, hoardings rose round the wire mesh of the demolition site promising ‘an exciting new investment opportunity of 2-, 3- and 4-bedroom holiday homes, part of a unique recreational experience’.

I read the phrases I had proposed and felt sick. The gleaming, twelve-foot-high hoardings looked out of place on the near-deserted stretch of beach, and highlighted the shabbiness of the Silver Bay Hotel, whose peeling paint and stripped weatherboard now appeared a badge of pride. It stood next to the tarred barn as a silent sentinel to a lost age, when a hotel had been somewhere to escape to, just another place to be, not a unique, shiny recreational experience or investment opportunity.

One morning while I watched yet another people-mover pull up with a group of unidentified people, who got out and walked around with clipboards talking into phones, I turned to find Kathleen standing beside me. This must feel like an invasion to her, I thought. After a lifetime with just the sea for company, she had the prospect of a never-ending stream of strangers on her doorstep.

She said nothing, her weathered profile sharp as she eyed them. When she spoke, she kept looking straight ahead. ‘So, when do we need to start packing?’ she said.

My stomach lurched. ‘It’s not over yet, Kathleen,’ I said.

She said nothing.

‘Even if we lose the battle over the development, there are lots of things we can do to minimise the impact on your hotel. I’ll do a business plan. We could think of some ways to modernise—’

She put a hand on my arm, cutting me off. ‘I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Mike Dormer. I’d have a whole lot more if I could bank on you to tell me the truth.’

What could I say? Yoshi was in contact with the whales and dolphins organisations, who were trying to speed up a report they were compiling on the disruptive effect of sound on cetaceans. She had asked if there was anything they could include on the effects of motorboat or jet-ski engines. We had a petition with almost seventeen hundred signatures. We had a website that scored several hundred hits a day, and attracted messages of support from all over the globe. We had other whale-watching communities sending letters of objection to the council.

After school Hannah sat emailing other schools, trying to get other children involved. My computer was virtually hers now, and I spent as many hours as I could on the telephone, trying to persuade local townspeople to go against it. I had done as my sister suggested, and was trying to generate local and national attention. None of it had seemed to make any difference. Every time I stepped outside, that scarred area seemed the focus of renewed attention. There were more besuited people, more construction workers in hard hats. Advertisements had appeared in the local paper, promising not only the exciting new development but asking for local tradesmen to get in touch ‘and be part of the adventure’. Two empty local shops had new for-sale signs, perhaps hoping to capitalise on their proximity.

I shook my head. ‘It’s not over yet.’ I was trying to convince myself as much as anything.

She began to trudge heavily back up the path to the hotel. ‘Sure sounds like a fat lady’s vocal cords to me,’ she called, over her shoulder.

As predicted,
Hannah’s Glory
had gone down that night, swamped by the tall waves, its rudder entangled in the ghost nets. When I looked out to sea now I found the sheer emptiness of the waves above it overwhelming. The sea swallowed things whole, and it was as if they had never been. No little boat, no nets, no dying sea creatures. Nobody talked about the little boat, once its resting place on the sea-bed had been established. Greg, I think, still felt awkward about his unwitting part in Hannah’s close shave, as did I. It was too easy to imagine her out there with it.

Then, apropos nothing, Liza had announced over breakfast that she was going to find Hannah a boat.

‘What?’

She didn’t mention
Hannah’s Glory
.

‘I think you’re old enough. I’ve asked Peter Sawyer to keep an eye out for one. A little cutter, like Lara’s. But you’re to take lessons. And if I ever catch you going out on the water without permission that will be it. No more boat, ever.’

Hannah dropped her spoon with a clatter, leapt from her place at the table and threw her arms round her mother’s neck. ‘I’ll never go anywhere without telling you,’ she said. ‘I’ll never do anything. I’ll be really good. Oh, thank you, Mum.’

Liza tried to make her face stern, as her daughter squeezed her, bouncing with pleasure. ‘I’m trusting you,’ she said.

Hannah nodded, eyes shining. ‘Can I call Lara and tell her?’ she said.

‘You’ll see her at school in half an hour.’

‘
Please.
’ Her mother’s hesitation was all the confirmation she needed. We heard her feet skipping joyfully down the hallway, then her high-pitched exclamations on the phone.

Liza looked down at her breakfast, as if she had been embarrassed by her
volte face
. Kathleen and I were still staring at her. It is possible that my mouth had dropped open.

‘She lives by the sea,’ Liza said. ‘She’s got to learn some day.’

‘True enough,’ said Kathleen, turning back to the stove. ‘Peter will find her a good one.’

‘Besides,’ said Liza, her eyes briefly meeting mine, ‘it’s only sensible. I might not always be here to watch out for her.’

Liza and I had not talked about ‘us’. Several weeks in I assumed there was an ‘us’, even though by unspoken agreement we displayed no affection in front of Kathleen, Hannah or the whalechasers. The southern migration had begun, albeit a trickle, and sometimes, in the day, if I needed a break, I would go out on a trip with her, sitting on the deck of her boat, a silent assistant, and watch as she moved surefooted around it. I liked the lilt in her voice when she told stories about the whales, the affectionate, offhand way that she rubbed Milly’s ears as she steered, the joyous cry she still gave when she caught the familiar flume of water. I was acutely physically aware of her when she brushed past me, her sinuous movements as she spun the wheel or hung over the rails. I liked the way the boat became an extension of her, the way she was utterly at ease with every part of it. The protest, ironically, had made them all busy, with passengers morning and afternoon, but every time I went out with her it might have been just ourselves for all the notice I took of anyone else.

Except Hannah. I loved Hannah as an extension of the way I loved her mother. I also felt an overwhelming urge to protect her, to screen her from the kind of terrors she had already endured. And I understood what Liza had meant, and why she would have given up everything to keep her safe. Hannah knew about her mother and me and said nothing. But the way she grinned at me conspiratorially and occasionally snaked her hand into mine left me choked with pride at her tacit approval. If I ever had a child, I wanted one like Hannah. I wanted to stay in her life, if Liza would let me.

We had not mentioned love, but my every nerve ending throbbed with it, and I carried it in a cloud around me, like sea mist. The lifting in Liza’s manner, her ready smiles, her blushes told me she felt it too. I didn’t need to make her say it aloud, as Vanessa had promped me. This woman, who had lost nearly everything, whose trust had been so violently betrayed, had allowed me access not just to her physical self but to her heart. Most nights she would pad silently down the corridor to my room, and in the dim light, I would peel back my bed covers and let her in. When she touched my face with her fingertips, her expression serious and slightly disbelieving, I knew it mirrored my own.

I don’t think I have ever been as happy as I was then; perhaps it was the anticipation of waiting for her to arrive, listening to her conversations downstairs with Kathleen and Hannah, hearing the bathroom door, the various goodnights, knowing that in a matter of hours, perhaps minutes, she would be mine. I don’t know if Kathleen knew what was going on but she didn’t miss much. She was preoccupied with Mr Gaines, though, getting him out of hospital and helping restore his health. By then we all believed that happiness should be treasured if good fortune happened to blow it briefly your way.

And Liza was my good fortune. There wasn’t a piece of her that I didn’t marvel at. I loved her hair, the way it never quite lost the appearance of having been blown around at sea; I loved her skin, which seemed always to carry the faint tang of salt, the faint scars I now understood, the freckles that had come with her new life outside; I loved her eyes – opaque and reflective one minute, greedy and devouring in secret with me. When I made love to her I kept mine open, and locked on hers, and when I came I thought I’d drown in them. She was mine. I knew that, and I was profoundly grateful.

One night, when we lay talking quietly, she told me that having a child brought the most love and the most fear anyone could feel. I understood that now, because having found her, I couldn’t contemplate losing her. I lay awake at night, watching her, trying to picture her in prison in a cold, grey country a million miles from here, surrounded by unfriendly faces. And the image wouldn’t come. The two simply did not compute. She laughed at me when I used those words.

‘I’ll be okay,’ she said, burrowing into me, her arm across my chest.

I felt its weight like a blessing. ‘I can’t imagine you away from the sea.’

‘I’m not a whale. I can survive out of water.’ I heard the smile in her voice.

For some reason I wasn’t sure that was true. ‘I’ll help take care of Hannah,’ I said. ‘If you want.’

‘I’m not expecting you to stay.’

‘I care about her.’

‘But I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.’

‘All the more reason for me to be here.’

I could hear her breathing. When she next spoke there was a catch in her voice. ‘I don’t want . . . I don’t want Hannah to lose anyone else. I don’t want her to get attached to you and then, a few years down the line, for you to realise it’s too much for you. The waiting, I mean.’

‘You really think I would?’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to know what you might do.’ She paused. ‘I know more than most that you don’t always behave as you’d expect. And this isn’t a normal situation.’

I lay there beside her, thinking about what she’d told me.

‘I won’t blame you,’ she said quietly, ‘if you want to leave when I do. You’ve been . . . a good friend to us.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I said. And with those words a new atmosphere settled around us in the dark, a kind of permanence. I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to say, but it was out there: a true reflection of myself, of what I felt. I took her hand, and my thumb traced her knuckles as her fingers tightened round mine.

Her voice broke: ‘Hannah will need as many friends as she can get.’

Along the corridor Milly whined in her sleep, perhaps unable to rest until Liza returned to her room. I held her until I felt the moment pass. I knew she was forcing her daughter from her mind, already separating herself, in an attempt to do what was right. In those moments I ached for her, wishing that, somehow, I could take that pain for her.

‘You don’t have to do it,’ I said, for the hundredth time.

She silenced me with a kiss. ‘I know you find it hard to understand, but I feel like I’m finally doing something. For the first time in my life I’m taking control.’ I heard her brave smile in the darkness. ‘I’m at the helm.’

‘My skipper,’ I said. Holding her.

‘Trying,’ she replied, and wrapped her legs round me with a sigh.

My sister rang at a quarter past three that morning. She’d never been any good with time differences. Liza stirred beside me, and I fumbled for my phone.

‘Okay, you want the good news or the bad?’