Summer at Shell Cottage (34 page)

Freya hung up her call and came to stand by Mum in solidarity.
‘The police are on their way,’ she said.

Molly couldn’t stop staring at Mr Jamison, head bowed, sniffing into his hands.
Mr Jamison, who had a wife at home – a wife who hadn’t got the faintest idea that Molly even
existed.
Mr Jamison, and the naked texts he’d sent her, and the dirty phone calls, and his fingers touching her body in Stratford.
All of a sudden she couldn’t wait for the police to
get there.
She felt repulsed, even to be standing in the same room as him.

The police came and escorted Mr Jamison away while a crowd of curious holidaymakers watched outside.
‘Shame on you!’
Mum yelled as he was pushed into a police car,
much to Molly’s mortification.
Glad as she was that Mum and Freya had turned up like they had (how had they even
known
to anyway?), there was something about having your mother yell
things, publicly, in the street, that was never going to be not embarrassing.

‘Oh, Molly,’ Mum said, and looked as if she was going to start crying again as the police car drove away.
‘Why didn’t you say?
Why didn’t you tell me?
You stupid
bloody girl!
Have I taught you nothing?
Didn’t it occur to you that you might be getting yourself into danger?’

Mum had never called Molly a ‘stupid bloody girl’ before.
She’d never said anything so horrible to her, ever, and Molly badly wanted to dish out some cool, snarky answer about
having a
private
life, thank you very much, and nobody told their mums anything
anyway
, and
God
, Mum, it was hardly
danger
, but she lost her nerve and then
– even more mortifyingly – the shock of what had just happened hit her, and she burst into proper gulping tears herself.
How had it all gone so horribly wrong?
She would have to go to
the station later to be questioned about what had happened, the police officers had said, and even though Mum had promised she’d be with her, and Freya had said Vic – a policeman
himself, of course – could help out if she wanted him to, Molly still couldn’t quite get her head around it.
All she kept thinking about was Ben’s face, and the ashen look in his
eyes as the police arrived and told him he was under arrest.
Under arrest!

‘I was scared,’ she blubbed.
‘I wanted to tell you, Mum.
I did!
But he said .
.
.
he said .
.
.’

‘I heard him,’ Freya said, putting a consoling arm around her.
‘Oh, sweetheart.
I’m sorry to have eavesdropped, but I heard your conversation with him this morning.
That’s how I knew you were here.’

‘Well,
I’m
not sorry you eavesdropped,’ Mum said a bit tearfully, putting an arm around her on the other side so that Molly was like the filling in a middle-aged woman
sandwich.
‘Thank Christ you did, Freya.
Thank heavens!’

‘He was putting a lot of pressure on you, I heard him,’ Freya went on kindly, which just made Molly cry even harder.
‘And unfortunately, men say all sorts of things like that
if they think they might have a chance of getting their leg over.
When you reach our age, you know better, but we’ve all fallen for it in the past ourselves.
Come on, darling, you’re
okay, there’s no real harm done.’

‘I’m sorry I shouted.
You just gave me a fright, that’s all,’ Mum said, rubbing Molly’s back.
‘The fright of my bloody life.
I’ll have grey hair by the
time this holiday’s out, you wait.’
She kissed her head so hard and fiercely, Molly thought she might get whiplash.

‘Sorry Mum,’ she mumbled.
‘And thank you for coming to get me.
Both of you.
I’m actually sort of glad you did.’

And then they were all hugging each other and even though it was, like,
soooo
embarrassing, and Molly would totally die if anyone from school ever saw her do anything like that, it was
also weirdly nice.
Even if Mum never let her out of her sight again and grounded her for ever – she was
so
going to ground her once she’d got over the shock and the hugging had
ended – Molly had a feeling that everything might just be okay.

Only one thing was puzzling her.
Why was Mum being so down on men when Robert was, like, the nicest, funniest man ever?

The three of them were all so charged with adrenalin after the teacher-pervert was taken away that nobody was in any hurry to get back in their cars and leave the scene of the
crime.
Harriet was tearful and shell-shocked, thanking Freya repeatedly for what she’d done, Molly was subdued, and Freya .
.
.
Well, Freya felt quietly proud of herself for once, for having
done something really, really good at last.
It was a bloody great feeling.
Thanks to her, disaster had been averted.
Thanks to her, they were all sitting safely on the prom now, with takeaway cups
of tea and a bag of iced buns for the shock.
And would she have acted so quickly if she’d been groaning with a hangover that morning?
Probably not.

Maybe, just maybe, this was some divine kind of recompense, a sign that good things came to those who drank lemonade.
Or something.

Besides all of that, she was just glad to have been able to help Harriet, when her sister-in-law had been such a good friend to her on this holiday.
Now they were bound together, battle comrades
who had both been there for each other in their hours of need.
Freya wasn’t used to this sort of kinship with another woman, the sensation of a friend ‘having your back’, as Vic
would say.
That felt pretty bloody brilliant, too.

In all, the whole experience was a definite reminder that life was short, she thought, getting back into her car after the buns had helped revive them.
In a few years, it might be Libby falling
in love with the wrong man and cycling off for clandestine meetings (God forbid).
Dexter was already talking longingly about motorbikes (over her dead body) and Teddy had told her matter-of-factly
the other day, first milk tooth in hand, that he knew the tooth fairy was only a story, and could she just give him the pound now, please?
The years were passing, the children were growing up fast
and one day a summer would come when all three of them would rather be off doing their own thing, having adventures, falling in love.
This morning had been a wake-up call, she realized, starting
the engine and driving away.
She had to make the most of these precious summer months while they were still together, because you never knew what might be around the next corner.

As she dropped a gear to climb the steep hill up and out of Ennisbridge, a memory tickled at the back of her mind and she smiled.
Oh yes
, she thought to herself, banging the steering
wheel in the triumph of a good idea.
Thank you, subconscious.
Now she knew exactly what to do that afternoon.

‘Wheeeeeeeee!’

‘Aaaaarrrgghh!’

‘Watch out!’

It was later that day, and she had brought Victor and the children out to the very same National Trust house they’d visited all those years ago, with the big beautiful house, gorgeous
flower-filled gardens, and the best hill she’d ever seen for rolling down like lunatics.

They had grass in their hair, green smears across their clothes, and – ‘I’ve broken my glasses!’
cried Teddy in excitement, poking his finger through the now empty bit
where a lens had once done its duty.
But none of it mattered.
None of it was important, compared to the raucous shrieks of laughter that floated through the summer air, as they each tumbled down
and down and bumpily down.
Raucous, shrieking laughter was the very best sound in the world today.

And actually, she thought with a grin, rolling down a hill, holding hands with your husband or child in a wobbly human line, seeing the world twist and rotate at dizzying breathless speed .
.
.
Well, that was up there with the best sensations in the world too.
It felt like pure, undiluted happiness, in fact; an espresso of joy.

‘Listen, Frey .
.
.
I just want to say I’m sorry,’ Vic said, as the children raced back up the hill for their tenth roll, leaving just the two of them dishevelled and giddy at
the bottom.
‘I’m really sorry I didn’t notice that you haven’t been yourself lately.’

‘It’s all right,’ she said, leaning forward and plucking a clump of dried grass from above his right ear.
‘It’s fine.’

‘No, love.
It’s not fine.
I’ve been so wrapped up in what happened to me that I stopped seeing what was happening to you – or anyone else.’
Now it was his turn to
lean over and gently tuck a daisy into her hair.
‘And I’m sorry.
I’ll make it up to you, all right?
I promise.’

She smiled at him – a tentative smile of hope.
She had a feeling that they had turned a corner together, that they were going to be okay.
And then – ‘WHOOOOAAAAAA!’
– down tumbled Libby in a flurry of screaming and flying plaits straight into Victor, and they were all laughing again.

Afterwards, when everyone was too weak and giggly for any more rolling, and the subject of ice creams had been raised by several hopeful voices, Freya glanced over and saw a couple on a bench
nearby smiling across at them.
We’ve become that family
, she thought, smiling back.
The family I always wanted us to be, right back when Victor and I came here that first
summer’s day, all those years ago.
Sure, they would still have their bickering, door-slamming moments and laundry panics and homework dramas ahead, she wasn’t kidding herself that
any of the chaos would miraculously cease.
But in years to come, she and Victor would be able to look back on this afternoon and think,
We got it right that day.
It would become a proper,
lovely, gold-tinged memory for all of them.

‘Let’s go and track down some ice creams,’ she said, to wild whoops of delight.

Once they had finished at the police station, Harriet drove the two of them back, Molly’s bike strapped onto the roof rack.
She kept glancing sideways at her daughter
along the way.
It was as if a mask had slipped – a mask on her own daughter’s face – revealing this beautiful young woman in place of the little girl Harriet had seen there all
this time.
How had she failed to notice?
Somehow, in the blink of an eye, Molly had transformed into a semi-adult who fell in love and plotted secret getaways.
Who had almost gone to bed with Mr
Sleazebag Jamison.

Harriet could weep at the very thought of that creep getting his hands on her daughter.
And she a child protection officer, too.
Well, she hadn’t exactly done a brilliant job of protecting
her own child.
She had failed dismally, in fact.
Thank goodness Freya had been there, she thought for the hundredth time.

That afternoon, back at Shell Cottage, Freya disappeared off with Victor and her children, while Harriet and Molly felt the need to stay close together.
Harriet was reminded of penguins huddling
against one another for comfort and protection from battering storms, as the two of them set up sun loungers in the garden beside each other and lay there, two penguins eating ice creams in the
sunshine, reassured by the other’s presence.
She kept having to resist reaching out and touching her daughter, just for the physical contact, just because she was there.
She never wanted to
let her out of her sight again.
Not until she was at least thirty, anyway.

Molly looked pale and wrung out, and Harriet felt a twist of sympathy for her.
Even though she’d been boiling over with rage back there in the hotel, fists clenched as if she might
actually deck the sleazoid and bust up his shifty, weaselly face, her heart had cracked a little at the agony apparent in her daughter’s shocked expression.
She wasn’t sure that crack
would ever heal over.
Mothers always felt their children’s pain; this was just how it was.
‘How did it all start, then – with you and him?’
she asked gently.
‘Do you
want to talk about it?’

Molly’s eyes hooded over and for a moment Harriet thought she would pull down the shutters and mumble that no, she did not want to talk about it.
She did not want to talk to Harriet about
anything, ever again.
She was probably embarrassed that her mother and aunt had dragged her away and kicked up such a loud, shrill fuss in public.
Was the door now closed to future confidences and
confessions?
Would Harriet be frozen out for her crime of compassion?

‘He was just really nice to me.
At school,’ Molly said eventually.
‘He made me feel .
.
.
special.’
She winced, obviously aware that this was no longer the case.
‘And it was exciting too.
Having to keep the secret.’

Harriet’s heart ached with the memory of what it was like to be fifteen and in love.
That delicious soup of feelings, so vivid and intense, so all-consuming.
The girls at the school where
she worked were always coming into her office, starry-eyed, throwing themselves into a chair and pouring their hearts out about this boy or that.
‘He is so
fine
, miss.
I am well in
love.’
She knew this.
She saw it every day.
So how on earth had she failed to notice her own daughter going through this electrifying experience herself?

‘When a boy – or a man – starts making you keep a relationship secret, it’s not generally a good sign,’ she said gently.
While she didn’t want to alienate
Molly by being patronizing, there were some things a girl had to know.

Molly licked a drip from the bottom of her ice cream and nodded.
‘I can kind of see that now,’ she admitted, her face doleful.
‘I just didn’t want to get him into
trouble.’

‘I know you didn’t.
Because you cared about him.
Because you – ’ Ugh, it was hard to get the words out.
‘Because you fell in love with him.
And I’m sorry that
he wasn’t the person you thought he was.
I’m so sorry he hurt you, Molls.
It’s the pits, I know.’

‘I wanted to tell you,’ Molly said, her chin trembling in that telltale trying-not-to-cry way.
She’d never been one for big emotional scenes, Molly.
Ever since Simon had left
them, she’d always made a point of toughing everything out.
‘I really did, Mum.
But .
.
.’

‘But you knew what I’d say,’ Harriet finished for her.
They both knew what Harriet would have said – she’d have exploded with shock and outrage, called the
headteacher to have Mr Jamison sacked, then contacted the nearest nunnery to see if they took in wayward teenagers.

Molly nodded.
‘I knew you’d tell me not to go.’

Got it in one, kid.
And the rest.
They were silent for a while.
Harriet had reached the point of her ice cream where the melting–licking ratio hung drippily in the balance and she
ended up cramming the rest of it into her mouth in one inelegant gulp.

‘Are you going to tell Dad?’
Molly asked nervously.

Simon.
He hadn’t crossed her mind at all while she was hurtling towards Ennisbridge, fearing for what was happening.
It had been Robert she’d longed for – unflappable,
practical Robert who was so good at making everything all right.
Apart from when he was constructing elaborate parallel lives woven from lies and bullshit, of course.

Harriet considered the question.
Was she going to tell Simon?
He was out in France now, playing happy families.
Happy new French families.
What could he do about Mr Jamison, if she told him?
What
would
he do, more to the point.
Nothing, probably.
Big fat nothing.
Give Molly earache down the phone about it for twenty minutes then forget it had ever happened.
Not like Robert,
who’d have just hugged Molly and .
.
.
anyway, she wasn’t thinking about Robert.

‘I won’t if you don’t want me to,’ she replied, once the huge lump of ice cream had vanished, very coldly, down her throat.
She reached over – because resistance
was no longer an option – and tucked a stray golden tendril of hair behind Molly’s ear.
Just to touch her.
Just as an excuse to brush her fingers against that beautiful, beloved face.
A
face she never wanted to see looking so confused and heartbroken for as long as she lived.
‘I think this can stay our secret, don’t you?
Secrets between mums and daughters are always
fine.
So long as you promise not to try running off with any other teachers.
Mr Bennett, for instance.
Or Mr Montague.’

Molly laughed but then the tears sprang free from her eyes and she was crying again and rubbing a bare arm against her face, her ice cream choosing that moment to slither off its stick and onto
the grass.
‘Oh, lovey,’ Harriet said, shuffling closer and rubbing her back, just as she had done when Molly was a colicky baby, or when she was poorly with a tummy bug.
Just as she
would do forever more, if Molly wanted her to.
‘Oh, darling.
You’re all right.
It’ll be all right.’

She rummaged in her shorts pocket and found the paper napkin from earlier at the beach café –
Don’t think about the surf dude right now
; she’d punish herself
for that later – and passed it to Molly, who took it gratefully and blew her nose.

‘Sorry,’ she said, after a moment.
‘I don’t know why I’m crying.
It’s stupid.’

‘It’s not stupid.
You really liked him.
God, I remember being your age and crying my eyes out when this pop star I liked got married.
I mean,
that’s
stupid.
I never
even knew the guy.
You are perfectly entitled to cry.
As loudly and dramatically as you like.
Go for it, I say.
Let rip.’

Molly gave her a rather watery smile, just as Harriet had been hoping.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said.
She blew her nose again.
‘I don’t think Dad would care anyway.
Not now
he’s got this other kid on the way.’

Harriet was so used to trotting out niceties she didn’t even believe in when it came to her ex-husband that the usual platitudes appeared obediently on the tip of her tongue, ready to be
wheeled out once again.
Of course he cares.
Of course he loves you.
He’s just busy, that’s all.
But I’m sure – no, I KNOW – he’s always thinking about you,
wherever he is.

Simon, you twat
, she thought instead.
I’m sick of making excuses for you.
You don’t bloody deserve a daughter like Molly, you fuckhead.

‘The thing about your dad,’ she said, before she could stop herself, ‘is that he cares about himself more than anyone else.
Unfortunately.
I am sorry I didn’t fall in
love with a better man.
He is not the father you deserve.’

Now it was Molly’s turn to reach out and pat Harriet, gently and affectionately, on her arm.
‘Oh, Mum.
I know that.
It’s okay you don’t have to pretend to like him any
more.
Because at least we’ve got Robert now, who’s brilliant.’

Harriet pinched her lips together, not wanting to break her daughter’s heart all over again with the news flash that actually Robert had also been kind of a twat recently.
Now was not the
time.
Not while she was already so fragile and broken.
‘Hmm,’ she said non-committally, casting around for a new topic of conversation.

But Molly’s eyes were narrowing.
Something seemed to have clicked in her mind, a memory making a reappearance.
‘What’s going on with you and Robert, Mum?
Where is he today,
anyway?’

No.
She couldn’t do it yet.
Not until she and Robert had properly talked, like adults, and brought about some kind of conclusion, happy or otherwise, to the situation.
‘I’m not
sure what he’s up to,’ she replied breezily.
‘We had a bit of an argument last night but – ’ She hesitated, not wanting to lie.
But what else could she say?
‘We’ll sort it out.’
One way or another
, she reflected grimly.

What a summer this was turning out to be, she thought, as they lapsed into silence, sun spots dancing before her eyes.
She’d never known a holiday like it.
They had come to Shell Cottage a
happy little unit of three – or so she’d assumed at the time.
But since then, secrets had emerged so deep and so earth-shattering, their happy family had been fractured and left
reeling.