The Drowning (12 page)

Dad stopped stirring the soup. He stared at her, his wooden spoon dripping over the simmering liquid. “D’you know what? You sound just like my Lydia.”

“What a thrill,” said Jenna grimly. “How is she, by the way?”

Dad gave a watery smile. “Having a good time without me, by all accounts.”

“Yes, well,
when
she decides to come home, we’ll have a surprise for her, won’t we? A Cockleshell she’ll hardly recognise: white walls, a floor that’s newly sanded and polished, blue woodwork, cream lamps and a couple of new paintings. Let’s get rid of those horrible chintzy curtains and splash out on some modern white crockery.”

“It’ll cost a fortune!”

“Not if we shut the place and do the work ourselves. We could get the lot done in a week at the most. How about it, Dad? A whole new look for our Cockleshell.”

Dad’s eyes lit up. “We could tell Mum we did it to tempt her home.”

“Exactly . . . She’ll be so impressed with you. Come on, now. What do you say?”

Dad grinned. He turned to face her and saluted with the spoon.

“Aye, aye, Captain Jenn. When do we sail?”

She was up a ladder outside the Cockleshell in the warmth of the late-September sun, sanding down the top of a window frame, her mind, blissfully, a total blank.

Inside the tea room, Dad slapped white paint on a wall. He sang to himself, one of his off-key sea shanties that seemed to have no certain beginning and no particular end. Listening, Jenna realised it was not a sound she’d heard for many weeks.

Behind her she heard another voice, slow and husky.

It made her heart leap into her throat, though she did not know why.

The voice paused for a moment. Then it said,“Jenna?”

She turned to look.

Standing at the bottom of the ladder was someone she recognised, a face she’d seen before – yet she did not know his name.

“Jenna Pascoe? Great to see you again. We were just on our way to the shops.” His face was tanned, his body tall and lean, his eyes dark. He wore an immaculate pale grey tracksuit with a white stripe framing the collar. By his side smiled a shorter woman with a face hauntingly like his own.

Jenna crawled clumsily down the ladder, aware that her jeans were covered in paint, her hair knotted into a grubby scarf, her hands grimy with dirt.

“I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“Ah.” He grimaced. “You don’t remember me?”

Once again his voice seemed to tug at her heart. “I . . .”

The details of that panic-stricken afternoon washed across her mind more vividly than they ever had before.

Hesitantly, she said, “Are you . . . Did we meet when—”

“Yes. I’m Meryn Carlyon.” He held out his hand. “I was one of the lifeguards on Porthmeor Beach . . . the day it all went wrong.”

“I’m so sorry.” Jenna blushed. Meryn’s hand felt cool and roughened by the wind and tide. “Of course I remember.”

“It was a terrible afternoon. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’d blotted the whole thing out of your mind.”

“I only wish I could.”

A frosty pause hung in the air like the first snowflake of a winter’s day.

“This is my mum.” Meryn slipped an arm round his companion. “I’ve been so busy on the beach I’ve hardly seen her all summer – and I’ve got a very guilty conscience.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jenna said. “I’d have asked you both in for a drink, but as you can see we’re—”

“Having an autumn spring-clean?” Mrs Carlyon said.

Jenna laughed. “That’s right. We open again on Monday.”

“Good.” Meryn smiled back. Jenna saw relief wash over his face, knew he could see she was dealing with the pain. “Now the season’s ended, my stint as a full-time lifeguard has finished for the year. Perhaps I could take you up on your offer next week?”

“I’d like that.” Then she added,“Coffee’s on the house.”

“Oh,
well.”
Meryn’s dark eyes danced with laughter. “In that case, how could I possibly refuse?”

The Cockleshell rapidly began to show the results of their hard work.

“This,” Dad said as they put the final touches to it on Sunday evening, “was one of the best ideas you’ve ever had. So glad you talked me into it.”

Without their chintzy curtains, the windows stood clean and shining. The wooden tables gleamed beside the newly painted walls. The floor shone from its sanding and polishing. The room looked larger, brighter, infinitely more inviting.

Jenna gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Back-breaking but worth it . . . Nobody can call us shabby now.” She glanced at Dad. “Have you told Mum what we’ve been up to?”

“Not yet.” He straightened a new abstract painting on the wall. Rectangles of gold and orange nestled against a powerful sapphire blue. “This’ll bring the sunshine in on a rainy winter’s day. Bought it from Charlie’s shop on the harbour. Cost me a small fortune but I thought, Hey, I’m going to look at it every day for the rest of my life, so I may as well like it!”

Jenna persevered. “So when are you going to tell Mum about all this?”

Dad clasped his hands together. “Why don’t we keep it a secret from her? A kind of welcome home when she decides she’s ready. I’d hate to hurry the healing process and Tamsyn tells me she’s doing really well.”

Jenna sighed. “If you like.” She switched on the lamps at each table. The tea room glowed. “There! From grotty to glam in seven days. Reckon we can beat the other cafés in St Ives hands down.”

Dad grinned across at her. “I thought of something else we could do.”

“What’s that?”

“Give the place a new name. We should call it Pascoe and Daughter. How does that grab you?”

Jenna’s stomach heaved.
I suppose you’d planned to call it Pascoe and Son.
“Mum might not approve. I think we should leave it as the Cockleshell.”

The refurbishments paid off immediately. The week that followed proved busier than ever, as all their regulars popped in to admire the new decor and stayed to gossip over endless toasted sandwiches and cups of tea.

Each day Jenna was aware of waiting for Meryn Carlyon to come through the door. Every time she disappeared into the kitchen with an order, she hoped to hear his voice on her return. Disappointed at the end of every day, she flicked the sign to CLOSED.

Expect he’s forgotten all about me . . . Maybe he’ll come tomorrow . . .

When she went to bed, thinking about him, she replayed the details of that fatal afternoon. She remembered the relentless sun; the exquisite turquoise of the sea and sky, mocking her darkening anguish; the sharp pain of her grazed heel; her burning shoulders; the terrible mounting grip of panic that seemed to freeze her tongue to the roof of her mouth; the blankness of people’s faces, their shaking heads, as she’d asked the same question, each time more frantically, up and down the beach.

“My little brother’s gone missing . . . Have you seen him by any chance? He’s got fair hair and glasses and he’s only eleven years old.”

Alarmed by her terror, people swiftly checked that their own children were safe and sound, hugged them with relief. How jealous she’d felt of them.

She recalled the fear in the eyes of Imogen and Morvah as they slowly realised something had gone terribly wrong. How Imogen said,“I’m so sorry,Jenn. If I’d known you were worried about Benjie, I’d have stopped him wandering off.”

And she remembered the moment she’d first seen Meryn.

He’d been the second lifeguard up at the hut. Quickly and calmly he’d taken down Benjie’s details. He’d relayed them over the megaphone, his husky voice steady and precise; calmed her trembling body when she’d almost fainted; told her so gently not to panic . . . and then, all those dreadful minutes later, told her they’d done everything they could, that the incident was now out of their hands.

She remembered how Meryn had been stripped to the waist, wearing only the bright red shorts of the lifeguard. Fine dark hair rippled across his arms and over the lean firmness of his chest. His skin was burnished by the sun and wind to the colour of an autumn leaf.

Meryn Carlyon.

Had she sought him out on the beach, afterwards, the next day, the following week, to thank him and his fellow lifeguard? Had she bothered to think about him once during the nightmare weeks that followed?

She’d simply taken his help for granted, not given it a second thought. Yet that afternoon must have been almost as much of a nightmare for him as it had been for her.

At the end of the week, when Jenna had given up hope of seeing Meryn again, a battered postcard arrived for her: a photo of a fishing boat graced one side of it and a hastily scrawled message the other:

Hi, Jenna! Greetings from north Norfolk! A friend of mine works at a hotel called Captain’s House in Cromer. I’ve come to stay with him in his fisherman’s cottage for my last few days of freedom before I start a new job. But I haven’t forgotten that coffee on the house.

Hope to see you soon.

Meryn

“Who’s that from?” Dad asked, tying on his apron. “All I ever get is bills.”

“Just someone I know.” Jenna slipped the card into her skirt pocket. “Would you mind if I left early this afternoon?”

“And where are you off to?”

“We’ve given the Cockleshell a face-lift.” Jenna frowned at herself in the large new mirror they’d hung on one of the walls. “I reckon I could do with one too.”

“You look beautiful as ever to me.”

Jenna hugged him so abruptly his glasses went all skew-whiff.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you? You’re my dad.”

She dashed to the bank and took out some of her savings. Then she walked resolutely into the hairdresser’s.

“Don’t cut it all off,”she told them. “But I’d like a fringe for the first time ever, and take the rest to here . . . to shoulder length.”

She shut her eyes.
Snip,snip
went the scissors as her hair dripped on to her forehead. With each
snip
she thought,
Out with the old and on with the new. New look, new me.
The results were startling. Jenna stared at herself in the mirror. Her face looked softer, her eyes darker, her mouth more clearly defined . . .

Delighted, she raced around St Ives. She bought three pairs of trousers and six bright, single-colour tops; new underwear; a wide leather belt; pink nail varnish, some new make-up, a bottle of perfume; leather ankle boots to match the belt; a bag to replace the one that, lying on Eva Simons’s plush leather sofa, she’d suddenly noticed looked crumpled and worn; and a new loose cuddly red jacket, for when the nights grew cold.

When she got home,Dad said,“Wow! Is that my Jenna? I did quite a double-take.”

“Well, I thought, What’s the point in my having long, classic-looking dancer’s hair if I’m never going to dance again?”

The glow of pride and admiration in Dad’s eyes faded into pain. “Never say never,” he said.

“Why not?” Her hair fell soft and thick on to her shoulders. “Because never is exactly what I mean.”

As she flicked the CLOSED sign into place on Wednesday afternoon, Meryn Carlyon came running up the Digey.

He’s here.

Jenna felt blood rising to her cheeks. Her end-of-the-day weariness fell away. She opened the door, feeling the damp October air brush against her face.

“Mr Carlyon! I’d given up on you!”

Meryn grinned. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m a bit late for coffee.” He stopped to catch his breath. “You’ve done something to your hair.”

“Do you like it?”

“Very much. Makes you look older, more confident.”

“Just as well. I can’t grow it back as fast as I had it chopped off.”

He laughed, peered over her shoulder. “And all this looks fantastic . . . You’ve transformed the place.”

“Lots of hard work and a few good ideas.”

“Look, I’ve just come to ask . . .” Meryn’s eyes sparkled in the light of the tearoom lamps. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

What do I ever do after work but collapse in a crumpled heap in front of the TV?

“Not a lot.”

“Let’s have supper together.”

Jenna’s heart seemed to skip several beats and then made up for lost time. “That would be great.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Where are we—” She could hear her heart thumping, prayed that he could not.

“I’ll book a table at the Café Pasta, on the harbour.” He glanced at his watch. “Sorry, must go. New job, fixing up new house share . . . Tell you about it tomorrow.”