gazed out to sea but then saw me standing there. I looked away and walked quickly on, past the old red phone box; and here were the stone gateposts of the Polvarth Hotel.
I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside, and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.
The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a windblasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.
I crossed the lawn then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.
I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug ‘cob’ cottages jostling for position along the harbour walls.
I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.
Ignoring the thudding in my chest I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the lifebuoy in its scarlet case.
I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there; the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.
We’re making a tunnel …
I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.
Mum’ll be so surprised …
She’ll be amazed.
Can I go in?
As I crossed the sand I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holidaymakers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door my hands were still trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then – six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.
I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice soothed and consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had always had that effect on me, making me feel better when I was low. Her cheerfulness and exuberance were the perfect counterpoint to my shyness.
There was the usual miscellany – a funny interview with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay,followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Honor to her interviewee, ‘is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied grimly. ‘Because on that day the Sun will be in
exact
alignment with the centre of the Milky Way, which will affect the Earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.’
‘But astronomers have trashed this theory,’ Honor pointed out. ‘As has NASA.’
‘They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.’
‘Well, on 22 December I guess we’ll know who was right,’ Honor concluded. ‘But thanks
I turned in, my feet crunching over the gravel. The large Georgian house had been old-fashioned and shabby; now it looked smart and sleek, with two Range Rovers and a Porsche parked outside, and a pair of potted bay trees flanking the door.
The garden was just as I remembered it, framed by a cedar of Lebanon and a Monterey pine with a windblasted crown. The trees might look the same, but I had changed beyond all recognition.
I crossed the lawn then went down the steps to the play area. There were still swings, a slide, and a wooden playhouse.
I lifted my eyes to the view. Before me was the bay, a perfect horseshoe, and just beyond it the village of Trennick, its Victorian villas and snug ‘cob’ cottages jostling for position along the harbour walls.
I stepped back onto the lane through a gap in the hedge continuing downhill. Gulls wheeled above me, crying their sharp cries. The lane curved to the left, and there was the beach.
Ignoring the thudding in my chest I kept walking, past the wooden signs pointing to the coastal path and the lifebuoy in its scarlet case.
I stopped halfway down the slipway. The waves were flecked with white, and there were the cliffs, the tea hut, still there; the cobalt rocks and the crescent of sand. I felt a sudden, sharp constriction in my ribs, as though my heart was hooped with a tightening wire.
We’re making a tunnel …
I forced myself forward, the wind whipping my cheeks. A boy was walking a Labrador; the dog ambled beside him, sniffing at the seaweed. A young couple in wetsuits ran into the waves, scattering the spray in glittering arcs.
Mum’ll be so surprised …
She’ll be amazed.
Can I go in?
As I crossed the sand I felt the wire in my chest tighten. I saw the ambulance pull into the field behind the hut; I saw the medics with their stretcher and bags. I remembered the other holidaymakers standing there, in their eyes a strange blend of distress and avid curiosity. Now I recalled an arm going round me, drawing me away; then I saw the doors of the ambulance slam shut.
It was nine when I got back to Lanhay. As I unlocked the cottage door my hands were still trembling. I sat at the table, head bowed, perfectly still, struggling to absorb the blow to my soul. My mother had been twenty-eight then – six years younger than I was now. I remembered the drive home, in the police car, her fingers clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white. I’d put my hand on hers, but she didn’t take it.
I stood up, went into the sitting room, turned on the radio and tuned it to Honor’s show. Just the sound of her voice soothed and consoled me, bringing me back to myself. Honor had always had that effect on me, making me feel better when I was low. Her cheerfulness and exuberance were the perfect counterpoint to my shyness.
There was the usual miscellany – a funny interview with Emma Watson about her new film, then some Coldplay,followed by the news, and then a heated discussion about whether the world was going to end on 21 December, as predicted by the ancient Mayans using their Long Count calendar.
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Honor to her interviewee, ‘is that just two months from now, what we can expect is not so much Christmas as the Apocalypse.’
‘Yes,’ the woman replied grimly. ‘Because on that day the Sun will be in
exact
alignment with the centre of the Milky Way, which will affect the Earth’s magnetic shield, throwing the planet completely out of kilter, resulting in catastrophic earthquakes and flooding that could wipe us all out.’
‘But astronomers have trashed this theory,’ Honor pointed out. ‘As has NASA.’
‘They can trash it all they like, but it’s going to happen.’
‘Well, on 22 December I guess we’ll know who was right,’ Honor concluded. ‘But thanks
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