Читать книгу A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 11

The change from pavement to wooden boards underfoot felt like passing from reality to fairytale. She was really here, really doing this, really walking along her grandmother’s beloved pier. After just one day here, Vi already felt immeasurably closer to Monica, never more so than as she set foot on Swallow Beach Pier for the first time.

‘Okay?’

Cal’s reassuring voice was quiet at her shoulder as he closed the gates so as not to attract attention. He didn’t touch her; perhaps he sensed she needed to do this under her own steam. She nodded, her gaze lifting towards the glass pavilion at the other end. She’d feared that it might feel rickety, rather like walking the plank, but it was dry and solid beneath the soles of her sheepskin boots. A light sea breeze lifted the blue ends of her hair, and she breathed in slowly, purposefully, filling her lungs with the fresh, salty air as she moved forwards. She was aware of Cal following a few steps behind her, grateful for both his presence and his silence.

‘I’m here, Gran,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve come.’

Solid as the pier was, Violet caught glimpses of the sand below through the gaps between the boards, and then of seawater as they moved further away from dry land. A slight sense of disorientation made her pause for a second, aware that they were putting their trust in the structure to hold them safely above the waves. Glancing back towards Cal, she found he’d paused too, and his little nod and thumbs up was enough to make her turn back and carry on again.

Half way now. She knew as much because a pale blue stripe had been painted across the boards and inscribed with the faded words ‘Half way to paradise’. Vi hunkered down to look at it, tracing her fingertips over the swirled golden letters, glad they’d stood the test of time.

Was it her grandmother’s hand? She suspected so. The letters had been accented in gold leaf, and something in the style reminded Violet of the Lido apartment. Looking at it, Vi couldn’t help but wonder if her grandmother had paused to look at it the very last time she’d walked the pier. Apprehension twisted her mouth, and then Cal’s hand on her shoulder made her look up, shielding her eyes from the low, peach-pink sunrise with her hand.

‘It’s tradition not to step on the line,’ he said. ‘Everyone in town knows that.’

Standing, Vi blew on her cold fingers, digesting this new bit of detail about the town’s relationship with the pier, even those too young to have ever been on it.

‘Right,’ she said, stepping carefully over the board. Maybe the rule was a practical one, there simply to protect the paint, or perhaps it was more deeply rooted in superstition. Good luck, bad luck. Was it random, or did fate play a part? Had Violet always been destined to come here?

Giving herself a mental shake, she marched along the pier, her head held high, not stopping again until she reached the end where the boards flared out to accommodate the pavilion. She wasn’t just Monica’s artistic, impulsive granddaughter. She was Della’s daughter, and Della had instilled a forthright practicality in her only child that served her well in that moment.

‘Keys,’ she whispered, feeling in her coat pocket.

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ Cal asked.

Violet slid the key into the lock and found it as well-maintained as the previous one. Despite the fact that the pavilion was glass, it was difficult to see inside due to the dust accumulated over many years standing empty.

‘Yes, come in,’ she said, unthreading the chain from the door handles and laying it on the floor. As she bent she caught sight of the waves beneath them, a reminder that they were cut adrift from the mainland. Straightening, she rolled her shoulders and pulled the door open, giving it a bit of a shake when it offered resistance.

‘Smells a bit.’ She wrinkled her nose, pulling off her bobble hat and stepping inside as Cal pulled the door closed behind them.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, or rather side by side, given that Cal was a good six foot two to Violet’s five foot four.

‘Wow,’ Cal murmured. ‘I’ve only ever seen inside it in photographs.’

His words reminded Violet how much the pier was ingrained in the locals, and also reinforced how bizarre it was really that she’d grown up with no knowledge of it at all.

‘Do you know what it was used for?’ she asked, not yet moving further inside.

He paused. ‘Exhibitions, I think? And as a gallery too, for a while in the sixties. If my memory serves me rightly, it was a shopping arcade for a while too.’

‘Really?’

Cal nodded. ‘Local craft shops, souvenirs, that kind of thing.’

Violet gathered her coat closer around her. She had no idea what she was going to do with the pier, if anything. Her thought process hadn’t got much beyond this moment; seeing it, walking in Monica’s footsteps, trying to understand its power over her grandmother.

‘Shall we look around?’

Violet found herself glad of Cal’s suggestion; she’d faltered, held still by the quiet cathedral of the glass pavilion. Inside, it seemed to be separated into various spaces by smoked-glass walls, creating an illusion of rooms, almost.

‘This isn’t what I expected,’ she said, even though she didn’t really know what she’d expected.

‘I think the walls were put in to create the shop effect,’ he said. ‘They could probably come down again if you wanted them to.’

Vi nodded, not really taking the suggestion in beyond drily noting it as a male thought process, already assessing the place for DIY. Walking slowly, she led the way through the birdcage from empty room to empty room, saying very little and thinking a lot.

What on earth was she going to do with it? What had her grandmother done with the place when it was hers? She needed to know more, and given the amount that Cal knew already, she was pretty sure that the older generation in Swallow Beach would be able to fill in the gaps. Barty, perhaps. Each square space had smoked interior walls for privacy but the outer wall offered a wide view out over the sea. Standing in the back corner, Violet laid her hands on the cold, dusty glass.

‘Don’t lean on it,’ Cal cautioned. ‘You might end up in the sea.’

She smiled, far away. This room offered the best sea-view of all. She couldn’t see any land, just wall-to-wall water. Even the grubby windows couldn’t dampen the effect all that much; it was serene, like a cabin on a ship out in the middle of nowhere.

‘Want me to leave you in peace for a while?’

Vi turned to look at Cal, and as she did, she noticed that some of the floorboards in the room had been painted, much like out on the pier. They weren’t blue though. Someone, Monica presumably, had painted them in shades of the rainbow, faded now but still easily distinguishable as red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. More than that. She’d painted the names of the colours, the same golden swirly letters as before, illuminated by the early morning sun.

Kneeling by them, Vi caught her breath, reading the words one by one until she reached the last. Pulling her gloves off quickly, she swept the layer of dust away with her flat hands, then stilled, staring down at the glittering letters.

Violet.

Her name, written there on the end of the pier by her grandmother all of those years ago.

Hot tears bubbled up out of nowhere; it was so unexpected, and so direct a link, almost as if her gran always knew she’d one day kneel here and find it. Her logical brain understood, of course; her mum hadn’t just chosen her name at random after all. She’d always said it was a whim, but now Violet knew different. You couldn’t call a girl Orange or Green, but Violet … yes. Had her mum remembered this floor on the day she was born, maybe given her a name that made her think of Monica? Vi swallowed down a great gulp of air, sentimental to the brim.

‘That’s pretty special,’ Cal said, hunkering down next to her.

‘I can’t believe it’s here,’ she whispered, swiping her hand over her damp cheeks. ‘Sorry, stupid of me.’

He stood, holding his hand out and heaving her up too. ‘Not stupid at all,’ he said, reaching out briefly to touch the blue tips of her hair.

She nodded quickly, feeling out of her depth, then looked up, startled by a scrabbling noise on the glass roof overhead.

‘The swallows,’ Cal said, gazing up. ‘They gather on the pavilion roof.’

Violet watched them flit around for a few silent moments, not quite trusting herself to answer, not even sure what she wanted to say.

‘I’m glad you’ve come to Swallow Beach,’ he said softly when she looked back at him.

‘You are?’

‘You brighten it up.’

It was a compliment that she very much appreciated; she was accustomed to people finding her style a little too quirky, her colours a little too much.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, still damp-eyed. She didn’t know Calvin Dearheart at all really, yet in that moment she felt as if he knew her pretty well. Maybe that was why she didn’t resist when he opened his arms.

‘Need a hug? I’m told mine are the best in the business.’

He wasn’t kidding. His arms folded around her and held her close but not too tight, his chin resting on the top of her head. He was warmth on the cold morning, and he was reassuringly alive when she felt surrounded by echoes of the past.

‘I’m told I’m the best kisser in the business too, if you’re interested,’ he said, and even though she couldn’t see his face she could feel him laughing into her hair.

‘Don’t push your luck,’ she hiccupped, not ready to let go yet, because she’d just had the most rollercoaster twenty-four hours of her life and his arms felt like a safe place to be. And then she caught herself, because how could that be? She was practically engaged to Simon, yet here she was being held by a super-hot stranger who may or may not have just kissed her hair. She tried not to notice the fact that Cal smelt of warm leather and something almost like cinnamon spice, and of running water and of new opportunities.

‘I think I’ve seen enough for now,’ she said.

‘Home then?’

She nodded, realising it was after nine only when she glanced at her watch. ‘Do you need to get off to work?’

Cal kind of shrugged. ‘I’m pretty flexible.’

Violet wanted to ask him what he did, but felt as if it might sound intrusive so held the question back for another time. Taking one last look around the pavilion, she led the way back out onto the pier and locked the doors again.

Later that day, fortified by a warm bath and a cupboard full of groceries, Vi perched on one of the breakfast stools and tried to work out where was best to set up her sewing machine. Common sense suggested the spare bedroom, once upon a time her mother’s bedroom, as the practical answer. But that would mean moving things, emptying things, changing things, and she didn’t want to do that before Della had had a chance to come and see it as it was for herself. Even though her mum had said that she couldn’t face coming to Swallow Beach, Violet couldn’t face the thought of her mum never visiting her here. She didn’t know the full story really, but she got a strong sense from her mum of unfinished business where Swallow Beach was concerned and she hoped that, at some point over the summer, she’d soften and come.

So, with the only spare room not an option, Vi decided to leave the machine where it was on the dining table and work from there. Her eyes moved over the space, working out where the light fell and where she could store all of her accessories and stock. A large walnut and white sideboard stretched across the back wall behind the table; she could empty that out and use it. Decision made, she jumped up and set to work.

Two hours later, Violet sat cross-legged on the floor, damp-cheeked for the second time that day, surrounded by the trinkets and detritus of a life only half lived. Her grandparents’ wedding album, black and white, crisp vellum protecting the framed images. Monica’s fifties tea-length dress looked like something straight out of Grease, sleeveless white lace with a boat neck and layers of net underskirts over impossibly pointed kitten heels. Her dark hair had been styled into an elegant bouffant and dressed with a white band, and despite her winged black eyeliner and wide smile she looked impossibly young and naive. Hopeful, in shiny-eyed love with the tall, suited man standing proudly beside her. Was that really Grandpa Henry? He looked so carefree and youthful, it was hard to even identify him as the kind, world-weary man Vi had known and loved beyond measure.

There were more albums in there too, including one with ‘Della’ hand-painted on the first page in yellow and silver. It was filled with heart-achingly sweet photographs of Della’s baby years, all inscribed beneath with dates and captions. The day we brought our beautiful baby girl home, written beneath a photograph of them on the steps of the Lido, the shawled baby cradled in Monica’s arms. Della’s first tooth! underneath a shot of a laughing, pink-cheeked baby proudly displaying one tiny white bottom tooth. A homemade chocolate cake iced with Della’s name; it didn’t really need the Della is one! to place it in time, but the flurry of tiny coloured hearts beside it made Violet’s heart hurt. Snapshot after snapshot. Della can walk! Della’s first word – Dadda, of course!

Violet closed the album and laid it with the others beside a box of tickets and faded receipts from high days and holidays. Monica had probably kept them with the intention of scrapbooking them, but for one reason and another they’d never got that far. They were precious, and they painted a picture of the woman her grandmother had been. Someone who loved her husband and her daughter, someone who – if the pictures were any gauge – laughed often, someone who dripped creativity from her fingertips. Vi found herself feeling more and more protective of Monica with every new thing she learned, and in turn determined to protect her legacy here in Swallow Beach. Her grandparents had been happy here for a while; she was going to do them both proud and try to be happy here too.

Across the landing in the Lido, Cal immersed himself in his work to stop himself from wondering what his new neighbour was doing. He was far too used to having the top floor to himself, it was taking some getting used to knowing that there was a blue-haired mermaid girl living just across the hall from him.

Running the leather collar he’d just finished through his fingers, he methodically checked the stitching, the precision of the buckle, the correct positioning of the studs. Every piece he produced was handmade to order, and his reputation was growing with every satisfied customer, much to his mother’s irritation.

Checking his watch, he realised he was already cutting it fine if he was going to make his hastily rearranged date from last night. Clara would be pissed if he cancelled twice, and she was way too attractive to bother waiting around for a third attempt. He’d met her the week before at a convention and they’d hit it off, arranging to meet for dinner in Hastings.

She ticked all of his usual boxes: forthright, striking, not looking for anything serious. He’d done serious and come out not so much with his fingers burned as with his fingerprints incinerated off – these days he chose his female company carefully to avoid complications. Which brought him back to Violet. She didn’t tick any of his boxes. Or else she did, in that she was definitely striking, but she was also his neighbour, and more than that, she seemed like someone who needed a friend while she was here. So, regretfully, he’d relegated himself to the friend zone, which was a novel and not all that pleasant place to find himself. Still. It’d be okay, he told himself. There were plenty of fish in the sea. Just not many mermaids.

After an afternoon spent arranging her temporary workspace and a rather unglamorous dinner of cheese on toast, Violet decided to call it quits and have an early night. She’d called her mum, replied to a text from Simon and tomorrow she planned to get stuck into her next work order. Her whole world seemed to have flipped on its axis since she’d received the letter from her grandpa; she found the idea of getting her teeth into work familiar and soothing.

Turning out the lights, she headed for the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then paused, surprised by the sight of a note pushed underneath her door.