‘Not yet,’ I say, unwilling to let go of the past right now.
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Your mother was very happy here.’ We both stand at the window in silence, looking out over the overgrown garden. A gust of wind makes the long grass ripple, and the swing sways, a ghost of a past I so desperately miss.
Charity
Busby-on-Sea, UK
March 1987
Charity peered out of the café’s window. The sun was a soft globe as it sank into the horizon, the air no longer so cold that she had to run from table to table to clear up just to keep warm in the arctic temperatures. The spatter of sea spray now felt less like daggers of ice on her cheeks and more like the spit of a mermaid, as her dad used to say.
Spring was coming.
While others rejoiced, the improving weather made Charity anxious. She’d promised herself she’d be back on her feet by spring after being made redundant. But there was still no job, no money. Every extra day she spent back in Busby-on-Sea, dark memories pressed even closer, gaping and roaring with every sight she saw, every person she spoke to, the smell of seaweed and brine, the squawk of seagulls and the hoot of distant ships feeding the old grief again and again.
She had to get away before it swallowed her whole.
‘Charity, love?’
Charity looked up to see Mrs McAteer peering at her. She was the queen of gossip here with her coiled grey hair and pearl necklace. Her daughter Addie used to be best friends with Charity’s big sister. Addie had managed to escape Busby-on-Sea for good. Most people did escape now.
‘So sorry,’ Charity said. ‘Got lost in my thoughts there for a moment. So, you were saying about your son?’
As Mrs McAteer launched into a story about her ‘poor Gav’, Charity nodded sympathetically. People had started coming to the café to bend her ear about their personal problems after hearing she was a qualified NHS counsellor. She didn’t mind so much, it was good to know she could help. But it would be even better if they could pay her. Then she might have a chance of getting out of this town.
It hadn’t always been like this. She used to love it here. Busby-on-Sea was one of several small towns on the south coast of the UK, a few miles from Brighton. It had felt like the only town in the world to her and her sisters when they were kids, the three of them its rulers. Their parents let them run riot along the stretch of pebble beach outside their house, collecting shells and rubbish washed up ashore. The town centre was too tidy for them with its smart shops circling a grand old ship; the long promenade that led from the marshes near their house too civilised with its white railings and gleaming pavements. Even worse were the new houses that lined it, all modern and posh. And then there was their mother’s café which sat smart and welcoming on the opposite end of the promenade to their house. Each sister took a job there as they grew older.
Some kids walked past with a ghetto blaster, music blaring out from its speakers. How different it was now, Charity thought as she watched them walk past the disintegrating white panels of those houses. Everything seemed to be rotting now. The only thing that remained new and gleaming was the large white house that sat overlooking the town from the cliffs above, renovated just a year ago, according to Charity’s sister, Hope, for a millionaire and his wife. It was glossy but it looked isolated and vulnerable up there alone, exposed to the elements.
‘That’ll be ten pounds,’ a voice said from behind Charity.
It was Hope, her long red hair tied in a knot above her head, a bright patchwork dress with long sleeves worn beneath her purple apron.
Mrs McAteer looked indignant.
‘I’m including twenty minutes of Charity’s time,’ Hope said with a serious look on her face.
Charity smiled to herself. Typical of her sister to be so blunt. If it weren’t for Hope’s delicious cakes and the arty facelift she’d given to the café since their parents passed away a few years ago, they’d have no customers. Charity could see the way people regarded Hope with wary eyes. What if one day they had enough of her sister’s attitude and stopped coming? Then where would her sister be? She couldn’t rely on her poetry, that never made much money. And she’d taken on the remaining mortgage repayments on their cottage.
‘Don’t listen to Hope,’ Charity said to Mrs McAteer, smiling.
Mrs McAteer looked Hope up and down, then placed some coins on the side before squeezing her ample frame out from behind the table, patting Charity on the arm and smiling. ‘You’ve always been a good girl.’ Then she left the café, turning once to throw Hope daggers.
‘Silly old bat,’ Hope muttered.
Charity rolled her eyes. ‘You’re wicked, Hope.’
‘Can’t you see she’s taking advantage of you, expecting a free counselling session each time she visits? We could turn this place into a café-come-therapy practice the way you’re going.’
‘I can see it now,’ Charity said, putting her arms in the air, making the shape of a sign with her hands, the sleeves of her bright red jumper sliding down her arms. ‘Shrink Shack: cakes and counselling.’
‘We’ll make millions.’
They both laughed. For a moment, it almost felt like old times, like Charity hadn’t moved to London eight years ago with just weekly letters and the occasional visit bringing them together. When she’d been made redundant, leaving her with no choice but to move back to Busby-on-Sea, she’d worried things would be awkward with her sister. But after a couple of weeks, it felt like they’d slipped right back into their childhood routines.
The sound of screeching tyres could be heard from outside. Everyone looked up as a red sports car pulled to a stop outside the café. A woman stepped out, tall like a model with glossy caramel hair and bee-stung lips. She was wearing a black fur coat over tight red trousers, and was tottering on tall black stilettos. A handsome blond man in his mid thirties slid out of the passenger side, adjusting the collar of his expensive-looking suit and shooting the woman a smile.
As they strode into the café, the whole place fell silent.
‘Dan and Lana North,’ Hope whispered to Charity.
‘The ones who own the mansion?’
Hope nodded, looking the woman up and down. ‘So they finally decide to grace us with their presence.’
Lana North stopped in the middle of the café, peering around her. Charity wondered how it must look to this rich, privileged woman. At least it no longer had Formica tabletops and orange tiled walls. But the driftwood tables and paper sculptures made from pages ripped from poetry books hanging from the ceiling might look odd to her.
‘Well, look at this place,’ Lana said to her husband. ‘Isn’t it sweet, darling?’
‘Quite the hidden gem,’ her husband replied smoothly. Charity looked at him as she wiped the sides down quickly. He looked alien among the teacups and perms and half-eaten slices of Victoria Sponge. Tan too bronze to be from anywhere but some distant island; blond hair too perfect for the salty air here.
He caught her eye and she smiled at him. ‘Hello, welcome to the Art Shack,’ she said. ‘What can we get you?’
‘I really fancy a glass of champagne,’ Lana said, throwing herself into one of the pastel painted chairs.
‘I don’t think they’re licensed to sell alcohol, darling,’ Dan said, smiling to himself as he sat in the chair opposite her.
‘You’re