The sound of a cockerel startled her. She turned to see a huge bird waddling across the bridge. It was making the most godawful noise. Was it normal for random animals to be wandering about? Keen to avoid any contact with the bird, she hurried to the other side.
Her father’s boat was moored somewhere along this side of the quay. She hadn’t consciously decided to visit, but now she was here, it seemed appropriate to call in and say hello. If nothing else, it would show a willingness to ‘bond’. Besides, she was curious to see where he lived.
A long line of narrowboats were moored along the water’s edge. She instinctively knew which boat belonged to her dad. The sight of The Lady Iris brought a lump to her throat. He’d named his boat after their mum? Emotion rooted her to the spot. She took in the teal paintwork and abundance of potted flowers adorning the upper deck. The side of the boat was decorated with painted, purple irises, her mum’s favourite flower. The image allowed her mind to drift back to a happier time before their family had been ripped apart.
She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, with a kind, doting mother, a relaxed, chilled father, and a congenial younger sister. She’d worked hard at school, had a few close friends, and spent her time listening to music and drawing pictures of grand houses with swimming pools and vast landscaped gardens. She hadn’t been a big socialiser, but she’d started to come out of her shell at university, loving her design course and finding a few kindred spirits. A few months into the course, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Iris Saunders died before Charlotte had finished her first year.
Her mother’s death affected them all differently. Lauren became rebellious, dropping out of school, entangling herself with a boy who ditched her the moment she fell pregnant. Her father sank into a deep depression, gave up work, and lost any desire for life. It’d been left to Charlotte to hold the family together, picking up responsibility for paying the bills, buying food, and keeping Lauren on the straight and narrow. She’d encouraged her father to seek counselling, and urged him to take the medication he’d been prescribed. Unable to deal with her own grief, she’d focused on her career, knowing it was the only way to provide security and structure for her family. She’d thrown herself into study, spending long hours training, trying to impress in a tough industry. She lost touch with friends and rarely had any free time, but it was necessary if she was to help them all recover from the loss of their mother … and then Lauren and her dad had moved away. After all she’d done, all the sacrifices she’d made, they left without even a thank you for having looked after them.
She dug out a tissue. She hated crying.
Over the years, she’d tried to make peace with her feelings. Her dad had been so consumed by grief that he wasn’t in any fit state to realise what his daughter had given up. It wasn’t his fault. Depression was a crippling illness, she understood that. And Lauren was barely sixteen when their mum had died, she couldn’t be expected to realise the impact it had had on her older sister.
But life had moved on. Her dad had recovered, and he and Lauren had built a life for themselves in Cornwall … A life that didn’t include her.
Recovering from the shock of seeing the boat’s name, she made her way onto the gangplank, or whatever it was called. It certainly felt like she was walking to her doom. Don’t look down, her brain instructed – which was challenging when the wood beneath creaked, threatening to tip her into the murky water.
A woman appeared from inside the cabin, her bright-orange jumper and yellow capri-style trousers blending with the hanging baskets tied to the rigging. ‘Well, hello there,’ she called, sounding surprised, but not unfriendly. ‘No prizes for guessing who you are. You’re the spitting image of your sister.’ She offered Charlotte her hand. ‘Mind the step, there you go. Much as I admire your shoes, I’m not sure they’re suitable for wearing on a boat.’
Charlotte stepped onto the deck, relieved to be on solid footing. ‘You may have a point.’
The woman’s big laugh drew attention from passers-by. ‘I’m Sylvia Johns, a friend of Tony’s. And you must be Charlotte. Your dad’s told me so much about you. Goodness me, he’s proud of you.’
A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. Her dad was proud of her?
‘Fancy that, a fashion designer in London. How thrilling! He follows your career, you know. Always keen to know who you’re working for.’
Her good feeling disappeared. ‘Interior designer, not fashion.’ So much for her dad following her career. ‘And unfortunately, I’ve recently been fired.’
The woman stilled. ‘Oh, dear.’ She quickly rallied. ‘A blip, I’m sure. Now come inside, let’s make you feel welcome. Tony!’
Her dad appeared, his expression affable and relaxed. He’d aged a bit. He wasn’t quite as jovial as he used to be, but other than that, he hadn’t changed. He was wearing galoshes, a knitted hat, wellington boots and a yellow jacket. She recoiled when he hugged her, the stench radiating off him was toxic. ‘Dad, you stink.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been working on the fishing vessels.’
She pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that stench on my clothes. This shirt cost a fortune.’
‘Relax, it’s only fish.’ His laughter faded, but he released her. ‘It’s good to see you.’
She swallowed awkwardly, aware she was being prickly again. ‘I thought I’d come and check out where you lived.’
‘That’s nice.’ He shrugged off his jacket.
‘Make yourself comfortable, lovey. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Sylvia gestured to a chair. ‘Your dad loves having visitors, don’t you, Tony?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Lauren and the kids are often over here. They adore going out on little trips, sleeping in the bunkers, isn’t that right, Tony?’
Her dad kicked off his wellington boots and pulled up a wicker chair. ‘How are you enjoying Cornwall?’ he asked Charlotte, seemingly unfazed by Sylvia’s incessant chatter.
‘It’s okay.’ Charlotte didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell him she was struggling to unwind, she was getting on her sister’s nerves, or that she’d recently been diagnosed with stress-related anxiety. ‘Penmullion is beautiful.’
Sylvia appeared from the galley with a tea tray. ‘Isn’t it just? I know they say Kent is the garden of England, but I think it should be Cornwall.’
Charlotte watched Sylvia trying to balance the tray. Was this woman her dad’s girlfriend? If she was, she was very different to their mum.
Sylvia handed her a cup of weak tea in a floral china cup.
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte managed one sip before looking around for somewhere to put it down. The cabin was small, the padded bench seats along either side took up most of the room.
When Sylvia’s back was turned, her dad leant across and took her cup, discreetly pouring the contents into the plant pot sitting on the floor. ‘Lovely woman. Makes a terrible cup of tea,’ he whispered, making her smile for what felt like the first time in ages. God, she’d missed her dad.
Her smile soon faded when Sylvia turned and saw her empty cup. ‘Goodness me, you were thirsty. You’re just like your dad, he knocks them back in no time too.’
The sound of her dad chuckling made up for the trauma of being forced to drink another cup of Sylvia’s tea. But as she watched her cup being refilled, the sound of an alarm went off, making her jump.
Her dad was up before she knew what was happening. ‘Sorry, love. Got to go.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’ He was out the door before she