I Let You Go (14 page)

Beau races ahead and runs down on to the beach. The tide is in and he dives into the sea, barking at the cold waves. I laugh out loud. He is more spaniel than collie now, with the slightly-too-long legs of a teenager, and so much energy I wonder if he could ever run it off.

I scan the clifftop, but it’s empty, and I allow myself a twinge of disappointment before I shake it off. It’s ridiculous to hope to see Patrick, when we’ve met here on the beach just that one time, but I can’t stop the thought forming.

I find a stretch of sand on which to write. I suspect things will slow down over the winter, but for the time being the business is doing well. I get a jolt of pleasure every time an order arrives, and I enjoy guessing the stories behind the messages. Most of my customers have some connection to the sea, and many email after they’ve received their order, to tell me how much they loved the picture; how they spent their childhood on the beach, or saved for family holidays by the coast. Sometimes they ask me which beach it is, but I never reply.

As I’m about to start work, Beau barks, and I look up to see a man walking towards us. My breath catches, but he raises a hand in greeting and I realise it’s him. It’s Patrick. I can’t hide my smile, and although my heart is racing, it isn’t through fear.

‘I hoped I might find you here,’ he says, before he has even reached me. ‘How do you fancy an apprentice?’ He isn’t wearing boots today, and his corduroy trousers are laced with wet sand. The collar on his waxed jacket is turned up on one side and I resist the temptation to reach up and smooth it back down.

‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘An apprentice?’

He makes a sweeping gesture with his left arm, encompassing most of the beach. ‘I thought I could help you work.’

I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me. I don’t say anything.

Patrick takes the stick from my hand and stands expectantly, poised over the empty patch of sand. I’m suddenly flustered. ‘It’s harder than it looks, you know,’ I say, adopting a serious tone to cover my awkwardness. ‘I can’t have any footprints in the shot, and we have to work quickly, otherwise the tide will come in too close.’

I can’t recall anyone ever wanting to share this part of my life: art was always something to be shut away in another room, something for me to do on my own, as though it didn’t belong in the real world.

‘Got it.’ He has an air of concentration on his face I find touching. It is, after all, just a message in the sand.

I read the order aloud. ‘Nice and simple: “Thank you, David”.’

‘Aha – thank you for
what
, exactly, I wonder?’ says Patrick, leaning over the sand to write the first word. ‘Thank you for feeding the cat? Thank you for saving my life? Thank you for agreeing to marry me even after I had that fling with the postman?’

The corners of my mouth twitch. ‘Thank you for teaching me flamenco dancing,’ I proffer, pretending to be serious.

‘Thank you for the selection of fine Cuban cigars.’

‘Thank you for extending my overdraft.’

‘Thank you for…’ Patrick reaches his arm out to complete the final word and loses his balance, toppling forward and only managing to stay upright by planting a foot firmly in the middle of the writing. ‘Oh, bugger.’ He steps back to eye the ruined message and looks apologetically at me.

I burst out laughing. ‘I did say it was harder than it looked.’

He passes me back the stick. ‘I bow to your superior artistic skills. Even without the footprint, my effort isn’t terribly impressive. The letters are all different sizes.’

‘It was a valiant attempt,’ I tell him. I look around for Beau, calling him away from a crab he is intent on playing with.

‘How’s this?’ Patrick says. I look at the message he has written in the sand, expecting a second attempt at the ‘thank you’.

Drink?

‘Better,’ I say, ‘although that’s not one of—’ I break off, feeling foolish. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘At the Cross Oak? This evening?’ Patrick falters a little, and I realise he’s nervous too. It gives me confidence.

I hesitate, but only for a second, ignoring the thumping in my chest. ‘I’d like that.’

I regret my impetuousness for the rest of the day, and by the evening I am so anxious I am shaking. I count the ways in which this could go wrong, and replay everything Patrick has ever said to me, looking for warning signs. Is he as straightforward as he appears? Is anyone? I think about walking into Penfach to phone the vet’s surgery and cancel, but I know I won’t have the nerve. I take a bath to kill some time, running the water so hot it turns my skin pink, then I sit on my bed and wonder what I should wear. It’s ten years since I last went on a date, and I am frightened of breaking the rules. Bethan has continued to clear out her wardrobe of clothes she can no longer fit into. Most are too big for me, but I try on a skirt in deep purple and although I have to tie it at the waist with a scarf I don’t think it looks too bad. I walk around the room, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of my legs touching as I walk; the swing of the fabric about my thighs. I feel a glimmer of the girl I used to be, but when I look in the mirror I realise the hem is above my knee, and my legs stretch boldly out beneath. I take it off and throw it into a ball at the back of the wardrobe, reaching instead for the jeans I’ve only just taken off. I find a clean top and brush my hair. I look exactly as I did an hour ago. Exactly as I always do. I think of the girl who would spend hours getting ready to go out: music playing, make-up scattered about the bathroom, the air thick with perfume. I had no idea, back then, what real life was like.

I walk to the caravan park, where I have arranged to meet Patrick. At the last minute I decided to bring Beau with me, and his presence gives me back a little of the bravado I felt on the beach this morning. When I reach the caravan park Patrick is standing by the open door to the shop, Bethan leaning in the doorway talking to him. They are laughing about something, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s me.

Bethan sees me, and Patrick turns and smiles as I approach. I think at first he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but he simply touches me gently on the arm as he says hello. I wonder if I look as terrified as I feel.

‘Be good, you two!’ Bethan says with a grin.

Patrick laughs and we walk towards the village. He finds conversation easy, and although I’m certain he exaggerates the antics of some of his patients, I’m grateful for his storytelling, and I find myself relaxing a little as we arrive in the village.

The landlord of the Cross Oak is Dave Bishop, a Yorkshireman who arrived in Penfach only a few years before me. Dave and his wife Emma are firmly rooted in the community now, and – like the rest of Penfach – know everyone’s name and everyone’s business. I’ve never been inside the pub, but I have said hello to Dave when I’ve come by with Beau on my way to the little Post Office shop.

Any hope I might have had of a quiet drink evaporates the moment we step through the door.

‘Patrick! Your round, isn’t it?’

‘I need to get you out to look at Rosie again, she’s still not right.’

‘How’s your old man? Not missing the Welsh weather too much?’

The onslaught of conversation, coupled with the enclosed space of the bar, makes me anxious. I close my hand around Beau’s lead and feel the leather slip against my damp palm. Patrick has a few words for everyone but doesn’t stop to chat. He places a hand on my back and steers me gently through the throng of people to stand at the bar. I feel the heat of his hand on the small of my back and am both relieved and disappointed when he takes it away and folds his arms on the bar. ‘What would you like?’

I wish he had ordered first. I long for a cold bottled lager, and I scan the pub to see if any of the women are drinking beer.

Dave coughs politely. ‘A gin and tonic,’ I say, flustered. I have never drunk gin. This inability to make decisions isn’t new, but I can’t remember when it started.

Patrick orders a bottle of Becks and I watch the condensation form on the outside of the glass.

‘So you’ll be the photographer staying at Blaen Cedi? We wondered where you’d been hiding.’

The man talking to me is around the same age as Iestyn, with a tweed cap on his head and whiskery sideburns.

‘This is Jenna,’ Patrick says. ‘She’s been building up a business, so she hasn’t had much time for sinking pints with you old lags.’

The man laughs, and I flush, grateful for Patrick’s easy explanation for my seclusion. We choose a table in the corner, and although I’m conscious of the eyes upon us, and the gossip that is no doubt now rife, after a while the group of men turn back to their pints.

I’m careful not to talk too much, and fortunately Patrick is full of tales and interesting snippets of local history.

‘It’s a lovely place to live,’ I say.

He stretches long legs out in front of him. ‘It is that. Not that I felt that way when I was growing up here. Kids don’t appreciate beautiful countryside, or a sense of community, do they? I used to nag my parents endlessly to move us to Swansea – I became convinced it would transform my life, and I’d suddenly become really popular, with an amazing social life and a string of girlfriends.’ He grins. ‘But they wouldn’t entertain the idea of a move, and I went to the local comprehensive.’

‘Did you always want to be a vet?’

‘Ever since I was a toddler. Apparently I used to line up all my stuffed toys in the hall and make my mother bring them into the kitchen one at a time so I could operate on them.’ When he talks, his whole face is animated; the corners of his eyes crinkling a split second before his smile breaks. ‘I scraped through with the A-levels I needed and went to Leeds University to do Veterinary Science, where I finally got the social life I’d been desperate for.’

‘And the string of girlfriends?’ I say. Patrick grins.

‘Maybe one or two. But after all that time desperately trying to escape Wales, I missed it terribly. When I graduated I found a job near Leeds, but when a partnership became available at the surgery in Port Ellis I jumped at the chance. Mum and Dad were getting on a bit by then, and I couldn’t wait to be back by the sea.’

‘So your parents lived in Port Ellis?’ I’m always curious about people who have close relationships with their parents. I’m not envious, I simply can’t imagine it. Perhaps if my father had stayed, things might have been different.

‘Mum was born here. Dad moved here with his family when he was a teenager and married Mum when they were both nineteen.’

‘Was your dad a vet, too?’ I’m asking too many questions, but I’m scared that, if I stop, I’ll be the one expected to give answers. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, filling me in on a family history that puts a nostalgic smile on his face.

‘An engineer. He’s retired now, but he worked for a gas company in Swansea all his life. It’s because of him I’m a volunteer lifeboatman, though. Dad did it for years. He used to dash off halfway through Sunday lunch, and Mum would make us all say a prayer that everyone would be brought safely to shore. I used to think he was an actual super-hero.’ He took a swig of his pint. ‘That was back in the days of the old lifeboat station at Penfach – before they built the new one in Port Ellis.’

‘Are you called out often?’

‘It depends. More in the summer, when the caravan parks are full. It doesn’t matter how many signs there are, telling people the cliffs are dangerous, or not to swim at high tide – they don’t take any notice.’ He looks suddenly serious. ‘You must be careful swimming in the bay – the undercurrent is fierce.’

‘I’m not a strong swimmer,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t been in over my knees yet.’

‘Don’t,’ Patrick says. There is an intensity in his eyes that scares me, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Patrick drops his gaze and takes a long swallow of his pint. ‘The tide,’ he says softly, ‘it catches people out.’

I nod, and promise I won’t swim.

‘It sounds strange, but the safest swimming is further out.’ Patrick’s eyes light up. ‘In the summer it’s great to take a boat out beyond the bay, and dive straight into the deep water. I’ll take you sometime, if you like.’

It’s a casual offer, but I shiver. The thought of being alone with Patrick – with anyone – in the middle of the ocean is utterly terrifying.

‘The water’s not as cold as you think,’ Patrick says, misunderstanding my discomfort. He stops talking, and there is an awkward silence.

I lean down and stroke Beau, who is asleep under the table, and try to think of something to say. ‘Do your parents still live here?’ I finally manage. Was I always this dull? I try to think back to university, when I was the life and soul of a party; friends throwing their heads back in laughter at something I said. Now simply making conversation is an effort.

‘They moved to Spain a couple of years ago, lucky buggers. Mum has arthritis and I think the warm weather helps her joints – that’s her excuse, anyway. How about you? Are your parents still around?’

‘Not exactly.’

Patrick looks curious and I realise I should have simply said ‘no’. I take a deep breath. ‘I never really got on with my mum,’ I tell him. ‘She threw my dad out when I was fifteen and I haven’t seen him since – I never forgave her for it.’

‘She must have had her reasons.’ He makes a question of it, but I’m nevertheless defensive.

‘My father was an amazing man,’ I say. ‘She didn’t deserve him.’

‘So you don’t see your mother, either?’

‘I did, for years, but we had a falling-out after I…’ I stop myself. ‘We had a falling-out. A couple of years ago my sister wrote to tell me she had died.’ I see sympathy in Patrick’s eyes, but I shrug it off. What a mess I make of everything. I don’t fit into the neat mould Patrick will be used to: he must wish he hadn’t asked me for a drink. This evening is only going to get more awkward for both of us. We have run out of small talk and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m frightened of the questions I can see brimming in Patrick’s mind: why I came to Penfach; what made me leave Bristol; why I’m here on my own. He will ask out of politeness, not realising that he doesn’t want to know the truth. Not realising I can’t tell him the truth.