The Sea House (28 page)

38

There was a banner outside the village hall advertising the Millennium exhibition. Lily paid her twenty pence and went in. A wall of screens had been set up, covered with large photos, and there she was, on the very first one, standing outside Fern Cottage with her key.

But the photograph wasn’t of her. It was of the house.
A photographic record of Steerborough
, the caption read, and winding through the hall was every building in the village. Lily felt ridiculously happy, moving from one house to the next, allowed to stare quite openly at everybody’s home. There was Marsh End, darkened and closed in, A. L. Lehmann’s Morris parked in the long grass. Lily followed the curve of Mill Lane, looked through the wrought-iron railings at striped lawns, at a garden of statues, at a doorstep crowded with dogs. She inspected the first beginnings of the building emerging from its site. The photo had been taken from above, and beyond the four walls Lily saw the blackened tangle of a hedge. The branches were still there as if just in time it had been doused with water, but the leaves were gone, the undergrowth scorched flat. It occurred to her this might have been where Hidden House once stood. But how could it have been hidden if it was here? She stared at a wooden bungalow in Church Lane. The sky was turquoise above it and the owner, an old man, peered out from a garden of hollyhocks twelve foot high. Beside it was another garden, competing with next door, bursting with nasturtiums, Iceland poppies, dotted with forget-me-nots the same colour as the sky. If she could find a way to live here for another year… She could teach life drawing. Begin painting again. Maybe she could cut up her new material and make pillowcases, napkins, children’s dresses, re-present them, revolutionized, at next year’s fête. Or she could do all of these things, and take a job at the Eastonknoll hotel as well.

She was about to leave when she noticed a sign, and an arrow pointing to another room.
Special Exhibit
. She peered in, and there were a group of people hovering over a glass-topped table. A man was cranking a handle and with each turn they all crowded closer, smiling, shaking their heads, letting out small sighs. Lily stepped nearer and there, moving like the slowest film, was a painting of the village. She watched as the handle turned, its houses, lanes, gates and hedgerows hardly changed. There were animals and signposts, trees and flowers, some minutely drawn in pen and ink, others a blaze of abstract colour.

‘Who painted this?’ she asked.

‘A visitor to the village. An artist. Max Joseph Meyer.’ The man kept turning. ‘One of the few lucky enough to have been taught by Cuthbert Henry. Meyer spent a summer here in 1953.’ The man looked at her for a minute. ‘As far as anyone knows, he never came back.’ He wound the handle and there was Fern Cottage with Grae’s abandoned house next door. ‘There’s been a recent exhibition of Meyer’s in London. A resurgence of interest in him since his death.’

They were travelling along the street now, past the thatched cottage, moss-green even then, and then they turned the corner into Mill Lane. Lily held her breath. Hidden House, she would finally see it, in all its intricate detail, awash with colour, but there was nothing there. She looked up, about to ask, but the man was intently winding. There was the ferry man’s hut, the jetty, the ferry man himself.

‘Cuthbert Henry’s son found a stack of drawings, and some rather good paintings too. He put on an exhibition at a gallery in London. Thomas Everson, you may know him? Lives in the village. He organized an outing. Yes and the Lehmann brothers, I’ve no idea why, but they were left land in Australia named in Meyer’s will, although they didn’t seem too happy about it! But it reminded me, all the fuss, about the scroll. I’m embarrassed to say it, but for years, really since the old Gannon Room was demolished, this scroll has been lying in a box under the stage. Here, if you look carefully, you can see where it’s been joined.’ Lily stared through the glass. The paper had been backed on to muslin, invisibly stitched. ‘123 foot long it is,’ the man said proudly, and he continued to let it unroll.

There was The Ship, the wooden cabin below it, and, stretching out across what was now the car park, a group of white wooden houses on stilts. Lily watched them slowly cranking by, wondering what had become of them, wishing there was still a Tea Room, so inviting with its gingham curtains, and then she saw the Sea House, billowing out like a sail. It was so much bigger than the others, set forward, its weather-boarding silver, its plank steps grained with sand. There was a sign pinned to its porch.
To Let. Furnished
. Lily cupped a hand over her mouth. ‘Thankyou,’ she said to the man at the handle, and she ran from the hall.

Immediately she was caught up in a crowd of people, examining the plants and books on either side of the hall door. Frantic, she began to push, but people turned and looked at her with such bewilderment that she was forced to slow down. They’re right, she told herself, there is no hurry, but then she found her way cordoned off by a game of tug of war. A rope was stretched across the Green and Alf was standing at its centre, blowing a whistle, rallying the children into teams. Trapped, she watched as they were counted, divided, allocated sides.

‘PULL!’ The whistle blew, and Alf strode up and down, roaring at each side in turn. Back and forth they slithered like one giant serpent until finally, dragging small bodies with it, the marker on the rope went over the chalk line. ‘YES!!’ A shout rang out from the victors and Alf flung a handful of sweets into the air. ‘More,’ the children screamed, leaping round him. ‘More. More. More.’

Lily stepped over the abandoned rope. She picked up a stray sherbet lemon and, turning towards the harbour, she ran.

To Let
, the sign still said. There was a London number printed below. 8306 2506. She didn’t have a pen. 8306 2506, she repeated to herself, and for the first time in her life, she wished she had a mobile phone.

39

Dear Max,
Gertrude wrote two days before the New Year of 1954.
I’m so sorry to have to give you the bad news, but Klaus Lehmann passed away this week, on Tuesday afternoon, at 4 p.m. He had been released from the hospital at Ipswich and was home at Hidden House, which he so loved, where we all thought he was bound to recover. But then his condition deteriorated, and his heart gave out. His heart. When all along we thought it was his lungs. I write to you because there will be a memorial here, and also because Elsa, in her dangerous condition – did you know that after all these years she is expecting a child? – needs support from all her friends. I have asked her to write, but she is laid low with grief. She says she does not want the baby, only wanted it for Klaus. I am sure once it is born that she will change her mind, but if this isn’t so, if mother nature does not prove to be stronger than despair, then I have offered to take charge of it. I hope to prove, if I can, that it is possible for even the most unlucky infant to thrive.

I wait to hear from you, and hope to see you next week, and thankyou again for leaving us the scroll.

Max had already packed. He had his ticket for Australia and the date of his boat, even a letter from the Hay Association welcoming him when he came.

Say Hay for Happy,
And you feel snappy,
And you don’t want to die…

No, he told himself, she doesn’t love me. He would not change his mind.

40

8306 2506. Lily dialled for the fifteenth time that day and, as the numbers connected and the phone began to ring, she looked out over the Green. It was evening now and the stalls had gone, the games cleared away, the tables folded down. Either Em had been on litter-picking duty or someone very thorough had taken her place. There was nothing, not a sweet wrapper or a polystyrene cup to be seen, nothing in fact to show there’d been a fête. Just the grass which was no longer green but brown, trodden down by so many feet after a whole summer of sun. She felt inordinately fond of it, as if it were a friend, and she hoped for its sake that there might be a week of rain.

‘Thomas Everson speaking.’

For a moment Lily couldn’t think who she’d called. ‘Oh yes. I was ringing about the Sea House.’

Thomas Everson sounded surprised. ‘We don’t usually get anyone wanting to rent it at this time of year.

‘Yes…’ he hesitated, when she asked if it was possible to take it on a long let. ‘I’ll have to think. If you want it for several months, then I’m sure we can work something out. It’s better than having it empty. Do you know the house?’

‘Yes, I’m in the village now.’

‘Then you may know the water sometimes rises. Of course there are all sorts of sea defences now, weather warnings and such like, coastal patrols, but it does put some people off. Although of course there is a boat. How much can you afford?’

How much could she afford? Her mind was whirring.

‘Could you manage £300 a month? That’s what I usually charge out of season. And you leave money for the telephone.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She could make that much waitressing and still have at least four days to paint.

‘Well, you can collect the key from a Mrs Cobbe on Church Lane. She’ll have a dust round for you before you move in. There’s just one thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s someone… How to put it? Someone, a family friend, who likes to sleep in the boat. Don’t be alarmed, he won’t harm you, and if it’s not too much trouble and I hope you don’t mind… but if you could offer him a cup of tea or a sandwich from time to time?’

‘Yes.’

‘We all try and keep an eye on him in the village, you see.’

‘Yes.’ Lily’s throat tightened with tears. ‘Of course. I didn’t realize…’

Thomas Everson sighed. ‘Well, that’s settled then, and the main thing is the house, it won’t be empty.’

‘Thankyou so much.’ Lily felt as if the keys were already in her hand. ‘Thankyou again.’

The next morning, early, Lily walked down to look at her house. She climbed the steps and pressed her face against the glass. Inside it was extraordinarily neat. There was a tea cosy arranged around a pot, a spatula, a wooden spoon, even a washing-up brush, hanging from individually labelled hooks. There were labels everywhere, one stuck up beside the fridge. Lily squinted.
Fridge
, it said. But on the walls, leaping out against the wooden white, were paintings of flowers, bright bursts of colour against the tongue and groove. She pressed her face against the glass, straining to take every detail in, when something brushed against her leg. She started so violently she almost fell through the railings of the porch, and then she saw it was Grae’s cat.

‘Guinness.’ She knelt down, nuzzling it behind the ears. ‘Where are the others, eh?’ Guinness mewed and purred, his white crown shivering with the pleasure of her strokes. ‘Come on,’ she said, and together they headed in the direction of the hut.

They took the sunken lane behind the beach, the cat, a little in front, its tail so straight, tipped with white like a third eye. They crossed the river, doubled back through the long reeds and came up below the dunes. Lily felt her stomach ripple and flip, but the hut was locked, the table bare, the ashes of the fire a grey smear against the sand. ‘Where is he?’ She felt aggrieved. ‘Where has he been all night?’ She rummaged in her pocket for a pen and, finding that she still didn’t have one, she started, with the toe of her sandal, to write a message in the sand.
Where the
… and then, sweeping the sand clean, she formed a giant question mark instead.

Guinness followed her home. He trotted into the kitchen and looked up at her beseechingly as she made tea. What did she have? She’d read somewhere that milk was bad for cats, so she opened a tin of tuna fish and scooped some on to a plate. The poor thing’s starving, she thought, feeling doubly offended by Grae, and she heaped on the left-over pasta from last night. Guinness purred as he ate it up, licking up the tomato and cheese, and when it was gone he sauntered into the sitting-room and, seeing her pile of material, he curled himself into it and fell asleep.

Lily sat at the table with her tea. The house, the garden, the Green, all seemed unusually quiet. She hung her head. What must it have been like for Nick? Mortification flooded over her and she tried to imagine him waiting outside for her all night. There was a stack of paper on the table and she began to make a letterhead.

The Sea House
Steerborough
Suffolk.

She added a sketch of the house, its steps and stilts, and the terrace above, with a tiny figure, looking out.

Dear Nick,

I’m sorry about the weekend… going on like that
. She looked out of the window. Was she sorry? She didn’t know, but suddenly none of it seemed to be his fault.
I hope your journey home wasn’t too bad, or is the AA man your new best friend? I’ve been thinking about what you said
… She began to chew the top of her pen.
Living in the present. Drifting around. Anyway, I don’t know why, and I can’t expect you to understand, but I thought I’d try living in the present. Here. I’ve rented another place, at least until Christmas. Somewhere fantastic
– she put an arrow shooting to the top –
with sea views and No Brown
.
I imagine you’ll want me to come and get my things… I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t plan this, but we need to sort things out
. Lily sat for a long time looking at the letter. She had an ache right in the centre of her chest.
I suppose we’ll need to sort out money. I won’t be able to keep paying two lots of rent.
She felt inexplicably tender towards him. She could almost feel the warmth of his shoulders as he’d pressed her against him that last time. Why had she resisted? Why had she let her mind chatter on so resentfully about what he’d said or not? Maybe she was better off on her own.
Thankyou for being so patient, Nick, and we’ll talk very soon.
She added two seagulls to her drawing. Their wings like kisses, ticks against the sky.
You don’t have to write. I’ll ring. Love, L.

On Tuesday morning she bicycled into Eastonknoll and walked through the town. There was an advertisement for a paper boy or girl, age 13 to 73. A full-time assistant was needed in the clothes shop, but the advert in the window of the hotel was gone. Lily pushed open the door. The hotel smell of the place, toast and chintz and carpet, hit her as she walked in. There was a sort of pulpit, low enough to lean on, behind which sat two girls. ‘I was wondering,’ she said, ‘if there were any jobs available. There was a sign for a waitress… In the window.’

One of the girls smiled. ‘There aren’t any jobs right now. But after next week when a lot of the girls go back to college, there’ll be plenty of work then.’

‘Shall I come back, or could I fill in a form now?’

‘All right.’ She took up a pen. ‘Have you had experience?’

‘Yes.’ Lily leant over the ledge. ‘I worked in a restaurant in Covent Garden for four years.’

‘London?’ The girl was impressed and, although Lily knew it was ridiculous, she felt rather proud.

‘Silver Service?’

‘Yes.’

‘Day or night?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Which shifts would you prefer?’

‘I don’t mind. No. Evening.’ She imagined it might be wonderful to cycle home at midnight, to fly over the river bridge and wave at Bob the Bog as he swished past her in the dark.

‘You can come back next Monday, and the manager will tell you anything you need to know.’ The girl smiled at her, and then she turned to an ancient and extravagantly smart couple who were tottering down the stairs.

Lily cycled back to Steerborough, stopping for cat food at the shop, and then, unable to resist, she cycled down the track and over the river bridge until the beach huts came into view. She expected nothing, was certain the place would be deserted, but even before she saw them she heard Em and Arrie chattering.

‘Hello.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. They looked up at her and back down at a pile of string and sticks.

‘We’re making a kite,’ Arrie said, and Em began to tape a plastic shape on to a frame of sticks. Lily crouched down beside them, her stomach jittery, terrified suddenly of seeing Grae, but when she looked up he was standing outside the beach hut, leaning against the door.

Shakily, she moved towards him. ‘I wanted to say,’ she said, ‘about the other day. I’m really sorry, it’s just you gave me a fright.’

‘You’re sorry?’ His eyes were cold. ‘I won’t put up with it, being attacked.’

‘Of course.’ Lily swallowed. ‘Why should you?’

He looked at her, a warning. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Dad.’ The children were around him. ‘Show her what we found. Show her.’ They were digging into his pocket, but Grae was first. He drew out his hand and opened it to reveal a small flat stone. There was a face drawn on it, in ink, and underneath, the four letters of her name.

‘That’s amazing.’ Lily took the stone, her fingers just for a second grazing his palm. ‘Of all the pebbles on the beach.’ The face was not hers, though. Round with a feathery fringe, the eyes elaborately lashed.

‘We found it at Minsfurd.’ Em slipped a hand into hers. ‘There was a washing-line exhibition, and somebody had a stall. We made Dad buy it.’

‘It was brilliant,’ Arrie said. ‘And the washing-line that won, it was actually a horse, with reins made out of wire to hang the clothes on. Dad’s going to enter something next year. Aren’t you, Dad?’

Grae didn’t answer.

‘Mum says she’ll help him. If we move back to the farm. She used to make loads of things before…’ She looked up, hopeful. ‘Before she had us, I mean.’

‘Oh, go on, Dad,’ Arrie chimed in. ‘Mum did say she was sorry.’ She’d tied a tail to the kite and now she ran with it along the beach. ‘Uggleswade, Uggleswade. We can live at Uggleswade.’

‘Uggleswade, Uggleswade…’ Em followed her. ‘Throw it up into the air, Arrie. Go on. Throw it.’

They stood and watched the children leap and shriek along the beach, chasing the kite as it arced and twirled and then dived down into the ground.

‘So…’ Lily said, ‘you’re trying again.’ She remembered and handed the pebble back.

Grae took it. He nodded, his hat pulled half over his ears, his eyes turned away, and then at the last minute he caught her hand. ‘Lily,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was a scream from the girls and the kite was up. ‘I have to try with Sue, you see.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘OK.’

He kissed her very lightly, and then, the kite above them, its tail fluttering, the girls came charging back.

Grae dropped her hand.

‘Bye.’ Lily bent down to embrace them. ‘Bye,’ she said more quietly to Grae. She walked past the hut and, glancing inside, she saw that their things were already packed.

Her bike was where she’d left it, stranded on the dune, the tin of Whiskas on its side in the basket. I forgot to tell them I’ve got Guinness. She stood there looking at the tin, knowing if she went back she’d cry, but when she arrived at Fern Cottage she found the cat so fast asleep in its mound of printed flowers that, even though she tried, it would not be moved.