The Secrets We Left Behind (18 page)

‘Yes. Sorry. I was . . .’ She looked around in vain for something to pick up, then changed her mind. ‘I just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea or anything. While I’m
making one?’

‘No,’ he said, without taking his eyes from his guitar. ‘No thanks.’

So she’d walked out of the room and hadn’t made any attempt to mention it since. He obviously wanted to forget all about it, but she wished he didn’t make her feel as though it
was her fault. After all, it was he who’d kissed
her;
she certainly hadn’t done anything to encourage him.
An unexpected kiss;
the phrase jumped into her mind and she
remembered Eve reading her tea leaves the first night she stayed here, but hadn’t Eve said it referred to the past, not the future? Oh what did it matter? It was all mumbo-jumbo anyway.

There were still quite a few boxes piled up on the table. They’d filled them yesterday with all the merchandise for the stall – shell necklaces and earrings, leather bracelets,
knitted tote bags, hand-stitched felt bags, decorated picture frames, and of course, candles. Scott was packing some of the boxes into a green tartan shopping trolley, like the one Granny Pawley
used to take to the butcher’s every Friday morning for her weekly order: chump chops to be grilled that evening, skirt of beef for pasties on Saturday, leg of pork to roast for Sunday lunch
and to have with cold pickles on Monday, sausages with mash and baked beans on Tuesday, brisket for the Wednesday pot roast, and mince with gravy and boiled potatoes on Thursday. So much meat!
Since that awful day with the hotpot when it had finally dawned on her that Eve and Scott were vegetarian, Jo had made a conscious effort to avoid meat herself, but now suddenly she craved one of
Granny Pawley’s plump, tender lamb chops with crispy roast potatoes and mint sauce; or her home-made Cornish pasties, rich, peppery and savoury; or even mince and gravy, which she’d
hated as a child. She tried to put thoughts of food out of her mind. Last night, Eve had made a stack of sandwiches for them to take for their lunch, but they were all cheese and pickle or egg and
salad cream. Maybe she could sneak off and buy herself a ham sandwich at some point.

Scott finished filling the trolley. ‘Right, that’s mine done.’ He straightened up, reached behind him and pulled another shopping trolley over to the table, then another. One
was red, also tartan, and the other was made of a soft, tan plastic and had clearly seen better days. ‘Take your pick.’ He was looking at her as though he was waiting for her to say
something. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter. They’re just a bit . . .’

‘How did you think we were going to get the stuff there?’ He turned away, shaking his head. Why was he so snappy with her these days? Perhaps he thought she wasn’t pulling her
weight. Eve had been working hard to get everything ready for the fayre, but that wasn’t Jo’s fault, was it? ‘Can I help?’ she said, moving nearer to the table.

‘Well, all this lot’s got to fit in there somehow, so you might have to repack some of it in smaller boxes. There are a few more in that cupboard.’ He nodded towards the
built-in cupboard and then looked back at Jo. ‘That dress . . . is it one of—’

‘Eve gave it to me. She said it didn’t fit her any more.’

Scott continued to look at her until she started to feel quite uncomfortable. What had she done wrong now? She hadn’t
asked
for the dress; Eve had just given it to her.

‘Cool,’ he nodded. ‘Suits you.’ He turned back to what he was doing, muttering, ‘Where the hell is she, anyway?’

Jo could feel herself starting to blush. It was the first time he’d said anything nice to her in a long time.

Scott went to the kitchen door. ‘Eve?’ he shouted up the stairs. ‘Evie, come on, man. We need to get a move on.’

Jo started putting stuff in the trolley while Scott went upstairs to see what was keeping Eve.

‘She’s not feeling well,’ he said when he came back in. ‘We’ll have to set up without her.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Feeling dicky again.’ He parted his stomach to illustrate. ‘She says she’ll be all right once she’s had some breakfast, but she needs to take it slowly.’ He
pulled the last trolley towards him and started to pack it. ‘We’ll have to make a start with what we can, then she can bring this lot along later.’

Would he have been so sympathetic if it had been she who’d felt ill, she wondered?

The trolleys were surprisingly heavy, and although Jo managed to get hers down the stairs, manoeuvre it through the basement room and out of the back door, she struggled to get it up the stone
steps, causing her to feel even hotter as she felt the sweat break out on her forehead and prickle under her arms. When she finally drew alongside Scott, she hoped he couldn’t smell her. She
pulled her trolley along the promenade, grateful for the suggestion of a breeze that was coming at her in intermittent puffs of warm air on her face. As she walked, she looked out to sea; it was a
deep blue for a change and twinkled and sparkled beneath the vivid, startling blue of the sky. There wasn’t so much as a wisp of cloud and the scene looked like something from a postcard.

By the time they arrived at their pitch, people were busily setting out trestle tables all along the stretch of grass that ran between the beach and the promenade. There were many stalls selling
all sorts of things: clothes, second-hand books, records, wooden toys, wind chimes, seed-bead necklaces, pottery, jams, pickles, cakes and even plants. Scott took a white cotton bed sheet out of
his trolley, shook it out and draped it over their table. Jo began taking stuff out of boxes and arranging it in what she thought was an artistic way, but she obviously wasn’t doing it
properly because Scott kept moving it all around. When the stall was completely crammed, Scott pushed the half-full boxes under the table so they could top up when necessary, and Jo went round to
see what it looked like from the front. She had to admit, he did seem to have a knack for making everything look more inviting. ‘When we start to sell things,’ he said,
‘don’t replace them too quickly; if the stall looks too tidy and completely full, people will think we’re not selling stuff, and if they think we’re not selling stuff,
they’ll think we’re too expensive.’

‘Okay.’ Jo wasn’t really paying attention; she could feel the sun burning the top of her head as she watched the woman opposite filling her stall with enormous artificial
sunflowers. She couldn’t tell if they were made of paper or fabric, but they looked brilliant. Eve would love them.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Bacon sandwich?’

‘Bacon? But I thought— ’

He put his finger to his lips. ‘Don’t tell Evie – she’d be so disappointed in me. I’ve tried to be totally veggie, but I lapse every now and again. You do dig meat,
don’t you? Usually, I mean?’

‘That’s funny – I haven’t missed it up until now, but I’ve been really fancying a ham sandwich today. You know, thinly sliced white bread with salty butter, crumbly
ham and Coleman’s Mustard.’

‘Sounds cool, but I think they only— ’

Jo shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t mean – I mean, yes, please; I’d
love
a bacon sandwich. And my lips are sealed.’ She felt absurdly pleased at the
conspiratorial nature of this exchange. An illicit sandwich with Scott; it felt like they might be making friends again at last.

Scott smiled as he handed her a tobacco tin heavy with coins. ‘Right, there’s about a pound’s worth of change in there, and a list of all the prices; if there’s anything
I’ve missed, use your common sense.’ And with that he turned and walked off along the front. Jo watched him go; there was a dark patch where his T-shirt was sticking to his back, and
she could see the shape of his shoulder blades. He’d tied his long hair back with a bootlace today, and his ponytail bounced as he walked. She was still watching him when a voice said,
‘Excuse me, how much are the shell bracelets?’

She opened the tobacco tin and looked at the list. ‘Ah, here we are – the varnished ones are 20p and the painted ones are 25p.’

She took the money and was just putting it away when another customer asked about the candles and the jewellery box. By the time Scott came back with the bacon sandwiches wrapped in serviettes,
she’d taken almost two pounds and was beginning to enjoy herself. Eve arrived at midday looking pale and drained. She’d brought more shell necklaces and bracelets and some lovely pairs
of crystal earrings. She’d also brought some more candles, but they decided not to put them out because the ones that were already there were beginning to go soft in the heat.

They took turns minding the stall so that each had a chance to wander around and look at what else was on offer. Jo bought a strawberry Mivvi from the ice-cream van and stood for a while
listening to a bare-chested man with a mahogany tan and a shark’s tooth pendant playing the didgeridoo; then she walked along to the Stade where a group of morris dancers were leaping about,
ringing their bells and knocking wooden sticks together. How on earth could they jump about like that in this heat? She paid l0p for three goes at the hoopla, where the prizes were ice-cold cans of
Tizer and bottles of Pepsi, but she missed every time; then she saw a stall selling paper concertina fans for 12½p, so she bought one for herself and one for Eve.

When she got back, Eve was sitting on the grass with her head tilted forward. ‘She nearly fainted,’ Scott explained, his voice thick with concern.

‘I’m all right,’ Eve said, lifting her head. ‘It’s the heat. I just need to lie down.’

‘Why don’t you go home,’ Jo said. ‘Scott and I can manage, can’t we, Scott?’ She looked at him expectantly, eager for an opportunity to show herself to be
competent, able to adapt in a crisis.

Eve nodded wearily. ‘I think I will, if you don’t mind.’ She tried to stand but swayed sideways and had to sit down again. She looked awful.

Scott went with Eve back to the house, worried that she might pass out in the street. Once they’d gone, Jo took her suntan lotion out of her bag. She hadn’t wanted
to use it in front of Scott because there was something so sensual about smoothing lotion into sun-warmed skin. The plastic bottle felt hot, and when she squirted some of the lotion into her palm,
that felt hot as well. She undid the ties of her halter-neck dress and smothered the exposed parts, aware that her shoulders were already burning and that there were two much paler lines where the
ties had been.

It was lunchtime now and she could smell fried cod and hot, vinegary chips. She took an egg and salad cream sandwich out of her bag, ate half of it and then threw the rest of it onto the grass
behind her for the seagulls. Warm egg wasn’t very nice. She leaned back in the canvas chair and watched the people milling past. A group of friends, girls not much younger than herself,
chatted happily together as they clustered around a stall selling denim hot pants. It was a long time since she’d been out with a group of friends like that. Even when she was back home in
Newquay, she didn’t see her mates all that often, because it had become more and more difficult to leave her mum alone. And she couldn’t have brought anyone back to the flat. She picked
up the little fan she’d bought and waved it in front of her face, but even the air she was moving around was hot.

She watched the pairs of lovers holding hands and smiling dreamily in the balmy heat; a couple wearing fringed black-leather jackets and carrying crash helmets were looking at the plaited
leather bracelets. ‘Cool,’ the woman said. The man nodded. ‘Cool,’ he agreed. ‘How much?’ he asked, looking at Jo from behind his sunglasses. ‘95p,’
Jo said. ‘They’re real leather.’ They must be sweltering in those jackets, she thought, and she must have been staring, because the biker, who was holding out two pound notes and
two of the bracelets, waggled his hand. ‘Hello?’ he said, smiling. ‘Anyone in?’ Jo looked back at him. ‘Sorry.’ She took the notes and gave him l0p change.
‘Aren’t you boiling in those jackets?’ They both smiled and shook their heads. ‘Keeps the heat out,’ the man said, and they wandered off again, still holding hands. She put
the money in the tobacco tin. They were doing pretty well – there were pound notes, lots of silver, and even a couple of fivers. And some of it had come from her candles. It felt so
satisfying to sell something you’d actually made yourself. Perhaps she’d ask Eve to show her how to make some of the other stuff, too, then next time she could contribute more than
just a few leather bracelets and candles that melted in the heat.

The beach was crowded, and there were loads of people splashing about in the water. She should have brought her costume. She enjoyed swimming now – could hardly believe she’d waited
so long to learn. The sea looked silver in the sunlight and the air shimmered in the heat. She loved this weather; the sun always made her feel happier, lighter. But as she sat there, she became
aware of a slow, creeping sadness as she watched the families, the fathers with toddlers riding on their shoulders, the mothers straightening sun hats, wiping melted ice cream from sticky hands and
kissing grazed knees, and most of all, the mother who held open a white towel and enfolded her little girl in it, kissing her nose and hugging her tight after she emerged dripping from the sea.
Mothers and fathers with their children; friends; lovers; everyone had someone.

The stalls were getting busy again. People were coming up off the beach to buy drinks and ice creams, putting on shirts and T-shirts over their swimming gear and browsing the stalls to give
their bodies a break from the blistering heat. Almost everyone was tanned or reddened by the intense sunshine of the last few days, and quite a few of them had overdone it, by the look of them.
When Jo was little, her mum had drummed it into her that the sun was something to be not only enjoyed, but respected, even feared. She could picture her mother now, the younger, stronger mother who
used to care for her, not the sickly, drunken mother who had herself needed looking after.

It’s a lovely sunny day and they’re at the beach with a tartan blanket to sit on and a basket containing ham sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, Bartenberg cake, lemon-barley
water for Jo and a flask of tea for her mum. They’ll be going for a paddle later, so Jo is wearing her brand-new swimming costume, which is navy-blue with a white anchor on the front and a
white pleated skirt-bit around the bottom. Her mum reaches into her bag for the Ambre Solaire. ‘When you’re big enough to do this yourself, Jo-Jo,’ her mum says as she smears the
thick white sun cream onto Jo’s arms, legs and face, ‘always use lotion or cream, because oil just makes you fry. There, all done.’ She wipes her hands on a towel and reaches for
her cigarettes. ‘We won’t stay out for too long today, chicken; you need to build up gradually, a bit longer each day.’ She lights a cigarette and then blows the smoke out in a
smooth white line. ‘Not like the tourists,’ she says, shaking her head as she looks around the beach. ‘Look at them, the lobster brigade. First time they’ve had their
clothes off all year, and they rub oil on themselves then lie under that ball of flame so they cook like sausages on a grill.’ She looks at Jo and grins. ‘Fat, porky sausages,’
she says, because she knows it’ll make Jo laugh.