CHAPTER SIXTEEN HARRIET STRATTON

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H ARRIET S TRATTON

A UGUST 2002

Harriet knew she'd never forget the way her children listened to her every word, their expressions fraught as they sank back into the sofa, eyes wide, looking smaller and younger than ever.

‘And so that's it.' She paused. ‘Daddy and I will never ever stop loving you, but we're going to be friends instead of married. It will all be fine ...'

All she had wanted to do was scoop them up and hold them close. She had felt every part of her body tremble and did her best to keep her voice steady.

It had hurt her heart to be the bearer of such news, but this, she knew, was preferable to leaving it up to Hugo, who might let his anger, his defensiveness, colour his tone or choice of words. He stood just outside of her peripheral vision, but she could hear him breathing, feel his closeness and wondered if he was there to offer support or watch her suffer. Possibly a bit of both. Having known him since their university days, she knew he could carry a grudge when things didn't quite go his way. One evening during Michaelmas term, when they were students, they'd stumbled across the labelled keys of Spencer, who rivalled Hugo for captaincy of the rugby team. He had picked them up, and before she could suggest handing them in at the porter's lodge or taking them to Spencer's study room, he'd launched them way into the distance, where they landed in a wooded area on the boundary of their halls. She had thought it a shitty thing to do then and still it rankled. Harriet wasn't hypocritical enough not to recognise that she had suppressed her horror and readily married the man, but this vengeful streak didn't exactly fill her with hope for a smooth transition into the next stage of their lives.

‘Where will, erm ...' Dilly began, before running out of words and scratching at an invisible spot on her pyjama leg.

Harriet understood, knowing that with so many questions, so many worries, it was hard to make your mouth settle on one and ask plainly.

‘You don't need to worry about a thing, Dills. I promise you.' This the first lie. ‘Daddy and I will always work together to make sure that things are the best they can be.' The second. ‘We know it's a lot, it's a lot for us too' – this the truth – ‘but we will always be a team. It will all be okay.' Lies three and four.

‘Can I go and finish my game?' Bear asked, his face red, mouth thin, a recognised precursor to crying that made her heart twist, knowing he wanted to do so alone in his room.

‘Of course, love, and if you have any questions, in fact, when you have—' He ran up the stairs before she had the chance to complete her sentence.

Dilly loped after him and Hugo followed. Her leather chair offered some comfort as she sank into it, running her hands over the arms that her mother had touched as she tried to order her thoughts. What did come next? Her shoulders shook – not from the cold but with fear at the prospect of packing up once more and heading out into the unknown. She ran her hand over her face; everything in that moment felt a little insurmountable and she wished she could curl up somewhere alone.

Suddenly, there were shouts and a scuffle of activity outside, a disruption of some sort, the detail of which evaded her and had ceased by the time she popped her head out and glanced down Fore Street and then Mill Head, as much to breathe fresh air as anything else. Probably pub-goers on their way home, making merry and living in the minute, now spirited away inside the closed doors of the neighbourhood. How she envied them. She couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed the heady escape of a good night out. And just this idea was enough to cause a page to fall open in her memory, bookmarked for easy access.

Thank you, doll, I feel gorgeous!

Making her way outside, she sat on the wide top step and stared up at the inky night sky. Stars shone brightly and she closed her eyes, offering up a wish that whatever came next would not be too hard on her or her beloved children, and even on Hugo. A vicious emotional tussle was more than she could contemplate, knowing exhaustion would reveal her bravado to be just that if there were to be a war of words.

As she climbed the stairs to bed, she wondered for the first time about the sleeping arrangements. What would happen now they were no longer trying to patch things up? The thought of spending the night with Hugo under the same roof but in separate beds was jarring. The thought of being under the same duvet, worse. The only other times this had happened was when illness had made it prudent to do so or one of the kids had had a bad dream and she'd camped on their floor. She stood in front of the big mirror of the family bathroom looking in the direction of Capstone Hill with its zigzag paths leading up to the summit, and ran the tap, washing her face with foaming cleanser and cold water – part of her nightly ritual. How quickly the fracture in their marriage had fallen into a crevasse, on the edge of which she and her little family now teetered, staring down.

‘God, Harriet.' Hugo came into the bathroom with urgency. ‘It's awful, just—' He looked distressed, and in truth she preferred it to the toxic combination of frustration and anger that had reared its head earlier.

‘It is awful,' she agreed. ‘It's new. Very raw and strange, but we'll find a way to navigate it; we have no choice. I was just thinking that we need to do so calmly. We'll come together and—'

‘No, no!' He shook his head and walked forward, his breathing fast, his eyes dilated, his expression concerned. ‘Something terrible has happened. I've just got off the phone with Jack.'

‘Jack from the pub?' She knew he liked to pop in for a swift half on his way back from a walk.

He nodded. ‘There's been an accident.'

‘Oh no!' Her gut jumped in anticipation. ‘What kind of accident?'

And as he told her what little news he had, she felt a weakness in her knees, aware more than ever of the frailty of life.

It had been a long and restless night. Her plans for sleep had been hijacked by the terrible events unfolding. Up early, she'd wandered down to the harbour, a pashmina wrapped tightly around her shoulders.

Now she sat at the kitchen table, the room bathed in dim lamplight as she sipped hot tea, hoping this might be the remedy to the shudder of her limbs. The quiet of the streets was eerie; it was like a ghost town. On this summer morning it seemed that people had chosen to stay indoors, windows closed, TVs muted, the volume on their radios turned to low. There was no chatter, no dog bark, no engine roar, no horn toot, nothing. It was an odd phenomenon in this vibrant quarter, unnerving.

The only noise of which she was now aware was the collective heartbeat of grief, which echoed through the town and hovered like a cloud. As tangible as smog and just as oppressive. Having placed her diary on the seat next to her, Harriet sat at the table in the kitchen and laid her hand on its cool surface, taking solace from its solidity when it felt as if the world were spinning.

‘You okay?'

She looked up with a start; she hadn't heard her husband come down the stairs. He looked tired, as she no doubt did as well; they had a lot to process.

‘Yes,' she lied.

‘The kids are sound asleep.'

‘Good.' Only half listening, she did her best to engage, to be present.

‘It's just awful, isn't it?' He shook his head.

‘Really is.' Her tears gathered.

It had been hard work over the last couple of months, putting in the effort to mine the glue that would keep them together. The endless hours spent analysing and trying to understand how they had reached this point and where they might go from here had left her emotionally and physically exhausted. Their decision the previous evening proved that the glue was brittle and all that work had been in vain. On top of this, the accident. A bucketload of sadness dumped on her and every other doorstep in Ilfracombe, a reminder that what they shared and how they lived was fleeting. It was a mudslide of distress that made no allowance for how far they as a couple had come, the healing they had managed and the foundations they had tried hard to rebuild. It was a fierce, fast deluge that washed it all away.

And here she sat at the table, pushing her body down into the chair, trying to stay upright, to feel stable, as her thoughts got stuck on what came next. Her husband stood before her. It was like watching skin and tissue fall from bones, leaving nothing but the ashen, skeletal remains of their marriage exposed, raw, and entirely irretrievable.

‘Can I get you anything to eat, toast?' His demeanour told her that he too was entirely affected by the situation.

‘No, thanks.' Her stomach rolled with revulsion at the thought of taking food; her hollow gut and the subsequent jitters felt preferable, matching the shaky nature of her thoughts.

‘I'll go have my shower. If that's okay?'

‘Sure.' She watched him creep from the kitchen, trying to make the least amount of noise, to be the smallest he could, and she understood. She pictured their bed, and knew that if the kids were still at Ellis's house, she'd crawl beneath the duvet, sink into that soft space and hide away for as long as she was able. But she was needed, on guard for when her kids awoke.

Reaching for the diary she'd secreted in the table drawer, she took her time, writing slowly, methodically, honestly.

Don't know where to start ... what a terrible, terrible couple of days. Sometimes something comes along that floors a community, that derails the normal and changes the shape of a place, and such a thing happened yesterday.

I've felt caught up in it while also trying hard not to hijack another person's misery – someone I barely knew. I couldn't stand for anyone to think I was trying to claim a part. But the truth is I feel so very sad for the man, a stranger to me really, and his family, sad for the whole town.

Dotted around the harbour this morning were flowers in jam jars and on the steps of cottages, or bunches with their bases wrapped in wet cotton wool, interspersed with candles whose flames flickered mournfully in the growing light of day. Sorrowful, beautiful beacons that made me weep. I pictured families behind the front doors, gathered in clusters, kids held close, couples holding hands or with arms around backs, heads forward, noses pressed into sleeves and tissues pushed into eyes. Finding solace where they could in the arms of those they love and this for me amplified the realisation that my safe harbour is smashed to smithereens on the sharp rocks of betrayal.

The whole town is quiet; the atmosphere has gone from crackling with the joy of summer to feeling muted and toned down. Even the gulls sit quietly on rooftops, as if aware that this is a time for stillness.

The news spread like a lit fuse ... travelling along its twisted, looping route, gathering gasps and cries as it went. The worst kind of gossip, each fragment of news added to, as more information came to light and the bigger picture revealed itself.

There's been an accident . . .

A man went overboard . . .

Probably hit his head . . .

Not exactly sure who . . .

He was sailing alone . . .

They can't find him . . .

They've found his boat . . .

He's obviously dead . . .

The man who married Annalee, his mother Freda owns Signal House ...

An Ilfracombe family . . .

They have a little girl ...

How will they get over something like this?

And that's how I found out it was Daniel Gunn. This is the information that floated through the open window, over the phone, gleaned from Hugo's chats with Jack, and from the whispers I overheard in the harbour, as those that knew and loved him struck matches with which to light their candles.

Shock doesn't come close. How my heart aches for sweet Annalee, and for Dan too, the handsome man. I feel for his family: his kind mother, and most of all for that little girl, Tawrie, whose daddy is not going to come home.

I cannot imagine that family's pain. I know what it's like to have the plug pulled on your world, to feel your heart cleaved open, but Hugo is in the shower right now. He is here! In the face of what the Gunn family are going through, our bump in the road and what comes next pales into insignificance.

I have the French doors open, as is my habit, and the morning air is warm and still. The place feels different. Only yesterday it was buoyant, so much so I felt I could look down at the street and see a carnival. It's as if the whole town weeps. But no one will ever weep as hard or as long as Annalee, the woman with the sparkle in her eye as she walked with her arm linked with that of the man she so loved. I shan't ever forget her happy, happy face: a woman who looked like she had the whole world at her feet and was loving every second of it. How I envied her and how I envy her still, knowing that the strength of feeling she will carry in her heart is something I can only dream of.

I hope they find Daniel Gunn.

I hope they get to lay him to rest and say their goodbyes.

I hope his daughter finds peace, safe in the knowledge that her parents adored each other and that she was made in love.