CHAPTER THREE TAWRIE GUNN

CHAPTER THREE

T AWRIE G UNN

A UGUST 2024

It was just over seventeen months since Tawrie Gunn had become a fully fledged member of the Peacock Swimmers, and it would be accurate to say she was at one with the sea. It felt like a secret, this relationship she shared with the ocean. The pure exhilaration, the joy felt like a gift from mother nature to her. Time lost meaning with every moment she spent as a guest in its watery embrace. Worries evaporated in a floating pool of endless possibilities. It was a carefree world where the many constrictions of daily life did not apply. Another dimension, where those within it wore different clothes, made different movements, existed in a different temperature, and felt unique sensations. A soft, fluid environment that held her fast while setting her free. A topsy-turvy place where sounds echoed, the world's noise softened and instead of big slabs of sky above there were deep, invisible depths below.

‘Here I am, Dad,' she would whisper into the fathoms and smile at the feel of the water's response, knocking her shoulders and tickling her neck. ‘Here I am. So what's my news? Not much to tell today really. I slept well. The busier we are in the café the better I sleep. There's something about slipping between the sheets with aching limbs and weary bones that makes the sleep even sweeter. As if I've earned it. And other than that? As I say, not much to tell ...'

It felt easy to talk to him out here in the sea. No threat of being overheard by her relatives, no other chore calling for her attention. And it was no surprise that here in the water where he'd lost his life, she felt closest to him. Even on the coldest of days, the shiver in her bones shook off any malaise, dispersed her thought-fog and left her with a singular clarity of mind that was as good as a mental reset. And on the warmer days, there was nowhere else on earth she would rather be. She knew that nearly three-quarters of the world was covered in water and yet as she took a deep breath and immersed her body in the salty blue, this tiny bit of it felt like hers alone. This cool sea coaxed her thoughts, caressed her limbs and urged her on silently from its depths ... the message always:

‘ You've got this, Tawrie Gunn, everything is going to be okay. '

They were a curious trio, Maudie, Jago and her. On some days they were silent, as if bowed by the majesty of the rising sun and the water before them. Silently swimming, close enough and yet in their own worlds, almost in reverence to the act that bound them.

When they left the water, however, that was when the gang came together, chattering through the shivering after-drop as their bodies cooled, comparing notes, sharing any glorious experiences that ranged from the interest of a nosey seal to the sighting of a cumbersome piece of driftwood that for a split second, out of the corner of Jago's eye, took on all the characteristics of a crocodile. She liked to sit with them on the rocks that edged the bay, enjoyed their ribbing, their comedy and the snippets of their everyday life. Married for an unfathomable sixty-eight years, it fascinated her how they had morphed into one entity: walking in unison, pausing to allow the other to catch up and donning their wetsuits every morning to climb into the sea. Time spent in their company both gladdened and saddened her. It made her see that it was possible to find someone and live a happy life and yet it felt as out of reach for her as it always had. She knew practically everyone there was to know in the town but without a wider social network it was hard to meet new people. This, in no small part, was behind her motivation to start swimming, and not that she didn't adore Maudie and Jago, but it wasn't quite the gang she'd imagined.

‘That was a tad chilly!' Maudie reached for her towel, while with the other hand she rubbed her stomach.

‘Are you okay, Maudie?' She felt the familiar flicker of concern, aware of the age of her fellow swimmers, although their fitness was astounding.

‘Yes, it'll pass. Period pain.' Maudie pulled a face.

‘Period pain?' She must have misheard.

‘Of course not, you daft thing! I'm eighty-bloody-six! I hurt because I'm eighty-bloody-six!'

Tawrie laughed loud and hard as she dried her hair and pulled on her thick socks.

‘What's she on about?' Jago sat down hard on a flat rock and caught his breath.

‘Women's talk,' Maudie yelled at him and he nodded. Knowing better, it seemed, than to enquire further.

Tawrie felt invigorated as ever by the feel of the cold morning on her damp hair and wet face as she cycled home. It was her happiest time of the day. Buoyed up and refreshed, she felt ready for anything. Her mood slid accordingly as the hours since her body had been held by the water ticked on. The connection with the ocean weakened as the day passed and when finally she climbed into bed, just as darkness stole the day, she was already dreaming of her dip in the big briny when she awoke.

Her swim was also the only time in the day she didn't have to pretend. Didn't have to find a smile for her heartbroken grandma, didn't have to avoid contact with her mother – the prospect of hearing about her drunken exploits always enough to crush Tawrie's soul and spirit.

With her bike stowed and the front door closed behind her, she kicked off her trainers, abandoning them on the stripped wooden floor, and raced up the wide creaking stairs to her bedroom.

‘Is that you, Taw?' The voice came from the kitchen at the back of the house.

‘Yep. It's me, Nan.' She paused on the half landing, calling down through the bannisters, while resisting the temptation to be sarcastic, swallowing the suggestion of irritation at the fact that her nan called this out every morning when she climbed the stairs at precisely seven fifteen.

‘Where've you been?'

She bit her lip and dismissed more ludicrous and fanciful scenarios: It's been quite a night, just got dropped off, been wined and dined by the man of my dreams. We had a picnic and sat on the beach watching the sun go down and got on so well, we stayed there until the sun came up ...

‘Just the usual, been for my swim!'

One , two , three . . .

‘Swimming again?'

Theeeeere it was.

‘At this time of the morning, must be freezing!'

‘Yup.' No colder than it was yesterday and probably as cold as it'll be tomorrow ... ‘Just going to get changed and head off to work.'

She plopped her towel and swimming costume over the metal rail that was attached to the radiator in her bedroom and abandoned her duffel bag on the chair behind the old pitch pine desk. It was the place she loved to sit, in the bay window of her bedroom on the top floor of Signal House. The desk was busy but ordered: the drawers neatly packed with stationery, correspondence and the general administration of life. To the casual observer the set-up might have seemed cluttered, but not to Tawrie, who liked the tumble of books on which her tasselled bedside lamp teetered. She was happy to have an array of pens, pencils and paintbrushes in an old jam jar, which, when the sun caught it, sent tiny prisms over the wall. And she appreciated the cool touch of the old hand-painted floral tile, dug up from the shoreline over at Barricane Beach, on which she rested her morning cup of tea.

Also on her desk sat a framed black-and-white photograph of her dad, Dan, and his brother, her Uncle Sten, when they were no more than teens. Everyone knew Sten, and everyone loved him. Never without his grotty beret, a new joke or advice on anything from how to reverse out of a tight space to world politics, he liked to stick his oar in. She happened to know that there was a little more to his happy life than the ‘four Ps' – namely his investments in construction that meant he owned large chunks of real estate all along the North Devon coast. Her nan often hinted at a king's ransom stashed away, yet to look at Sten, you'd think he slept in a skip. And in truth this would not have been a surprise.

She felt warmed now at the thought of her beloved uncle, glad that he and her dad had shared so many happy days and beyond grateful that Daniel Gunn had had a good life, as the alternative – that his shortened time on the planet had been miserable – was more than she could contemplate. She tousled her damp hair and reached for her jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, over which she'd shove an apron when she arrived at work.

August was the busiest time of year. With the café full of holidaymakers day in and day out, she had to run for her entire shift, grabbing glugs of water and bathroom breaks where she could, and falling into bed each night with muscles that throbbed on her bones with fatigue. With more dry days than not and the sun showing its face for longer periods, tourists and day trippers were filling up the car parks and wandering the harbour in search of cups of tea, ice creams and snacks.

She loved the business and excitement of this time of year, but June was her favourite month, when the town slipped into summer. The changes were subtle at first: noise levels grew, tables that had been stacked neatly for the off-season began to pepper the pavements, and the winter moss and slime that sat on rocks and walls dried up and disappeared. Any journey took longer, whether on foot, by bike or car, as she moved en masse with people who didn't share her sense of urgency.

Restaurants, bars and shops that had slumbered through the cold months had their doors thrown open and their frontages scrubbed with buckets of hot, soapy water until the windows sparkled. Deliveries arrived, floors were swept, fresh paint licked the walls and festoon lights were strung up around awnings.

It was impossible not to feel the buzz of excitement, the hum of activity, and for her spirits not to become infected by the laughter of those who were in holiday mode and could, just for a few days, forget all that ailed them in the real world. By August, however, her energy was starting to flag.

‘How d'you get on?' Her mother's voice from the bedroom doorway startled her.

Tawrie glanced at her as she slipped into her jeans and scraped her thick hair back into an imperfect ponytail. Her mother looked awful. And while this was not a surprise, it was no less jarring to see. Her skin looked almost grey in the morning light, her eyes bloodshot, her thin shoulders as ever hunched inside her silky kimono, and her fingers shook as she lit the cigarette that clung to her bottom lip like sticky seaweed to a rounded stone. The sight of her smoking at this hour, at any hour, made Tawrie's stomach roll. She detested the habit but had long since given up trying to get her mum to stop. Like everything that bothered her about Annalee's life, any comment or criticism would only fall on deaf ears. Her mother was wrapped in an impenetrable shell, hardened by her years of widowhood. Tawrie carried a vague memory of Annalee holding her hand and laughing as they skipped along the quay. At least, she thought she remembered this, but could have spun her desire for such a memory into life, tricking herself with this sliver of happiness that in times of need punctured her loneliness.

‘All right.'

Her mother drew on the cigarette like it was fresh air and Tawrie watched as the end lit up and crackled like a tiny firework. A firework held between fingers with long nails, where red, red polish clung on despite being chipped in places.

She saw a flash in her mind of purple nails, purple with flecks of glitter ...

‘Well, you've stuck to it, that's for sure.' Her mother sounded neither impressed nor judgemental, not that Tawrie cared either way.

‘Yep.'

‘You said you'd swim every day of the season, and you have. So far.'

‘Yep.'

She found this stilted monosyllabic communication easier. It got the interaction over quicker and didn't invite any of her mother's bullshit, which had the habit of living in her mind for days.

Tawrie sat on the side of her bed and pulled on fresh cotton socks and her work sneakers, comfy enough to see her through the day.

‘I'll let you get on then.' Her mother turned and walked slowly back down the stairs, heading no doubt to her bedroom on the half landing next to the bathroom. Handy for when she needed to vomit, which she did frequently. Or if one of her ‘guests' needed to pee, which also happened a lot.

Tawrie stared at her mother's back. Her buzzcut made her head look small, her neck frail, and Tawrie was reminded of an image: her mother with a little meat on her bones, hair in a thick, tousled mess piled up on top of her head, and eyes that had life behind them.

Her phone pinged and she read the text. It was from Connie.

YOU ON YOUR WAY OR WHAT?

Her cousin was, as ever, succinct.

A quick glance at the clock and she realised with a quickening to her pulse that she was running a little behind schedule. And just like that the serenity and joy that had filled her after her morning dip were elbowed out of the way by the demands of life.

COMING RIGHT NOW , she replied, then shoved her phone in her jeans pocket, grabbed her hoodie, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

‘See you later, Nan.'

‘Where you going?'

She did her best to control the twitch of irritation under her left eye. ‘I'm going to work. Where I go every morning.'

‘Course you are!' Freda chuckled. ‘Give Con a big kiss from her nanny!'

‘Yep.' It felt easier to agree than explain how planting a smacker on her cousin's face during a busy service would not really cut it.

Having negotiated the twisting steps that led from the front terrace to the lower street level, she did her best to run down Fore Street, which was already filling up with meandering early-bird visitors who cluttered up the pavements and snapped shots on their phones as the sun peeked over the harbour wall, littering the surface of the sea with diamonds. It seemed they had all the time in the world as she dodged them, sidestepping couples as they pottered arm in arm. She had to get to the café! The fact that Connie had texted meant she was already feeling a little snowed under. Gaynor would be in by now, but, much as they loved her, although she arrived at seven sharp, she didn't actually get going until at least eleven. And to put it politely, even then her pace wasn't exactly lightning.

‘Cheer up, Taw, might never happen!'

Distracted, she looked up to see Needle sweeping the pavement in front of the King William pub. Needle had been in Connie's year at school and was one of those characters who had always been around. In the winter he laid carpet for a bloke with a van out Barnstaple way, but in the summer he worked shifts at the pub, holding court at the sticky bar, serving warm pints that got slopped over the ancient flagstones, sneaking gravy-flavoured treats to any four-legged visitors, intervening if things got a little heated on quiz night, and making snide comments about cocktails to anyone who dared ask for a slice of lemon, as if that was too fancy.

‘All right, Needle.'

Pushing her hands into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie, she slowed but kept moving; there was no time to stop and chat and his greeting was familiar. She had long ago accepted that her resting face was not exactly perky.

‘You missed a cracking night last night; your mother was hilarious!' he wheezed.

‘I bet.'

She felt the bloom of embarrassment spread over her chest and throat and her gut jumped with all the dire possibilities of what this comment might mean. Too often had she witnessed her mother's hilarious antics: singing loudly out of key to the packed pub, backing music optional. Flashing her breasts at a passing coach full of OAPs on a jolly to the seaside. Picking a fight with a large seagull who'd had the audacity to try to steal one of her chips. Urinating over the drain, not five minutes from home. Snogging the face off any number of men as they slid down the wall ...

‘Give that cousin of yours my love.' He leaned on his broom.

She ignored him.

His words gave some explanation for her mother's look and demeanour earlier. Not that any of this was a shock. The bar at the King William – or the King Billy, as it was known – was one of the many establishments her mother graced with her presence. Sitting on a stool with her handbag on the bar, Annalee no longer had to ask for a drink; a mere raise of her eyebrow and point of her finger was all the instruction needed. While she tottered outside to smoke, Needle and other willing hosts would top up her glass, which would be waiting for her when she retook her seat. Annalee Gunn, ‘such a laugh', ‘a right old giggle', ‘up for anything', ‘fun'.

A drunk.

Nine-year-0ld Tawrie and her nan were sitting on the bench on the wraparound porch of their house. It was without a doubt her favourite time of the day, when the fire-red sun set over the harbour. She had nestled back on the floral cushion and placed her feet in her nan's plump lap and run her fingers over the crêpey skin on her arm, liking the way it wrinkled and moved under the pressure.

‘What's the best place you have ever lived, Nan?'

The woman's laugh was hearty and Tawrie felt her shake and jiggle beneath her. This is what they had always done: shared easy chatter, talking about nothing much, passing the time, happy.

‘Well, that's easy peasy. This place, this house.'

‘Because we get to watch the sunset from here on the terrace?' Even at that young age, she was aware of the privileged view that was theirs alone.

‘Oh, most definitely, but also it's a bit of a trick question!'

‘What d'you mean?' She had turned to face the woman who had looked after her faithfully, watching her every move, fingers twitching, as if waiting to catch her if and when she fell. ‘Why, Nan?' She was unsure if she was comfortable with the accusation of trickery. It felt a bit like being called a liar and lying was the worst thing.

‘Because it's where all my memories live. It's the only house I've ever lived in, the only house your daddy lived in too, and the only place I've ever called home. The Gunns have lived in Ilfracombe forever, we're part of the landscape. In fact, little one, I reckon if you cut me open I'd leak seawater scooped up from the harbour down there on the quayside.' She pointed the hundred yards down the hill where the view opened up like a fairy tale: flapping bunting, sparkling festoon lights, the waving masts of boats, chattering loved ones walking hand in hand, families eating al fresco, kids running in sandals still with sand between their toes, and the call of the gulls circling overhead relaying messages as they swirled and rose en masse, following the trawlers out into the water and hoping for a fish supper.

‘And the only place I've ever lived,' Tawrie had noted with a slight lament to her tone, as if she might, on occasion, want to be somewhere without memories that cut her like a knife lurking behind every corner, somewhere without people nudging, pointing, and whispering as she walked past.

‘ That's his daughter . . .'

A year might have passed since her father had been lost, but the attention hadn't lessened.

‘Yes, but you have many more years ahead of you, little Taw, who knows where you'll end up? I'll say to you like I always said to my boys, go wherever the wind takes you. I will never clip your wings, but my God I hope it blows you back to this little town.' Her nan had reached for a tissue and wiped under her eyes.

The topic of her boys, one now gone forever, was still painful. Tawrie more than understood; her own life was framed by the raw edges of loss, a feeling of being different, as if living cloaked in sadness was unique to her family. It certainly felt that way growing up. Age and perspective had helped shatter this illusion, but in her mind, everyone else in her class went home to a happy household where two parents helped with homework and cooked supper. It was a fantasy she liked to envisage, like probing a bad tooth with her tongue, inviting and dreading the pain in equal measure. She might have been young, but she understood enough to know that her self-appointed role was as chief distractor, to help provide her nan with moments of happiness that she knew offered brief respite from her grief. It was as exhausting as it was limiting. Tawrie couldn't imagine what her nan's life would be like if she wasn't around and felt the weight of the responsibility. She did her best to rally the mood.

‘I'd like to travel a bit, I think, but still end up right here in Signal House.' She couldn't imagine being away for too long, couldn't imagine not having her nan within reach.

‘You might say that now, but no one knows what the tide'll bring in, love. That's the beautiful and terrible thing about life. You just never know.'

A raucous scream had echoed around the garden, a noise that came from out of sight at the bottom of the steep steps that led from Fore Street up to the front garden of their home. She felt her nan shift beneath her, sitting upright, as if on high alert. The sudden noise and shared anticipation was jarring and they both stared at the path, waiting. It wasn't the first time Tawrie had heard the familiar wail, it happened often of an evening, but it was still a kind of relief when two lolling heads appeared at the top of the steps.

‘Ahoy there!' her mother had shouted. ‘This is Rod. He's very kindly walked me home from the pub.'

‘Rob!' the man giggled and corrected. ‘Not Rod.'

‘Rob! That's what I said.' She batted at him, catching the side of his head with her cupped palm.

‘Hello, Rob!' Tawrie waved and almost instantly her nan reached for her hand and tucked it down by her side. It changed everything, these two people coming up the stairs, screaming, laughing, falling, touching each other's backs, and leaning their heads close together. It was as though they'd taken a rock and lobbed it hard at the happy moment she'd shared with her nan, leaving them staring at fragments of the lovely time just passed. This was the first time her mother had brought a guest. Tawrie, too young to fully understand the implication of it, still felt her tummy flip, as if instinctively she knew this was no good thing.

‘Rob's going to have a look at the damp patch in my bedroom.'

‘With any luck!' The man wheezed and almost toppled backwards before steadying himself on the wall lined with ancient shells that had been pushed by patient fingers into the drying concrete long ago, then painted white.

Annalee had roared as the two stumbled forward and made it through the grand front door. This time her nan pulled her close to her.

‘Don't wait up, night night, Gunns!'

‘Night night, Mummy!' Tawrie was about to wave again but remembered her nan's unspoken instruction, and so sat very still. It was conflicting, wanting to make her mum happy like she did her nan, but aware, by the weighted atmosphere and her nan's reaction, that to wave might not make her happy.

‘Bloody disgrace,' Freda had muttered and settled back into the chair, but the magic had gone entirely. Their chat was spoiled. The air had turned chilly, and the fire-red sun had sunk behind the wall of night, leaving them once again in shadow.

‘I mean it, tell Connie that if she fancies a trip out on my yacht ...' Needle's shout pulled her from the memory, his words left trailing.

His yacht was in fact an inflatable rib but was no less loved by him for that. Ilfracombe and all its surrounds might be in Tawrie's blood, but she didn't go on boats, big or small. The idea made her skin jump. Her swimming was proof that she had no aversion to the sea per se but was far more comfortable walking into and swimming in the water rather than being on it. She understood more than most the danger of getting it wrong while out boating ...

‘I'll tell her. Can she bring a friend?'

‘No, only room for two, I'm afraid!' Needle laughed.

Tawrie waved over her shoulder and sped up.

‘Afternoon!' Connie called from the grill, her way of letting Tawrie know she was late. Not that she needed the jibe – she was as bothered about her tardiness as anyone.

Without waiting to exchange pleasantries or offer an explanation, she grabbed her apron from the hook on the wall. The grill and kitchen were open to the café, diner style.

‘Give it to me one more time, Gay.' Connie's mouth was set in a thin line, an expression of frustration she recognised, as her cousin faced the older woman whose grey hair was fastened in a plait down her back, her glasses perched on the end of her nose, a confused crease in the middle of her forehead. Gaynor might have been the wrong side of sixty-five but was still beautiful. Her hands were elegant, her manner particular, but her ability to waitress? She and Connie had often remarked that no one got all the gifts!

‘Don't rush me!' Gaynor studied the paper docket in her hand, pulling it further away and then drawing it close.

‘Here's the thing, I need to rush you because orders will start backing up and that leads to unhappy customers. If you can't read your own handwriting, what chance do the rest of us have?' Connie exhaled, tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear, and turned her attention to the row of bacon crisping on the griddle.

Gaynor held the slip of paper up to the light. ‘Right, let's have a look. It could be four toast or no toms, meaning tomatoes, I'm not sure. I'd better go ask again. Morning, Taw.'

‘Morning.' She smiled at the kindly woman who was good friends with her Uncle Sten. Rumour had it they were more than good friends and that she had stepped in to plug the gap left when Sten's wife Wanda had upped sticks and set sail with a Danish skipper nearly two decades ago, but she was not one to overthink rumours. In a small town like this, where information was collateral and gossip currency, pondering on such tittle-tattle could occupy her whole day if she had a fancy for such things. There had been many theories swirling in the bottom of pint glasses when it came to her dad.

Probably did a runner . . .

I heard it was something shady ...

My mate reckons he led a double life and faked it all ...

He's been seen, ain't he? I'm sure he has ...

Yes, rumours were not to be given much heed in a small town.

‘Your mum was a hoot last night.' Gay shook her head. ‘Had us all howling!'

‘Yep, so I heard.' Tawrie put her hand up to stop the woman saying anything further on the topic. ‘Which reminds me, Con, Needle says he wants to take you out on his boat. And there's only room for two.'

‘Yeah, and I want to wake up next to Zac Efron, but both are very unlikely to happen.'

Connie addressed the wall as she cooked. Tawrie smiled at her cousin's back. Connie was pretty, sexy, buoyant, shapely, with a narrow waist and an ample bosom that strained against the bib of her apron. In the summer months, when shorts and vests were the order of the day, walking alongside her cousin only made Tawrie more aware of her broad shoulders and robust legs – the swimming had done nothing to change that; in fact, it had only made the situation worse. Not that she'd give up her morning rendezvous with Maudie and Jago for anything.

With her shoulders back and ready for the day ahead, she walked briskly to the rear of the café with its whitewashed walls, wooden nautical bunting and pale-blue, wipe-down tablecloths dotted with anchors. All eight tables were full. At least three with locals, keen to get their working day started and even keener for the fried fare that would provide sustenance. The couple she now approached held hands tightly across the table, holding on for dear life as if to be separated might be painful. She had never held hands with anyone like that and was fascinated by the act, wondering what it might feel like.

‘What can I get you?' She found a smile.

‘Nick will have the full English, eggs scrambled, please.' The upbeat woman, whose silk neck scarf was tied at a jaunty angle, spoke on her boyfriend's behalf while he stared at her, as if she were an angel fallen to earth with the sole purpose of relieving him of the responsibility of having to voice his own breakfast choice.

‘Certainly.' She jotted on the little notepad. ‘Is that with tea, coffee or juice?'

‘What drink would you like, Nicky?' jaunty-scarved woman asked him directly, as if he were a dumdum and needed her intervention.

‘Sorry, I wasn't listening. What are my options?' He addressed his love directly as if Tawrie wasn't there at all.

‘That's okay, darling.' The woman's tone suggested he actually was a dumdum. ‘You have the choice of tea, coffee or orange juice.'

‘Oh, erm ... can you come back to me?'

‘Of course we can!' The woman made it sound like she, too, was working there. ‘While Nick decides on his drink, can I order the poached egg on toast, but I like the egg well done and I don't want salt on it, some places do that, don't they, large flakes of the stuff, but I don't want salt.'

‘Got it, well-done poached, no salt.' She wrote slowly. ‘And for your drink, sir?' She smiled at the dumdum, hoping to hurry him along.

‘He'll have the orange juice!' The woman spoke up. ‘Oh, and with the full English, can you please leave off the black pudding, he's not a fan, are you, darling?'

‘No.' He shook his head. ‘Liked it until I found out what it was and then ...' He made out to vomit under the table.

‘Of course.' She made a note. Jaunty-scarved woman wasn't done.

‘And can you make sure that on Nick's plate the beans are not in any way touching the scrambled egg as that turns his tummy.'

The man shuddered, on cue. ‘Always been that way, the thought of beans and egg mixing ...' Again he lowered his head and made a spitting motion.

‘Do me a favour, Tawrie, can you tell Con that it was four slices of toast, and table six are waiting.' Gaynor spoke as she passed with a single dirty plate in her hand.

‘Sure.' She smiled back at the couple.

‘That's a very unusual name.' The woman smiled too. ‘Tory? As in Boris Johnson and his cronies?'

‘No, definitely not. Tawrie as in Taw, the river Taw, T-A-W, runs right through Devon.'

‘Well, how lovely!'

‘Yep, my dad named me after the local river, which could be worse, we might have lived by the Amazon and I'd now share my name with the online shopping giant!' She forced a smile; it was still painful to recall her dad. It was that tooth jab again. She whisked the order to Connie who grabbed the docket and placed it on a little metal shelf with a magnet.

‘No beans touching scrambled egg?' Her cousin turned to face her, narrowing her heavily mascaraed lashes.

‘Yep.' They exchanged a lingering look. Connie, she suspected, like her, was wondering how the day might unfold if this was how it started.

The morning passed quickly as it always did. Waiting tables, washing dishes, fetching supplies from the store room, interspersed as ever with laughter when the pace dropped.

‘How long has Needle been asking you out?' Tawrie was curious.

Connie took a sip from her mug of tea and rested on the sink as she considered this.

‘I reckon since I was twelve.'

‘And you're now . . . thirty-five?'

‘Yes, thank you, Taw, for that timely reminder.'

‘Well, I'm twenty-nine this September! Not that far behind you.' She hoped this helped a little.

‘What are we going to do for the Gunn Fire? I was thinking a hog roast?'

Connie liked to plan a theme or think up something to make the event special.

‘I'd like a glitter ball – a big old disco orb that we can dance under!' She smiled.

‘On a beach? And how do you suggest we manage that?' Connie tutted.

‘I'm allowed to have an idea!' she protested.

‘Oh, I should have said' – Connie tapped her own forehead – ‘only good ideas! And that's a shite one.'

‘You're no more than little Tom Toddys the lot of you!' Gaynor, who had the age advantage, laughed. ‘But be warned, Con, after two decades or so, Needle might stop asking.'

‘Two decades. Bless him.' Tawrie felt a flicker of sympathy for the man who if nothing else had proved to be steadfast.

‘It'll be a bit longer an' all before I say yes!' Connie rolled her eyes.

‘He deserves marks for persistence, if nothing else.' Gaynor voiced Tawrie's own thoughts.

‘Yep, well, his persistence might have paid off once or twice.'

‘In what way?' This was news!

‘Well, we might have had a little snog at the Gunn Fire last year.' Connie put her mug in the sink and cracked an egg on to the griddle, standing back as it spat.

‘You sly old dog! You kept that quiet.' Secretly she was delighted that Connie not only felt she could confide in her, but also that at least one of them was having some fun.

‘I kept it quiet because it's Needle! Needle! '

‘Well, for what it's worth, I think he's all right.' She spoke in defence of the man.

‘Yep, and that's all we can ever ask for, isn't it? To spend the rest of our lives with someone who is "all right"! I mean, Jesus, I tried that with Gary and look where that's landed me? Divorced, skint, and me and my son living back in my dad's house! I sometimes wonder if I should take a leaf out of my mother's book and bugger off with a tall Dane!' Connie made light of the event that Tawrie knew had broken her cousin's heart.

‘We don't get many tall Danes in here.' Gaynor pointed out the obvious.

‘You could always both move to Nan's, you know that.' She rather liked the idea; the thought of having eight-year-old Sonny around was a lovely one. She was certain that part of her cousin's decision not to do so was to shield her son from the grubby life of Annalee.

‘I know, but I think Dad likes having me around.'

‘Oh, he does, love.' Gaynor spoke with conviction, suggesting if nothing else that she and Sten Gunn were more than friends.

‘He drives me mad, but I think that's what families are supposed to do; that way it makes it easier to leave when the time comes.' Connie flipped the egg and reached for another.

Tawrie nodded, having little to add as she had never left. Right now, as it sometimes did, this felt like a failure on her part, and not for the first time her thoughts strayed beyond the harbour wall.

‘But I mean it, I'm holding out for Zac or at least a Zac lookalike. Needle doesn't exactly fit the bill.'

Her cousin's tone made them all laugh. Tawrie knew she was right: settling was not an option.

‘Didn't realise we were talking about the rest of your life, thought he was just asking you out on his yacht.' She laughed, as Connie lobbed a tea towel at her that thwacked her on the head.

‘May as well take your break, Taw. 'S'quiet now.'

She stepped outside and looked up at the big blue sky. The café backed on to the cobbled quayside where there was a row of wooden benches with views out over the busy harbour. Each had at least one little brass plaque on it, commemorating the life of someone who had enjoyed the view as much as the person staring at it. Tawrie loved these seats; not only were they the perfect place to sit and rest, to take in life, but they were also a salient reminder that their time here was temporary. This she understood more than most.

Inevitably her thoughts returned to her dad. Not that she'd ever admit it but her memories of him were sparse. The day he died, however, was vivid. Not the events themselves, but the feeling of panic all around her: the fear, the sound of screaming, crying and the constant stream of visitors had been enough for her to learn not to speak about it, not to ask too many questions, as the thought of invoking that uproar again, sending the adults into freefall – it was more than she could contemplate. But those first seven years with him reading her bedtime stories, tucking her in at night, taking her out on his boat, teaching her how to skim stones, kick a ball, lifting her up so she could see over the heads of the crowds at carnival or over the harbour wall ... It was all learned second-hand from the tales Nana Freda told her. Nana Freda who, upon hearing that her son's boat had washed up on Lundy, had grabbed Tawrie and held her close, folding her into her lap where she did her best to use her granddaughter's soft form to plug the hole left by her son.

Tawrie had held her breath, sitting as still as possible, wanting her nan to stop crying, to stop rocking, although she had sensed in that moment that she was the thing of comfort for which her nan would reach. And she was still reaching for her nearly three decades later. And in some ways, Tawrie was still keeping still, holding her breath.

Maybe that was unfair. They shared a special bond, she and her nan, which was lucky when she considered the state of her mother. Tawrie wished she'd had the chance to get to know her dad better, wished she'd had the chance to ask him questions. In particular she wanted to know why, when according to Uncle Sten and others who had known and loved him, he had been a smart man, an engineer, clever, he'd chosen an old soak like Annalee to be his wife. It made no sense. None at all.

With her head tipped back and eyes closed she let the August sunshine kiss her face and felt the tingle of warmth on her skin. She knew her cheeks would flush red, but it felt good, healing, like drinking in the rays. Time was skewed as she daydreamed away the minutes, lost to the sounds around her, the clank of metal against the masts and the clement weather that wrapped her in its soft embrace.

‘Taw!' Connie bellowed from the side door of the café.

Her cue to get back. Her break cut short as customers gathered. Not that she minded, she was slightly restored by her brief sit in the mid-morning warmth.

She opened her eyes, letting her vision settle. As she stood to let a large family pass by, something made her heart take a double beat. She was aware of him before she actually saw him – or maybe that was only how she would remember it. She looked to the right and held her hand over her eyes to block the sunlight and see better.

He came into view and she held her breath as she took in his floppy hair, shot through with auburn, green eyes and the less than taut bod that nestled inside his pink shirt. He was a little doughy, real. She had never found the muscle-bound, gym-honed, Speedo-wearing type attractive. This guy looked like someone who would be good to hold and be held by. He looked ... kind, and Tawrie felt all kinds of fireworks leap in her gut as she followed his advance along the quayside.

A group of day trippers shuffled along, stopping to ooh and ahh at the boats bobbing on the sea, masts swaying in the gentle breeze. Some were holding ice creams, others cameras, most were in hats of one form or another. He seemed taller than most, surrounded by the group, his face clearly visible, looking right at her, or so she thought. And he was smiling. Smiling at her? She waited, as if they were meeting by appointment. The breath stuttered in her throat and her pulse raced.

There you are . . .

This her overriding thought, as if she'd been waiting for him, waiting for him without even knowing it. And now the wait was over because he was walking towards her.

Self-consciousness kicked her in the shins, and she took a step forward and then one back, the dance of the overly aware, not sure where to look, where to stand, folding then unfolding her arms, and by the time she took up the exact position she'd only just left, he waltzed past her.

Transfixed, she stared at the way his heavy fringe lifted and settled on his forehead, the sleeves of his shirt rolled to just below his elbow, the front misbuttoned with the shirt tails hanging down unevenly. His freckled forearms hairy and a little sun-kissed; his orange digital wristwatch; his purposeful stride, the soles of his deck shoes worn flat on the outer edge, the leather stained by salt water and the laces thin. All this detail was taken in quickly and filed away for further dissection later. It felt important. It was important. Then just like that he was gone and she dared not turn to look at his back, couldn't be that obvious. She needed to take a deep breath, recalibrate, calm down.

Love at first sight.

That was rubbish, complete and utter bunkum. There was no such thing, of this she was certain. Anyone who expressed such a sentiment was a little soft in the brain department, overly romantic, gullible. Possibly all of the above. Tawrie was convinced that the truth was no more than the desperate elaboration of someone who was quickly smitten and needed to add seasoning to the mundane tale of how they'd started. She was entirely committed to this belief, and yet, and yet ... She felt the rise in her stomach of something close to happiness, of pure joy, excitement. This man, who'd done no more than walk past her in a crowd, had captured her attention. And yet she knew nothing about him: not his name, sexuality, nationality, job. Was he creative? Local? Smart? Deviant? Dangerous? Dull? Funny? Married? These and many other questions pinged inside her mind.

She glanced to her left but he had disappeared.

‘For the love of God have a word with yourself, Tawrie Gunn!' she snapped to herself, as she navigated her way through the ice-cream lickers and the pasty nibblers who sauntered on the cobbled quayside back towards the café on the corner.