CHAPTER NINE TAWRIE GUNN

CHAPTER NINE

T AWRIE G UNN

A UGUST 2024

Tawrie stared at the sparse contents of her wardrobe. The pitiful number of hangers clanging loosely on the rail indicative of the fact that she didn't go anywhere other than working in the café, pottering in the town, sitting on the beach with a book, or swimming with Maudie and Jago. There were a couple of t-shirts that she'd had since her teens, certain that if she held on to them long enough they'd come back into fashion, a little black dress she'd outgrown, but couldn't bear to part with, and little else of interest. What should she wear tonight? What could she wear tonight?

She heard the flush of the loo and briefly considered asking her mother if she might have something she could borrow. A snort of laughter left her nose. They were not that kind of mother/daughter. Not quite estranged and yet hardly close. Tawrie had only really known her as the remote lady who came in late and crept out quietly. She carried the vague memory of her mother dancing with her in the kitchen, scooping her up into her arms and rocking her to the sounds of The Carpenters that Freda loved. In her mind's eye she was small, a toddler, and therefore this couldn't be relied upon.

Their conversations were now rudimentary, functional, cool, and even if it might have been normal to ask for access to Annalee's wardrobe, they most certainly did not have the same taste in clothing. Her own preference was for items that were practical, warm, comfortable and in muted shades. Her shoe collection consisted of trainers, her ancient flip-flops and walking boots. Annalee, on the other hand, wore lace, things in red and jewel-coloured cotton tops with deep V-necks that ensured one bony shoulder was revealed at all times. Short, tight skirts and shoes with the kind of heel that caught in the cracks between paving stones, made it impossible to navigate sand, and frequently buckled on the stairs when she was drunk, resulting in twisted ankles.

For Tawrie, it felt painful to give her attire this much attention; it smacked of a vanity that had no place in her routine, and so in haste, she grabbed her jeans, which were cleanish, an almost matching set of underwear and her rose-pink, long-sleeved sweatshirt that had gone thin over the years but was possibly the comfiest item she owned.

Sitting at her desk she tousled her hair until it was practically dry and full of body and sprayed her décolletage and wrists with the fresh, summery Clinique scent that Connie had bought her for Christmas. She ran her fingers over the mascara wand that sat in a pot but decided against make-up. Not only was she fairly confident that the item was dried and ancient, but also Edgar had, after all, seen her fresh from the sea, swathed in a dry robe with sand-spattered hair stuck to her face. It felt like there was no need for the artifice of make-up – he knew what she looked like. Besides, to present a painted face felt like setting an unachievable standard, and with the hope of many more dates filling her thoughts, she didn't want to have to go through the rigmarole of getting made-up every time she saw him. Far better, she figured, to go au naturel. No shocks, no surprises.

One final smile in the mirror, and as her stomach jumped with joyful anticipation she made her way down the stairs.

‘Where are you off to, little love?' her nan called from the sofa, which sat in the middle of the room, facing the TV.

‘I'm going out, Nan, meeting a friend.'

‘Oh yes, that's right, Connie told me! A bo-oy!' There was no mistaking her excitement at the prospect.

Cheers, Connie .

‘It's nothing. I mean, I am, yes, going to meet a boy – a man – but it's only for a chat and ... and a drink, and that's it. I'll probably be back before nine.'

‘You sound a bit flustered over something that's nothing.'

Tawrie hadn't realised her mother was in the kitchen and turned to face her as she came to rest in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with a cup of coffee in her palms. Her statement lingered like an odour.

‘See you later.' She pulled her sleeves down over her wrists and kissed the top of her nan's head before making her way down to Fore Street.

It was a calm night and only the gentlest of breezes stirred the air, which was still full of happy particles at the sunny day just passed. Looking back towards Hillsborough as she made her way up the hill, she saw the faintest tinge of pink on the horizon, a glorious promise of another lovely day tomorrow. It was in moments like these that she remembered how fortunate she was to call Ilfracombe her home.

Sitting opposite the Terrace Tapas with its fabulous deck strung with festoon lights, which she could see from her bedroom window, Corner Cottage looked pretty from the outside. A large wicker lamp shone from the middle window of the upper hallway and more lamplight lit the downstairs windows. It made the place look cosy, warm. She wondered if he'd invite her inside or simply grab his keys, shut the door behind him and off they'd go. And actually, did she want to go inside? Might that be awkward? But if they went out, where would they go? She didn't like the idea of bumping into people she knew – a pretty tall order in a small place like this. Especially if Connie had been as liberal with the information to others as she had been to their nan. It was a distinct possibility. Deep down she kind of liked their enthusiasm, it almost validated her own feelings that this might be something. Or maybe it was just the novelty that had got her family excited, which in itself felt like some kind of pressure.

It was a sad fact that after her one and only semi-serious relationship with Jamie, her ex, her last date had been ... she did the mental maths ... nearly two years ago. Living in a small town meant there wasn't much of a pool to choose from when it came to dating and without a large group of single friends, it was hard to go on the prowl in places like Barnstaple where she'd look like a weirdo hanging about on her own on a Friday night. Plus she was so tired at the end of the day that falling into her bed was preferable to heading out looking for love. Or at least that was what she told herself.

Two years ago! It was a little jarring how much time had passed since she'd agreed to go to the Embassy Cinema on the High Street with Sid from the butchers'. Sid was impossibly good-looking, beautifully handsome with perfect teeth and pale-blue eyes. She had felt a little weak-kneed just stepping out with him. Unfortunately, he also had the personality of a pot plant and, as she was soon to discover, an IQ to match. She had thought she could overlook it, concentrate on his eyes, that smile, but after he'd called her Toz for the eleventh time, asked three times in one hour if the woman on screen was the baddie's mother, showered the row in front with popcorn when his great galumphing laugh had caused his body to convulse, she decided, sadly, that no amount of handsomeness in the world could compensate for the rather shallow interior of the boy. He still waved at her enthusiastically whenever he saw her. She was convinced he had no recollection of their night at the Embassy, which was probably no bad thing. Sid was now engaged to Taylor-Marie from Bratton Fleming. She wished them all the luck.

Memories of her last disastrous date caused the first deep stir of doubt as nerves bit. Suppose they couldn't decide where to go? Suppose Ed did invite her inside, but they had nothing to talk about? She shivered at the thought of how awkwardly soul-destroying that might be. Suppose she was dull, boring and he was expecting her to be sparkly, witty, and wearing mascara or something made of lace or red? With only a hundred or so yards between the bottom of the steps that led up to Signal House and the front of Corner Cottage, she didn't have time to make a plan and, at the point when it was still possible to turn and run back home, there was the very real risk that he had already seen her approaching. Linen bistro curtains covered the lower half of the windows, which meant that while she couldn't see in, there was no guarantee he couldn't see out.

‘You can do this, Tawrie Gunn. You can.'

She took a deep, slow breath through her nose and rolled her shoulders; it helped pre-swim, yet not so much pre-knocking-on-the-door. Particularly not the door behind which lurked the boy she had built up to be something wonderful in her mind. As she raised her hand to knock, it opened and there he was. Her face broke into a smile at the sight of him. He was wearing another shirt, this one pale blue, but it was similarly misbuttoned. She liked his lack of precision, suggesting he too might have grabbed what came to hand in the wardrobe and shoved it on.

Standing back slightly, Edgar stood against the door, as if it were a foregone conclusion that she would step inside.

‘I've had a total nightmare!' he laughed. ‘I need to calm down.'

‘Oh dear, why?' She stepped into the open space of the sitting room, entered via a wide step up from the small, square hallway where a row of pegs held hoodies and scarves and the stairs to the upper floors wound away to the right.

It was a space that felt weirdly familiar, although she was certain she had never been inside. She guessed it was because, having walked past so many times, the glimpsed interiors and snatched detail had no doubt formed the picture in her mind.

‘Do you want the long story or the short?'

‘Short, please.' She beamed.

‘Very wise. I have been known to go on a bit.' He snorted laughter.

And just like that they were chatting, her nerves melted and she was reminded that there was nothing to fear, no need to turn on her practical heel and run. To be in his company felt like walking with a safety net beneath her, a cushion. It felt wonderful.

‘About an hour ago, I realised that I'd invited you over and had no food, no nibbles.'

‘Nibbles?' she laughed.

‘You know, the nuts, crisps and shit that people put on tables.'

‘Well, I like nuts and crisps but you can keep the shit.'

‘Noted.' He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘Anyway, I decided to run to the supermarket, a very sweaty exercise in itself. I was about to pay when I realised I'd left my wallet in the kitchen. I had to put my goods to one side, a task performed with the accompanying tuts and groans of everyone in the queue behind me, although why or how it affected them I really don't know. With my humiliation complete, I ran back here, grabbed my cash then jogged back to the supermarket to pay, and have only just managed to squeeze in an inadequate shower! I'm still flustered.'

‘Nuts and crisps will do that to you.'

‘And now I'm feeling the most enormous pressure because I don't know what to put them in!' He stood with his palms splayed, his harassed air suggesting he might be placing similar importance on the evening and that this was not a regular thing for him. It did nothing but bring her relief; she didn't want to imagine how it might feel if her current excitement levels were not reciprocated. ‘Honestly, I had no idea there was so much to it! There's a big wooden bowl that I'm guessing is better for fruit, tiny dip bowl things that'll only hold a single crisp, or cereal bowls. Who knew that the simple offering of a snack could be so complicated?'

‘Not me.' She liked the easy nature of their chat, feeling any last vestige of nerves flee out of the open window.

‘Anyway, I'm waffling. The one thing I have managed to source with confidence is wine. We have red, white and the other, pink stuff.'

‘Rosé?'

‘That's the fella!' He pointed at her. ‘Which can I get you?'

‘I'll take a glass of the other, pink stuff please.'

‘An excellent choice, madam.' He gave a half bow and she followed him down a step into the cosy kitchen where handmade pine units lined the walls, a round table with four mismatched chairs sat in the corner, and a large linen lamp on the wide windowsill filled the room with a golden glow.

She liked the decor. The sitting-room walls were painted in a warm white, pale-blue linen accent pillows were on a blue-and-cream striped sofa, an oversized raffia lampshade hung from the ceiling and sea-themed artwork was dotted here and there. Clusters of round mirrors reflected the light and a patchwork rug of various blues took up much of the wooden floor. Large navy-and-cream patterned ceramic lamps dominated the corners of the room and wooden side tables were home to all manner of things from ornate shells to crystal-and-brass inkwells, and even a ceramic artichoke. It was magazine beautiful and she couldn't imagine what it must feel like to live among this much order, without the clutter of life in every corner. The clutter of life that at Signal House sat on top of a mountain of dust and was laced into place with cobwebs. Corner Cottage smelled fresh and clean and she liked it very much.

‘Here we go.' He handed her a glass of wine and grabbed the bags of crisps and nuts, which he pulled open. Ripping the bags wide for easy access, he placed them on the kitchen table. She took a seat, happy he was leading the dance, as they settled into place opposite each other. She was just thinking that the seating arrangement was a tad prim when he spoke.

‘Thank you for coming to this interview. What makes you think you're suitable for the position?' He put on a formal voice and joined his hands at the knuckle on the tabletop.

‘It's my pleasure.' She lowered her head. ‘I think it would help if I knew what position I was applying for. And also I'm wondering if it might be frowned upon if I sipped wine during the process?' She took a sip of the cool rosé, which was dry and refreshing.

‘Funny story, actually.' He dropped the act and sat back in his chair. ‘My boss wanted to take on a graduate for a twelve-month internship and asked me to go through the whittled-down list of applicants and conduct the interviews.'

‘Pressure!' She knew she wouldn't enjoy doing that at all.

‘You have no idea, but put it this way, choosing a bowl for crisps was a doddle in comparison.'

She liked how this felt, as if they'd known each other for an age and meeting up to chat like this was a regular thing. Easy.

‘I was quite looking forward to it, the idea of getting away from my laptop, something different. They booked out a couple of days where I sat in the boardroom while these young, eager, hopeful banking wannabes came into the room one by one and did their best to sell themselves to me.'

‘You didn't enjoy it? Wielding all that power?'

He shook his head. ‘I really didn't. Not when it came to it.' He took a sip of wine. ‘It felt desperate, horrible, almost gladiatorial. They were all brilliant over-achievers, far more brilliant than me! They'd been to far-flung corners of the globe, spoke loads of languages, worked for worthwhile charities, and had a raft of top-notch grades. There was nothing to choose between any of them, so did it really matter that one had grade eight on the violin while another was a county tennis player?'

‘Wow, makes me realise I've done absolutely nothing with my life.' She spoke half in jest.

‘I felt the same and I found it really sad.'

‘Don't be so hard on yourself, you have years to learn how to play the violin and improve your backhand.'

‘It wasn't that so much.' He gazed at her and she took the chance to study his long lashes. ‘They had this burning look in their eyes, as if to fail at this, to not get the internship, was going to crush them. Like it was the only thing that mattered, but I knew we could only take one. The rest of the applicants, all really nice, super-keen, were going to be just that: crushed. And I was the person who was going to do that to them. It made me realise that I don't have a ruthless streak, which I kind of think you need if you want to live that cut-throat life, but I couldn't stop thinking about how it was all such a waste of time.'

‘In what way?' She matched his serious tone.

He swallowed. ‘I guess I could see that these people had worked hard at school, gone to first-class universities, as if they were in some desperate race and here they were, still racing, still competing, trying to get chosen, to get ahead, taken on. And I knew they'd never stop – elbowing each other out of the way for promotion, grasping for the next rung on the ladder and greasing the steps they'd already taken to make sure those following fell.' He paused. ‘I didn't like it, any of it. I knew I found the job dull and unfulfilling and I wanted to take these very clever, dedicated people to one side and say, look, there's more to life than this. You need to be happy; you need to do something that makes you laugh every day. You need to spend your time in a way that means when you climb into bed at night, you feel content and you don't dread the alarm going off the next morning, full of fear or sickness at the prospect of having to get up and do it all again.'

It was odd how much his words resonated, mirroring her own desire to be happy, to laugh, be content.

‘Did you say that to them?'

He shook his head and swilled his wine around the glass. ‘No, but I said it to myself and that's when I decided to give up my job.'

‘To either paint or teach or ...'

‘Yep. Because I looked at them all and saw myself a decade ago and realised that I was stuck. Still racing, not happy, not sad, just looking forward, doing what I thought I had to, earning enough money, and yet not fulfilled, not hopeful. I can't count the times I said to myself that when I reached X or when I did Y then I'd be happy – things would be better, easier. But there was always another X or Y on the horizon and I knew I was never going to arrive. Do you understand that?'

‘I really, really do.' She felt connected to him, his words so close to her own experience. In that moment she knew that for them to move forward, for this friendship to deepen, she would need to open up about her life, her past, her mother ... Shifting in the chair, her skin itched with discomfort. What would he think of her when he knew the full story? She'd go slowly, that was probably the answer. ‘It's partly why I swim. It's like a reset. A good, positive thing that makes me so happy, and I do it just for me.'

There was a moment of silence but she felt no need to fill the gap with chatter; instead she was content, calm in his presence.

‘Do you sail as well?'

It was a straightforward question, an obvious one, really, when she considered the geographical location of her home. She shook her head and felt a shiver of fear at the thought of going out in a boat, knowing how quickly it could all go wrong and how a family, like hers, could be left struggling with the consequences decades later.

‘I've never, erm ...' How to begin, where to begin? ‘I think I may have been out on a boat when I was younger. In fact, I don't know why I said it like that. Yes, I did go out on a boat when I was little. With ... with my dad. He had a little boat called Ermest – after the River Erme, another Devon river.'

‘So you could have been called Ermest if the mood had taken him?'

‘Quite possibly.' She smiled wistfully; it felt nice to talk about the man she only recalled in shadow. The outline of him without the detail. It was also refreshing not to see the pull of distress on Edgar's face at the mention of Daniel Gunn. A look she was used to and was synonymous with her father's name. Unsurprising, really, as all who knew and loved him and every local within living memory knew his story and this melancholic salute was almost mandatory. But not for Edgar, who had no prior knowledge and no embedded rumours; it was another reason to enjoy his company.

‘I'm wary of asking further about your dad after the way you reacted on the beach, and trust me, that's not me pushing or prying.' He sat forward, eyes wide, his words urgent. ‘I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable or for you to talk about anything that was triggering. So feel free to answer in any way you see fit, or not, nothing matters – we have wine and crisps and nuts, and the night is young.' He pinched several crisps and shoved them into his mouth, an act so unselfconsciously relaxed she felt another layer of reservation strip from her skin.

I do trust you . . .

‘I don't ...' She took a sip of wine. ‘... I don't really remember him.' The words were as painful to say out loud as they sounded in her head and it was a fact she rarely shared, only able to imagine how Nan and Uncle Sten would react to it.

‘Because you haven't seen him?' he asked softly, returning to their conversation at Hele Bay Beach.

‘He died.' There. She'd done it. Ripped off the Band-Aid. ‘He died when I was seven.'

‘Oh, Tawrie.' It was almost instinctive, the speed with which he abandoned his wine glass and reached across the table to take her hand. This contact sent a shiver of longing rippling through her whole body. Curling her fingers around his fleshy palm, their first touch, she sat quietly with him, almost in reverence for the news shared, and she was thankful for it, quite certain he could hear her loud heartbeat that filled her head. ‘I hate saying it, even now.'

Because it makes it real.

He squeezed her hand a little, the increased pressure speaking more than a thousand words.

‘But you have pictures? And I bet other people remember him. I know that for my childhood – not that it's the same, and please don't think I'm comparing my life to what you've been through – but I know that even if memories are a little hazy for me, it's other people's testimony, for want of a better word, that builds a picture, fills in the gaps for me. And so I think I have more memories than I actually do.'

‘Pictures? Not many really. A few, yes.' She thought about the mostly blurred photographs of her with her dad on the harbourside or on the beach. Photos snapped, subjects off-centre, taken carelessly, hurriedly, without any awareness of the importance they would have. After all, what did it matter? It was just a day at the beach, a moment with a melting ice cream, a quick hug on her dad's lap post-swim, a towel around her shoulders, her with a lopsided ponytail and a grin minus two front teeth, and him looking young and strong and kind, a day's stubble gracing his chin as he beamed into the camera or smiled at her. ‘And it's hard for me to talk to anyone objectively because of, erm ...' She took a deep breath. ‘Because of how he died.'

‘How did he? I mean, I don't know if it's okay to ask, I don't want to, erm ...' he gabbled and withdrew his hand, reaching for his wine.

‘No, that's okay.' She kept her eyes on the tabletop, counting the crisps that had spilled from the packet, anything to divert her sadness and allow her to get the words out. One ... two ... three ... three and a crumb. ‘He drowned.'

‘Oh.' She watched his shoulders fall and his head drop and she understood. It wasn't a neat death. There was little comfort to be taken from it. No slipping away in his sleep or at the end of an illness with his family surrounding him, having had the chance to say goodbye, the event wrapped with bittersweet relief. There was nothing neat about it. Drowning was ragged, uncomfortable to voice, a word redolent with images of struggle and violence. ‘Yeah, so it makes it hard to talk to my nan or his brother or my ... my mum.'

‘That must be so difficult.'

‘Yes, I think so. And that's why I don't raise it, you know? It's like the first thirty-odd years of his life might have been fantastic, but mentioning him, especially how he died, and it feels like everything that went before is reduced to that one day. And I don't want to put them through it. They've been through enough.'

‘I meant hard for you.'

‘I guess. But I don't know any different. People say you don't miss what you never had, or in my case what you don't remember.' She twisted her mouth to suggest this might not be true.

‘I think they're wrong. I know I miss what I never had.' He spoke slowly, sharing his own confidence, which in some way levelled their emotional investment, swapping secrets, building a bridge of trust.

‘What didn't you have?'

‘A normal family life is probably the best way to describe it.'

‘Jeez, find me someone that did!'

He laughed and drank. ‘I guess you're right.'

‘I am right.' She chuckled, giving them a route out of the previous weighted conversation, as they both shifted in their chairs and emptied their glasses. Any lurking sadness whistled right out of the open sash window and disappeared over Capstone Hill.

‘Do you have siblings, someone you can talk to who knows what you've been through?'

‘No, just me. But I have Connie, who's my cousin, but like a sister. She's only a bit older than me and we were raised together. I can talk to her. I don't always choose to, but I could.'

‘That's nice. I'm one of six.'

‘Six? Wow!' She couldn't begin to imagine.

‘Yes, wow, and not always in a good way. I've got three sisters and two brothers.'

‘How do you keep track of what everyone's up to?' She pictured the comings and goings of Signal House and tried to imagine six kids running up and down the stairs.

‘You don't really. I mean we all get on, but we're not in each other's pockets. I don't see too much of a couple of my sisters. It's complicated. My brothers are twins – a right handful, I find them hilarious.'

‘Where do you come in the pack, age wise?'

‘I'm the oldest. And therefore the most sensible and the most respected.' He sat up straight.

‘Is that right?' She liked the smile that played about his face.

‘No, absolutely not! That'd be my sister, who's next in line. She's sensible, studious. She's the one who texts to remind about birthdays, arrangements and stuff; she's pretty organised. Then I have one sister who lives with her mum in Wales, I think. One sister who is only a baby really, and the twins are teenagers.'

He stood and went to the blue free-standing fridge to retrieve the opened bottle of pink stuff. He topped up their glasses and she liked what this suggested; that they weren't going anywhere.

‘Do you like Uno?' he asked without a trace of irony as he put the bottle within reach.

‘Who doesn't like Uno?' It had been years since she and Connie had played it at her nan's kitchen table one rainy afternoon in the school holidays.

‘No one I'd like to know.' His eyes shone as he disappeared into the sitting room and she heard him ferreting in the cupboard of a dresser she'd noticed earlier, painted in a stunning Grecian blue. He reappeared with the Uno box in his hand.

‘I propose a tournament. And I should probably warn you that I'm very competitive.'

Tawrie rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles.

‘Do your worst.' She narrowed her eyes, reached for a crisp and threw it into her mouth, before instantly reaching for another.