She let the sound of lapping waves soothe her tormented spirit; like music it had its own rhythm. She allowed her mind the freedom to wander down the alleyways of her past and remembered their meeting on the deck of the Fortuna when she had coldly rebuffed him, then later on the beach in Uruguay when her body had stirred with something uncontrollable and infinitely more primitive than friendship. She smiled at her foolishness, how she had mistrusted him, not knowing that he would be the best thing that would ever walk into her life. How canny she had been to get invited up to Córdoba and what joy they had built there. Her mind focused on the first time he had kissed her scarred face and tears began to tumble for he might never kiss her there again. He had taught her how to love herself and to be loved in return. He had galloped through her soul like a knight on a white horse and slain all her demons.
And what of his demon? Had he managed to slay his own or had he allowed it to get the better of him? To curl up at the very bottom of his soul in the form of a snake, waiting its moment to uncoil and strike him down? The past had tortured him. Memories of the war and of Rita. Perhaps he still loved her and it was that suppressed, unrequited love that had choked his heart. It didn’t really matter now. Their love had endured even though Frognal Point and its ghosts had robbed it of its intensity.
She remained on the beach until darkness wrapped cool arms around her, until the stars studded the sky and twinkled down reassuringly. The sea swelled and crashed against the rocks and a whisper of wind swept across her face. She felt part of nature, like a shell on the beach or a crab sitting watchfully in the sand, and suddenly she sensed the presence of God, telling her in those windy whispers that everything in life has a purpose, that nothing is left to chance, like the rise and fall of the tides. This was George’s destiny. His stroke was meant to happen. She now felt relief because she accepted that fighting it wasn’t going to make any difference. It was all out of her control. She would simply have to surrender herself to this higher power and pray. So she prayed hard that He would be merciful because she didn’t know how to live without George. She had forgotten how to be on her own and she had grown dependent on his love.
On that dark beach she realized, for the first time, that she now truly belonged in Frognal Point. To her surprise, after an unsettled life, she had managed to build a home there out of memories and affection, a home that would last. She would never belong in quite the same way that George belonged – his footprints were embedded in the sand while hers were fresh – but they felt right there, beside his. She watched her son and Daisy, and hoped that one day they might marry and show their children the tidal pools and sea birds as George and Maddie had shown them. She took pleasure in Ava’s friendship with Elsbeth and knew that it was one that would sustain her throughout her life. In spite of her fears her children were as much part of the place as their father and this small, coastal village had affixed upon her soul.
When she returned home Charlie and Ava were in the kitchen waiting for her. Ava had cooked dinner while Charlie had spent an hour on the telephone to Daisy. They saw their mother’s tearstained face and barely recognized her. She had slowly wilted over the last few weeks. Each visit to their father seemed to squeeze another ounce from her, but they didn’t understand her love for they were too young and their love was too green. Charlie planned to marry Daisy. He had been able to forget his devastation and sense of helplessness in the white plains of her flesh down in the secret cave that they had discovered by chance, hidden among long grasses and by the rise of the tide. Ava knew because Elsbeth spied on them occasionally and told her when they took the little boat out together to fish and share secrets.
Susan was grateful for the support of her children. Ava did the shopping and made sure there was always food on the table. Charlie drove her to the nursing home so she didn’t have to go alone, and sat outside on the terrace smoking while she spent time alone with his father, reminiscing, sharing news of the children or simply reading to him. He liked short stories best of all. Oscar Wilde and Maupassant in particular. He would gaze upon her with sad eyes and she would strain all the muscles in her face in order to appear cheerful when her heart just wanted to fold up and go to sleep.
Now Charlie and Ava watched her come inside. Her cheeks were red from the wind and her hair, that she now wore shoulder length, was unkempt.
‘Can I get you a glass of wine, Mama?’ Charlie asked.
‘That would be nice, thank you,’ she replied, wandering into the room. ‘Something smells good,’ she added, turning to her daughter.