‘In any case, it’s awful that innocent people have been hurt,’ adds Lottie.
The old man gives a non-committal shrug.
‘What, the foreign couple?’ he says. ‘They’d no business being there in the first place.’
‘Well, yes, I guess they were desperate for somewhere to sleep while they earned some money. Couldn’t afford to rent anywhere round here, I expect.’
He blows out another cloud of fragrant smoke which hovers in the air between them before the breeze catches hold of it, tugging it away into nothing.
‘Like I said. No business being there.’
Lottie feels uncomfortable with the way this conversation is going, just as she had felt the last time she had found herself chatting with this man. But then she remembers what the nice woman from the newsagents, Jan, had told her. How Old Ted had lost his grandson not long ago to suicide.
‘By the way, I was sorry to hear about your loss. It must have been the one year anniversary of your grandson’s death the other day. I saw the flowers up on the memorial bench. A tragic waste,’ she says gently.
He continues to stare out over the water at the houses and buildings on the other side of the bay, the Woolfs’ decimated property. Finally, he decides to respond.
‘It hit his mother hardest. Hasn’t been the same since. Although we all have to pretend to carry on just the same. The tourists come and they go, in and out, the seasons turn as sure as the tide and we all have to go on somehow.’
Lottie nods.
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose a child,’ she says, her eyes irresistibly drawn towards her sleeping son in his buggy.But she can well imagine the anger, the grief, the irrepressible sadness at the unfairness of it all.
‘And what about the rest of the family? How are they coping with things?’ she asks.
She knows she’s prying, but what else has she to do to pass the time, now that she finds herself in this strange limbo? Besides, she’s always been drawn to the underdogs of society, the lost causes, the ones she feels the most sympathy with usually.
Ted seems to rally himself, sits a little straighter and begins to tap out the residue of smouldering tobacco from his pipe.
‘Oh, well my son. He’s all right. A survivor, like me. He keeps himself busy, always working. When the fishing side of things dried up, I retired but he had to retrain. It’s turned out well for him though. He’s making decent money, keeps the family together. What’s left of it.’
‘What is it that he does?’ Lottie asks conversationally, glad that his tone has brightened a little.
‘He’s an electrician. Has work coming out of his ears. All these posh second homes around here; not to mention all the new bars, restaurants, hotels.’
She nods and smiles, letting the comfortable silence stretch out between them now as they both continue to contemplate the water, the colourful boats bobbing gaily in the bay, and the many houses cleaving to the cliff side opposite in fondant fancy shades. The only thing to spoil the view, to suggest that not all is perfect in this paradise by the sea, is the black scar of the Woolfs’ house; a dark mark on the landscape.
Lottie stares at it for a moment longer as Ted Stark’s words nestle into her brain: his son, a local electrician, never out of work. Second homes.
57
Later that evening, Lottie lies beside Josh on the double bed. Right now she is almost glad that there isn’t a travel cot supplied in this small, cramped room. At least it gives her an excuse to cuddle up to her son. As she gently strokes his back, lulling him to sleep, she takes solace in his company, trying not to feel the aching absence of Tim.
The last few hours have been spent in a dull round of monotony; making a bland meal of pasta for herself and Josh from the meagre, uninspiring ingredients she had picked up in haste from the supermarket. Neither of them seemed to have much appetite and, just for tonight, Lottie abandoned her usual high parenting standards allowing them both to eat crisps and ice lollies on the sofa in their underwear while they tried to keep cool.
Josh has none of his toys, since they are still in the Airbnb apartment along with all their other gear, so they had sat side by side on the uncomfortable sofa, watching back-to-back cartoons on the Disney channel, both comatose from the heat, the junk food and the strange, dislocated events of the last few days.
Now as she spoons her son – not too close as to wake him – her ears prick at the sound of a car pulling up on the road outside, the headlights casting a harsh beam into the bedroom window. A car door bangs and then another. Low voices exchange a few formal words and, though she dares not hope, she then hears a soft knock at the front door.
Extricating herself carefully from the bed, checking that Josh is safely marooned in the centre, she runs to the door. At the sight of Tim on the doorstep, his exhausted face and the beleaguered slope of his shoulders, she pulls him into the house, into her arms, shutting the door and with it the world outside.
‘Where’s Josh?’ he asks, and she indicates the bedroom with a finger to her lips.
She leads him through to the lounge and they slump on the sofa, filling the scooped-out spaces left by previous inhabitants. Tim stares ahead, silently unseeing. Lottie leans over, places a tender hand on the side of his face and pulls his head towards her, kisses his cheek.
‘It’s over now. We’re both through the worst of it.’
Tim shakes his head slowly, whether in denial or mystification it’s not clear, and Lottie sighs in response.
