Ruth reached out and put her hand over Dominic’s. “We could have a picnic on the beach on Saturday. Would you pick up groceries from the deli if I phone them an order?”
Vera turned to face me then. “How are you liking it here so far, my dear? You know you mustn’t let Edwin dominate your weekends. I hope you’re not feeling homesick?”
I finished my mouthful and shook my head. “Not homesick, no. I’m very happy, thank you.”
“More potatoes?” she asked.
“Thank you.” I took two.
I retreated to the annex after lunch to finish unpacking. My paperbacks fitted neatly along the top shelf of the bookcase, textbooks and multicolored ring binders underneath. I pulled a clip frame from my suitcase and contemplated the familiar photo montage: me and my three best friends—laughing on the bus, posing at parties and at the school dance, doing rabbit ears behind one another’s heads. A twinge of nostalgia threatened to open the lid on other, darker memories, and I gritted my teeth and slid the frame back into the suitcase. That was all behind me now.
I angled my chair toward the window so I could watch Dominic and Edwin romp on the lawn.
Dominic reminded me of an easygoing forest animal, like a lean, friendly grizzly bear, with his height and his loose-limbed way of moving; his light brown hair unfashionably long. Perhaps it was also because of the way he would scoop Edwin up into his arms, roaring and pretending to take bites out of thelittle boy who would giggle and wriggle until eventually Ruth would snap at them to stop.
Usually, Dominic drove back to London very early on a Monday morning, but when Vera spent the weekend in the country with them, he gave her a lift home on the Sunday evening instead. On my first weekend at Summerbourne, they left just before Edwin’s bedtime.
“Winterbourne always seems so quiet after a weekend here,” Vera told me in the hall as she waited for Dominic to retrieve her small suitcase from upstairs. She caught my confused expression and smiled. “Winterbourne. It’s the name of my house in London.” I nodded warily, unsure whether she was making a joke.
Monday morning was the start of my official employment, and the bright September sunshine lured us out to the patio straight from breakfast. The plants in the garden shone as if they had been washed and polished overnight. Ruth looked cool in a pale cotton summer dress, and I resolved to use my first pay packet to buy myself some decent clothes, and some pastel nail varnishes to replace my usual dark colors.
“It’s going to be a glorious day,” Ruth said. “We really should make the most of it. Let’s take a picnic down to the beach.”
So she and I packed a bag with sandwiches and drinks and a picnic blanket. After much rummaging through a huge built-in cupboard in the day nursery, Edwin emerged laden with buckets, spades, and two nets on sticks. Considering the beach was within a few hundred meters of the house, there was more of an expedition feel to the process than I had expected, although at that stage I didn’t appreciate how grueling it would be to have to haul yourself back up the cliff steps in the blazing sun if you forgot something.
We stopped frequently on the way for our intrepid three-and-three-quarters-year-old explorer to examine feathers and snails and butterflies. We paused for a chat with Michael by the back gate.
“Where’s Joel, Mister Michael Harris?” Edwin asked.
“Ah, he’s at preschool, my man. He’ll be round later, I ’spect.”
“Joel’s Edwin’s best friend,” Ruth told me.
“After Theo,” Edwin said, sticking his bottom lip out. Ruth and Michael exchanged a glance.
“Yes, darling. After Theo. Say good-bye to Mr. Harris, and we’ll show Laura the way to the beach.”
Once through the gate, an astonishing view of the sea greeted us; my mouth fell open as I stood and gazed at it. The coastline spread out before us, undulating back toward the house and the village to our right, and curving on alongside fields and distant haze to our left. The dark blue water sparkled in front of us to the horizon. It was only a minute’s walk along the path to the cliff steps. A squat tower stood near the top of the steps, its walls made with stones the same color as the bricks of the house out of sight behind us.
“The Summerbourne folly,” Ruth told me, waving a hand at it dismissively. “We own this strip of land up here, but the coastal footpath is public—you can get to the boatyard this way, or back into the village if you go that way. The beach is public too, but hardly anyone else ever comes here.”
“Can we go up and see the cannon, Mummy?” Edwin asked, hopping from one foot to the other.
“Not now, darling. Let’s get down to the rock pools before the crabs have to go to crab preschool.”
Edwin stood still. “No such thing as crab preschool.”
I peered up at the black barrel jutting over the platform at the top of the tower.
“Not a real cannon?” I asked.
“Kind of,” Ruth said as we redistributed Edwin’s beach gear between us so that he could have his hands free to hold the railing down the cliff steps. “It’s called a noon cannon. It’s on a sundial. If you set it up right, you can get the sun to shine through a lens at midday and light an explosive, and fire the cannon. Follow me now, Edwin, and hold on very carefully.”
“An actual cannonball?” I asked.
Ruth laughed. “Goodness, no! It doesn’t fire an object. Just makes a loud bang.” She paused on the steps to check that Edwin was holding the railing properly. “Family legend says Philip Summerbourne, the one who built the house, had it put there so they’d know when it was time to pack up at the beach and head back to the house for lunch. It’s such a fuss though, setting it up, I’m sure they hardly ever bothered.”
We continued our cautious descent. Edwin frowned as we reached the sand.
