Tristan looked away to the window and tapped his fingers upon the fine white linen of the tablecloth. “I had that dream again. The one I told you of.”
“Ah.”
“But last night was so different. The woman was running ahead of me. At a beach.” He closed his eyes and sought the image. “Maybe Darowen Bay, as I remember the line of the cliff tops, the lie of the sun. She was laughing.Wewere laughing. And she seemed so…real to me, yet her face remains hidden.”
His brother shook his head. “Perhaps you ought to visit Darowen Bay then? It might rekindle some of your lost memories. You remember your boat shed there, do you not?”
“Yes. I recall being handed the key on its completion but then…” He tapped his brow. “I had it built with the proceeds of selling that two-mast schooner I’d had constructed in Fishguard, no?”
“Just so. Lord Fallowsmith bought it for a substantial amount.”
“I remember. Good boat that.”
“He sailed it into Gibraltar.”
“Well done him.”
“No. I mean he sailed itintoGibraltar. The Rock.”
“Oh.”
“In my study, I’ve a key to the boat shed. Had it emptied, I’m afraid.”
“Of course. I’ll go after breakfast. Might spend the morning there.”
“Well, don’t wear yourself out, Tris.” His brother buttered another slice of toast. “It’s the wassail this evening. Be a late night, as you know.”
Tristan twisted to the butler, decision made. “Best make it sausageswithkippers then, Morgan.”
* * *
The descentfrom the cliffs to Darowen Bay was steeper than Tristan remembered and he was grateful for Flint who picked his way down with steady hoof. A track wide enough for wagons had originally been formed but winter rains had eroded the surface, carving deep channels, and rocks protruded like tombstones.
He’d enjoyed the half-hour ride from the house – the chill air and salt spray on the cliffs while his leg pained him less when sat in a saddle. A few wild ponies had raised their heads as he’d ridden by and he couldn’t wait for spring, when sea campion and thrift carpeted this land in lilac, or autumn, when the deep purple and gold of gorse and heather seized their moment.
As the track broadened and levelled, Flint paused and stared dubiously at the soft, deep sand, so Tristan dismounted, grabbed his cane and looped the reins over the saddle, allowing Flint to roam freely.
Then he just gazed out: at the calm silvered bay of water, the shingle at the shore’s edge and the boat shed which stood forlorn beneath the sheer cliff face.
He listened to the gush of tide, the gentle pull as it retreated to the sea, and the squawk of gulls overhead.
And not a jot of memory returned.
According to Rhys, he’d spent most of that year before the wreck here, oft working late into the night, so he felt rather dejected not to recall any of it at all.
With his walking cane sinking into the sand and slowing his step, he trudged towards the boat shed. Constructed of stone to beam height and then wood above, it appeared in fair nick. The sea never rushed far into the bay even when the tide was in and so a wooden slipway had been built for the launch of boats using logs with thick, tarred planks nailed atop.
He removed the key Rhys had given him and unlocked the door. It stuck and he shouldered it, almost landing on his backside as it gave way.
Dust danced and spiders scurried. But no echoes of the past greeted him. No evidence of life. His life.
Indeed, it felt peculiar, standing and staring at the empty bones of a place like this – without boat or tools. Lonesome and devoid.
The windows were grimy, light dulled, and he wandered in, running a hand over the pitted work benches. The hooks for chisels were bare and wooden containers held no nails. At the far end of the building, leading to vast double doors, was a cleared length of floor long enough to build a sloop of some twenty foot, and a few smooth trunks of scaffold were still stacked against the wall.
He peered up to the mezzanine level, noticed a small truckle bed. Had he slept here on occasion?
All was recognisable as the boat shed he’d planned and had built, yet no memories lay within. It was just like a flat picture and no matter how much he rummaged in his mind, he was damned if he could envision the boat he’d constructed here, its sails or figurehead. Or even its name.
