Page 47 of The Time of My Afterlife

‘I am afraid I do.’

I chuckle. ‘He’s an acquired taste. I’m trying to get in touch with him.’

She shakes her head with disapproval. ‘He lives in a blue cottage on the outskirts of the village. We all breathe a sigh of relief when he decides not to come into town.’

‘I can see he hasn’t changed.’

She blinks in surprise and her mouth falls open. ‘Are you related?’

I laugh. ‘God, no. He used to teach me maths when I was a kid. Someone I know is trying to track him down, so I offered to help her.’

‘I have never met such a miserable man,’ says the woman.

‘Be thankful you didn’t have him for a teacher.’

She laughs. ‘His cottage is duck-egg blue. You can’t miss it if you take the old road along the cliffs.’

I look at the array of glittery notebooks and pens for sale on the counter. On her Instagram, Florence is always raving about her notebook collection. Maybe Chris could give her an actual gift? I could take a photo of the bookshop and stick it on Chris’s Instagram story. I buy a notebook and thank the woman, but as I step outside and get ready to take a photo, I’m distracted by an older woman with silvery hair passing by. She looks like Hilda from the afterlife. Surely not? I must be tired.

The urge to take a photo has faded. I need to find Mr Beaver.

The cottage sits alone on the winding cliff road. Its blue paint has faded, and I can see parts of weathered grey stone peeking through in places. I park on the road and walk up the little gravel path. From his windows, Mr Beaver must have a fantastic view of the sweeping wild Devon coastline and the sheet of silver-blue sea below.

I’m praying he’s in because I don’t have a plan B.

His front door is painted white and has an angry face brass door knocker. After knocking, I hear movement and a lot of muttering.

The door opens, and I find myself staring at Mr Beaver.

His appearance hasn’t changed. His grey hair still looks like one of those satellite pictures of a cyclone heading for land. He’s wearing a knitted sweater, riddled with holes and loose thread. There’s a quick glint of light from his chest, and my eyes dart to the left, where he’s pinned a silver brooch. I can feel a smile spreading across my face. It’s the musical-note-shaped pin. After all this time, he’s still wearing his and Pearl’s keepsake, and she has her necklace with the same charm laid out on her dressing table. Silently, I say the words ‘Test passed’ to myself.

‘Clark Fielding,’ he says, fiddling with his spectacles. ‘Is that you?’

‘Hello, Mr Beaver.’

He ushers me inside, and I bow my head as the cottage is filled with low beams. His living room is small and cosy. The old windows resist letting the mischievous sea breeze in, rattling to vent their frustrations. A lonely armchair sits before the impressive stone fireplace. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he barks.

‘I could murder a cuppa, Mr Beaver.’

He mutters something under his breath and storms off to his kitchen. I can hear the banging of cups and a whistling kettle.

I sit down on his armchair, stretch out my legs and listen to the creaking of the old cottage and the rattling windows. My eyes feel heavy. It’s been a long drive.

I’m seconds away from nodding off when a cup of dark brown tea is thrust in my face, which makes me jolt. ‘Drink this,’ he orders. ‘Get out of my chair.’

With a smile, I take the cup and perch on the little windowsill.

‘Well?’ he growls. ‘Why are you here?’

I take a sip of the tea. It’s bitter and strong, which is not how I like it, but I’m not going to complain. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

‘Clark, why are you here?’ he repeats.

I place the cup down. ‘Well, Mr Beaver, I know someone who has been looking for you.’

He stares at me. ‘What?’

‘Pearl Frances Sanders.’