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'Mr Tremayne—he's off this afternoon. Surely he's told you?'
From behind the spectacles friendly but beady eyes peered up at her, and somehow she roused herself from her stupor. 'Oh, no—no, he hasn't.'
'Well, he only let me know yesterday. Seems he's done all he can here, so he may as well be getting back. He's insisting on paying me till the end of March, so I shan't be out of pocket, but I expect you'll miss him, dear.' She paused, obviously waiting for a reply, but Petra could only manage a pale mockery of a smile. 'My George was saying only the other day, it's not natural, a young woman up there—'
'No, really. I'm perfectly happy on my own. I—I love the solitude.'
'Not for much longer, though.' She patted Petra's arm meaningfully. 'We're all looking forward to the wedding—you'll make a lovely Easter bride.' And with a kindly smile she went on into the post office . . .
Petra had chosen to walk down to the village, hoping that the fresh air would drive out the bleak, desolate thoughts which still hammered at her. But as she left the shelter of the straggling village street and turned up the steep lane towards the cliffs the icy wind buffeted her so that she could scarcely draw breath.
* * *
The storm was back, even fiercer than before, but at least it had dropped just for those few hours yesterday to let them get back to the mainland. Jared had driven home, of course—in morose silence, his lean face set—and so fast that she had shrunk back in her seat, hands clenched, as the sleek grey shark gulped down any lesser car that dared to stray into its path. Almost before he'd scorched to a hall outside their cottages she had had her door open and was out, terrified that he would try to stop her, but he'd done nothing. Just let her go—walk down her path, out of his life.
Simon's Valentine cake, in its pink box, had been on the kitchen table, and when she'd se
en it the misery had all but overwhelmed her. Frozen-faced, she'd snatched it up and, unable to bear the sight of it, put it away in the back of the larder. She'd still been standing in the sitting-room, struggling to find the words to tell Simon—words that would hurt her almost as much as they would him—when he had rung her . . .
She plodded up the lane, hands deep in her pockets, her eyes on nothing at all. The wind lashed the stunted hawthorn bushes that lined the rutted track. But this was surely the last Atlantic gale of winter. Soon there'd be pale yellow primroses in the hedgerow. Already there were clumps of wild violets—she could smell their faint perfume—and then the lilac would come, and then the long warm days when she would walk on the beach and swim. And by then she would be glad that Jared had gone . . .
The Aston Martin was drawn up on the grass. Its boot lid was open, ready for him to load up. He wasn't wasting much time—couldn't wait to get away . . . The bitter little thought jabbed viciously at her as, without a glance at his cottage, she hurried to her door. As she closed it she heard Jared's phone ring, then, a few moments later, his front door banged shut. From her small side-window she had an oblique view of him, running down his path, slamming the boot lid down, then, with a blast of the horn, roaring away down the lane. Surely he hadn't gone without one backward glance? No—he hadn't packed, and Mrs Pearce had said something about his leaving this afternoon. So he'd be back—but if he came round to say goodbye . . .
She stood at the window, her fingers picking at a knot in the curtain fabric, then went through to the larder and began putting away the food she had bought. Her eye fell on the pink heartshaped box. So much love had gone into this cake that it seemed a shame to waste it. Maybe she'd pass it on to Joanne for Jason—after all, they'd given her the order for their wedding-cake, so it would be a nice gesture.
'You can always . . . make me a cake.' Without warning Jared's words hit her. She saw his face, with that slanting, ambivalent smile, and as she stood, head bent, a tidal wave of anguish washed over her. It ebbed at last, but still she thought, he won't want a cake from me—not now. But she would make him one. Gran's whiskey cake, she'd said. She'd sneak out and leave it by his gate, then come back and lock her door against him . . .
She had just put the cake in the oven when the phone rang. 'Petra? Joe Pengelly here.'
'Oh, hello, Mr Pengelly.' Normally she would have been surprised. She'd known Joe all her life, gone to school with his twin sons, yet he'd never once rung her. Now, though, it barely registered.
'Can you see anything from your place?'
'See anything?' To her numb mind the question seemed slightly surreal.
'Didn't you hear the maroon go up?' He sounded faintly incredulous.
'Maroon? No.'
'There's a big ocean-going yacht in trouble. In this sea, she'll break her back on the rocks, I shouldn't wonder.'
'Oh, no! Hold on—I'll have a look.'
She rushed over to the big window. The sea, leaden green, was boiling, huge waves breaking long before they crashed against the cliff with a dull, booming sound, which she could hear even through the double glazing.
'Mr Pengelly—no, I can't see anything,' she said breathlessly into the phone. 'There's a big rain squall out to sea and it's blotting out everything. Has the lifeboat gone out?'
'Of course. They launched it half an hour ago.'
And among the volunteer crew were Joe's two sons. 'Try not to worry,' she said awkwardly. 'Dave and Jimmy they're both such marvellous sailors—'
'Oh, they're not there, my lover. They're both down with this flu—weak as kittens, the pair of them. No, it's a scratch crew. They've had to call on Bert Westerby—he's retired, really—oh, and Jared Tremayne.'
Petra's hand clenched on the receiver, her knuckles bone-white. 'You mean—Jared's out there, in the lifeboat?' Her voice seemed to belong in someone else.
'That's right. One of my lads rang him, and he came like a shot. 'Course, he was in the crew that summer before he went away, and he'd said, any time they were short—'
Yes, but that was years ago, and he'll never have been out into the teeth of a force-ten gale . . . With a minute part of her mind she heard Joe say something—she had no idea what—and she replied—no idea what. Then she put down the phone and stood staring out at the wild sea. Somewhere, lost in the flying spray and roaring wind, was Jared . . . A little sob burst from her, then she whirled round, darted through the kitchen, snatching up her anorak, and ran out to her car.
