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‘I used to be, in another life,’ he said.
‘OK, well, thanks for the suggestion. I’ll definitely give it a try.’
Ron watched him go, his attention mostly on the spaniel. He had a particularly soft spot for Springers; their sheer enthusiasm for life was a joy to see. He’d never known a Springer who didn’t have a non-stop waggy tail or a happy expression on its face. Dolly used to have the biggest smile Ron had ever seen on a dog, and the softest eyes.
God, how he’d loved that dog. He’d loved her more than he’d loved his wife – but that had been the problem, hadn’t it? He’d not loved his wife as much as he should have done, and although he’d cared for her deeply, he’d been unable to commit fully.
Looking back, he should never have married her, but it had seemed the right and logical thing to do at the time. All his mates were getting married, so he’d tied the knot as well. It was quite telling that only one of those mates was still with the same woman twenty years on.
That’s army life for you, he mused. It took a certain kind of couple to make it work. And when he’d realised he was more married to his dog than his wife, he’d walked away. It was just a shame that it had taken him such a long time to realise it. Maybe if they’d had kids—?
All that was water under the bridge. He’d heard that Louise was someone else’s wife now, and Ron begrudged her none of it, even though he’d walked away from their union with nothing, not even his job. Or his dog.
Dolly had been killed in the line of duty and his grief had been all-consuming. His mother’s death following shortly afterwards had sent his world crashing down around him, like a bomb-damaged building.
Looking back, he believed he must have had some kind of a breakdown. He’d packed a rucksack and left, only returning to sign any documents that needed signing. He’d handed the house over to Louise (his guilt had ridden him hard) and had gone wandering – like a British version of Jack Reacher but without the drama or the violence. Or the army pension. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to draw on that until he was fifty-five, so he had a while to go yet.
Since then Ron had seen more of England and Wales than he’d thought possible, and he’d slept in more shop doorways than he could count, but every so often he’d be drawn back to where he grew up, usually arriving in mid-winter and staying until February or March.
Last winter had been different. Last winter a woman called Kate Peters had shown him a rare kindness by inviting him to Christmas lunch at her house, with her family. And her mother, Beverley, had opened up her home to him.
But now he felt it was time to move on, both for Beverley’s sake and for his own. This holiday in Rest Bay would be a farewell. He’d move on from here, and maybe head out to St. David’s on the wild west coast. Thankfully, he hadn’t lost the habit of travelling light; all his possessions fitted into his trusty Bergen rucksack and he’d brought most of them with him, apart from his tattered old sleeping bag which he’d left at Beverley’s house in Brighton. It would be easy enough to buy a new one.
Sam was starting to flag, Ron noticed. The boy was bouncing the ball with his hand as he wandered over to the rock pools and peered into their depths. The tide was on the turn, the amount of available beach was slowly decreasing, and where he was standing would soon be underwater. It was time to go back. Hopefully Beverley would have sorted out the bedroom situation, the new guests would have arrived, and he and Brett’s mother, Helen, could prepare the evening meal.
Ron intended to savour the days ahead, when he could pretend to be part of a family. He’d relish the time with Beverley, and he vowed he would do his best to enjoy this holiday with a woman who he had come to love like a mother.
