The garden by the sea, p.1
The Garden by the Sea, page 1
The Garden by the Sea
Amanda James
One More Chapter
a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2022
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Copyright © Amanda James 2022
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Cover images: Shutterstock.com
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Amanda James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
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Source ISBN: 9780008505011
Ebook Edition © January 2022 ISBN: 9780008505004
Version: 2021-11-29
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
About the Author
Also by Amanda James
One More Chapter...
About the Publisher
For my family, with love.
1980
Tamsin Rowe had been up in the loft, sitting on the packing crate for far too long. What had started as a mission to find her mother’s sewing kit had turned into a two-hour stroll down memory lane. Big bundles of her past were up here, and quite a few were undone and scattered around her feet, like presents on Christmas morning. Right now, she was back in her wedding day, twenty years ago. With the wedding album across her knees, she ran a finger along the edge of the bride’s veil and wondered where that slip of a girl had gone. In the elegant high-necked gown, confetti in her hair, with her new husband smiling down at her, love shining from his eyes, she’d thought she was the luckiest woman alive. And she had been. But Tamsin would be forty-four next birthday, and although she couldn’t wish for a better man to share her life with, there was something missing for both of them. No, not something. Someone.
Still, no use yearning for things that weren’t meant to be. Tamsin placed the wedding album back in its white box and tied the pink ribbon around it. She was just about to take the sewing kit and go, when she noticed the corner of an old carved wooden box sticking out from under some old curtains she’d been meaning to throw away. Pulling it free, she smiled. This was the old ‘magical’ Tintagel seed-box that had been passed down from her great-grandmother and her mother before that, and on down the line. Tamsin’s own mother had told her some nonsense about it being magical, and having soil inside from the garden of the legendary King Arthur. Tamsin should have chucked it years ago, but her mum believed the old tales. It had a lovely carving of a tree on it too.
Ten minutes later, she was still there with the box on her lap thinking about her parents, the hopes and dreams of her youth, and wondering what the future had in store. No use getting maudlin, Tamsin. You have to make the most of what you have, and what you have is so much more than many people. To cheer herself up, she decided that she’d make a lovely dinner for Derek when he got home and wear that dress he loved so much. The yellow one with the big red poppies. It wasn’t new, but he said it made her look like a summer’s day. Tamsin had much to be happy about and the thought of being in Derek’s arms lifted her spirits.
About to shove the box back where she’d found it, she hesitated and remembered her mum’s words. Tamsin held it to her chest and said to the wooden rafters above, ‘Dear Magic Box, please grant me my heart’s desire. Bless me and Derek with the child we’ve always wanted.’ In the loft space, her voice sounded small, feeble and more than a bit desperate. Feeling slightly daft, she sighed and put the box back. Wishes were for kids on starry nights, not silly middle-aged women who should know better. Still, she thought, as she extinguished the light and climbed down the loft ladder. Sometimes miracles do happen.
Chapter One
Present day
If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need – Cicero
Benches are often taken for granted or, worse, ignored, their importance not even crossing the minds of those sitting upon them. Lowena shifts position on hers, feeling the old wood creak under her, and decides they are invaluable. She also considers the hundreds of people over the years who have sat where she’s sitting, gazing out across the Atlantic in all its moods, watching the gulls wheel above, broadcasting their plaintive cries across an ever-changing sky. A bench with a view like this is conducive to contemplation. The hopes, dreams and fears of those bench-sitters, emotions both happy and sad, will have found a temporary home here, as their owners sought a place to rest.
Maybe this bench is a keeper of secrets whispered to the wind, or mumbled into damp tissues. A silent confidant of deep desires, heart-felt wishes and regrets. Lowena has a few of those, though thankfully not that many for a woman who’s almost forty. At this time of day and this time of year, sitting on a coastal bench in north Cornwall, Lowena thinks she is one of the luckiest people in the world. A fresh salt breeze tousling her shoulder-length curls, gentle waves rolling to a damp beach, tinged pink by the fingers of a languid sunset, and a hearty casserole waiting at home in the slow cooker. Simple pleasures.
A glance at her watch and a chill seeping through her warm parka tell Lowena its’s time to go. She’s not done badly though, sitting here for nearly an hour on an early spring evening. It was just what she needed after working in the library all day. She loves her job, but it’s a bit short on fresh air. On the walk back to the car park, she realises it’s April tomorrow, and her mum’s favourite month. She remembers every year Tamsin Rowe always saying the same thing: March is too much like winter, and May is too much like summer, but April, April is the epitome of spring. It won’t be long before her mum will be out in her little patch of garden, weeding and organising new planting for her borders and pots, buying tomato plants and seed potatoes to layer under rich compost in the trusty old barrel she’s had since she was a new bride.
Lowena wonders where her mum gets the energy at eighty-five. Since her dad passed away three years ago, her mum has thrown herself into her garden and her various clubs and recently has even started beach cleaning. Lowena’s reached the conclusion that her mum’s keeping every minute occupied is probably a barrier against loneliness, and preventing memories of almost sixty happy years with her husband swamping her days. After dinner, Lowena will ring and see how she is. They haven’t spoken for a couple of days and last time they did, her mum said she felt like doing a spot of painting in the kitchen. Skirting boards and possibly the window sills. Lowena wondered if she was taking on too much, but didn’t say so. It would have made her mum more likely to do it. She sighs. Although her mum is fit as a fiddle, there’s a fine line at eighty-five between being fiercely independent and plain reckless.
As twilight is consumed by night, Lowena puts her key in the door of her Truro home and is greeted by two things: the wonderful aroma of casserole, and the pitiful meow of her black and white cat, Conrad. ‘Oh, come on, Conrad. Stop putting it on. I’m only an hour or so later than usual.’ Conrad, unimpressed, circles her legs and then sits looking pointedly at the food cupboard. Lowena crouches down and gives him a tickle behind his ears. ‘I just fancied a run out to Treyarnon Bay after work as it was such a sunny afternoon. You have biscuits in your dish, anyway.’ Conrad walks to the food cupboard and glares up at her. ‘Yes, okay. Don’t get your whiskers in a twist.’ As she spoons food into his dish, Lowena imagines that all over the UK, other cat owners are having a one-sided conversation like this. Conrad threads himself around her legs some more, and then as soon as dish hits floor, attacks the food as if he’s not eaten for days. ‘You’re a pain in the bum, aren’t you?’ She strokes his head. ‘But I adore you.’
As Lowena pushes her own plate away half an hour later, the phone rings. Must be Mum, she thinks, as her mum is the only one who uses the landline nowadays. She says mobile phones sound too distant, as if the person talking is down a well, or up a mountain, and what’s the point of them anyway? Why does everyone need to be in constant contact? When she was a girl nobody had a phone. And we were no worse off for it. Smiling at this, Lowena picks up the phone and makes herself comfy on the sofa. ‘Hi, Mum.’
Silence.
‘Mum?’
A rasping breath and a cough.
Lowena leaps up. ‘Mum! What’s happened? Mum!’
‘I… I’ve had a f-fall…’
‘Oh my God! Where? Are you hurt?’
‘…Yes, I’ve been on the floor… a good while… Enna?’
The line goes dead and Lowena’s stomach rolls as she imagines her poor mum lying on the cold kitchen floor. Has she fallen while painting? Broken something? Why the hell didn’t Lowena warn her against tackling such a job? She’ll never forgive herself if… Stifling a sob, she calls an ambulance and flies out of the house.
Lowena watches her mother sleeping. She’s been watching her sleep for the last two hours, her nose and mouth covered with an oxygen mask, a drip by the bed, and various tubes creeping around her body like synthetic vines. Her mum’s face is as white as the starched white pillows propping her up, her slender frame tucked in under crisp sheets secured by hospital corners, a white cast on her left arm. Only the remnants of her once dark-brown curls mixed with waves of silver-grey save her from totally disappearing. A nurse said the doctor would be popping in to speak to Lowena around midnight. Just a few more minutes to wait. Nobody is very sure what happened to her mum, just that she fell, has a broken wrist and fractured hip, and is very poorly. She’s on an antibiotic drip and the doctor will be able to tell Lowena more.
The feel of her mum’s hand in hers is a comfort. Even though it’s as light and dry as an autumn leaf, it’s warm, and the blue raised vein under Lowena’s fingers throbs with a steady pulse. She raises the back of her mum’s hand to her mouth and brushes her lips across it.
‘Don’t worry. You’ll soon be home and back to normal, Mum,’ she says. Then she sighs. Ignoring how frail her mum has become is something Lowena has become practised at over the past few months. It’s her defence against reality. But her mind only allows ignorance for a while. Sometimes upon waking, in the small hours, worry burrows a path into Lowena’s consciousness and asks difficult questions about the future. She’s mostly successful in giving partial answers and dismissing unwelcome thoughts, but right now under the harsh striplight, curtained off from the rest of the ward and the world, these questions won’t be silenced.
‘Lowena Rowe?’
Lowena looks up at a young male doctor who’s just stepped through the curtain. ‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Doctor Lawson,’ he says with a smile, and they shake hands. Despite his youth, his gentle brown eyes are underscored by dark circles and his smile struggles to sustain its shape, as if it has run out of energy. Lowena wonders how long he’s been on shift. ‘I expect you have a few questions, so I’ll quickly give you an update on your mum’s condition.’
‘Thank you,’ Lowena says, unsurprised to hear a tremble in her voice.
He pulls up a plastic chair and sits opposite. ‘Okay. We think your mum fell from a step ladder that was propped against the sink. I understand she’d been painting the kitchen windowsill above it?’
‘I think so, yes. There was a paint pot and brushes in the sink. When I arrived at her house earlier, the paramedics said she’d obviously climbed back onto the ladder to get down, and her foot slipped, or the ladder toppled.’
Dr Lawson pulls a sympathetic face. ‘Yes. Older people can sometimes forget they’re not as nimble as they once were, I’m afraid. We think your mum, as well as breaking her wrist and fracturing her hip, might have bumped her head and become unconscious, disoriented. She may have been on the floor as long as two days, because she’s very dehydrated and weak.’
Lowena’s hand flies to her mouth. Dear God. Poor Mum! On her own, in pain, frightened, but unable to move. Blinking tears away she says, ‘Two days… Oh, no. I had no idea. We keep in touch regularly and Dot, her friend and neighbour, goes round every day.’ Lowena shakes her head. ‘But I’d forgotten she’s gone to stay with her daughter in Devon for a week.’
‘Hey, it’s not your fault, Lowena.’ He passes her a box of tissues. ‘You can’t be held responsible for your mum’s actions twenty-four seven.’
Blowing her nose, she says, ‘Mum must have been in so much pain dragging herself from the kitchen to the phone in the living room.’
Dr Lawson nods. ‘Hmm. But the main thing is that she did it eventually, and now she’s with us and receiving the best care. She’s being rehydrated, and she’s on painkillers and antibiotics as she has a chest infection.’ He looks at Lowena’s mum. ‘She is very poorly. But she’s not ready for intensive care just yet. Hopefully it won’t develop into pneumonia. The next twenty-four hours will be crucial.’
His words send a chill through the length of her. Crucial? What exactly does he mean? ‘Are you saying her condition could worsen and…’ The rest of the sentence is left unsaid, though it’s loud in the silence.
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ Dr Lawson stands and puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Mrs Rowe is a determined woman, as many of her generation are, and as we’ve seen from her painting exploits.’ A corner of his mouth lifts. ‘But as I said, she is very poorly. We’ll just have to see how things go, okay?’
Lowena nods as numbness wraps itself around her chest.
‘Do you have any more questions?’
‘No… I don’t think so. Thank you, doctor.’
‘I’ll be off then. And so should you be. Get some rest and come back tomorrow. You need your sleep. We’ll phone if there’s a change.’
Once more alone with her mum, Lowena fights back tears. She knows her mum can’t see her crying, but she needs to keep strong for her. Losing her now, so quickly, so unexpectedly, cannot happen. Taking her mum’s hand between both of hers, she tells her how much she loves her and sends a silent plea to whoever might be listening. ‘Not yet. Please. Not yet.’
Lowena’s been home ten minutes when she realises, she left her mobile on the bedside cabinet in the hospital. Shit! There’s no way it can wait until tomorrow, in case the hospital tries to phone during the night. The landline is out of action because she left the handset on the sofa after she called the ambulance, and it’s out of charge. Lowena’s bedside clock says 1.30am. Wearily, she pulls her coat back on and heads out.
When she arrives back at The Royal Cornwall Hospital, the ward station is unmanned, but Lowena can hear low voices coming from behind a curtain just inside the door. Now what? Should she wait for the nurse to come back out? No telling how long she’ll be though. Lowena’s sure it will be okay to pop through without asking permission first. She just wants to grab her phone and go. Hurrying along to her mum’s bedside, she stops and looks around. The curtains of her mum’s bay are pulled back and the bed’s been made. Lowena is sure this was the bed. Can’t have been… But the next bed has the sleeping form of a much younger woman. This woman was in the next bed to her mum’s earlier. She spins round when she feels a hand on her shoulder.
‘Miss Rowe?’
