An island of secrets, p.1
An Island of Secrets, page 1
An Island of Secrets
Eva Glyn
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 © Eva Glyn 2022
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Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2022
Cover photographs: Shutterstock.com
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Eva Glyn 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: 9780008553258
Ebook Edition © April 2022 ISBN: 9780008553241
Version: 2022-04-01
Contents
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
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Chapter One
February 2014
Suffolk, England
Even now the intense heat makes him sweat, the Mediterranean shimmering towards the distant horizon. And thyme, wild thyme. The buzz of bees, low around him as he walks, and slowly, gradually, a clamour of voices from beyond the grey fold of the hillside. Louder with every step, like the ratcheting up of the knob on his radio.
The crisp white sheets between his frail fingers, powerless to stop what he is about to see. To hear. To experience. The women – crying, wailing as they are forced to dig at gunpoint.
Pleading sounds the same in any language.
The salt on Guy Barclay’s cheek wasn’t sweat; it was a tear. The tear of a useless, old man. The rattle of teacups down the corridor reminded him just how bloody useless. Useless and alone. He unclenched his fingers from the sheet.
Good god, Guy, get a grip. You’re not alone and you’re not entirely useless. Well, not yet, anyway.
It was just that, even at ninety-three, there was so much left undone. The small – like the empty paint pots in the garden shed he should have cleared out years ago – and the large. The large was what was bothering him now. The large and impossible to put right. But all the same, as death crept closer he was filled with an increasing urgency to know, and perhaps by some miracle assuage the guilt. What had happened to her?
He struggled to remember the saying. It was something like “war makes strange bedfellows”. That had been true enough. Tito’s Yugoslav partisans, unruly but brave as hell, fighting to regain their homeland, fuelled by hatred and passion. British commandos, ruthless fighting men too, but professional soldiers with at least a degree of military discipline.
Even that was unfair. Too black and white, when there was every shade of murk and khaki in between. Good men and bad – or at the very least, good and misguided. But in whose view? Yugoslavia had turned out all right, he supposed. Better than a lot of communist countries, anyway.
Almost thirty years ago he had picked up a brochure from the travel agent, but although he could have visited the Dalmatian island of Hvar, the tiny speck of nearby Vis wasn’t mentioned anywhere, and that was where he really wanted to go. It was only years later he learnt it had remained a militarised zone until the end of the 1980s.
Of course, his beloved Laura had still been alive then, and how could he have explained his sudden desire to visit the country to her? He’d never been one for wartime reunions so it would have seemed very strange. And a few years later there had been another war in the Balkans. And then Laura had been so very ill for so very long. And after she’d gone, foreign travel had seemed too exhausting, too difficult. Or had he been afraid of what he would find?
The need to know was sharper than impending death. That held few terrors; he knew his time was almost up. He was rotting away and he felt it in every feeble muscle and bone. Besides, he had at least some faith in the hereafter, although he had struggled to cling onto it when Olivia had died four years ago. It was wrong on every level for your child to go first.
At least she had seen her daughter, Leo, married. He stole a glance at the wedding photograph on the windowsill; the only person missing had been Laura. Leo and Marcus were centre stage, beneath the arch of the ruins next to Walberswick Church, with Olivia and Dick on one side, and him and his older daughter, Mo, on the other. Such a happy day, with no hint of the tragedy to come.
He looked at the picture more closely; Leo was beautiful, a great deal like her mother. Tall and slim, the full-length white sheath dress had suited her perfectly. She wore no headdress and no veil, her glossy brown hair cut into its habitual bob, her arm resting lightly on Marcus’s as they smiled at each other.
When Olivia had died it was Leo who had railed against it the most. “If only we’d known…” she’d said to him, far more often than he cared to remember. And that meant he should really tell her now that his own days were of finite number. She would want to know, he was sure, but how to break it to her gently?
It would be easier face to face, but of course she didn’t often have time to visit with that high-flying City job of hers. So much easier if he could have held her hand and explained he was fine about it, which was the truth, after all. But there was someone who could hold her hand. Her husband Marcus. Guy had his mobile number somewhere and he’d phone him just as soon as he’d had his breakfast.
Normally Leo found a certain amount of masochistic pleasure in the brisk fifteen-minute walk up the hill; after all, it was about the only exercise she got. But tonight the rain was lashing down and the lure of a black cab outside Greenwich station was just too much.
“Where to, love?” The standard greeting.
“Hyde Place, please.”
Leo sat back and closed her eyes. It would be a miracle if she didn’t fall asleep on the way. The days were too long, the nights too short, and broken. To cap it all off, this afternoon the figures for the last quarter had come through on one of her investments and profits had plummeted – apparently without warning. The board would be certain to ask some questions so she hadn’t been able to leave the office without making sure she knew the answers.
The rational part of her brain told her her successful track record would be enough to weather the inevitable storm, but the exhausted, broken part was not so sure. She shook her head from side to side like a dog. She’d witnessed burnout amongst her colleagues and it wasn’t pretty. Surely she wasn’t going the same way? There had been a terrifying moment last evening when she couldn’t find her phone and had eventually located it in the fridge. She’d stood in the kitchen, arms wrapped tightly around her, trembling. In a responsible job like hers you couldn’t afford to get flaky. People’s pensions depended on your performance.
The empty darkness of the park appeared in the taxi window as it swung around the corner. Leo cleared her throat.
“Just here please – end of this terrace.”
“That’s nice, love. Lights on to welcome you. Will he have cooked your tea? My girl always does me a hot meal when I come off shift in the morning.”
She smiled at the cabbie as she handed over her fare. “Something to look forward to.”
“Too right. Now you have a good evening.”
Leo opened the metal gate and ran up the path to slide her key into the lock. After her conversation with the taxi driver she almost felt like calling “I’m home!”, but what would be the point? The lights were only on because she’d set the timer – same reason the radiators were filling the entrance hall with warmth. Marcus wasn’t here. She’d driven him away.
She had no desire to go down to the kitchen. Until a few weeks before it had been the hub of their life together and for some strange reason she still expected to see Marcus at the scrubbed oak table, newspaper spread in front of him and a glass of red close to hand. She still expected the aroma of something delicious to waft up the stairs to meet her. All right, so sometimes he’d barely noticed her come into the room but it had still been comforting to have another human being in the house, someone to share her day with.
But now the space at the bottom of the stairs was dark, save for the red flashing eye of the answerphone on the Welsh dresser. She ignored it and headed for the fridge, pulling out her ready meal and flipping it over to read the instructions. Once it was in the microwave she poured herself a glass of wine and put it on a tray next to her plate and fork. There, she was ready to escape the moment the infernal machine pinged.
She wandered over to the dresser and pressed the button on the answerphone. Probably a junk call. Who used landlines anyway? Except Grandad of course, and much as she wanted to talk to him she’d been avoiding his messages because she didn’t quite know what to say about Marcus. But no, another familiar voice filled the room, and she felt her heart beat faster. Perhaps… perhaps… he wanted to come back.
“Um… Hi Leo, it’s Marcus.” Pause. “Look, this is a bit awkward. Well, very awkward really. Your grandad phoned today. You haven’t told him about us, have you, and it put me in a difficult position. Well anyway… he said… Shit, Leo, there’s no easy way to say this. I mean, I couldn’t come around and tell you because I have another commitment tonight.
“He wanted me to tell you he’s dying. I mean, he’s OK about it and it isn’t going to be straight away, but he thought you should know. I’m really sorry – he’s a nice old bugger.” Silence. “Give me a ring tomorrow if you want a chat.”
Leo dropped onto the nearest chair with a thump, barely hearing the microwave ping. It was too much to process. Grandad was dying and he was all she really had now. Marcus clearly cared so little about her that his “other commitment” was more important than telling her face to face. But whose fault was that? She could almost hear him say it.
Was it her fault Grandad was dying too? No, that was the thought of a crazy woman, a drowning woman. Or a woman burning out. She clutched the edge of the table, her wedding and engagement rings digging into her finger against the wood. She was on her own now; what would happen if she ceased to be able to cope? Who would look after her in this huge empty house if she fell to pieces?
The thought was too terrifying for words. She desperately wanted a slug of wine – well, to neck half the bottle, actually – but she was rooted to the chair. Grandad had to be her priority now. Focus on him. Find out what was really going on. It was too late to pick up the phone to the care home, but tomorrow she would take a day off and drive up to Southwold to find out.
The urge to be at Sea Gables was overwhelming. So many childhood holidays spent with her mum at her grandparents’ house while her dad was travelling the world with his job. Hour after hour on the beach, goosebumps covering her skin when she came out of the water, the scratch of marram grass when it caught between her toes. Taking the little rowing-boat ferry across the river from Walberswick to Southwold for fish and chips. Playing cricket in the garden, or curling up in the conservatory to read, with the rain lashing the glass.
But now Sea Gables was full of ghosts. Her grandmother’s, her mother’s, and soon Grandad would be joining them. No. It was much too soon. He was only… ninety-three. Oh god, she should have seen it coming… Tears stung the back of her eyes, but they did not fall. She felt too lost and empty even to cry.
Instead, Leo pulled her phone from her pocket and fired off an email to her boss, telling her there was a family emergency so she was taking a long weekend. And if she didn’t like it, tough. With shaking hands she rescued her dinner from the microwave and, taking one last look at the empty dining table, carried it upstairs. Now she had another reason to hate that bloody kitchen.
How frail he looked, Leo thought. But then she remembered the same thing struck her every time she visited. But he was still her grandad, the grandad who’d been more of a father to her than her own, his silver-grey hair combed flat, his little moustache trimmed, and the collar of his checked shirt neatly arranged over his jumper. She leant to hug him and he held her with a ferocity that brought her close to weeping.
“You look well,” she said. “Considering…”
“Better than you do, probably.” He was smiling that half-smile of his, when the left side of his mouth curved up all on its own.
“Oh, I’m fine.” Leo unzipped her Barbour gilet and hung it over the back of the chair before sitting down opposite him.
“No, you’re not.”
“At least I’m not dying.”
He reached out and patted her knee. “I’m all right with that, really I am. It’s my time. Didn’t Marcus explain?”
There was no point in trying to conceal from Grandad what she’d so effectively hidden from the world for the last three weeks. “He left me a message. We’ve… we’re having a trial separation.”
“Oh my darling girl, why didn’t you tell me?”
“It… it hasn’t been long. I haven’t told anyone.”
“So it’s not of your choosing?”
Mutely, she shook her head. She was unable to hold back her tears any longer. All those endless days and nights of pretending she was fine, and now she broke, in front of the very person she didn’t want worrying about her. The truth of what she’d done was so damned awful, she didn’t want to tell a soul that Marcus had left her, not even her closest girlfriends, and no one had been surprised when she’d cancelled their social engagements. She was always working anyway so they were used to it.
She took a deep breath and pulled a tissue from her pocket. “Sorry, sorry, this is meant to be about you, not me.”
“There’s nothing more to say about me, Leo. My body’s wearing out, that’s all. That pesky prostate of mine will get me in the end.”
“But can’t they…? Isn’t there treatment?”
“I don’t want any. I’d like to enjoy another summer if I can, but that will be my lot. And much as I don’t want to leave you, darling girl, I can’t last forever.”
Leo wiped away another tear. “I know. And thank you for telling me, for giving me chance to get used to the idea.”
He sat back and put his head on one side. “Although now I realise my timing is rather lousy. Do you want to tell me what happened between you and Marcus? Or is it just one of those things too?”
He’d given her a get-out, but Leo was almost too exhausted to care. “Yes. Just one of those things. I… I probably work too hard, put in too many hours. But I love my job and he always knew that.”
“And was happy enough to enjoy the spoils,” said Grandad drily. “But do you know what, Leo, it’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned work without a sparkle in your eyes.”
