Page 61 of The Women at Ocean's End

The ferry crossing had been horrendous this time. They had been thrown around the bunk beds in a cabin that had neither a porthole nor easy access to a toilet. Heather was sick so many times Dotty lost count. Indeed, she felt sick herself, but somehow, she’d managed to soldier on. It had been hours on end of holding a bucket before the child’s head and then scrambling to wash it out before the next wave of nausea hit. ‘Summer swells,’ an old man muttered in the corridor and even he looked green, although he wore a uniform and his complexion told of decades on the sea.

Bobby had booked it, the cabin at least, for them. Perhaps he thought that it might make her change her mind, but Dotty had decided a long time ago that their marriage was not worth saving, or maybe thatshewas not worth saving. He didn’t love her any more. How could he? At some point the penny must have dropped. She wasn’t quite whole, you see. In spite of the glamour and appearance of being someone who could love, she fell very far short of that particular mark. In the end, it was all about Heather, she knew it, even if Bobby couldn’t admit it to either of them.

At least their divorce was one thing her mother wouldn’t have to bear. Sylvie Wren had died the previous summer. Being Sylvie she picked the most convenient time, a week before Dotty and Heather were due to arrive for a summer holiday on the island. Constance told her she’d walked to the end of the vegetable garden to pick some berries for a fruit tart and keeled over.Dead before she knew it. A blessing. Dotty had survived years living half a life and she was only too painfully aware of it. But then again, Sylvie deserved an easy death, she’d done nothing wrong. Naivety is not a crime.

‘Come, come, come.’ Constance was standing at the pier waiting for them when they finally arrived on the island, her smile as wide as it had been when they were children. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, was it a terrible crossing?’ She grabbed Dotty first, pulling her close in a tight grip and holding her until Dotty unfurled from her friend’s embrace. ‘You must be dead on your feet, both of you.’ She looked down at Heather and her features instantly softened. ‘Oh, my God, look at you, you’re even more adorable than last year.’ She swept her up into her arms, nuzzled her neck while Heather screamed with delight.

‘We’re worn out, if I’m honest, I’ve never had such an ghastly journey.’ Dotty took their bags from the old guy who’d brought them across. ‘Come along, Heather, look lively.’ She poked her daughter gently with her bag.

‘I’ll take that.’ Constance reached out her free hand for Heather’s suitcase and clasped the kid’s hand tightly so they swung arms all the back to Ocean’s End.

‘For goodness’ sake, Constance, all that swaying, you’ll make her sick again,’ Dotty snapped as they walked.

‘But I like it Mum, really.’ Heather looked up between the two women.

‘I’m sure a few days’ rollicking about on the beach will be enough to put the colour back in her cheeks,’ Constance saidsoftly and she pulled Heather close to her so her arm wrapped around her as she walked. ‘You look good, Dotty,’ Constance ventured then, although they both knew it was a lie. She looked wretched, thanks to the long journey, but also, her eyes had started to show the first lines of age, her mouth, once one of her best features, turned down at the corners now, even when she smiled. Not that there was very much to smile about these days: a life in Fulham in a house that had once belonged to Bobby’s aunt and a humdrum existence of helping out at the local corner shop between putting meals on the table for both of them.

‘No, Constance, you look good,’ Dotty answered flatly. ‘Widowhood suits you.’ She’d said it without thinking, but the fact was that you could see the only wear and tear on Constance was loneliness and maybe a slight fondness for Victoria sponge cakes over the years. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean it,’ she said quickly, ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘No.’ Constance sighed, then she looked out towards the bay, turning her attention to Heather. ‘I think we should go rock pooling today, if you’re up for it? You can have a rest, Dotty, you’re probably just exhausted from all the travelling.’

‘Maybe.’ But they both knew that wasn’t what was wrong with her. The fact was that for as long as Dotty could remember, nothing seemed to make her happy. She could see there was joy all around her, people laughing and making the most of life, but for years it was just beyond her grasp. ‘I’ll sit with Maggie for a while, catch up, maybe she can tell me stories from the good old days,’ she said then, because for Dotty that was always the highlight of coming back here; hearing about the glittering London publishing parties that had been a part of Maggie’s life when she’d been at her most successful. She’d even dedicated one of her books to Dotty and Constance. They had been best friends, but like everything else in life, it felt as if someone had bubble-wrapped their friendship up to keep it for best wear only– and Dotty had a feeling that she would never be good enough to take it down and enjoy it.

*

Maggie always had a decent bottle of brandy on the go.

‘Medicinal purposes, dearie.’

‘I’m definitely in need of something.’ Dotty sank wearily into the deep sofa and downed half the glass in one thirsty gulp. She could swear, the room still tilted around her after that ferry crossing.

‘Here.’ Maggie topped her up. ‘Is everything okay with you, you seem…’

‘It’s just hunky-dory.’ But Dotty felt huge tears well up in her eyes. She couldn’t talk to anyone about how she felt, maybe that was half the problem, but Maggie was watching her now: these people, Maggie and Constance, they knew her too well to hide very much from them. ‘I suppose, I just needed a break.’

‘Sure we all need a little break now and again.’ Maggie replaced the top of the bottle and stood it on the edge of her desk.

‘My marriage is over, Maggie. When we go back, Bobby will have left the house, it’ll be news to Heather, but…’

‘Ah no, you don’t say.’ Maggie made all the right noises.

‘We both know I wasn’t cut out for marriage, Maggie, I’m more like you that way than my own mother.’

‘Poor Sylvie, she liked having someone to look out for her.’

‘She did.’

‘A pity she ended up…’

‘On her own?’

‘I was going to say married to your father, but…’ Maggie looked away, another of those things about Dotty’s childhoodprobably better left unsaid. But they both knew, she was too young, too naive for a man like Norman Wren – which was of course precisely why he married her.

‘Indeed.’ Dotty felt the reassuring wave of alcohol go to work at fogging up her brain. Soon it would wash across her nervous system, take the edge off everything. Peace. She loved sitting here, this room, with the bookcases, the open fire, the sun streaming through the windows across the gently fading rug. On the coffee table next to the sofa sat the elegant Edwardian letter box that Maggie had received as a gift from one of her publishers, long ago. Strange, but it looked smaller than she remembered now and she picked it up in her hand, examining it with fresh eyes. It was exquisitely made, with a hand-painted design along its smooth polished finish.

‘It’s extraordinarily beautiful, isn’t it?’ Maggie said. ‘So much craftsmanship and I’ve never actually used it.’

‘You should,’ Dotty said softly.

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