Page 113 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

‘You treated us all like idiots. Then and now.’

Essie’s hand flies to her mouth. I mean, everyone joked about the tiny town, didn’t they? It was hardly a town at all, really, just a village that happened to have a Scot Nor minimarket which gave it ideas above its station.

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘So you keep saying,’ says Shelby.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Essie. ‘You were always so pretty and so popular.’

‘Is that what you think?’ says Shelby. ‘That I had it easy?’

Essie remembers the way people whispered about Dwight and Shelby’s family, bad things, half heard, half remembered. Bad stuff. A bad lot. She shakes her head.

‘I got . . . I think I got a lot of things wrong.’

There is quite a long pause, and a draught is getting in the house.

‘Well, it’s good of you to say it.’ Shelby draws herself up to her full height, bosoms on full point, checked shirt tied at the waist, eyelashes to put Dolly Parton to shame. ‘But if you ever, ever, ever think you are slumming it with my brother . . . you’ll have me to answer to.’

‘Understood,’ says Essie, watching her turn around and head up the little close – an indomitable woman, she realises, from a bloodline, a tradition, an entire musical culture of indomitable women to whom men have done wrong. And she does understand.

Dwight looks at her, grinning.

‘What?’ she says.

‘You think my sister’s tough, wait till you meet my ma.’

46

Sure enough, all of Carso suddenly descends on the Seagate cottages, taking direction from Wee Jim, showing up with an unfortunate number of unnecessary carpet oddments and strange cushions and of course – ofcourse –everything knitted for a house that can conceivably be knitted for a house. Antimacassars and curtains – curtains! – blankets, cushions, throws, a lampshade which looks point-blank dangerous. Essie’s eyes are wide. Verity shows up, armed with a new set of knitting needles and looking ready to get stuck into the fun. Gradually the oil rig boys take over with the hammering, and, as the afternoon creeps on, Essie, utterly exhausted – she barely slept – looks around to see where Dwight has got to.

He’s out, on the other side of the street, looking out over the sea.

‘Hey,’ she says, joining him.

He glances up, nods. He’s holding up a stick; Smokey can already jump up past his thighs.

She stands in front of him. ‘You okay?’

He shrugs. ‘I was an idiot.’

‘So was I. I was worse. And you still lost the bank loan.’

‘I’d have lost it all if it wasn’t for you. I’d have lost everything.’

‘My mum said . . . ’ begins Essie.

‘She’s alright, your mum,’ says Dwight.

‘She really is,’ says Essie.

She thinks back to the trip to the hospital in the car, dashing across the hills in the tiny red car she had disdained.

‘I’m so sorry . . . ’ she had begun, and Janey had turned to her.

‘You never, ever have to apologise to me. I’m so sorry it was so hard on you.’

Essie had thought of the missed calls; of the fact that her father hadn’t come to see her even once.

---