Page 75 of Forever, Maybe
Patsy let herself into the house with a key. This was unexpected. Nell hadn’t prepared for meeting anyone except Reggie and Pamela. Maybe she should wait for Patsy to leave?
Thankfully, the visit was brief. Patsy reappeared moments later, locking the door behind her.
Nell opened the car door and swallowed hard, willing herself not to be sick. Her legs were shaky as she made her way to the Hardys’ gate, where a plaque read:No cold callers. What did that make her—warm, cold, or some catastrophic weather front barrelling in? Just as her hand brushed the latch, Patsy’s voice rang out.
“Can I help you?”
Nell froze but quickly turned, forcing a smile. “Yes… I’m looking for Reggie and Pamela Hardy. I work for… the council.”
“Social work?” Patsy asked, narrowing her eyes.
Nell nodded. “That’s right.” It was a convenient umbrella term, especially for older people who might need help with care, mobility adaptations or filling out claim forms. Fingers crossed, Patsy wouldn’t press for details.
“They’re away,” Patsy said flatly. “Left this morning. Coach tour around Scotland. Back on the twenty-seventh.”
Nell’s heart sank, but she nodded politely.
Patsy squinted, her brow furrowing. “Do I know you? What did you say your name was?”
Nell’s breath caught. She’d come here today ready to tell Reggie and Pamela everything, but Patsy wasn’t the right person for this. Not yet.
“Sarah Murray,” she said, naming her sister-in-law. “I suppose I just have one of those faces.”
Patsy didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, she shrugged. “All right, then. Make sure to come back on the twenty-seventh.”
Nell nodded again, muttering vague assurances as Patsy climbed into her car and drove off.
The irony stung. The Hardys were off touring Scotland while Nell stood here in England, turning her plans upside down. Now, she’d have to come back on her birthday. What a way to mark the day.
Masochism guided her left instead of right at the end of the street, leading her to the pier. Though summer was still weeks away, the beach was dotted with life—dog walkers ambling along the sand, toddlers splashing in the retreating tide under the watchful eyes of parents and grandparents.
The pier itself, which had looked worn and weathered even when Nell was a child, now radiated that brand of melancholy unique to British seaside towns. Their glory days belonged to the late Victorian era and the first half of the twentieth century, when trains delivered eager day-trippers and families crowded into B&Bs for week-long holidays. Now, those same families sought out the golden sands and dependable sunshine of Spain, Greece or the south of France, leaving places like this to quietly crumble into the sea.
Each step on the wooden boards of the pier produced a symphony of creaks and groans. The present blurred as memories swept in, unbidden and vivid: the pale yellow-and-pink ice-cream van that also sold sticky candyfloss;Frying Tonight,the fish-and-chip van, manned by a man so morbidly obese he barely fitted behind the counter; the dark-haired gypsy boy whose mother promised to tell your fortune while he hawked buckets, lines and mackerel bait to hopeful crab fishers.
And Darren. Darren buying her a bag of chips, drowning them in vinegar. Darren laughing hysterically as a fearless seagull swooped down and stole most of them.God, your face! Here, have some of mine. Or I could get you an ice cream, Nelly-welly?
Nelly-welly. The first time Stephanie had used that nickname, Nell had leapt out of her skin.
The sound of the sea pulled her back. She’d reached the end of the pier, where the Pavilion Theatre stood, stubbornly defiant against time and change. A banner outside declared it was the last remaining “end of pier” entertainment venue in the UK, while a nearby billboard announced the one-night-only return of a faded 90s comedian. His face leered from the poster, his large, pore-skinned nose thick with belligerence, daring passersby not to laugh at jokes about mothers-in-law and immigrants.
That crawling sensation returned—a low, miserable itch beneath her skin. It always came when she visited this part of the world, a feeling of something unresolved and unwelcome. She shouldn’t have come here. She should sort out her mother’s hospital appointments and leave before the Hardys returned from their Highland tour.
Her past, like the comedian scheduled for his one-night gig, was best left to decay quietly in the 1990s.
Finito. Over and done with.
Chapter thirty-four
May2016
“Everything alright?” Joe asked, glancing up from his laptop. He’d perched himself on one of the armchairs in Daniel’s office, one foot resting on the other leg as he investigated options for recipe boxes.
Daniel sighed heavily and tossed the spreadsheet he’d been staring at onto the desk. “No’ really. My wife’s no’ speaking to me, and my mother’s already called me twice this morning wi’ the happy news that Father Reilly offers marriage guidance therapy for couples on the brink o’ divorce. Apparently, it’s a mix o’ Hail Marys and begging God for forgiveness.”
Joe snorted, leaning back in his chair. “That auld hypocrite? D’ye no mind the rumours? The Catholic Church moved him from Ireland to Scotland ten years ago because he had a wee bit on the side. His housekeeper, supposedly. And the woman had a kid everyone in the neighbourhood said was his.”
Joe wasn’t religious, but Nicky had insisted on the full suite of Catholic rites for their brood—baptisms, confirmations, and the occasional mass. The world was hard enough for anyone born in the 21st century, she said; they needed all the help they could get. And this was Glasgow, after all, so she knewexactlywhich priests had quietly ignored their vows of celibacy.
