Page 91 of Coming Home to Sturcombe Bay
Sylvia Brayley was in her early sixties, with soft grey-blonde curls and her daughter’s soft blue eyes. “Ah, my little cherub. How lovely to see you.”
“Granma, we brought you flowers.”
“Though it’s a bit like bringing coals to Newcastle.” Liam laughed, glancing around the colourful garden.
“Oh, never mind that. They’re lovely.” She took the bouquet and put up her cheek for a kiss. “Come on inside. Martin,” she called back over her shoulder. “They’re here.”
“Can I go find Grampy?” Robyn pleaded.
“Of course, darling. He’s in the garden.”
Liam followed Sylvia into the sitting room. It was a cosy room, old-fashioned, with flower-patterned wallpaper, acomfortable three-piece suite in front of the fireplace, lots of flourishing pot-plants on the sideboard and several small occasional tables.
And photographs, of Natalie and her two older sisters — as toddlers on a beach somewhere, smart in their school uniforms in school photos, as bridesmaids at each other’s weddings. And then grandchildren.
A happy family.
And there was the one he had given them, in pride of place. A copy of the one on Robyn’s bedside table — of Natalie and Robyn on the sun lounger by the pool of their hotel in Greece. He felt that familiar twinge of guilt. If he had been quicker . . . And the guilt that he was still living, while Natalie was gone.
He knew that Natalie wouldn’t have wanted him to feel that. That Sylvia didn’t. But it never quite went away. He could only imagine how it must be for Sylvia, to have lost her youngest daughter. He knew how he would feel if anything happened to Robyn.
“Go and sit down while I put these in a vase,” Sylvia urged. “Then I’ll fetch in the tea.”
The sun was streaming in through the window, and he could hear Robyn’s voice out in the garden, chattering away to her grandfather, nineteen to the dozen. He smiled to himself. It was important to keep up these regular visits. It always would be.
Though he suspected that in ten years or so a teenage Robyn would grumble and pull a face:Must we?Then a few years after that, driving her own car, she would happily drive over herself to see her beloved grandparents. Heavens, he was pushing the time away . . . !
“There.” Sylvia came in with a pretty flower-painted tea tray. On it was a teapot and milk jug, three dainty teacups, and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She set it down on the low coffee table. “I brought orange juice for the baby.”
“That’s good. Thanks.”Just don’t let her hear you call her a baby.
“So how have you been?” She smiled at him as she poured the tea.
“Well enough, thank you.” He always tried to calibrate it carefully between assuring her that Robyn was happy while not appearing to have forgotten their loss. “She’s started in the reception class now. She loves it.”
“Goodness, how the time rushes on! Is she still with her little friends?”
“Amy and Noah — yes. They’re all in the same class.”
Robyn came running in, dragging her grandfather by the hand. “Granma, I saw a butterfly! A really pretty one.”
“Did you, sweetheart?”
“It was this big.” She held her thumb and forefinger a couple of inches apart. “It was blue.”
“That’s lovely. Come and sit down now and have your orange juice.”
The child bounced up onto the sofa beside Liam and took the glass he handed to her, her little face creasing into a frown. “Don’t I have cola please?” she asked.
“Not right now, sweetie.” Liam flicked a glance towards Sylvia, registering the hurt on her face. “You like orange juice.”
“But I like cola better.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Sylvia looked genuinely distressed. “I don’t have any cola. I forgot to get it.”
“That’s fine,” Liam insisted firmly. “You can have cola another time, but drink up your orange juice now, and say thank you to Granma.”
To his relief, the sweet side of the child’s nature came to the fore, and her beaming smile appeared like the sunshine. “Thank you, Granma.” She drank the juice, leaving an orange moustache on her top lip.
