One Night on the Island(59)

My dress hangs ready, a froth of off-white vintage cotton. As I lie here in my pyjamas, I feel the slow roll of pleasurable anticipation in my gut. What would it be like to wake up on your actual wedding day, I wonder? How would it feel to know that in a few short hours you were going to vow to spend for ever with someone? Would I be a bag of nerves or serene and full of joyful certainty? At least I know one thing for sure – I’m not going to stand myself up at the altar. I went to a wedding once where the bride stood the groom up, it was a proper circus. Not someone I knew all that well, thankfully, but toe-curling all the same. It seemed unnecessarily cruel to allow things to get to that stage before bailing – the poor guy was in bits. But then even the best marriages sometimes end sooner than you expect. My mum must have woken full of wonder on her wedding day, unaware she was only going to have a few precious years with the man she adored. And Mack – he obviously expected his love story to last longer. Would they still have gone through with it if they’d known what lay down the road for them? Or would they have chosen to be alone, avoid the heartache? Maybe I’m doing the right thing after all … I can just about trust myself not to break my own heart.

I wonder where Mack has got to as I cross to the kitchen to grab coffee. We fell asleep on the sofa last night and he woke me just after midnight, murmured birthday wishes as he carried me to bed. As ways go to start a new decade, it was up there. Grabbing a blanket to wrap around my shoulders, I push my feet into some wellies and head out on to the porch to fill my lungs with fresh Salvation air. Leaning on the railings with my mug between my hands to warm them, I see that someone – Mack, of course – has written the number thirty with shells on the beach, two huge numbers that will stay there until the sea plucks them from the sand later. It touches me. In London, my birthday would be a flurry of texts, calls, streamers on my desk, cocktails in a noisy bar later. I’m freshly glad of my decision not to check my phone any more while I’m here, I don’t want that kind of normal life intrusion today. I’m keeping Ali up to date via email and I’ve chatted with Mum on FaceTime from the café a few times. I have her card and birthday gift with me already, she mailed it to me before I left. Here, I’m greeted by dolphins, as if they know it’s my birthday and have come to offer their best wishes. I watch them for a while, the wind chilling my cheeks, and it’s profoundly peaceful. This is my thirty.

‘Morning,’ someone calls, and I turn and see Brianne approaching with something in her hands. ‘Happy Birthday. I made this for you.’

I smile, surprised to see her. She pushes a tin towards me. ‘Brianne, that’s so kind, thank you,’ I say, lifting the lid to see she’s baked me a birthday cake, egg-yolk yellow icing decorated with flowers and my name. There are a couple of candles in there too. My mum will be pleased when I tell her, she’s always said it’s bad luck not to blow out a candle on your birthday. I gaze at the cake, choked by the gesture.

Brianne smiles, almost shy. ‘Come to knitting on Monday, tell us how everything goes?’ she says.

I nod. ‘Course.’

‘Good luck today,’ she says. ‘I better run, I’m late opening the shop.’

I pull her into a quick hug. ‘You’ve made my morning,’ I say, and she flushes with pleasure as she waves goodbye, already heading back towards the track.

What a kind person she is; the cake is so pretty, it must have taken her ages. I hadn’t really thought about the usual birthday things today, I’ve been so focused on the ceremony.

I pick up my coffee and take in the stillness for a few more minutes, leaning on the railings around the porch in the silence as I gather my thoughts.

‘Good morning, Cleo.’

Another voice; I turn to the path again and see Dolores.

I try to hide my surprise as I smile and step down from the porch to greet her. ‘Dolores,’ I say, unsure whether a hug is appropriate. ‘What brings you out this way?’

‘That child of mine wanted to come herself,’ she says. ‘I had to promise to bring these over, she’d have had that baby on the hill otherwise, you mark my words.’

She opens a neat jute bag hanging over her arm. I sigh softly as Dolores lays a circlet of wild flowers in my hands.

‘She thought the colours would look grand against your hair.’

‘Tell her it’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,’ I say. Delta has wound laurel leaves and wild flowers around fine copper, whimsical and bohemian, perfectly her, and somehow absolutely me too. ‘I really love it.’

Dolores nods. She looks at me, uncharacteristically uncertain as I place the circlet on my head, and then she reaches back into the bag.

‘This belonged to my eldest sister.’ She hands me a small blue cotton pouch. ‘She never stuck to the rules either, always off getting herself in some sort of trouble.’

It’s kind of a compliment, kind of not, but I don’t think Dolores intended it cruelly.

‘This is so kind,’ I say, opening the pouch. ‘I didn’t expect anything from anyone. Brianne was just here with a cake …’ I stop at the sight of the rose-gold Claddagh ring I’ve just tipped into my palm. I lift my gaze back to Dolores.

‘It might not fit you,’ she says. ‘My sister was quite a fat woman.’

I choke down a shocked laugh laced with tears because it’s so Dolores to be generous but vicious at the same time.