To Love and Be Loved(100)

‘It is . . . Last time I went in was for my dad’s funeral. He died.’ She didn’t know why she felt the need to tell the stranger, but did so anyway.

‘It’s probably best.’

‘What is?’

‘That he’d died, if you had a funeral for him.’ He drew breath. ‘Sorry, that’s my idea of humour, which I can see by your expression is entirely the wrong thing to do at the moment. I do that when I get nervous, and death makes me nervous.’

‘I think it makes everyone nervous.’ She stared at the stranger, his manner odd.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He let the sentiment settle.

‘Thank you. It was a little while ago now, but still feels like yesterday in some ways.’

‘Yep, I know that feeling. It gets you here.’ He thumped his chest, where his heart lurked. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it, when your dad dies? I lost mine five years ago and it’s . . . awful. Yes, that’s the best word.’

Merrin felt the spring of tears.

‘Oh no, you look like you might cry! That’s really bad! Worse than my joke.’ He took a step towards her and stared, as if figuring what to do or say that might help. He had a kind face, crinkly eyes and a nice mouth. His hair was quite long.

‘No, it’s not; I mean, it is bad, but it’s not you. I can usually control it. But tonight has been quite emotional and sometimes any mention of him or any thought of him and it’s like flicking a switch, and that’s terrible because when I saw him in real life, I never felt like crying, just smiling.’

‘Well, the good news is that it stops. I can promise you that.’ He spoke with authority.

‘Which bit?’

‘The sudden crying. Although I still cry – not all the time, but if I see someone in a coat similar to his, because I think it might actually be him and the disappointment is overwhelming. And I cry if I hear his voice on a message or a video. I cry when my mum or my brother cries about him; it sets off a sort of chain reaction.’

‘You still seem to cry a lot.’ She sniffed. ‘After five years.’

He looked up towards the darkened night sky. ‘Not really, maybe twice a month, and I think that’s okay. But that switch thing you were talking about, that resets.’

‘So it’ll keep getting easier?’ she asked with a note of hope that was too much to be putting in the direction of a stranger.

‘Easier?’ He put his hands in his pockets and looked out to sea. ‘Not easier, no; it gets different.’

‘Different?’

‘Yeah, it’s like it hurts just as much, but you’ve lived with it for so long you don’t notice it quite as much, and you still miss him like crazy, but you learn to talk to him in your head and hear his answers too, if you’re smart about it.’

‘I do that already.’

‘Then you are way ahead of the game.’ He nodded in her direction, his expression kind.

She looked over at the Sally-Mae, moored against the harbour wall. ‘My dad was my guy, my person. I knew that, no matter what, he would be there – not always sober, not always with the best advice. Some of his ideas were hare-brained!’ She smiled. ‘But he was my guy.’

‘Well, I think you were very lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘Yes, I think so. Some people have terrible fathers and they would give their left nut to be sat here today feeling an overwhelming love and gratitude for a dad who’s gone.’

‘I guess you’re right.’ She looked down and noticed he was barefoot on the cold, wet sand. ‘Where are your shoes?’ She sat up straight, a little aghast.

‘Behind you.’ He pointed. ‘That’s why I was coming over here, to retrieve them.’

‘Oh, I thought . . .’

‘You thought?’

Merrin sounded it out and thought it ridiculous to say, ‘I thought you were coming over to me . . .’ ‘I thought you had shoes on!’

‘Oh, no. It’s my thing. It’s odd, I know, but since I was little I like being barefoot. There’s something about walking on the sand or the grass or dirt and feeling it beneath your feet, it sort of connects you to the planet. I know that sounds a bit—’ He pulled a face.

‘No.’ She smiled. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘You should try it.’

‘Maybe I will.’ She tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her pashmina; a chill was starting to bite.

‘So are you from Port Charles? I think I may have seen you once or twice before.’ He reached behind her and gathered his trainers and socks, which she hadn’t spotted, into his hands, leaning close enough for her to inhale the scent of him: a clean, lemony scent, fresh with a hint of sea salt.

‘Maybe. And yes, I’m from Port Charles.’

‘Oh, right, and you like it?’ he asked as he balanced, popping on his socks and shoes.

‘I love it. It’s my home. I have a memory lurking behind every pebble and every grain of sand.’

‘I get that. But for me, swap grains of sand for blades of grass. My family is in Herefordshire – farmers. My brother runs the business now, and I like knowing everything is as I left it. And I love going home to see my mum, but when you’re more than a phone call away . . .’ He exhaled. ‘It can be tough.’