To Love and Be Loved(81)

‘Thank you for driving me home. Thank you,’ she whispered, laying her head on his chest. ‘Are you . . . are you going to come in?’ she asked weakly.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I need to get back and I think it’s only right I leave you with your family to come to terms with this, but give your mum and Ruby my condolences. I’ll call you tomorrow and if you need me at any time of the day or night you just pick up that phone and I’ll be here. I love you. I really do.’ His voice cracked.

‘Thank you. Drive safely.’

Miguel held her tightly and kissed her tenderly once more, before climbing back into the driver’s seat. She felt his love and knew she would never forget his actions on this night, knowing it was one of the kindest things anyone had ever done for her. As she watched the tail lights of his car trundle back up the road, as if creeping quietly in the dead of night, the door to the cottage opened and out came Ruby, beautifully swollen with pregnancy, but her face red and contorted as she cried from eyes that were now no more than narrow slits.

‘Merry!’ Ruby’s voice was no more than a rasp and her face tortured as her fingers gripped Merrin’s arms.

‘Oh Ruby!’ Merrin fell against her, the two clinging on to each other as if their lives depended on it. Silently they held each other on the slippery cobbles in the dark, as rain fell and the wind rushed at them, carrying salty, sea-laden sheets that soaked their skin and the fabric of their clothes. It was as if this wild corner of Cornwall was roaring at the loss of its son, and she understood, wanting to roar too.

‘He’s gone!’ Ruby gasped.

Again Merrin’s tears broke their banks, as her heart felt like it might dissolve. The sight of her sister and the fact her dad was not running outside with arms wide to welcome her home told her that it was true.

Making their way inside, she rushed up the stairs of the cottage and knocked gently, before walking into her parents’ room. The sight was something she knew she would never forget.

Heather Kellow had got old, just like that and almost overnight. She had lost her shine, her sparkle, her plump face, her laughter and her joy; replaced by a dull, slender imitation of the woman, but one with a vacant expression, sallow cheeks and eyes that wordlessly spoke of pure sorrow. She barely shifted in the bed, but with great effort, raised her head a little from the pillow and said her daughter’s name, her voice, barely audible, one of sadness and gravel.

‘Merrin . . .’

‘Oh Mum! Mummy!’ Merrin climbed on to the rickety brass bed next to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. It was as if her spirit had fled and she now gripped the shell of Ben’s wife. There was no welcome smile, no offer of tea or baked goods, no interest in anything other than lying very still and hoping the minutes might pass, or that they might all wake in a time where either they hurt a little less or they smiled, realising that the whole horrible thing had been no more than the very worst kind of dream.

‘He’s gone,’ she mouthed, as tears sprang from her bloodshot eyes and ran down her face. ‘He’s gone . . .’ This followed by a sound, a whimper that was animal-like and wounded.

‘It’s okay, Mummy. I’ve got you.’ She grasped at words, anything that might help her mother heal.

‘Ben,’ Heather murmured, pushing her face once again into the pillow, her call a low moan. ‘Ben!’ As if she might be able to summon him if she tried hard enough.

To see her mother like this added an unimaginable layer of distress to her own grief. Merrin didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to make things better. Her first instinct was to call for her dad – he’d know what to do. And this thought was enough to rip a hole in her heart, as she sank down next to her mother on the pillow and inhaled the scent of the man who was no more.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


MERRIN

It was early morning. Merrin sat on the soft, embroidered cushion that had, for as long as she could recall, lived in the window seat. She took as much comfort from running her fingertips over the abundance of raised, brightly sewn flowers as she always had. It was something soft and pretty to distract her broken heart. With her legs raised and her chin on her knees, she stared out of the window of the cottage. It was raining and the sky was a dark, brooding grey, which suited her just fine.

On a day such as this, it was hard to remember how different the place looked in the sunshine; hard to remember sunshine at all. It was, however, hardest to imagine a life here in Port Charles without her dad. He was always around. Had always been around. Whether he was in the house, sitting in the chair by the fire, leaning on a wall chatting to someone, down by the quayside in his rubber waders getting ready to go out to sea with Robin and Jarvis, or going in or coming out of the pub – singing, if it was the latter. One of the most prominent sounds of her childhood was lying in her little bed with the window cracked open and listening to his whistled song growing louder as he drew nearer home and then his booming voice greeting her mum as he finally came through the door after any time away. And, of course, his legendary snoring that escaped from beneath the bedroom door. He was a short man, but a noisy giant, larger than life with a presence that made him tall.

And now, even if she returned to Port Charles, she knew it would never be the same, because her dad would not be here. Running her hand over her chest, she felt where a deep ache of discomfort grumbled, and pinched her nose to stop her tears – a neat trick she had learnt that enabled her to sit here and hold in the sadness that would, if released, certainly upset her mum.