To Love and Be Loved(88)

As they started the slow procession, accompanying Ben on his final trip through the place he loved, a sound so mournful and beautiful cracked open the stillness. It was the voice of a male choir, lined up on the terrace of the pub and all with eyes closed and faces turned towards the heavens, singing ‘I Am Sailing’ – loudly, proudly and beautifully, their deep voices carrying the words higher and higher all the way up to Heaven and out over the sea. There wasn’t a soul present who could fail to be moved by the soulful melody, sung in perfect time.

‘Did you do this, Jarv?’ Heather asked, looking from her son-in-law to the men singing them along their passage.

Jarvis nodded through his tears.

‘I thought he’d like it,’ he managed.

‘Oh, Jarv.’ She smiled at him with a hint of life behind her eyes that had been missing for days. ‘He’d bloody love it.’

And so they walked together, with the song falling and rising around them, carrying them forward like the tide itself.



‘Where are you going, Merry?’

‘Just for a walk on the beach. I want to get the last of the light.’ She grabbed her dad’s old yellow oilskin jacket and popped it on, letting the sleeves hang over her hands and liking the scent of him that lingered on it still.

‘How are you feeling?’ her mum asked softly, her expression tortured, her eyes tired.

‘Glad today’s nearly over. I’m sad, Mum, a bit numb. I don’t really know how to feel.’

Heather nodded, suggesting it was the same for her.

‘I’m going to close my eyes in the chair for a minute or two. I know it’s early, but I’m done.’ Her mum bit her lip and wiped her face with trembling fingers.

‘I shan’t be long,’ she said over her shoulder as she quietly closed the cottage door behind her.

Merrin walked the cobbles and let the cold air of early evening sharpen her thoughts. The moon was full and the sea calm. The sounds of celebration and remembrance and hoots of laughter drifted from the back room of the pub, where Ben’s wake was still in full swing for those who had decided to make a night of it. And for the briefest moment in the foggy confusion of grief, she pictured her dad inside, propping up the bar and laughing at whatever merriment was occurring, before the hard lance of realisation made him fade from the picture. The irony was he would have loved today: the singing, the beer, being the centre of attention . . .

At the edge of the coastal path where the steps veered to the left, she began her descent to the beach, treading them with caution as she looked out over the darkening landscape. About halfway down the steps, she sat, running her hand through the air, and reaching back to feel the sandy soil, trod by those whose bloodline she shared.

Home . . .

She drew breath and spoke aloud. ‘It’s not been my home for a long time now, and yet part of me lives here, always will.’

Her eyes swept over the cove where fragments of her heart and every memory of her beloved dad were lodged in the rocks along the shoreline, the bark of the full and ancient trees that stood proudly on the clifftops, and where his laughter would carry as faint whispers on the summer breeze. She could see him now on the deck of the Sally-Mae with his head thrown back and eyes closed, laughing loudly in abandon.

‘I wish I could have one more day, Dad. Just one more to tell you that I love you, and that I hope Ruby was speaking in grief and frustration, because the thought of letting you down—’ She gulped the sob that built in her chest. ‘I want the life you had, Dad: solid, happy, and even one filled with love.’ She closed her eyes and thought about Miguel. Her thoughts flew to the night of her engagement to Digby and her dad’s words: ‘I wish . . . I wish for you both a long and happy marriage like the one we share. Cos I know that without Heather by my side there’s no point. She’s everythin’. My good mate, my great love and all my happiness.’ Her mum’s eyes had misted as she wiped her face with a tea towel. That was what Merrin had hoped for. But maybe it was unrealistic; maybe making Miguel happy, even though her feelings were a little muted, would be enough.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


JARVIS

The bar was full of drunks in their darkest finery, black blazers and suit jackets hung on the backs of chairs like the saddest of skins shed for the purpose of drinking and remembering. Black ties sat askew against throats that were hoarse from singing and shouting as they reminisced about the man they loved and had lost. The windows were steamed up and the floor sticky with booze slopped from unsteady hands. One such pair of hands now made their way to the little corner table where Ben had held court on many a night. The oak tabletop still pulsed with the touch of his hand and the legs were scuffed where his steel-toed boot had kicked as his leg jumped in excitement, as the fisherman’s tales grew more elaborate and the jokes more raucous with each sip.

Jarvis felt a bit third party – here but not here; everything had a dream-like quality. When he found himself to be having a good time he’d look around for Ben and his brain would remind him sharply that this was his wake, the news landing like a jab to his gut.

‘Here we go, mate.’ Robin placed the full pint of beer in front of him on the table.

‘Cheers.’ Jarvis took a sip. ‘It don’t seem real.’

‘It don’t.’ Robin stared at him.