To Love and Be Loved(99)

‘Yes.’ Merrin’s voice was no more than a murmur. Granny Ellen and Guthrie . . . It was a lot to comprehend, shocking, and she wondered how she had never questioned how humble fishermen had come to be the owners of this lovely building and the little trawler that had no debt.

‘Ellen – the girl who married a Kellow, who gave birth to Ben and never left Port Charles,’ Loretta surmised.

‘I . . . I don’t know what to say.’ Her thoughts came thick and fast.

‘Guthrie never forgot his first love and when he died I found this in a book of verse by his bed.’ She reached again into her pocket and produced a small black-and-white photograph that she handed to Merrin. It was of her gran, Ellen Bligh; she was smiling with eyes lit up in a way Merrin had never seen before, beautiful.

‘Look at the back,’ Loretta instructed. Merrin turned it over and read the calligraphy.

‘I would not wish any companion in the world but you.’ William Shakespeare.

‘So was it revenge, Loretta?’ Her tone was kindly despite the nature of her question. ‘Did you want to spoil Ellen’s granddaughter’s life because Ellen seemed instrumental in destroying Guthrie’s?’

‘Maybe a little bit at first.’ The woman’s eyes misted. ‘But then I realised you two were in love and I did my best to make things perfect.’

‘But then?’ Merrin asked with emotion.

‘I could see that my son wasn’t ready. Was too young, immature, and so I asked him which he would choose: you or our money. It was a test. Guthrie would have given up every penny he owned for Ellen.’

‘But Digby chose the money.’ Merrin spoke with a crack to her voice, her distress not at the loss of him, not any more, but at the whole bloody mess and all the heartache that their love affair had caused.

The two women sat in silence with their thoughts.

‘Is there anything else you want to say, Loretta?’ Merrin braced herself for more revelations.

‘Yes.’ She sat up in the chair and straightened her pearls. ‘Do you have any wine?’

‘Oh! I do, somewhere.’ She walked to the cardboard box in the corner and fished out a bottle of red, rinsed the mugs in the bucket and gave Mrs Mortimer a slug of warm red in an old tea mug before lighting a candle and sitting down with her own.

‘So what now, Loretta? Do I need to give you this place back? Is it rightfully yours? Is that what you’re saying? How about the Sally-Mae?’ Her jaw was tense, her tone firm, and she decided in that moment that if that were the case, she would do it and she would survive. After all, she’d been through worse.

Loretta laughed out loud. ‘Good God, no! Of course not! They’re yours, of course they are yours! They were never mine. None of it is mine. Not a penny. Guthrie’s parents made sure of that. Everything passed from Guthrie to Digby. I don’t own a thing. Which is odd, really, as even my parents owned their caravan and the one hundred and fifty prime acres it sat on.’ She winked at Merrin and lifted the mug to her lips. ‘Cheers!’

She felt a loosening in her shoulders and neck and raised her own mug. ‘Cheers, Loretta.’

The woman stood and wiped her mouth, and Merrin followed, ready to see her out. It was a surprise when she walked forward and held her in a tight hug, talking over her shoulder.

‘I meant what I said that day: let yourself live, Merrin. Grab life and run with it because it’s short.’

Having stood on the slipway and watched Ma Mortimer make her way up Fore Street, Merrin decided to sit on the steps that led down to the beach and try to make sense of the evening they had shared. As the cool night air bit, she looked towards the cottages, where lamplight glowed from the windows and her beloved family awaited her return. Sitting still, she looked out over the water.

‘Oh, Gran, how I would love to chat to you right now . . .’

Turning her eyes towards movement, she saw the silhouette of a figure walking briskly up from the shoreline, as if newly sprung from the sea itself. A silhouette she didn’t recognise, but a man, certainly. Tall and broad, he appeared to be heading straight towards her, his stride purposeful. Her mouth went a little dry with nerves. It was one thing to be alone out here in the environment she knew back to front, but with a stranger? She looked back at the lights along the quayside and took comfort from them, halfway between home and the pub, where family and friends were within shouting distance.

‘Oh! Hi!’ His voice was friendly and his manner confident as he lifted his hand in a wave and came closer.

As he approached she recognised the shape of him as someone she had seen jogging once or twice at a distance or had opened the door of Everit’s for to let him pass. ‘I thought I saw someone coming down to the beach; made me quite self-conscious, and then you disappeared. Didn’t realise you’d taken a pew there in the shadows.’ He wasn’t from around here, no Cornish accent.

‘Ha! I don’t take a pew often,’ she retorted.

‘What?’

‘Church, I . . . I don’t often go to church.’ She didn’t know why she shared this.

‘Ah, just the usual then? Weddings and funerals?’

‘You don’t know how accurate that is!’ She laughed.

‘I keep meaning to pop into St Michael’s there on the hill.’ He pointed over her head. ‘It looks lovely, but I haven’t been inside.’