Page 55 of Pull Me Under

‘Brynn Trelawney,’ she says. Not a question.

‘Morning, Dot.’

‘You remembered?’ She folds the newspaper with deliberate care. ‘Most of the blow-ins start with “Mrs Pendleton” and have to be corrected.’

‘I’m not a blow-in.’

‘No.’ Her eyes sharpen behind her glasses. ‘No, you’re not, are you.’

I grab a basket and head for the pet food shelf – tucked between the cleaning supplies and the tinned vegetables. Ghost has developed a preference for the salmon flavour, which is either refined taste or feline manipulation. Possibly both.

‘Keeping that old tom, are you?’ Dot appears at the end of the shelf, arms crossed.

‘He keeps coming back. Figured I might as well feed him properly.’

‘Peter’s waif and stray. I’m surprised he didn’t find a new place after Peter—’ She stops. Swallows. ‘Well. Since.’

‘He’s still there.’

‘Good.’ Dot doesn’t move. ‘You’ve been keeping yourself to yourself, I’ve noticed. Nearly a week now and barely a word to anyone except Nina and that Harding boy.’

Here it is. The village interrogation I’ve been dodging.

‘I’m here to get my boat working and my cottage habitable,’ I say. ‘Everything else I’m … taking slow.’

‘Mm.’ She makes a sound that manages to convey scepticism, approval, and gentle judgement simultaneously.

‘Have you got gas fittings?’ I ask instead. ‘The old cooker in the cottage just needs the jets clearing and a new thermocouple. Should have it working by tonight.’

‘Bottom shelf, next to the plumbing tape.’ If she’s surprised by the subject change, she doesn’t show it. ‘You’re fixing that yourself?’

‘I’m a mechanic, Dot. Cookers aren’t complicated.’

‘No, I suppose they’re not.’ Her mouth twitches, grudging respect, maybe. ‘Walter would’ve liked that. Practical girl.’

She rings up the gas fittings, and the other bits I’ve picked up. Then, without looking up, she says, ‘Your grandad used to come in here every Tuesday. Eight fifteen, regular as the tide. Newspaper, bag of peppermints, and a lollipop.’

‘A lollipop?’ I can imagine the face I’m pulling trying to reconcile my grandad with a lolly.

‘For you. He never left here without something for you.’

My hand tightens on the counter. The memory isn’t soft and gentle, it crashes into me. Those round globed lollipops nestled in a white paper bag. I’d spend ten minutes trying to peel the plastic wrapper from the stick before giving up and handing it back to him for help.

How have I forgotten that?

‘Talked about you like you hung the moon. Kept a photo of you on the dash of that old van. Little girl with engine grease on her face, grinning like you’d just been handed the keys to the world.’

‘As he got older and older he talked more and more of this place,’ I say, out of nowhere. ‘He missed it here.’

‘And now you’re here.’

‘And now I’m here.’

I pay for the cat food and the gas fittings. Dot hands me my change with a look that’s openly speculative, reading my face like it’s nothing more than a cheap Sunday rag. ‘You sleeping in that cottage?’

My cheeks burn, and as much as I hate that, the weakness it shows, they do it all the same. ‘It’s not habitable.’

She nods; eyes still tight around the edges, lips pressed into a bud. In response, I shift my weight from foot to foot. ‘My inheritance didn’t exactly come with a large bank roll.’