Page 122 of Take Me Away

‘He can’t help it when people die. And Peter wouldn’t want him thinking that, I’m sure.’

‘And neither would Jess. Don’t stop it happening, though.’

A steady ache hollows my limbs. ‘That’s so sad.’

‘He’s a tragic bastard.’ He grins, but I think he’s only half joking.

‘Can you stay with him for a while? I could do with popping back to Maggie’s and getting changed.’

‘When you going to stop calling it Maggie’s and call it home?’

His question blindsides me. I don’t have an answer, so I turn and head upstairs to find Kit and tell him I’ll be back.

Then I head … home…

I tidy the kitchen.

Not frantically, not like I’m trying to pack up or purge anything. Just … clearing space. Making room. I fold Maggie’s old pinny and tuck it into a drawer, line up the chipped mugs along the windowsill, wipe away the dust that still lingers behind the spice rack. Maggie would want this place to be pristine, not me treating it like I’m just passing through.

Inexplicably a deep craving for Maggie comes over me. I wish I could see her just one more time so I could say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for letting her down. Sorry for never telling her the truth. Sorry for not coming to her funeral and not showing everyone just how much I loved the only woman who ever showed me any maternal care.

My tears fall as I clean. Tears of shame, embarrassment and regret.

Did she always know I’d end up back here? That no matter what happened to me, where I went or what I did, my path would always lead me here?

Is that why she left me this place, her way of still saying, I’ve got you, girl, even when I let her down?

When I pull open the side cupboard, to put away some table linen that I don’t think I’ll ever need, I find her old recipe binder – green faux leather with peeling corners, its pages warped with age and sticky fingerprints.

Halfway through, I find it.

Blackcurrant jam.

The same one that used to stain my fingers as a child, that turned toast into memory. We used to make it together the week before I returned to boarding school. Our tradition. Just the two of us in this kitchen, Maggie patient and steady while I inevitably made a mess.

‘You’ll get the hang of it eventually, girl,’ she’d say, wiping purple from my cheek. ‘And when you’re feeling lost, you make something. Put love into it. Give it away. That’s how you find yourself again.’

God, I miss that jam. But not as much as I miss the woman who made it.

I don’t cry. Not this time. I just smile, run my thumb over the faded ink, and know what I need to do.

Nina needs love she can hold in her hands. Something sweet in the bitter.

I can do that. I can make Maggie’s jam.

The cottage still smells faintly of damp and old lavender, grief and hope. I glance out the window at the sea-blown garden.

I grab Maggie’s old wellies from beside the door. Still too big. I’ll need to get my own.

As I step outside, the wind lifts the edges of my coat and threads through my hair, but I don’t pull the hood up. I let it tangle me, remind me I’m here, real and solid against the Sea Salt Bay air.

I walk down the hill to the village shop – past the harbour wall, the butcher with its sign of the pig, and Frankie and Bill’s shack, which is closed. Past the pub with its faded chalkboard sign still promising karaoke Wednesdays.

No one stops me. No one whispers. A couple of heads nod. A smile or two. I hold my head up high.

Dot is behind the counter at the shop, newspaper open, glasses perched on the end of her nose. She glances up as the bell jingles.

‘Oh, Isla, how’s Kit?’ she says, folding the paper. ‘How are you?’