Page 17 of Take Me Away

Chapter Five

KIT

‘Same again?’ Ayo raises an eyebrow, already reaching for my empty glass.

‘Might as well,’ I nod, ignoring Jude’s smirk. ‘Nothing better to do, is there?’

Friday night at The Ship Inn. Just like every Friday before it, and probably every one after. As reliable as the tide. As familiar as breathing.

The place wraps around me like an old coat – frayed at the edges, smelling faintly of damp wool and fryers that haven’t been deep-cleaned since the Nineties. Woodsmoke clings to the low ceiling beams. The salty air sneaks in through the door every time someone opens it, a briny undercurrent beneath the scent of beer and battered cod.

The floorboards still creak in the same damn places. The fishing nets sag the same way from the rafters. Even the dent in the bar where I rest my elbow feels like it belongs to me – carved into the wood and into habit.

Maisie’s tucked away in our usual corner, pink tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration as she draws something monstrous with a glitter pen. It might be a horse. Might be an alien invasion. Jury’s out. A half-flattened packet of salt and vinegar crisps lies abandoned beside her elbow.

‘You ever think about getting an actual babysitter?’ Jude asks, dropping into the stool beside me with a grunt, shifting like his leg’s bothering him again. He won’t say it. Rule number one: don’t talk about the leg.

‘What for?’ I say, waving a hand towards Maisie. ‘She’s happy here.’

I tried the sitter thing after Jess passed. Every local teen and middle-aged mum with a DBS check and too much energy got chewed up and spat out by my daughter. Not with tantrums – but with interviews. She asked one sitter for their tax code. Left another a note rating their snack choices. She set booby traps for a third. Glitter under the couch cushions. Jessica would’ve found it hilarious. She always knew how to handle Maisie. Even at the end when she was tired and weak.

‘Kindness with boundaries,’ she used to say. Said it like it was easy. It wasn’t.

Still isn’t.

I try. Most days, I fail.

‘Besides,’ I add, nodding towards Jude, ‘can’t leave you unsupervised either.’

He raises his glass in mock salute. ‘To family traditions. Warm beer and tragic chips.’

The pub’s filling now. Frankie and Bill are at it by the dartboard – arguing about whether squid ink has a place in a risotto. Dot from the post office is perched like a hawk over her gin, flanked by Mrs Anders, who runs the RNLI fundraisers, while Cal’s mum is diving into a glass of red big enough to float a lifeboat in. Friday night is their night out. Ayo and his wife Tilly just have to be careful it doesn’t unravel into sea shanties and a lock-in.

Dad slides onto the stool on my other side like he’s always been there. It’s the three Hardings at the bar. Every Friday. ‘Boat sorted?’ He signals Ayo for his usual pint of Cornish ale. I glance at him; he’s looking thinner, his hair now white like his own dad’s went, the back of his hands a collage of sun spots and scars.

‘Hydraulics should hold. For now. Maisie all good after school?’

‘You should’ve used stainless, and you know you don’t have to ask, she’s always an angel for me.’ His gaze briefly drops on his granddaughter’s studious expression. ‘Although I’m out of paper and apparently my pencils are for babies – she needs watercolours.’

‘Stainless is twice the price and out of stock,’ I reply. I make a mental note about watercolours, but to be fair, I’m not entirely sure what she means.

He grunts. Which in Dad-speak means I’m right about the boat but he’s too stubborn to say it. Harding and Sons’ Fishing and Repairs. Except the sons are still watching the old sea dog go out of a morning because he’s a stubborn bastard of a man who won’t quit for a quiet life. As much as Jude and I do the bulk, Dad insists it’s him.

We lapse into companionable silence. Until Jude ruins it.

‘So,’ he starts, ‘seen her yet?’

I don’t answer, just tighten my grip on my glass, but when he won’t stop staring with that stupid expression on his face I sag into my pint. ‘Who?’ I ask, like I don’t already know. Like our little encounter hasn’t sent me insane. Utterly insane.

Like I haven’t thought about her drenched through, blinking at me with those huge sea-moss eyes, a little thinner, a little blonder, angular and smooth skinned; all very Isla Quinn.

‘Heard she was back,’ Dad cuts in, tone sharp enough to split rope. ‘Maggie’s girl.’

He lifts his pint, a frown inches deep across his forehead. ‘Bit late for some things, isn’t it? Couldn’t be arsed to show up for her gran. Maggie doted on that girl, and she couldn’t even bother to bury her.’

Dad drains his pint like punctuation. Jude nudges his own across the bar for a refill, for once saying nothing. That silence is worse than the words. It means he agrees.

I down the rest of mine. It’s warm and flat and tastes like nothing.