Page 39 of Take Me Away

The path to the lighthouse is windy and wild, the grass slick with what looks like a fine mist but feels more substantial when it hits my skin. It’s afternoon, but the autumnal sky is petulant with clouds. It’s not dark, not yet, but it wants to be. The sea crashes against the rocks below, temperamental and moody. In the distance, the lighthouse stands sentinel, its white tower stark against the grey sky.

Maggie’s boots squelch in the mud as I make my way towards the small crowd already gathered at the base. My stomach knots as I approach. Most of these people have known me since I was a gap-toothed kid with scraped knees. They’ve also seen me leave.

Nina spots me first, waving enthusiastically. ‘Isla! You made it! I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ The invitation had arrived yesterday with some lavender shortbread. Another reason I think Piper has run back to London: with me only picking at the crumbs, she was concerned she was going to eat the lot.

Several heads turn. I recognise faces from the pub, though names escape me for many. Dot from the post office gives me a measured nod. Bill and Frankie offer cheerful waves. Reuben Harding’s scowl deepens at the sight of me, his hand tightening on Maisie’s shoulder, although she gives me a wave and bites her lip when it’s clear that her grandad won’t let her run over to see me. ‘We’re working on the pathway,’ he says gruffly, guiding her towards the opposite side of the site.

The message is clear: keep your distance from my granddaughter.

I scan the group instinctively for Kit, relief and disappointment warring when I don’t spot him.

‘Don’t mind the stares,’ Nina says, approaching with a tall, lean man whose kind eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Small town. Big news. You know how it goes.’

‘Too well,’ I say, attempting a smile.

‘This is Tom,’ Nina introduces. ‘Our local vet and my partner in crime since we met in sixth form.’

‘Pleasure,’ Tom says, handshake firm. ‘Nina’s been telling me you’re staying in Maggie’s old place. She was quite a woman. Helped me nurse my first dog when everyone else said he was too far gone. In fact, she inspired me to become a vet. Said I had to follow my heart, when everyone else was telling me I had to do what the rest of the men in the family do.’ He eyes the sea. ‘Fish.’

‘That sounds like Maggie.’ My smile feels more genuine now. ‘Never one to give up.’

Nina links her arm through mine. ‘Come on, I’ll show you what we’re doing today. I’m so glad you came.’

She leads me towards the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, a small stone building adjacent to the tower itself. Windows boarded, roof sagging, it’s seen better days.

‘This will be the exhibition space,’ she explains. ‘Photos, artefacts, the history of Sea Salt Bay’s maritime heritage, all that kind of thing. But first, we need to clear all these rocks from the last cliff fall.’

She points to a considerable pile of rubble against one wall. Several villagers are already at work, loading stones into wheelbarrows.

I glance around the crowd of volunteers, and then drop my gaze back to the debris the collapse of the lighthouse has left behind.

‘Kit’s out on the boat today,’ she adds casually, though her eyes assess my reaction. ‘I think him and Jude have both the boats out because the weather is changing later.’

I nod, ignoring the urge to scan the horizon. ‘Where do you want me?’

Tom hands me a pair of work gloves. ‘You can help us sort. Smaller stones for the pathway restoration, larger ones for the sea wall.’

I get to work, grateful for the physical activity. My muscles, accustomed to carefully choreographed workout routines with personal trainers, protest at the unfamiliar strain of lifting and carrying. But there’s something satisfying about the simple labour, the immediate visible progress as the pile shrinks.

‘This weather’s turning to proper mizzle,’ Tom comments after we’ve been working for about an hour.

‘Mizzle?’

‘Not quite mist, not quite drizzle. Mizzle.’ He grins. ‘Cornish speciality.’

I laugh, wiping damp hair from my face. ‘My dialect coach would love that word.’

‘Oh? What’s a dialect coach?’

‘Someone who teaches you how to do this.’ I slip into a perfect Cornish accent, thicker than my natural Sea Salt Bay inflection ever was. ‘Proper job on that rock wall, me ’andsome.’

Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘That’s uncanny.’

‘It’s what they pay me for,’ I say, returning to my normal voice. ‘Or used to, anyway.’

It’s nice just methodically picking up rocks and dropping them again. Strangely satisfying, especially if I consider throwing them onto Marcus Vale’s face.

Boom. Smash.