Silver Bay(50)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘That tight, eh?’

‘That tight.’

Nino was pretty surprised. I think until that point he had assumed that, because my father was the big name in the area when we’d first met, I must still be sitting on some sizeable nest-egg. But, as I explained to him, it was fifty years since the hotel’s heyday. And ten years since the Silver Bay had had anything like a constant stream of guests. Taxes, building repairs and the cost of looking after two extra people – one of whom required an endless supply of shoes, books and clothes – had put paid to what little I had set aside.

Nino took a gulp of his tea. Earlier, Frank had brought us a tray, complete with a plate of biscuits. That he had placed these on a lace doily made me cast a new look at Nino’s remaining single son, although Nino seemed to believe the decorative touch was for my benefit.

‘Do you want me to invest in the hotel so you could do a bit of renovation? Smarten up the rooms? Put in some satellite TV? I’ve had a good few years. I’d be glad to sink a few quid into something new.’ He grinned. ‘Diversification. That’s what the old accountant says I should focus on. You could be my diversification.’

‘What’s the point, Nino? You know as well as I do, once that monster goes up by the jetty, we’ll be little better than a shed at the end of their garden.’

‘Can you not survive on the whale-watching money? Surely Liza will be going out more often, with more people around. Perhaps you could invest in another boat. Get someone to run it for you.’

‘But that’s just it. She won’t stay if there are more people. She – she gets nervous. She needs to be somewhere quiet.’ The words sounded feeble even to me. I had long since stopped trying to justify the apparent enigma that was my niece.

We sat quietly, as Nino digested this. I finished my tea and placed the cup on the tray. Then he leant forward over the desk. ‘Okay, Kate. You know I’ve never stuck my nose in, but I’m going to ask you now.’ His voice dropped. ‘What the hell is Liza running from?’

It was then that the tears came and I realised, in horror, that I couldn’t stop them. The sobs wrenched my chest and shoulders as if I were suspended on jerking strings. I don’t think I’ve cried like that since I was a child, but I couldn’t stop. I wanted so badly to protect my girls, but Mike Dormer and his idiotic, deceitful plans had brought home to me how vulnerable they were. How easily our supposed sanctuary at the end of the bay could become so much matchwood.

When I had composed myself a little I looked at him.

His smile was sympathetic, his eyes concerned. ‘Can’t tell me, huh?’

I put my head into my hands.

‘I guess it must be something pretty bad or you wouldn’t be so shook up.’

‘You mustn’t think badly of her,’ I mumbled, through my fingers. A soft, worn handkerchief was thrust into them, and I mopped inelegantly at my eyes. ‘No one has suffered more than she has.’

‘Don’t you go fretting. I know what I’ve seen of your girls, and I know there isn’t a malicious hair on either of their heads. I won’t ask again, Kate. I just thought telling someone . . . whatever it is . . . might offer you a bit of relief.’

I reached out then, and took his strong old hand. He held mine tightly, his huge knuckles atop mine, and I took great comfort from it, more than I had guessed I might.

We sat there for some minutes, listening to the ticking of his mantelpiece clock, me feeling the alien warmth of his skin absorbed by my own hand. I realised I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t have the strength to reassure Liza, who was almost manic with anxiety. I didn’t want to be nice to Mike Dormer and his fashion-plate girlfriend, and think of what they had done to me. I didn’t even want to have to calculate their bill. I just wanted to sit in the still room, in the silent valley, and have someone look after me.

‘You could come here.’ His voice was gentle.

‘I can’t, Nino.’

‘Why not?’

‘I told you. I can’t leave the girls.’

‘I meant you and the girls. Why not? Plenty of room. Close enough for Hannah to stay at her school, if you didn’t mind a bit of driving. Look at this big old house. These rooms would love to see youngsters again. The only thing keeping Frank here is that he doesn’t want to leave me alone.’

I said nothing. My head was swimming.

‘Come and live with me. We can set it up however you want – you in your own room or . . .’

He was gazing at me intently and, in his heavy-lidded eyes, I could see an echo of the cocky young airman of fifty years previously. ‘I won’t ask you again. But it would make us both happy, I know. And I’d help to protect the girls from whatever it is you’re so worried about. Hell, I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, you know that. Even the ruddy mailman can’t find us half the time.’

I laughed, despite myself. As I said before, Nino Gaines has always been able to do that to me.

Then his hold on my hand became tighter. ‘I know you love me, Kathleen.’ When I said nothing, he continued, ‘I still remember that night. Every minute of it. And I know what it meant.’

My head jerked up. ‘Don’t talk about that night,’ I snapped.

‘Is that why you won’t marry me? Is it because you feel guilty? Jeez, Kate, it was one night twenty years ago. Loads of husbands have behaved worse. It was one night – one night we agreed wouldn’t be repeated.’

I shook my head.

‘And we didn’t, did we? I was a good husband to Jean and you know it.’

Oh, I knew it. I’d spent more than half my life thinking about it.

‘Then why? Jean told me – Jesus, with her dying words – she told me that she wanted me to be happy. She as good as told me that we should be together. What the hell is stopping us? What the hell is stopping you?’

I had to get up to leave. I shook my hand at him, the other pressed over my mouth as I made my way unsteadily towards my car.

I couldn’t tell him – I couldn’t tell him the truth. That what Jean had told him was a message, all right, but it was a message for me. She was telling me through him that she’d known – that for all those years afterwards she’d known. And that woman understood that knowing this would fill me with guilt for the rest of my days. Jean Gaines had known both of us better than Nino thought.

That night I didn’t go out to the crews. Guessing correctly that their indignation would fuel a long evening, I let Liza serve them and pleaded a headache. Then I sat in my little office at the back of the kitchen, where I worked out the guest accounts, and stared at the years of ledgers, the accounts that charted the hotel’s history. The years from 1946 to 1960 were fat binders, telling in the width of their spines the hotel’s popularity. Occasionally I would open them and look at the parchment-like bills for sides of beef, imported brandy and cigars, evidence of celebrations for a good day’s catch. My father had kept every last receipt, a habit I have carried with me. That was when the seas were full, the lounge area was loud with laughter and our lives were simple, our chief concern to celebrate the end of war and our new prosperity afterwards.