self-imposed isolation was more about delving deeper into Mum’s diary. I was already in a temper with Dad so thought I might as well find out a bit more about what had happened in the run-up to Mum’s untimely death. I planned to read the whole thing, but just a few pages in, I decided my stomach wasn’t up to it and banished the lot back to the drawer again. According to what Mum had written, not even her friends were excluded from Dad’s attention. She hadn’t gone as far as naming names but there was enough detail to know that he had crossed the line on more than one occasion.
I tried to put it all out of my mind again and went up to bed, this time not thinking about Sam, but about something that had really happened during my last holiday in Wynmouth. After such an emotionally mixed-up day, I had decided that tomorrow I would do something cheering. I would retrace my steps to the beach huts and anchor my thoughts in my memories as opposed to the pub fantasy I had cooked up and Mum’s tragically sad autobiography.
It had been behind beach hut number three that I had experienced my very first kiss, and what a kiss it was! Never to be forgotten and perfect in every conceivable way, it had never been bettered. I had kissed a fair few guys since that initial seductively sweet encounter, but no meeting of lips had ever felt so stirring, so arousing, so thrilling.
It might have been a self-indulgent trip down memory lane, and I couldn’t put my finger on why it felt suddenly so important to do it, but I truly believed that going back to the place where my life had felt perfect would be a psychological boost, one that would help me untangle a few things and face my future.
‘Oh shit,’ I groaned as I flung back the duvet before it was even light, slammed shut the window and traipsed to the bathroom for a towel to mop up the sill.
Mother Nature clearly had other ideas about my proposed trek to retrace my steps. I snuggled back down wondering if this was a sign. Some portent sent to put me off. Even if it was, I was going to ignore it.
By mid-morning conditions had improved just about enough for me to venture out. Bedecked in raincoat and wellies I left the cottage but soon realized I wouldn’t be walking to the huts along the sand.
‘You can’t go on the beach in this!’ bellowed a voice behind me when I took a step down the lane towards the seawall.
I turned and found the beach tractor was right behind me. The wind was such I hadn’t heard it approaching.
‘I know!’ I shouted. ‘I’m going the other way.’
‘Be careful then,’ said the guy as he trundled by. ‘You don’t want to get blown away.’
It was the first time he’d ever spoken to me and his expression, in spite of the battering it was getting from the wind, was marginally friendlier than when I first arrived. I wondered if he had been in the pub on Saturday night and was feeling more mellow after the evening’s entertainment, but I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t sure if I would have recognized him scrubbed up and out of his oilskins.
He turned the tractor left up the lane and I followed slowly behind. The weather didn’t feel quite so deadly with the seawall and the few cottages sheltering me from the brunt of it and by the time I had reached the end and was exposed to the view, the wind had dropped a little and it was hardly raining at all.
‘That’s more like it,’ I muttered, readjusting my hood and looking at the steeply rising path ahead.
I would be fine to walk the cliff path and with any luck I would be able to look down at the beach huts from the top. It might not have been what I originally had in mind, but I was still feeling resolute about making the pilgrimage and sometimes in life you just had to adapt.
I hadn’t trundled much further, however, before it started to rain harder and the wind picked up again, but I kept my head bent low and pushed on, determined not to give in. I knew I was more or less level with the huts and took a cautious step closer to the edge. I could see the roofs and if I