The path was steep. Minutes later, maybe a quarter of a mile inland, he found himself climbing through torn rags of grey mist towards a single tree bent almost double by the wind. His doubts had flooded back again. Had all this started way back, with his decision to go for Chantry Cottage? Had he bullied Lizzie into coming with him, into sharing this fantasy life he’d promised her? Should he have been a bit more cluey about the signals she was sending him, about her growing sense of lostness? Should he have been a better husband? A better dad? And just as important in another way, should he be making a bigger effort to get a word of warning to Paul Winter? A man he’d once revered? The questions hammered at his brain: three betrayals, three ways he seemed to have got life so comprehensively wrong. Maybe all this wasn’t Lizzie’s fault at all, but his.
He was still staring at the tree. The way it had shied away from the wind, the way it had given in to the elements, spoke of an implacable force beyond the power of resistance. But then he climbed a little closer, buffeted by that same wind, and stopped again, barely feet away. Despite everything, he realised the tree was still alive. On bough after bough he could see tiny green buds pushing through. Despite the wind, despite the salt off the ocean, despite the mountain of odds stacked against it, the tree was hanging on. Why? Because it hadn’t — wouldn’t — surrender. Because it had clung to a life of its own. Come back in a week or two, he thought, and it would be in full leaf. Climb up here on a glorious day in midsummer, with the temperature in the eighties, and he might pause a while to enjoy the shade it offered. He found himself grinning, suddenly alive again. The rain was harder now but he didn’t care. He’d had enough of chasing the same old questions around and around. Guilt, in the end, took you nowhere. He checked his watch. Early afternoon. Perfect.
He was in Modbury within the hour. A petrol station on the edge of the town had pink carnations in a bucket outside the pay-booth. He bought three bunches and a bottle of Sauvignon. Minutes later he was parked across the road from Gina Hamilton’s house. Her Golf was on the hardstanding. He stood at the front door for a second or two, dripping from the rain. She must have the radio on, he thought. Adele. Bless.
He rang the front-door bell, the flowers and the wine readied. When the door finally opened, he barely recognised her. Her feet were bare and she was wearing a pair of blue overalls, way too big. A crimson scarf was knotted over her hair and the brush in her right hand was threatening to drip white gloss all over the doormat.
She looked at him for a moment, then her eyes strayed to the flowers. If she was in any way surprised, it didn’t show.
‘You’ve come to give me a hand?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘My pleasure.’
He left next morning at five past eight. Lizzie had been trying to get through to him all evening. Finally, he’d texted her back, asking if Grace was OK. ‘Grace is fine,’ came the reply. ‘We have to talk.’ But Suttle didn’t want to talk. Not yet.
Then, in the early hours, came another text. ‘Please meet us in the cafe at St David’s Station. We’re on the 09.28 to Portsmouth.’ Suttle hadn’t responded, rolling over and telling Gina it could wait.
Now he slipped into the Impreza and headed towards the A38. He was in Exeter by nine. Driving into the big car park outside St David’s station, he wondered how Lizzie and Grace had made it over from Colaton Raleigh. The buses were hopeless on a Sunday. Had she got a taxi? Or had someone given her a lift?
He found her at a table in the far corner of the café. She looked pale and drawn. She’d gelled her hair too, and it didn’t suit her. Her coffee mug was empty. Suttle asked her whether she wanted another. She shook her head.
‘And you, young lady?’
Suttle had picked Grace up. She was wearing a dress Gill Reynolds had brought down from Pompey and already it looked too small.
Grace wanted cake. Suttle carried her to the counter. Already this little tableau felt surreal. His wife crouched over her empty coffee mug, staring into the middle distance. A rucksack and a bulging holdall on the floor beside Grace’s buggy. A retired couple by the window having a quiet ruck about God knows what. Horrible.
Suttle carried the cake and a coffee back to the table and settled Grace on his knee.
‘You’ll need a hand with that lot.’ He nodded at the bags.
Lizzie shook her head. She could manage. She’d always managed. It wouldn’t be a problem.
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll give you a hand.’
She shook her head again. She seemed close to tears. She glanced at her watch, fumbled in her bag for the tickets, anything to soak up the silence. Then, for the first time, she met his gaze.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t think we mean it? You don’t think we’re off?’
‘Your decision, Lizzie. Not mine.’
‘Going, you mean?’
‘Yeah. And everything else.’
She looked at him for a long moment.
‘You won’t ever let this go, will you?’
‘I’ve no idea. I haven’t been here before.’
‘But you won’t. I know you won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because all men are the same. Black and white. One strike and you’re out.’
‘One strike? Is that how you see it? Some kind of game?’
‘Don’t.’ She turned away. ‘This isn’t helping.’
Suttle shrugged. If she wanted the satisfaction of a full-scale domestic, then he was happy to oblige. Otherwise there wasn’t a lot to say.
‘Your mum’s, is it?’ He broke off a chunk of cake and gave it to Grace.
‘Yes.’
‘So what’s the story? What have you told her?’
‘I told her the truth. I told her we’re sick of living in the country. I told her we need a real home.’
‘We?’
‘Me. Does that sound selfish?’
‘Yes, since you ask.’
‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’
Suttle fed Grace more cake and then brushed the crumbs off her dress. A voice on the tannoy announced the imminent departure of the Waterloo train. Passengers for Portsmouth should change at Salisbury.
Suttle was nuzzling the warmth and softness of his daughter. At this rate, he thought, he’d be the one in tears.
Lizzie’s hand was back in her bag. Then Suttle was looking at two pairs of keys on the table.
‘Are they for me?’
‘Yeah. They’re both for the cottage.’
‘You won’t be back?’
‘No. Not there. I’m through with it, Jimmy. I’ve had enough.’
‘So it’s over. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s your call. And in case you’re wondering, I’ve no interest in where you might have gone last night. Yeah? Does that make any sense?’
Lizzie got to her feet. Suttle gazed up at her. For the second time in twenty-four hours he felt totally marooned, adrift in a world he no longer recognised.
He cradled Grace in one arm and picked up the holdall in the other. The guy at the barrier wouldn’t let him through without a ticket. Suttle dropped the bag, kissed his daughter on the cheek, held her tight. He’d no idea when he’d see her again.
‘Bye,’ he said.
Lizzie had readied the buggy. Suttle strapped Grace in. They had three minutes to make the train.
‘Be in touch, yeah?’ Suttle said.
‘You’ve got the number. You know where we are.’