Page 4 of The Path to the Last House Before the Sea

‘I’m not sure. It’s open-ended because I want to give Dad a hand. I’m on my way to the shop now, to see if I can help.’

‘Then I won’t keep you. But you must call in when you have time and have a cup of coffee with me. It’s so lovely to see you.’

Magda’s bright smile warmed Jack’s heart and he thought, not for the first time, what a shame it was that she’d never married and had children of her own. She’d have been an excellent mum, just as his own had been.

He swallowed, suddenly feeling close to tears, and Magda put her hand on his arm.

‘You take it easy, Jack, and look after yourself. And don’t forget to come and see me.’

Jack tried to smile. ‘I won’t. I promise.’

‘And say hello to Stan from me and tell him not to work so hard.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘I tell him all the time but he never listens. Maybe he’ll listen to you.’

‘I doubt it, but I’ll do my best.’

‘That’s all we can do. He can be a stubborn old fool, sometimes.’

With another smile, Magda walked away and Jack stooped down to do up the lace on his trainer. When he glanced up, he realised he was at eye level with the Mourning Stone, a small chunk of dark grey slate that sat on the edge of the green. The stone had been erected almost three hundred years ago, by a grieving family, to mourn the loss of Charity Hawkins.

The inscription was worn by centuries of wind and rain, but it was still legible. And – unfortunately – Jack knew it by heart:

In memory of Charity Hawkins, aged eighteen years and three months. Cruelly murdered on the 15th of October in the year of our Lord 1753 by Josiah Gathergill.

Why they’d included the name of Charity’s murderer escaped him, though if it had been to shame the Gathergill family, it had done the trick. The Gathergills were persona non grata in the village for years afterwards, according to his dad, who’d heard old family tales from his great-grandfather.

That level of shame had long since dissipated but Jack would still rather not be related to a murderer. Especially a murderer whose deeds were still so public, thanks to the Mourning Stone –and tour guides spouting fanciful tales of sea dragons.

Which brought him back to the woman on Dartmoor and his bad behaviour. Jack sighed and started walking back to Gathergill’s Mini Mart, leaving the ancient, accusatory stone behind.

THREE

MAGDA

Magda stepped into the churchyard and watched Jack until he disappeared from sight. He cut a lonely figure as he skirted the green and, though he wasn’t her son, she worried about him these days. She worried on Penny’s behalf, now her friend was no longer around to protect her family.

Poor Penny. Magda approached the grave that stood in the shadow of the yew tree, and laid down her daffodils. The flowers were a splash of yellow against the headstone, which was so shiny and new next to the older stones in the graveyard.

Penelope Jane Gathergill. Her name was picked out in silver lettering. Beloved wife of Stan and loving mother to Jack, and John (1985–1999).

It could also truthfully have said Profoundly missed best friend of Magda. Surrogate sister, even, as the two of them had been so close. But Magda was glad that her name was missing from this public memorial because Penny had not known what was in her heart. And if she had…

Magda stooped down and deliberately busied herself, pulling stray weeds from the graveside and brushing dirt from the headstone with her hand. ‘Hey, Penny,’ she said softly, glancing around to make sure she’d not be overheard talking to the dead. ‘The cliffs are dotted with spring flowers and the first mackerel catches are coming in. The village is filling up with tourists and the lifeboat’s already been launched a couple of times to rescue people who strayed too far out on the rocks. When will they ever learn?’

She paused, feeling foolish. Giving Penny a round-up of life in the village was probably pointless, but she liked to give it, nonetheless. Just in case Penny was watching from some kind of afterlife.

Though, if she was, she’d know very well what was really happening in Heaven’s Cove – her husband working long hours to banish his grief, her son lost after the breakdown of his marriage, and her best friend running the village ice-cream parlour while trying so hard to squash down her emotions.

‘Sorry,’ said Magda, just in case Penny could hear. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m sorry you’re not here and I’m sorry that I was never as good a friend as I should have been.’

She straightened up, rubbed her aching back and wandered over to the wooden bench beneath the church tower. She had lots to do – running a business was time-consuming – but she would sit for a moment and gather her thoughts.

Heaven’s Cove was bustling with visitors today but the graveyard was an oasis of peace. She loved this graveyard – which Stan referred to as the dead centre of the village, his humour often verging on black – and today the calm was broken only by chirping birds and bees humming past.

As the sun warmed her body, Magda’s eyelids grew heavy and her mind began spooling back through the decades. Back to a bright autumn day in 1974, when she stood in this very graveyard, dressed in blue satin.

Back then, a chill breeze caught her bare arms as she followed Penny into the ancient church. People stood and watched them walk past, Penny’s white gown rustling when it brushed the pews. And there, waiting for his bride, was Stan, handsome in a dark suit.

He looked nervous, standing at the altar. He was biting his lip – always a sure sign of discomfort beneath his usual bravado. But his face lit up when he caught sight of Penny and he smiled at Magda too, following behind.

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