Page 15 of The Sisters at the Last House Before the Sea

8

ISLA

The churchyard was peaceful this afternoon. Tourists were few and far between as winter drew in, and an icy wind was keeping the locals indoors. It was just as well that Maisie had opted to go back to bed, thought Isla, closing her gloved hands around the piping hot coffee she’d just bought from Gathergill’s Mini Mart. She’d only have moaned about the weather and complained that she was terminally bored.

Isla took a sip of her warming drink and placed it carefully on the wall that encircled the church. Then she pulled a trowel from the tote bag she was carrying, knelt on the cold ground and began to tidy the grave of Jessie’s parents, Frederick and Mary.

Jessie used to come here regularly, to make sure the grave was shipshape and, when she became more immobile, the local residents’ association took over its upkeep. The association offered because its members were already tending several of the graves, on behalf of older residents who were no longer up to the task.

But Isla felt guilty as she pulled a weed from the damp earth. She should have said that she would look after the Anstey family grave, and she would definitely do so from now on. Her grandmother would be pleased, even though she hadn’t been one for lasting memorials.

Jessie had preferred to be cremated and scattered to the four winds from the clifftop, just as her beloved husband, Arthur, had been almost thirty years ago.

‘I don’t need a slab of stone with my name on it,’ she’d said. ‘All I want is to be remembered fondly by you and your sister. That’ll do for me.’

Isla swallowed back tears. She would always remember her grandmother with great affection, and she hoped that Caitlin would, too, in spite of being so distant these last few years.

She pulled her hat further down over her ears as a blast of cold air swept across the graveyard, and thought about the mysterious letter that their grandmother had left them. No wonder Great-Great-Aunt Edith had set off for warmer climes with her love, William, even though she must have missed this little village and her family. It was hard but she’d had the courage to strike out and make a new life for herself, thousands of miles away.

Ten minutes later, once the grave was tidied and gravestone cleaned, Isla pulled a small potted poinsettia from her tote bag and placed it beneath the etched names of Frederick and Mary. Its red leaves provided a splash of colour and brought some cheer to the churchyard.

Isla stood up, stretched her legs and smiled, imagining Jessie at her shoulder. It felt as if she was honouring her grandmother by doing a task that the old lady had once done herself. She glanced up at ancient St Augustine’s Church, remembering Jessie’s funeral service there that was so well attended. And she thought back to Caitlin’s tears that day which must prove, surely, that she, too, had loved their grandmother. Though Isla couldn’t shake the feeling that some of Caitlin’s weeping had been guilt for not coming back to see her family while she could.

A familiar stab of anger struck Isla and she tried to smother it. Jessie had been distressed by the sisters’ estrangement and would hate to think that her death had made it worse. Just as she would never have wanted the stipulation in her will to stoke resentment between the young women. But that’s what it had done. Allowing Isla to stay on in the house for as long as she wished had been a kind and generous gesture, but Caitlin seemed determined to get her out.

A tendril of guilt wrapped around Isla’s heart. Was she wrong to insist on staying at Rose Cottage? Paul seemed delighted about it and was already talking endlessly about moving in. He had plans for how the house could be improved. Isla felt a flicker of…something. An emotion that flared and disappeared so quickly, she couldn’t put a name to it.

She stooped to adjust the potted plant slightly, before straightening up. It was fine for her to stay on in the house, she told herself firmly. Caitlin, who didn’t need the money, would soon be heading back to her posh home, anyway. Then, life in Heaven’s Cove could get back to normal – as normal as it could be without Gran.

Isla sighed and shook her legs, which had begun to cramp in the cold. When stamping her feet didn’t help, she began to walk briskly round the churchyard, to get her circulation going.

Behind the red-stone church was a patch of ground which held a number of battered gravestones. Many of them were standing at an angle, as if they might fall at any moment. This edge of the churchyard faced east and was blasted by storms, blowing in off the sea, that sloughed away the names of the dead.

But the residents’ association had been busy here, too, Isla noticed. The grass had been cut right back and the stones looked scrubbed clean. It made names on the more sheltered stones easier to read again, now they were cleared of moss and dirt – people from the past were being revealed after being lost for generations.

Isla wandered among them, the cramp in her legs beginning to ease. There were lots of local surnames amongst the stones and she became caught up in the stories that were hinted at by the information still legible: Emma Blackmore, who died at the age of twenty-nine in 1901 and was buried with an infant; John Crump, a sea captain, who was pre-deceased in 1857 by his ‘beloved wife’, Agnes; Ernest Hallett, who was only twelve when he passed away in 1906. So many lives filled with joys and sorrows. So many stories that were lost for ever.

Isla could feel her mood dipping as she walked among the dead. It was all too soon after losing her darling gran. She turned, determined to head for home, and glanced at a gravestone tucked away at the back of the churchyard. The surname had caught her eye.

She made her way across the uneven grass, towards the stone that sat beneath the branches of a yew tree, and her jaw dropped.

‘Well,’ she said out loud, to no one in particular. ‘That’s unexpected.’

9

CAITLIN

Being too nervous to ring your own husband was ridiculous. Caitlin shoved her mobile phone into her pocket and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled it out again. Yes, it was ridiculous but that was how she felt. And she needed to get over it, seeing as they were united in matrimony, and that wasn’t going to change.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she rang Stuart’s number and leaned against one of the boulders that edged the back of the beach. A cold wind was whipping around her, and she buried her chin into her scarf that worked perfectly well in London but seemed wholly inadequate in Heaven’s Cove.

After a few rings, the phone was picked up and a deep voice she recognised said, ‘Caitlin? Is that you?’

Who else would be ringing on this number? Caitlin briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘Yes, it’s me. How are you?’

‘I’m doing OK, I suppose,’ said Stuart in the slightly sulky voice she sometimes recognised in Maisie. ‘It’s far too hot here, though.’

‘Lucky you,’ mumbled Caitlin, her lips going numb in the mist that had started rolling in off the sea. ‘How’s the conference going? Are you finding it useful?’

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