Page 8 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

Probably because she needs independence and space and freedom, thought River, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t really know these people any more. He certainly didn’t know Clara.

Leaving Bartie sprawled on the bed, River followed Mrs Netherway up more stairs to the second floor.

‘I thought you might like to be in your old bedroom,’ she said over her shoulder, as they neared the end of the corridor. ‘Just let me know if there’s anything you need. I’d better go and make up Bartie’s bed.’

‘Of course.’ River stared at the closed door of his room. ‘And thank you,’ he called after Mrs Netherway, who was bustling back towards the stairs.

When he pushed open the door, a sudden rush of memories took him by surprise. His books and toys had gone, long packed away or disposed of, but the bed was the same, along with the ruby-red curtains and the faded blue wallpaper.

He walked across the room, to the window, and looked out. This side of the house overlooked the gardens that ran down to the cove, where waves were breaking on the red-tinged sand that was common in this part of Devon.

The sea was blue today, a pale blue edging towards turquoise, and the small patch of sand was empty. Grass grew right up to the cove, and the branches of the trees edging it were slanted by fierce winds that blew in with winter storms.

River turned again to the room. It felt familiar, but there were damp stains at the top of the wall, and torn patches of wallpaper that needed repair. The room had become shabby since he was last here. Or maybe it had always been that way but he’d been too young to notice.

He sat down on the bed – its mattress so saggy he wondered if it was the original one from his childhood – and took stock.

The arrival he’d been so anxious about was over, thank goodness, and he felt…River closed his eyes, unsure exactly how to describe, even to himself, the mixture of emotions he was experiencing.

He felt…happy to see his father again after all this time. Perhaps they could get to know each other better over the next few days, though there was always a risk that his father might decide River wasn’t worth the effort, just as he had done sixteen years ago.

River opened his eyes and looked around his childhood bedroom. Mostly, he was glad to see Brellasham Manor. Perhaps the place wouldn’t haunt his dreams now he’d set foot in it again. But he felt sorry about the approaching upheaval that would affect so many people who were, as yet, unaware of what was about to happen.

An image of Clara suddenly swam into his mind. It was good to see her after so many years. She’d changed, just as he and Bartie had. That was inevitable. But some things remained resolutely the same.

‘I’m still jealous of Bartie,’ he said quietly, into the empty room. ‘And Clara still thinks he’s wonderful.’

With a sigh, River got to his feet and wrapped his arms around his waist. He’d forgotten how cold this house got. Even when it was sunny outside, there was a chill that seemed to settle in the bones. It appeared that hadn’t changed either – but change was definitely coming and soon everything would be different.

4

GEOFFREY

As Geoffrey watched the two men follow Mrs Netherway up the stairs, the years fell away. The last time River had climbed the flight of stairs leading from the grand hallway he had been a boy. A teenager on the cusp of manhood. Tall and awkward, with limbs that seemed too long for his body.

Now he was thirty-one years old, and even taller, but broader and more in proportion. He was a grown man. When had that happened? How had he, his father, missed so much?

Geoffrey, a man not prone to strong emotion, was surprised by an almost physical lurch of pain that made him shudder.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Clara.

He glanced at the young woman who’d come to stand beside him.

‘Of course I am,’ he said abruptly, not happy that anyone had noticed a wobble in his demeanour. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his ear: It’s up to us, Geoffrey, to set the tone. To behave in an appropriate manner and keep our feelings to ourselves.

Geoffrey had certainly made a good fist of that over the years, even when the people in his life had disappeared: his stepmother, Audrey, his wife, Lucia, and River. His upper lip had remained stiff and his shoulders set.

And yet, older age appeared to be undermining him. His emotions were closer to the surface these days and less easy to suppress. But suppress them he must, especially now, when he knew what was coming. Otherwise he and everything around him would descend into chaos.

The girl was still standing there, looking at him with her soulful grey eyes. She bore a strong resemblance to her mother without whom this house would falter. Mrs Netherway almost single-handedly kept the house running, and yet she was blissfully unaware of the changes afoot.

He looked away from her daughter, feeling guilty. ‘I think I’ll retire to the library for a while. Thank you, Clara.’

Avoiding catching anyone else’s eye, he slipped away into the library and sat in the leather armchair that faced the window to the garden.

He loved this room with its old books lining the walls, and a pervading smell of ink and dust. He would sit in here and read as a child when life became overwhelming, and it remained his refuge, even now that he was in his mid-seventies. When had he become so old?

Geoffrey gazed out of the window, across the grass and trees, to a flash of blue sea. He used to sit here and wonder why she did it. Why Audrey, the stepmother he’d loved so much, had decided to wade into the sea one cold autumn evening. Why her life here hadn’t been enough. Why he hadn’t been enough.

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