Page 86 of The Winter of Second Chances
‘Ely’s son, Steve, wants to push the business forward. They sell locally and at markets, but Steve wants to expand the number of restaurants they supply. I said I’d have a word with a couple of people I know round Broadstairs way.’
‘I might be interested!’ said Annie. The words were out of her mouth before she’d fully formed the thoughts behind them. She suddenly felt both men’s eyes on her: Paul’s enquiring expression and John’s familiar scowl. ‘I’ve been thinking a bit about bistro nights and maybe hot lunchtime specials each week, depending on the catch and the season.’
She saw John shaking his head. Paul, ever the optimist, said he thought that would be a fantastic idea. Annie handed over the soup and Paul said a cheery goodbye and left.
‘Would you like some soup?’ Annie asked John, who seemed to be studying the floorboards.
‘No thanks. I just came in to see if you needed help clearing down.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you, I would. Can I get you a drink?’
‘A hot chocolate would go down well.’
Annie set about making two hot chocolates.
‘Why do you keep making plans for Saltwater Nook when you know I’m going to sell it?’ John asked.
‘I’ve got till March,’ said Annie in the breeziest tone she could muster. ‘That’s four months to see what I can do. A lot can happen in four months.’
‘But why this place?’ asked John, lifting chairs onto tables.
‘Why not this place?’
‘But why here specifically? There must be hundreds of empty shops waiting for a new lease of life.’
Annie handed John his drink and began to clean down the coffee machine.
‘I can’t explain it,’ she said. ‘This place is special. It’s like it’s crying out to be made vital again. There’s something here, something magical. You feel it too, I know that you do. Which makes the whole thing altogether more sad.’ She was looking at him now, the damp cloth still in her hand.
John sighed one of those sighs that was so long, it was as though he had been holding it in for decades.
‘I was a little bastard as a kid. When my dad left, I was even worse. My mum used to send me down here to Aunt Mari and Uncle Frank. Without them I probably would’ve landed up in prison. I can’t help thinking that me being such an arsehole took years off my mum’s life.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ said Annie.
‘Are you?’ he asked sardonically. ‘I tried to make it up to her. I sent money home every month. And when she got sick I tried to get her to come and live with me, but she clung on to that bloody shite-hole of a house she’d lived in with my father out of pure stubbornness. It was a hovel: dingy and damp. But she wouldn’t bloody move.’ John picked at a fleck of peeling paint on the window ledge. ‘She wanted to show him he didn’t break her.’ He barked out a mirthless laugh. ‘Misplaced pride. She died there in that house, all alone, and I don’t even think my dad knew she’d stayed there to spite him.’
‘And you’re worried Mari will stay here out of stubbornness like your mum?’
‘Nobody knows how sick she was last year except me. On a good day she can pootle about okay but on a bad day, when her arthritis is at its worst, she can’t even make it from the bedroom to the lounge, let alone down the stairs and up that bloody bastard hill to the village. Even with her friends coming in and out and me dropping by every few days, it wasn’t enough. And let me be quite clear, my aunt willnotlet me be her carer; she said she’d rather die than have me look after her, and if you knew my aunt, you’d know that’s no idle threat.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘That’s not even the worst of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
John sighed.
‘She’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She doesn’t want anyone to know. That’s what the notes are all about: she’s making sure she doesn’t forget. The doctor thinks it’ll likely be a slow progression, which is some cold comfort, I suppose, given her age. But still. She’s going to need help. I want her to have fun with her friend before she forgets what fun is.’
‘John, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say. Those are the facts. I’m not going to lose another family member to sheer bloody-mindedness and wasted sentimentality over a building.’
‘But this place isn’t like your mum’s house,’ reasoned Annie. ‘Everyone loves it. I love it! It’s only wasted sentimentality if no one else appreciates it.’
John pulled a chair out from the bench by the window and slumped down into it, his head in his hands.
‘Mari’s been talking for a couple of years about moving in with her friend June in Cornwall when she’s older. Ha!’ Another humourless laugh. ‘When she’s older! For Christ’s sake! I persuaded her to give it a try this winter, see how she gets on.’
‘And?’
