Page 17 of The Beach Cottage
Bea pointed to several flower arrangements in the book of photographs, and Betsy wrote up her order.
“I remember when you were a little girl,” Betsy said suddenly. “You were such a sweet heart. Always walking around with that sweet crease between your eyes like you were thinking so hard about something.”
“You were here then?”
“Yes, indeed. Although I wouldn’t expect a teenaged girl to remember a middle-aged woman.” Betsy laughed as she scratched the order into an old-fashioned ledger beside an antique cash register.
Bea studied a series of framed photographs that hung behind the counter. There was a young woman featured in every photograph — she was beautiful and dressed in a dancer’s outfit with curled hair. The photos were in black and white, so it was difficult to tell what colour her hair might’ve been, but Bea liked to think it looked golden. Her toes were pointed, and she wore tights that showed off her lean, muscular legs.
“Is that you?” she asked.
Betsy glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh, yes, that’s me. A long time ago. But it’s amazing how quickly time passes us all by. I was that girl a moment ago, and now I’m me.” She indicated herself with a wave of one hand.
“Is that the former Prime Minister with you?” Bea’s eyes widened at the sight of Betsy standing close to a statesman from decades earlier. “And that… It couldn’t be the Beatles, surely?”
Betsy arched an eyebrow. “I guess if it can’t be, then it can’t be.”
“You knew the Beatles?”
“I met them. It was handy there was a camera at the ready to take the photograph.”
Bea’s gaze wandered across the rest of the photographs and realised that every single one contained someone famous or a dignitary. All except one photograph which was clearly more recent, in colour, and held a face very familiar to her — her father’s. He held up a large silver tailor. The fish sparkled in the sunlight.
“Is that Dad?”
Betsy faced the photograph. “Your dad is a photogenic man. And let me tell you, he’s one fine fisherman.”
Bea didn’t know what else to say. How do you know Dad? What kind of relationship do you have? But it seemed rude to pry, so instead she simply said, “Yes, he is.”
“You know, honey, you have the prettiest eyes,” Betsy said suddenly.
“Thank you.”
“They’re just like your mother’s.”
“You knew Mum?”
“Only in passing. She was a lovely lady, beautiful just like you.”
“Dad says I look like her as well.”
“You definitely do. You’re about the age she was…” Betsy’s voice trailed off, and her cheeks flushed pink.
“When she died? Yes, I know. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately. Probably partly because of that, but also because I’m back on the island and memories are knocking on my door everywhere I turn.”
Betsy finished up with the order and slammed the ledger shut with a flourish. “Memories have a habit of doing that, I’m afraid. But letting them in can be healing. Sometimes it’s the very thing we need so we can move on.”
“I think you’re right about that.” Bea sighed. “You should come to the party. It’s on the date I gave you. It’s the grand opening for my café, the one attached to Eveleigh’s Books. It’ll be fun, and of course the flowers will be divine. The food should be good too. I’m cooking.”
Betsy’s eyes twinkled. “Thank you. I’d love to.”
Bea waved goodbye. As she walked out of the shop, Betsy called after her, but quietly so that Bea wasn’t sure she’d heard exactly right.
“It was a travesty what happened to your mother. I’m sorry you went through all that, and so unnecessarily.” Then Betsy turned and disappeared through a set of curtains into a room behind the counter.
Bea stood in silence, gaping after her. Mum had taken her own life. It was a tragedy for the entire family, but no one did it to her. What was Betsy talking about? It was as though she knew something Bea didn’t, but there hadn’t been any secrets, nothing hidden. They all knew what happened.
Mum had been unwell for a long time. She’d been anxious and paranoid and finally had taken a permanent step to remove herself from a situation she’d believed to be hopeless. None of them understood it, but the counsellor they’d seen at the time had told them that there was nothing they could’ve done. It was an illness, and there was no explanation that would suffice for them to understand her thinking. And that had been the end of it.
