The Sea House Read Online Free PDF Page B

take a road across. It seemed wrong to get into her car and do a noisy forty-minute trip, when there it was, just a step away across the water.
‘There’s a bridge.’ Em was pulling at her jacket, pointing her up the river.
Lily shielded her eyes against the sun. There was nothing before her except smooth flat water, bending at the skyline, to the right. ‘Well, I’ll see you later I expect,’ and she set off along the river path, skirting the rotted jetty stumps. When she looked back, she found they hadn’t followed. Instead they were bent over the harbour mouth, dragging up seaweed with long sticks.
All along the river, boats were moored, some dilapidated, some shiny and new, and all with their halyards caught up in the breeze. It was like walking through a world of wind chimes, each one very slightly tinnier than the last. Light cascaded down the river, turning it bright blue, picking up the puddles in the marshland on the other side, dazzling the grazing cows. Lily walked with her eyes half closed, feeling over the uneven ground until the river curved and the promised bridge came into view. It stood out black against the skyline and when Lily climbed up to it she tried to imagine a time when steam trains would shudder regularly over its rails. The whole bridge rattled as she walked, and with each step a spray of seagulls spiralled into the air. Just above her on the Common loomed the water tower, sinister in its top-heavy form. It had long granite legs like a primordial beast, and a high circular belly where the water was held. There was a small door in the foot of one leg and Lily, as she passed, wondered if you opened it, the water would come rushing out.
Saturday was market day in Eastonknoll. Stalls had been set up around the war memorial, their backs to one another, their feet on cobbles. For sale were dishcloths, rubber gloves, and trolleys full of strangely unattractive plants. Busy Lizzies with fat rubbery leaves, dwarf marigolds, and fuchsias with bursting, purple buds. Lily circled the stalls several times and eventually bought some washing-up liquid for half the recommended price. Clutching her brown paper bag, she peered into the tea shops, all serving lunch, the people inside all old, all silent. It alarmed her to think she would be one more silent person ordering her food alone, so instead she wandered down on to the beach. There was a kiosk there that served tea and sandwiches with all the finery of a grand hotel. Tea in a china pot with a jug of milk and another for hot water. Sandwiches cut into triangles and sprinkled with cress. There was even a little vase on her white plastic table, from which sprang a tiny cluster of wild flowers. Lily sat huddled in her jacket as the waves crashed in, watching the sun fight out from behind a cloud. She was the only person eating on the sea front, although the hardier pensioners still strolled up and down.
Dear Nick … She took out her postcard and read over it again. She had thought she might buy an envelope to conceal its contents, but there was nothing private here. Average age here – 82. Average colour – beige . She wrote the address, added a kiss and pasted on a stamp.
    Lily was careful to get to the ferry before it stopped at four. She climbed in and took her place and waited while a Scandinavian couple, with two bicycles and a child, arranged themselves beside her. The ferry girl began to row. Her hands and arms were strong and wiry, but her face under a hat was smooth and young. She rowed against the tide, out into the middle of the water and then, with a practised eye for the right angle, she pulled in her oars and let the boat steer itself in. It arrived with a small thud against the Steerborough jetty, flipping the book shut on her lap, and the couple, clutching their bicycles, gave up a nervous cheer.
Home, Lily thought, as she unlocked her cottage door; and, throwing herself down on the brown sofa, she laughed to think how quickly she’d