Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ the man says, and I realise I’m shaking. He seems genuinely regretful, and he smiles broadly as if to make amends. ‘Patrick Mathews. The vet at Port Ellis,’ he adds. And at once I remember him, and the way he pushed his hands into the pockets of his blue scrubs.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, finally finding my voice, which feels small and unsure. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’ I glance up to the empty coastal path. Soon people will begin arriving for a day at the beach: insured against all weather conditions with windbreaks, sunscreen and umbrellas. For once I’m glad it’s high season and Penfach is full of people: Patrick’s smile is warm, but I’ve been taken in by a warm smile once before.

He reaches down to rub Beau’s ears.

‘Looks like you’ve done a good job with this chap. What did you call him?’

‘His name’s Beau.’ I can’t help myself: I take two hardly noticeable steps backwards, and immediately feel the knot in my throat soften. I make myself drop my hands down to my sides, but straight away I find they have risen and have found each other at my waist.

Patrick kneels down and fusses Beau, who rolls on to his back to have his tummy scratched, delighted by the unaccustomed affection.

‘He doesn’t seem nervous at all.’

I’m reassured by Beau’s relaxed manner. Don’t they say dogs are good judges of character?

‘No, he’s doing well,’ I say.

‘He certainly is.’ Patrick stands up and brushes the sand off his knees, and I hold my ground.

‘No problems with Iestyn, I take it?’ Patrick grins.

‘None at all,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, he seems to think a dog is an essential part of any household.’

‘I’m inclined to agree with him. I’d have one myself, only I work such long hours it wouldn’t be fair. Still, I get to meet enough animals during the day, so I shouldn’t complain.’

He seems very at home here by the sea, his boots engrained with sand and the creases of his coat scored with salt. He nods towards the heart in the sand.

‘Who’s Alice, and why do you want her forgiveness?’

‘Oh, it’s not mine.’ He must think me extraordinary, drawing pictures in the sand. ‘At least, the sentiment isn’t. I’m taking a photo of it for someone.’

Patrick looks confused.

‘It’s what I do,’ I say. ‘I’m a photographer.’ I hold up my camera as though he might not otherwise believe me. ‘People send me messages they want written in the sand and I come down here, write them and then send them the photograph.’ I stop, but he seems genuinely interested.

‘What sort of messages?’

‘Mostly they’re love letters – or marriage proposals – but I get all sorts. This one’s an apology, obviously, and sometimes people ask me to write famous quotations, or lyrics from favourite songs. It’s different every time.’ I stop, blushing furiously.

‘And you make a living doing that? What an amazing job!’ I search his voice for sarcasm, but find none, and I let myself feel a little proud. It is an amazing job, and I created it from nothing.

‘I sell other photos too,’ I say, ‘mostly of the bay. It’s so beautiful, lots of people want a piece of it.’

‘Isn’t it? I love it here.’

We stand in silence for a few seconds, watching the waves build up and then break apart as they run up the sand. I begin to feel fidgety, and I try think of something else to say.

What brings you on to the beach?’ I ask. ‘Not many people venture down here at this time of day unless they’ve got a dog to walk.’

‘I had to release a bird,’ Patrick explains. ‘A woman brought in a gannet with a broken wing and he’s been staying at the surgery while he recovered. He’s been with us for a few weeks and I brought him to the clifftop today to let him go. We try to release them in the same place they were found, to give them every chance of survival. When I saw your message on the beach I couldn’t resist coming down and finding out who you were writing to. It was only when I got down here that I realised we’d already met.’

‘Did the gannet fly okay?’

Patrick nods. ‘He’ll be fine. It happens fairly often. You’re not local, are you? I remember you saying you’d not long arrived in Penfach when you brought Beau in. Where did you live before?’

Before I can think of an answer, a phone rings, its tinny tune sounding out of place out here on the beach. Inwardly I sigh with relief, although I have a well-worn story now, trotted out for Iestyn and Bethan, and the occasional walker who heads my way in search of conversation. I am an artist by trade, but I injured my hand in an accident and cannot work, so have taken up photography. It’s not so far from the truth, after all. I haven’t been asked about children, and I wonder if I carry the answer so visibly about me.

‘Sorry,’ says Patrick. He searches in his pockets and brings out a small pager, buried in a handful of pony nuts and bits of straw, that drop on to the sand. ‘I have to have it on its loudest setting otherwise I don’t hear it.’ He glances at the screen. ‘I must dash, I’m afraid. I volunteer at the lifeboat station at Port Ellis. I’m on call a couple of times a month, and it looks like we’re needed now.’ He pushes the phone back into his pocket. ‘It was lovely seeing you again, Jenna. Really lovely.’

Raising an arm to bid me farewell, he runs across the beach and up the sandy path, and is gone before I can agree with him.

Back at the cottage, Beau flops into his basket, exhausted. I load the morning’s images on to the computer while I wait for the kettle to boil. They are better than I expected, given the interruption: the letters stand out against the drying sand, and my driftwood heart makes the perfect frame. I leave the best image on the screen to look at again later, and take my coffee upstairs. I will regret this, I know, but I can’t help myself.

Sitting on the floor, I put my mug down on the bare floorboards and reach under the bed for the box I haven’t touched since arriving in Penfach. I pull it towards me and sit cross-legged to open the lid, breathing in memories along with the dust. It starts to hurt almost immediately, and I know I should close the box without delving further. But like an addict seeking a fix, I am resolute.

I take out the small photo album lying on top of a sheaf of legal documents. One by one, I stroke my fingers across snapshots of a time so removed it is like looking through a stranger’s photographs. There I am standing in the garden; there again in the kitchen, cooking. And there I am pregnant, proudly showing off my bump and grinning at the camera. The knot in my throat tightens and I feel the familiar prickle at the back of my eyes. I blink them away. I was so happy, that summer, certain that this new life was going to change everything, and we would be able to start again. I thought it would be a new beginning for us. I stroke the photograph, tracing the outline of my bump and imagining where his head would have been; his curled limbs; his barely formed toes.

Gently, as though it might disturb my unborn child, I close the photo album and place it back in the box. I should go downstairs now, while I am still in control. But it is like worrying at a sore tooth or picking at a scab. I feel around until my fingers touch the soft fabric of the rabbit I slept with every night when I was pregnant, so that I could give it to my son and it would smell of me. Now I hold it to my face and inhale, desperate for a trace of him. I let out a stifled wail and Beau pads quietly upstairs and into my bedroom.

‘Downstairs, Beau,’ I tell him.

The dog ignores me.

‘Get out!’ I scream at him, a madwoman clutching a baby’s toy. I scream and I can’t stop, even though it’s not Beau I’m seeing, but the man who took my baby from me; the man who ended my life when he ended my son’s. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’