Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

I regret my impetuousness for the rest of the day, and by the evening I am so anxious I am shaking. I count the ways in which this could go wrong, and replay everything Patrick has ever said to me, looking for warning signs. Is he as straightforward as he appears? Is anyone? I think about walking into Penfach to phone the vet’s surgery and cancel, but I know I won’t have the nerve. I take a bath to kill some time, running the water so hot it turns my skin pink, then I sit on my bed and wonder what I should wear. It’s ten years since I last went on a date, and I am frightened of breaking the rules. Bethan has continued to clear out her wardrobe of clothes she can no longer fit into. Most are too big for me, but I try on a skirt in deep purple and although I have to tie it at the waist with a scarf I don’t think it looks too bad. I walk around the room, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of my legs touching as I walk; the swing of the fabric about my thighs. I feel a glimmer of the girl I used to be, but when I look in the mirror I realise the hem is above my knee, and my legs stretch boldly out beneath. I take it off and throw it into a ball at the back of the wardrobe, reaching instead for the jeans I’ve only just taken off. I find a clean top and brush my hair. I look exactly as I did an hour ago. Exactly as I always do. I think of the girl who would spend hours getting ready to go out: music playing, make-up scattered about the bathroom, the air thick with perfume. I had no idea, back then, what real life was like.

I walk to the caravan park, where I have arranged to meet Patrick. At the last minute I decided to bring Beau with me, and his presence gives me back a little of the bravado I felt on the beach this morning. When I reach the caravan park Patrick is standing by the open door to the shop, Bethan leaning in the doorway talking to him. They are laughing about something, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s me.

Bethan sees me, and Patrick turns and smiles as I approach. I think at first he’s going to kiss me on the cheek, but he simply touches me gently on the arm as he says hello. I wonder if I look as terrified as I feel.

‘Be good, you two!’ Bethan says with a grin.

Patrick laughs and we walk towards the village. He finds conversation easy, and although I’m certain he exaggerates the antics of some of his patients, I’m grateful for his storytelling, and I find myself relaxing a little as we arrive in the village.

The landlord of the Cross Oak is Dave Bishop, a Yorkshireman who arrived in Penfach only a few years before me. Dave and his wife Emma are firmly rooted in the community now, and – like the rest of Penfach – know everyone’s name and everyone’s business. I’ve never been inside the pub, but I have said hello to Dave when I’ve come by with Beau on my way to the little Post Office shop.

Any hope I might have had of a quiet drink evaporates the moment we step through the door.

‘Patrick! Your round, isn’t it?’

‘I need to get you out to look at Rosie again, she’s still not right.’

‘How’s your old man? Not missing the Welsh weather too much?’

The onslaught of conversation, coupled with the enclosed space of the bar, makes me anxious. I close my hand around Beau’s lead and feel the leather slip against my damp palm. Patrick has a few words for everyone but doesn’t stop to chat. He places a hand on my back and steers me gently through the throng of people to stand at the bar. I feel the heat of his hand on the small of my back and am both relieved and disappointed when he takes it away and folds his arms on the bar. ‘What would you like?’

I wish he had ordered first. I long for a cold bottled lager, and I scan the pub to see if any of the women are drinking beer.

Dave coughs politely. ‘A gin and tonic,’ I say, flustered. I have never drunk gin. This inability to make decisions isn’t new, but I can’t remember when it started.

Patrick orders a bottle of Becks and I watch the condensation form on the outside of the glass.

‘So you’ll be the photographer staying at Blaen Cedi? We wondered where you’d been hiding.’

The man talking to me is around the same age as Iestyn, with a tweed cap on his head and whiskery sideburns.

‘This is Jenna,’ Patrick says. ‘She’s been building up a business, so she hasn’t had much time for sinking pints with you old lags.’

The man laughs, and I flush, grateful for Patrick’s easy explanation for my seclusion. We choose a table in the corner, and although I’m conscious of the eyes upon us, and the gossip that is no doubt now rife, after a while the group of men turn back to their pints.

I’m careful not to talk too much, and fortunately Patrick is full of tales and interesting snippets of local history.

‘It’s a lovely place to live,’ I say.

He stretches long legs out in front of him. ‘It is that. Not that I felt that way when I was growing up here. Kids don’t appreciate beautiful countryside, or a sense of community, do they? I used to nag my parents endlessly to move us to Swansea – I became convinced it would transform my life, and I’d suddenly become really popular, with an amazing social life and a string of girlfriends.’ He grins. ‘But they wouldn’t entertain the idea of a move, and I went to the local comprehensive.’

‘Did you always want to be a vet?’

‘Ever since I was a toddler. Apparently I used to line up all my stuffed toys in the hall and make my mother bring them into the kitchen one at a time so I could operate on them.’ When he talks, his whole face is animated; the corners of his eyes crinkling a split second before his smile breaks. ‘I scraped through with the A-levels I needed and went to Leeds University to do Veterinary Science, where I finally got the social life I’d been desperate for.’

‘And the string of girlfriends?’ I say. Patrick grins.

‘Maybe one or two. But after all that time desperately trying to escape Wales, I missed it terribly. When I graduated I found a job near Leeds, but when a partnership became available at the surgery in Port Ellis I jumped at the chance. Mum and Dad were getting on a bit by then, and I couldn’t wait to be back by the sea.’

‘So your parents lived in Port Ellis?’ I’m always curious about people who have close relationships with their parents. I’m not envious, I simply can’t imagine it. Perhaps if my father had stayed, things might have been different.

‘Mum was born here. Dad moved here with his family when he was a teenager and married Mum when they were both nineteen.’

‘Was your dad a vet, too?’ I’m asking too many questions, but I’m scared that, if I stop, I’ll be the one expected to give answers. Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, filling me in on a family history that puts a nostalgic smile on his face.

‘An engineer. He’s retired now, but he worked for a gas company in Swansea all his life. It’s because of him I’m a volunteer lifeboatman, though. Dad did it for years. He used to dash off halfway through Sunday lunch, and Mum would make us all say a prayer that everyone would be brought safely to shore. I used to think he was an actual super-hero.’ He took a swig of his pint. ‘That was back in the days of the old lifeboat station at Penfach – before they built the new one in Port Ellis.’

‘Are you called out often?’

‘It depends. More in the summer, when the caravan parks are full. It doesn’t matter how many signs there are, telling people the cliffs are dangerous, or not to swim at high tide – they don’t take any notice.’ He looks suddenly serious. ‘You must be careful swimming in the bay – the undercurrent is fierce.’

‘I’m not a strong swimmer,’ I tell him. ‘I haven’t been in over my knees yet.’