Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

When morning comes, I realise I must have slept; snatches of exhaustion broken by the crash of waves as they move up the shore. I stretch painful, frozen limbs and stand to watch the vivid orange blush spread across the skyline. Despite the light there’s no warmth in the sun, and I’m shivering. This has not been a well-thought-out plan.

The narrow path is easier to negotiate in daylight, and I see now that the cliffs are not – as I had thought – deserted. A low building sits half a mile away, squat and utilitarian, next to neat rows of static caravans. It’s as good a place to start as any other.

‘Good morning,’ I say, and my voice sounds small and high in the relative warmth of the caravan park shop. ‘I’m looking for somewhere to stay.’

‘Here on holiday, are you?’ The woman’s ample bosom is resting on a copy of Take a Break magazine. ‘Funny time of year for it.’ A smile takes the sting out of her words, and I try to smile back, but my face doesn’t respond.

‘I’m hoping to move here,’ I manage. I realise I must look wild: unwashed and unkempt. My teeth are chattering and I begin to shake violently, the cold seeming to reach deep into my bones.

‘Ah, well then,’ the woman says cheerily, seemingly unperturbed by my appearance, ‘you’ll be looking for somewhere to rent, then? Only we’re closed till the end of the season, see? Just the shop open till March. So it’s Iestyn Jones you want – him with the cottage along the way. I’ll ring him, shall I? How about a nice cup of tea first? It’s bitter out, and you look half-frozen.’

She shepherds me on to a stool behind the counter, and disappears into the next room, continuing a stream of chatter above the sound of a boiling kettle.

‘I’m Bethan Morgan,’ she says. ‘I run this place – that’s Penfach Caravan Park – and my husband Glynn keeps the farm going.’ She pops her head round the door and smiles at me. ‘Well, that’s the idea, anyway, although farming’s no easy business nowadays, I can tell you. Oh! I was going to ring Iestyn, wasn’t I?’

Bethan doesn’t pause for an answer, vanishing for a few minutes while I chew at my bottom lip. I try to think of responses to the questions she will ask, once we’re sitting here with our mugs of tea, and the balloon in my chest grows bigger and tighter.

But when Bethan returns, she doesn’t ask me anything. Not when did I arrive, or what made me choose Penfach, or even where have I come from. She simply passes me a chipped mug full of sweet tea, then wedges herself into her own chair. She wears so many different clothes it’s impossible to see what shape she is, but the arms of her chair dig into soft flesh in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable. She is in her forties, I guess, with a smooth, round face which makes her look younger, and long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. She wears lace-up boots beneath a long black skirt and several T-shirts, over which she has pulled an ankle-length cardigan that trails on the dusty floor as she sits. Behind her, a burnt-out incense stick has left a line of ash on the windowsill, and a lingering smell of sweet spice in the air. There is tinsel taped to the old-fashioned till on the counter.

‘Iestyn’s on his way up,’ she says. She has placed a third mug of tea on the counter next to her, so I assume Iestyn – whoever he is – is only a few minutes away.

‘Who is Iestyn?’ I ask. I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, coming here where everybody knows everybody. I should have headed for a city, somewhere more anonymous.

‘He owns a farm down the road,’ Bethan says. ‘It’s the other side of Penfach, but he’s got goats up on the hillside here, and along the coastal path.’ She waves an arm in the direction of the sea. ‘We’ll be neighbours, you and I, if you take his place – but it’s no palace.’ Bethan laughs, and I can’t help but smile. Her straight-forwardness reminds me of Eve, although I suspect my neat, slim sister would be horrified by the comparison.

‘I don’t need much,’ I tell her.

‘He’s not one for small talk, Iestyn,’ Bethan tells me, as though I might find this disappointing, ‘but he’s a nice enough man. He keeps his sheep up here next to ours,’ she gestures vaguely inland, ‘and like the rest of us he needs a few more strings to his bow. What do they call it? Diversification?’ Bethan gives a derisive snort. ‘Anyway, Iestyn has a holiday house in the village, and Blaen Cedi: a cottage up the way.’

‘And that’s the one you think I’ll want to take?

‘If you do, you’ll be the first in a while.’ The man’s voice makes me start, and I turn round to see a slightly built figure standing in the doorway.

‘It’s not that bad!’ chides Bethan. ‘Now drink your tea and then take the lady up to see it.’

Iestyn has a face so brown and lined that his eyes almost disappear into it. His clothes are hidden beneath dark-blue overalls, dusty and with finger wipes of grease across each thigh. He slurps his tea through a white moustache yellowed with nicotine, and eyes me appraisingly. ‘Blaen Cedi is too far from the road for most people,’ he says, in a thick accent I struggle to decipher. ‘They don’t want to carry their bags that far, see?’

‘Can I look at it?’ I stand up, wanting this unwanted, abandoned cottage to be the answer.

Iestyn continues drinking, swilling each mouthful around his teeth before swallowing it. Finally he lets out a satisfied sigh and walks out of the room. I look at Bethan.

‘What did I say? A man of few words.’ She laughs. ‘Go on with you – he won’t wait.’

‘Thank you for the tea.’

‘My pleasure. You come and see me, once you’re settled in down the road.’

I make the promise automatically, although I know I won’t keep it, and hurry outside, where I find Iestyn sitting astride a quad bike, filthy with encrusted mud.

I take a step back. He surely doesn’t expect me to get on behind him? A man I’ve known for less than five minutes?

‘Only way of getting around,’ he shouts over the engine noise.

My head is reeling. I try to balance my practical need to see this house with the primitive fear that is rooting my feet to the ground.

‘On you get, then, if you’re coming.’

I make my feet move forward and sit gingerly behind him astride the bike. There’s no handle in front of me and I can’t bring myself to put my arms around Iestyn, so I hang on to my seat as he turns the throttle and the bike shoots off across the bumpy coastal path. The bay stretches out alongside us, the tide now fully in and crashing against the cliffs, but as we draw level with the path running up from the beach, Iestyn turns the quad bike away from the sea. He shouts something over his shoulder and gestures for me to look inland. We bounce over uneven terrain and I search for what I hope will be my new home.

Bethan described it as a cottage, but Blaen Cedi is little more than a shepherd’s hut. Once painted white, the render has long since abandoned its battle with the elements, leaving the house a dirty grey. The large wooden door looks out of proportion with the two tiny windows that peer out from beneath the eaves, and a skylight tells me there must be a second floor, although there hardly seems room for it. I can see why Iestyn has struggled to market it as a holiday let. The most creative of property agents would have a hard time playing down the damp inching up the walls outside, or the slipped slate tiles on the roof.

While Iestyn unlocks the door, I stand with my back to the cottage and look towards the coast. I had thought I might see the caravan park from here, but the path has dropped down from the coast, leaving us in a shallow dip that hides the horizon from us. Neither can I see the bay, although I can hear the sea crashing against the rocks, three beats between each wave. Gulls wheel overhead, their cries like kittens, mewling in the fading light, and I shiver involuntarily, wanting suddenly to be inside.