Page 48 of And Then There Was You

Forty-Two Zach

My eye is healing, the bruising changing colour as the days pass. But every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of what I’ve lost.

Shifts at Downalong Bakery merge into evenings at Pengelly’s. I wake up to go to one and crash back to bed when the other ends. The summer is nearly over and soon I’ll have to consider what I want to do when work is not so forthcoming. Or if I even stay here.

Being so close to Merryn yet so far from her is killing me. I don’t know how long I can withstand it.

A mate over in Wales got in touch last week after someone sent him a link to Zanna’s article about me and Pengelly’s.

He’s crowdfunding a surf centre in a former slate quarry somewhere in the North Wales mountains and is looking for instructors.

I could move there, find accommodation cheaper than anything on offer in Cornwall, and be teaching when it opens in the spring.

Maybe a new start is what I need.

One light in all of it is a certain pair of tiny twins – Freddie and Iris Macklin.

After a long labour and a few worrying weeks in and out of hospital, they’re home with Aggie and Kieran.

I was cautious about going over, not wanting to get in the way of the new family, but the babies’ mother’s summons, delivered in classic Aggie Keats style, put paid to my plan to keep a respectful distance.

‘Everybody’s beggared off and bleddy left me. I don’t need space, I need sanity. Get your ’ansum butt over here. And bring cake.’

I arrive at their apartment with two large Downalong Bakery paper carrier bags, stuffed with as many baked treats as Matt could squeeze in.

I have flowers from the tiny florist in St Andrew’s Steet, a tub of Aggie’s beloved Shipwreck honeycomb swirled ice cream from Moomaid of Zennor and two super-soft teddies from Laff Kids on Fore Street.

Aggie greets me at the door, a twin cradled in each arm. ‘Bleddy hell, Zachy, and there was me thinkin’ I was weighed down!’

She ushers me in, expertly navigating a gauntlet of newborn-related obstacles: two baby carriers, a folded double pram frame and a washing basket beneath a clothes airer filled with row upon row of tiny babygrows.

I just about manage to follow without trashing the lot.

It’s a relief to make the safety of a sofa, its back draped in a rainbow of freshly washed muslins.

It’s chaotic but strangely ordered – and suits Aggie down to the ground.

‘How are you?’ I ask, as she settles into a wide love seat without waking the twins.

‘Buzzin’. Knackered. Bored out of my skull.’ She gives a weary grin. ‘But I love ’em to death. Can’t really think how life was before. That might be the lack of sleep, mind.’

‘I brought half of Downalong Bakery from Matt and a tub of Shipwreck, so the sugar alone should help.’

‘Let’s hope. Do you want one?’

‘A pastry?’

‘A baby.’

I’m thrown. ‘I – er – not right now. I mean, one day, maybe. I wouldn’t rule it out.’

Aggie snorts with laughter, the twin in her left arm stirring. ‘I meant one of these , you daft-head!’ She adopts a super-posh accent to mock my mistake further. ‘Would you care to hold one of these two most excellent infants, Mr Trevelyan?’

I can’t remember the last time I held a baby. There seem to be so many components to the act, any one of which might end in disaster. But Aggie asked, which means she trusts me. I can’t say no to her.

‘I’d love to,’ I reply.

‘Right. Budge up, buttercup.’

She joins me on the sofa, gently handing me Iris – who I am only able to confidently identify thanks to the MAID printed on her babygrow, where Freddie, still with his mum, sports one that reads MAW , the Cornish word for boy.

The tiny girl settles into the crook of my arm, Aggie adjusting the position of her daughter’s head so it’s properly supported. Iris is soft and warm, her body curled up as she sleeps, the strange sensation of the weight of her body setting my mind on high alert.

I’m speechless, hardly daring to breathe.

Such a precious bundle of life containing a whole world of potential, entrusted to my care. If I’m aware of the enormous responsibility of protecting her, how on earth is it for her parents?

I’m surprised when tears prickle the corners of my eyes.

‘Oh, Zachy! It’s okay.’

‘I’m fine.’ I sniff, laughing at my own soppiness.

‘Pretty major, huh?’ She observes me like a proud big sister. ‘Iris is the feisty one. Not that you’d know it now. Lungs so strong they can hear her at Land’s End when she wails. Freddie is like his dad, so laid-back he’s in the middle of last week.’

‘You can tell that much about them already?’

‘Oh yeah. But then I’ve always been a bona fide sensei when it comes to sussin’ people out. Talkin’ of which, tell me what’s happenin’ with Merryn.’

The whip-fast subject change floors me, stealing my breath and any clever words I might try to hide behind. ‘Nothing,’ I manage. ‘She doesn’t want to see me.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the woman who threw me out of her café, weeks ago.’

‘Pfft, details . She was protectin’ her business and her heart while you and that surf berk were busy trashin’ them. Did you go back and apologise? I’m guessin’ not.’

‘I didn’t want to cause her pain.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what kind of lame excuse is that?’

Iris stretches out a sleepy leg, then folds it back in. Not wanting to wake her, I drop my voice to a whisper. ‘What else do you want me to do?’

‘Grow a bleddy pair of balls and own it,’ she snaps. ‘What’s she goin’ to think if you slink off like a loser at the first sign of trouble? You can’t claim to love the bird if you aren’t ready to fight for her.’

‘I never claimed to love her . . .’ I begin, but Aggie Keats fixes me with a stare that could freeze the sun.

‘You are holdin’ my precious girl, half of my whole world. Don’t you dare utter lies while she’s in your arms. You love Merryn, Zachy. Admit it. And not bein’ with her is crushin’ you alive.’

Being a sleep-deprived new mum has only sharpened Aggie’s powers, it seems.

‘How do I get her to listen to me?’

‘You do somethin’ about it, instead of wallowin’ like a sad hippo.’

Held safe in the crook of her arm, Freddie opens his eyes, grizzling a little.

‘Wasson, ’ansum? Your Uncle Zachy’s being a sad old hippo again, in’t he? Yes he is. A proper stubborn sad old hippo.’

‘Don’t tell him that!’

‘My Freddie knows I speak the truth. My Iris, too. No messin’ with my kids, thank you very much.’

If they’re anything like their brilliant mother, they’ll be terrifying. ‘Sorry.’

She relents, with a long sigh. ‘Don’t give in so easy, lover. Fight for her. Show her you’re not givin’ up. And do it soon. Because if you don’t, you’ll lose her forever.’