Page 9 of Someone in the Water

Frankie

I pluck at my newly cropped hair – an impulsive decision, but I don’t regret it – and stare out to sea.

I’m surrounded by the soft hum of respectful conversation, the clink of spoons against teacups, but I shut it out.

I’ve got nothing against these people, these mourners, but I’m not in the mood for making small talk today.

Mum thought I should invite some of my own friends, that I might need their support, but I prefer to do this by myself.

I pick a sausage roll off the buffet table and walk out onto the terrace, my gaze low to avoid accidental eye contact.

I lean on the balustrade and let the coastal breeze whip against my cheeks as I chew.

The sky is bleached blue, and the sea a greenish shade of grey.

The beach is quiet, the weather not yet warm enough for crowds, and the gulls swoop and cry uninhibited.

It’s chilly, so I pull the unfamiliar black jacket tighter around my chest. I got it from a charity shop, and it feels like a straitjacket compared to the slouchy jeans and sweatshirts I usually wear.

But this view relaxes me. I have always lived in Southbourne, and the beach, with the sea beyond it, is my home.

Mum works there every day, repairing windsurf sails and boards in a workshop facing the beach.

And before he got sick, my dad had a second-hand powerboat that he tinkered with whenever he could get away from his job as an electrician.

And it’s where I come after school, at the weekend, during school holidays.

A trip to the beach – to work, play, eat, study, be.

‘Hey, love.’

I turn at the sound of Mum’s voice, but then pause. There’s a man with her who I don’t recognise. His hair is silvery and cropped short, and his blue eyes look out of place against the deep tan on his face. I find the polite voice that I always use with strangers. ‘Hello.’

‘Frankie, I want you to meet Salvo. He’s come all the way from Corsica to pay his respects to your dad. Isn’t that kind of him?’

‘Hello, Francesca, it’s wonderful to meet you, and Debra.’ Salvo shifts his gaze back to my mum for a moment, then refocuses on me. ‘I’m sorry that Pascal has been taken from you both, and much too soon.’

I nod, and smile, because Mum’s right, it is kind of him.

But I wonder why he has come. My dad always claimed to be proud of his Corsican roots, but he never spoke about friends from his home country, or had any visitors from there.

He didn’t talk about his childhood much at all, but then he wasn’t a big talker in general, and I never thought to ask.

‘How did you know my dad?’

‘We grew up together, in Sartène,’ Salvo says, in his accented English.

‘I moved away as a teenager, but we still saw each other often enough. Your father always wanted to get away, to explore the world. I thought he was crazy at the time – we lived on such a beautiful island, so why leave it? But now I’m glad that he followed his dreams.’ His smile fades.

‘I only wish I’d got to meet up with Pascal before he died.

We lost touch for many years, but he wrote to me after finding out he was ill.

We exchanged lots of letters after that, and I always hoped to visit. ’

‘I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance,’ Mum says softly. ‘But it was quick when it came. He was ill for two years, but the end still took us by surprise, didn’t it, Frankie?’

Again, my mum’s showing how incredible she is.

She’s the one who’s lost her husband, but her instinct is to console this man who hasn’t seen him in decades.

Incredible but also, somehow, irritating.

It makes me want to say no, I wasn’t surprised.

That actually I expected Dad to die every day after he broke the news about the cancer spreading to his liver.

And maybe even before then. When I found out it wasn’t normal for your dad to be eighteen years older than your mum, and what that could mean.

But I would never admit the other part – that I was sometimes disappointed when he was still alive at bedtime because I’d have to wake up the next morning feeling the exact same way.

But maybe this is just grief making me unkind.

Or guilt that I don’t feel sad enough. I loved my dad of course, but he was always so aloof.

The only times I came close to feeling a proper bond with him were on the nights when he put me to bed.

He’d tell me stories about Corsican folklore and mythical creatures, and I would listen, rapt, pretending not to be scared.

And never letting on how difficult it was to get to sleep afterwards.

‘That is kind of you to say, but please, don’t give my regret a moment’s thought.’ Salvo takes my mum’s hand and cups it in both of his. ‘You have your own grief to deal with, and that’s more than enough.’

I stare at Salvo. It’s as though he’s read my thoughts. Either that, or he’s just a decent human being.

‘Debra?’ A voice floats over from inside the café-cum-restaurant-cum-wake venue. It’s my mum’s sister, Aunty Emma. ‘Oliver and Jess are heading off now. I thought you might want to say goodbye?’

‘Excuse me,’ Mum says, squeezing my arm as she backs away. ‘Duty calls.’

I turn back to look at the sea, suddenly awkward. I sense Salvo lean on the balustrade beside me and match my movements.

‘Pascal said that you’re a natural on the water. Windsurfer, water-skier, sailor.’

My breath catches at the thought of my father boasting about me. ‘Well, I have my parents to thank for that. But yeah, I love the sea.’

‘Me too,’ Salvo says. ‘But I’m more of a fisherman these days.’

‘I didn’t think Sartène was on the coast?’ I suddenly worry that I’m making a fool of myself, that my geography is off, but Salvo nods.

‘Yes, that’s right. But I live in Porto Vecchio now, which is on the south-east coast of the island. My mother and aunt opened a café together decades ago. It’s been through a few changes since then and it’s been a hotel for the last few years. I run it with my son.’

‘That sounds cool.’

He chuckles, and it’s a nice sound. ‘Cool, yes. I suppose it is,’ he says. ‘You should come out. We have a full water sports programme.’

‘Maybe.’ It takes a lot of effort to sound non-committal. A hotel with water sports on the Mediterranean Sea is my idea of heaven, but it is also expensive. And money is not something we’ve ever had too much of in our family. Fixing windsurf sails and rewiring homes are not exactly money-spinners.

‘What about this summer?’

‘Oh thanks, but I’m planning on working,’ I explain. ‘My exams finish in May, and then I’m going to find a job. Mum wants me to go to university in September, but I’m not sure. I think I’d prefer to go travelling for a while. Maybe I’ll come to Corsica then.’

‘It sounds like you’ve inherited your father’s wanderlust.’

I consider that. I’m so used to being compared to my mum, even though I have my dad’s dark colouring, that Salvo’s words sound strange.

But it makes sense that I’d inherit some of my dad’s traits too.

Salvo describes him as an explorer, a dreamer, which is so different from the quiet, serious man I remember.

Maybe I didn’t really know him at all. I push away from the balustrade and turn towards Salvo. ‘It looks that way, I guess.’

‘Well, maybe you could start in Corsica instead. Do you have any water sports qualifications?’

‘I teach water-skiing in the summer holidays. I have my level-two instructor award.’ I first water-skied behind my dad’s boat when I was four, and I fell in love with the sport instantly. From that point on, if the water was flat and we had enough spare cash for fuel, we went out.

‘And a powerboat licence?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, would you like to come and work for me? At Hotel Paoli? Our season starts in May, but the water sports don’t get busy until June. You could come out after your exams, earn some money and get a taste of travelling at the same time.’

‘That’s very generous of you.’ I shift my eyeline back out to sea.

Why am I hesitating? This man is offering me a dream job, a chance to be on the water every day without having to pull on a wetsuit or shiver in summer rain.

Is this about not wanting to abandon Mum?

Or am I scared of leaving the only place I’ve ever known?

‘Talk to your mum,’ Salvo says. ‘It would be an honour to help Pascal’s daughter out, and to get to know you a little more, but I don’t want to drag you away from Debra if she’s not comfortable with it.

’ He slips his hand inside his suit jacket and pulls out a tan leather wallet.

I worry for a second that he’s going to give me money – sympathy cash – but he hands me a business card.

‘But I think you’ll love it, and if I’ve learned one thing in my sixty years, Francesca, it’s that we should seize opportunities when they present themselves.

Because we don’t know what’s around the corner. ’