and from school that even in her semi-sleep she could map the road home. Dimly she felt the swings through the S-bends at the Hoops Inn, and slid forward a little as the car nose-dived down the hill to Limeburn.
When they finally pulled up in the tiny cobbled square just feet from the drop to the beach, she stretched and yawned.
Daddy sat without getting out, finishing the second can of Strongbow.
Ruby was getting cold, but she was nervous of going into the house alone and seeing Mummy again.
Maybe Daddy was too, because he drank a third can, looking up at the light in the bedroom window of The Retreat while the ocean breathed in and out in the darkness.
‘You know,’ said Daddy suddenly, ‘when we first got married, your mum used to call me her hero. She used to say I’d rescued her.’
‘Like Snow White’s prince!’
‘Yeah, like that.’
‘Did you have a horse?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ That was disappointing. ‘What did you rescue her from?’ He shrugged. ‘Just, you know, I come along like a prince and swept her off her feet.’
His smile faded. ‘She needed me then, see. When I had a job.’
‘Can’t you just get another job?’
Daddy shook his head and gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Not in this economy.’
Ruby nodded. Her socks were still wet from the cobbles, and her feet were like ice, but she could hear Daddy thinking, so she didn’t want to whine like a girl.
Finally – without taking his eyes from The Retreat – Daddy sighed deeply. ‘Women can’t help it, you know, Rubes.’
‘Can’t help what?’ she asked through chattering teeth.
But Daddy went on staring up at the bedroom window, while Ruby sat and shivered beside him.
‘Can’t help
what?’
11
WHEN SHE GOT home, Miss Sharpe realized that getting a lift had gifted her an extra half-hour with which to do whatever she liked.
So she put her badminton gear in the washing machine and cleaned out Harvey’s litter tray, while the big grey rabbit rocked gently around the kitchen behind her. Then she got out her marking for the evening and poured herself half a glass of white wine.
Any more would be stupid, and she didn’t
do
stupid.
She was sensible far beyond her twenty-six years, and had been that way for most of her life.
Georgia Sharpe had realized quite young that she was not pretty enough to catch a boy with her looks. She had believed her mirror when it told her that her wiry hair fizzed and spat like brown sparks around her head, that her eyes were small and pale, and that she had a mouth that turned down at one corner, making her look a little disappointed. But the truth had never daunted her, and by the time she was sixteen she was glad not to have been burdened by beauty. By then she’d watched her prettier friends dumbing down their lives to accommodate idiot boyfriends, and made up her mind that that was not for her; that she would get by on her brains and her good nature, even if it meant being single her whole life long. An old maid, her father said, but young Georgia thought that being single sounded rather exciting – and a lot less complicated than having to worry about the hopes and dreams of what she always referred to as ‘some random man’
So, instead of succumbing to panic-led convention, Miss Sharpe had upped sticks from flat Norfolk and moved to sinuous Devon, where she joined the badminton club for exercise, bought a house rabbit for cuddles, and – until she could have her own children – enjoyed those belonging to other people in class 5B at Bideford’s Westmead Junior School.
She wasn’t stupid, so she’d never expected
all
children to be enjoyable – and so it proved. For every Jamie Starke with her A in English, there was a Jordan Whitefield, with his essays punctuated only by bogeys. And for every sweet-natured David Leather, there was a Shawn Loosemore, who gave smaller children Chinese burns when he thought no one was looking.
Children lied, too. Miss Sharpe had expected a
When they finally pulled up in the tiny cobbled square just feet from the drop to the beach, she stretched and yawned.
Daddy sat without getting out, finishing the second can of Strongbow.
Ruby was getting cold, but she was nervous of going into the house alone and seeing Mummy again.
Maybe Daddy was too, because he drank a third can, looking up at the light in the bedroom window of The Retreat while the ocean breathed in and out in the darkness.
‘You know,’ said Daddy suddenly, ‘when we first got married, your mum used to call me her hero. She used to say I’d rescued her.’
‘Like Snow White’s prince!’
‘Yeah, like that.’
‘Did you have a horse?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ That was disappointing. ‘What did you rescue her from?’ He shrugged. ‘Just, you know, I come along like a prince and swept her off her feet.’
His smile faded. ‘She needed me then, see. When I had a job.’
‘Can’t you just get another job?’
Daddy shook his head and gave a bitter little laugh. ‘Not in this economy.’
Ruby nodded. Her socks were still wet from the cobbles, and her feet were like ice, but she could hear Daddy thinking, so she didn’t want to whine like a girl.
Finally – without taking his eyes from The Retreat – Daddy sighed deeply. ‘Women can’t help it, you know, Rubes.’
‘Can’t help what?’ she asked through chattering teeth.
But Daddy went on staring up at the bedroom window, while Ruby sat and shivered beside him.
‘Can’t help
what?’
11
WHEN SHE GOT home, Miss Sharpe realized that getting a lift had gifted her an extra half-hour with which to do whatever she liked.
So she put her badminton gear in the washing machine and cleaned out Harvey’s litter tray, while the big grey rabbit rocked gently around the kitchen behind her. Then she got out her marking for the evening and poured herself half a glass of white wine.
Any more would be stupid, and she didn’t
do
stupid.
She was sensible far beyond her twenty-six years, and had been that way for most of her life.
Georgia Sharpe had realized quite young that she was not pretty enough to catch a boy with her looks. She had believed her mirror when it told her that her wiry hair fizzed and spat like brown sparks around her head, that her eyes were small and pale, and that she had a mouth that turned down at one corner, making her look a little disappointed. But the truth had never daunted her, and by the time she was sixteen she was glad not to have been burdened by beauty. By then she’d watched her prettier friends dumbing down their lives to accommodate idiot boyfriends, and made up her mind that that was not for her; that she would get by on her brains and her good nature, even if it meant being single her whole life long. An old maid, her father said, but young Georgia thought that being single sounded rather exciting – and a lot less complicated than having to worry about the hopes and dreams of what she always referred to as ‘some random man’
So, instead of succumbing to panic-led convention, Miss Sharpe had upped sticks from flat Norfolk and moved to sinuous Devon, where she joined the badminton club for exercise, bought a house rabbit for cuddles, and – until she could have her own children – enjoyed those belonging to other people in class 5B at Bideford’s Westmead Junior School.
She wasn’t stupid, so she’d never expected
all
children to be enjoyable – and so it proved. For every Jamie Starke with her A in English, there was a Jordan Whitefield, with his essays punctuated only by bogeys. And for every sweet-natured David Leather, there was a Shawn Loosemore, who gave smaller children Chinese burns when he thought no one was looking.
Children lied, too. Miss Sharpe had expected a
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