LITMIR.BIZ

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will. And the weather seems to be on our side at the moment. And when I get back I want to cut back on work. Maybe just two days a week. I know Mum loves having them but the time with them is so short, isn’t it? Can we afford for me to only work two days?’

      ‘Yes, and yes,’ Jack said. And there were tears in his eyes as he said it.

      ‘Show me, Cally,’ Jack said.

      They were lying in bed, both fresh from the shower, both naked. Cally was on her back, and Jack was lying on his side looking at her.

      Cally took Jack’s hand and guided his fingers to the lump.

      ‘It’s not very big,’ she said.

      ‘Does it hurt?’ Jack asked, his fingers gently probing.

      ‘No.’

      With Jack’s fingers caressing her, Cally felt a shiver of something. Desire? Yes, that’s what it was, desire.

      ‘Oh, I think I’ve found it. About the size of half a pea?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Jack slid his other arm underneath Cally’s neck, and then pulled her towards him. He rocked her gently, back and forth, back and forth, kissing her hair, kissing her forehead.

      ‘I can’t find words,’ he said.

      ‘How about “Let’s make love”, Cally said. ‘Get some good old endorphins running through me. They’re supposed to be healing.’

      ‘You sure? I mean…’

      ‘Sure,’ Cally said, silencing him with a kiss.

      ‘Windsurfing?’ Jack laughed. ‘In May? This is the UK, you know!’

      ‘I know. The windsurf school hires out wetsuits. Life jackets. I really, really want to have a go.’

      Cally pointed to a windsurfer whipping along parallel to the beach. A small wave was breaking behind him, and a smaller one in front. The sail was a fabulous shade of magenta. No, amethyst. The same shade as the stone on the necklace Cally had found waiting for her at 23 The Strand. It seemed almost like an omen. A good omen.

      So Cally walked to where the windsurfing school was set up at the far end of the beach.

      ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m a total novice at this but I’d really love to have a go.’

      ‘Hi. Great. We can do that. I’m Elisabeth – with an s not a z,’ the girl laughed.

      ‘I’m Cally, with a y not an ie and not short for anything.’

      Elisabeth helped Cally into a wetsuit and secured a life-support.

      ‘Be careful,’ Cally said as Elisabeth tugged on the straps. ‘I hurt a little bit.’

      Which wasn’t true. Cally had no pain around the area she had found the lump.

      ‘Oh, you’ll forget all that when you’re out there,’ Elisabeth laughed. ‘You’ll have the sun on your face – along with a lot of water, I expect! – and you’ll be concentrating so hard on standing upright that anything that’s bothering you in life will just fade away into insignificance.’

      I hope so, Cally thought but didn’t say.

      But so it proved. Cally found standing on a moving board with the force of a constantly shifting sea beneath her easier than she ever imagined it would be. Whole minutes went by when she didn’t think about the lump. Elisabeth encouraged her to go further and further each time. Cally was zipping along now and she could see Jack and the children on the beach. Jack was kneeling down scooping buckets of sand to make a pit of some sort for the boys to play in.

      ‘Hey!’ she shouted, but the breeze and her own speed whipped the word away.

      But Jack must have sensed her because he looked up. He waved. And then he blew her a kiss. And in that moment there were no other people in the world, and nothing else mattered except their love. She’d been stupid to keep such a massive worry to herself, and silly beyond belief to think she had to cope on her own. Life was for living, and that was just what she was going to do.

       Dear new occupant,

       I was left a gift by the previous occupant and this is my gift to you – Welsh cakes made by my sons and me. My husband was chief taster and he says they are ‘Ace!’ I hope you will enjoy them with a cup of tea, sitting on the deck perhaps. I arrived here a worried woman, but this place has smoothed out my worries and I’m going home with a more positive outlook. Whatever your reasons for coming here I wish you a happy time. If you feel like leaving something for the next occupant of 23 The Strand, please do – but it’s by no means obligatory.

       Cally – and Jack, Noah and Riley too.

Chapter Three

      EARLY JUNE

      Arthur

      ‘Mum!’ a child’s voice said. ‘Is that man in the chalet next door Father Christmas on holiday?’

      A boy or a girl? Arthur couldn’t tell. Children’s voices were all the same when they were little and this voice sounded as though it belonged to a little person. Certainly an uninhibited one, Arthur decided.

      ‘Shush. Come away.’

      ‘He is! He is!’ the child persisted.

      ‘I said shush!’ the child’s mother snapped, and the child began to cry.

      Oh dear. Arthur didn’t like to think he was responsible for a child’s tears.

      He fingered his long white beard, which was almost resting on his chest these days. His hair could do with a cut as well – it was nearly on his shoulders, and if it wasn’t for the fact it curled at the ends, it would have been. No wonder the child thought he looked like Father Christmas. And then there was the size of him. He’d put on at least a stone now his beloved Judith was no longer here to check his diet, to make sure he ate more greens than potatoes. Fewer pies. Arthur had lived on pies since becoming a widower.

      Ought he to be eating these Welsh cakes the previous occupant had made for him? What a strange thing to do – leave a present for someone you’ve not met and are hardly likely to. But the cakes were welcome. They brought a lump to Arthur’s throat actually. He missed Judith like one might miss a limb, but her cooking he didn’t miss – cooking and Judith had never gone together. But goodness, what would he give now for a slice of her burnt toast, a poached egg with the yolk like a rubber bullet on top? And the little note with the Welsh cakes – so personal. That had brought a lump to his throat as well. Already he was thinking what he might leave for the next occupant, whoever she or he might be.

      Twelve Welsh cakes. There were ten left on the plate now. He would never eat them all and they might be stale by the morning.

      ‘Excuse me,’ Arthur called out to the young mother of the child – a boy in bright-red shorts and a T-shirt with a dinosaur on it, he noticed – at 22 The Strand who had mistaken him for Father Christmas, ‘would you and your little boy like some of these Welsh cakes? I’ll never eat them all.’

      ‘I’m not little!’ the boy said, folding his arms across his skinny little body.

      Goodness, Arthur thought, that lad could do with a bit of filling up.

      ‘Your very fine boy, then,’ Arthur said. ‘Would he like some?’

      ‘I don’t know…’

      ‘Mum! It doesn’t say in my Father Christmas book that Father Christmas eats wish cakes.’

      ‘Welsh cakes,’ his mother corrected him. And then she leaned in and whispered, ‘And he’s not Father Christmas.’

      But she hadn’t

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