Seven Summers by Paige Toon

Author:Paige Toon [Toon, Paige]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781529157932
Publisher: Cornerstone
Published: 2024-03-27T18:30:00+00:00

THIS SUMMER

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I wake up very early on the morning after the pub quiz and stare at the ceiling, my head pounding. After downing a full glass of water, along with some painkillers, I climb out of bed and go and sit at the piano in the living room.

I play one song pianissimo – very softly – but if Tom’s up and awake, he’ll hear it.

And hopefully he’ll hear my hidden message: if I show you mine, will you show me yours?

I’m in the kitchen, halfway through a piece of toast, when there’s a knock on my downstairs door.

I jump to my feet, the remnants of my breakfast discarded, and jog down the stairs, beaming. I know it’s him, because anyone else would have to ring the doorbell.

As I swing the door wide open, my heart skitters at the sight of Tom in the hallway, fully dressed in jeans and a muted-blue long-sleeve T-shirt, his hair still damp from the shower.

‘You’ve made your point,’ he says, eyes dancing. ‘You ready?’

I spy the rake he’s holding in his right hand and let out a squeak of excitement.

‘Just let me put on my shoes!’

We head in the opposite direction of Chapel Porth, taking the coast path towards Trevellas Cove. The air carries a chill and the wind is whipping my hair all over the place as we hug the rugged coastline. A bank of low clouds flirts with the horizon, but the sky overhead is pale blue and far-reaching. Tom has checked the tide times and we should arrive as it’s almost fully out.

‘How’s your hangover?’ Tom asks as the narrow track we’ve been treading widens, the ruins of the old Blue Hills tin mine coming into view.

‘It’s not too bad, actually,’ I reply.

The bracing wind and fresh air have cleared my head. If anything, I feel invigorated.

We don’t speak much, but it’s a comfortable silence as we make our way down into the valley. Gravelly tracks and patches of naked stone have been scored out of the weathered hills on the other side of the cove, making me think of the marks I sometimes make in clay. The heather is not yet in bloom.

‘Pretend I’m not here,’ I say to Tom as we approach the beach, looking for a ledge to perch on while he heads to the middle of the empty expanse.

He glances over at me as I sit down, his eyes resting on mine for a few seconds before he returns his attention to the sand.

It makes my heart sing, watching him work. The beach is his canvas and the rake is his pencil. Working with a smooth stretch of sand about eight by twelve metres, he begins to draw. A picture forms of a gnarly tree in the foreground with branches leaning off to one side, its shape elongated as though caught in a relentlessly blowing gale. Behind it, he draws mountains climbing into the distance, and to its left, a drystone wall.

He sets the rake aside and uses his hands to sketch out a curvy shape at the base of the wobbly trunk.

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