reason for Rosie to keep the boat or the mooring after Jim’s death.
But it still felt as if a little piece of his dad had been wiped away.
He bought a bunch of flowers from the shop in the middle of the high street, then walked to the church on the edge of town. It was a big old barn of a place, built of flint, with a massive tower, a lead roof and tall arched windows.
What he liked best was the inside of the church, and not just because it was full of light from those enormous windows. He turned the massive iron handle and pushed the heavy door open. He could remember coming here with his father, who’d showed him the ancient graffiti of the old-fashioned sailing ships scratched into the stone pillars, explaining they were probably prayers of thanksgiving for safe returns from long voyages.
If only James Powell had made a safe return from his last voyage.
But you couldn’t change the past.
Brad shook himself and wandered through the church. There was the hexagonal stone font with its carved wooden cover and the smiling stone lions at the base—the font where he and Ruby had been christened as babies. And the ancient wooden pews with their poppyheads and carved bench ends, parts of the carvings polished smooth over the centuries where children’s hands had rubbed against them. He’d always especially loved the carvings of a cat carrying one of her kittens and the mermaid.
This was the church where, if they’d waited until after his graduation, he would’ve married Abigail. Just as Colin would wait for Ruby on Saturday, Brad would’ve waited at the altar for Abby. But, because he’d been young and impetuous and desperately in love with her, he’d wanted to marry her before he went away to university. He realised now how much they’d deprived their families of a celebration. How stupid and selfish he’d been.
There were tea-light candles on a wrought-iron stand near the font, a couple of which were already lit. He lit one for his father using the wax taper provided, and stood watching the flame flicker for a while before putting some money into the slot in the wall safe.
Outside, several more graves had been dug in the churchyard since he’d last been here. And it was the first time he’d actually seen his father’s headstone.
His mum had made a good choice. Together with the dates, she’d kept the words simple: James Powell, beloved husband, father and son. And on the back there was a carving of a boat, his father’s favourite thing.
The stone vase-holder in front of the headstone was already full of flowers. Of course it would be; either Rosie or Ruby would’ve made sure of that. He should’ve thought to buy one of those pots on a spike that you could push into the earth, or bring some kind of jam jar to put his flowers in. Too late, now. He placed the wrapped bunch of flowers on the grass next to the vase, and sat cross-legged in front of the stone.
‘Well. I guess it’s about time I showed my face here,’ he said.
Understatement of the century.
He could almost see his father’s rolled eyes and hear the sarcastic comment.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I was too far away to help.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess of my life—though at least my career is doing OK. I know you were disappointed I didn’t follow in your footsteps, but I would’ve made a lousy lawyer. I’m a good scientist. I love my job. And I think you’d approve of me being one of the youngest managers ever in the pharmaceutical company, in charge of a really big project.’
No answer. Not that he expected one. But a sudden gust of wind or an unexpected ray of sunlight would’ve been nice. A sign that his father had heard him.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been there for Mum and Ruby,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to neglect them. It was the whole idea of coming back here. Where I’d failed you. I know, I know, I should’ve manned up and driven here instead of always expecting them to come and see me in London. But, the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to come home. I couldn’t face walking into the house, expecting to see you and then seeing the space where you weren’t there—it’d be like losing you all over again and I just couldn’t bear it.’
And how he missed his father. They’d had a difficult relationship at times, but Brad had respected his father and what he’d achieved, even though they’d disagreed about Brad’s career choice. James Powell was a big bear of a man, always laughing and joking, full of outrageous stories about his days in court. Brad had sneaked into the public gallery at court one day, to watch his father at work, and he’d seen how brilliant James was—persuasive, knowledgeable, putting his client’s case in a way that the jury understood but without patronising them. He’d been spellbinding. A father to be proud of.
And he’d died way, way too soon.
Brad sighed. ‘You were right about me and Abby. We were too young to get married. Of course it didn’t last.’ And how selfish he’d been to drag Abby into his teenage rebellion. If he’d waited, maybe they would still be married now. But they weren’t. Another failure. Something else he hadn’t wanted to face, here in Great Crowmell. The place where he’d fallen in love with Abigail Scott.
The break-up had been entirely his fault. He’d been the one to push her away.
Though seeing her again had made him realise that his old feelings for her were still there. They’d never really gone away. He’d ignored them, buried them even; but now he was home and close to her, it was harder to block them out.
He couldn’t possibly act on those feelings. He didn’t trust himself not to mess it all up again, and he wanted to give Abby the chance to be happy—even if it was with someone else. But maybe they could be on better terms than they’d left it last night. When she’d told him things he hadn’t wanted to face and, instead of talking it over with her, he’d walked out and refused to discuss it.
‘Did you ever regret things, Dad?’ he asked. ‘Did you ever wish you hadn’t said things, or that you’d done something differently?’
Of course there was no answer.
Though his father had always been so confident, so sure that he was right.
Abby’s words slid back into his head. Your dad was a stubborn old coot. I loved Jim dearly, but he didn’t help himself and he didn’t listen to anyone.
She was right; and that was probably why James had been so confident. He didn’t listen to anyone who didn’t say exactly what he wanted to hear. And Brad couldn’t ever remember his father apologising; though Jim had come close to it in that last phone call, when he’d admitted he should’ve waited instead of going out on the boat on his own.
Brad sighed. ‘Abby loved you. Even though you were stubborn and didn’t listen to anyone except maybe your clients, she loved you.’
She’d loved Brad, too. And he’d been so sure he was right, not listening to her. Just like his father. Funny, he hadn’t thought that he could be as difficult as James, but maybe he was. Being stubborn and refusing to give up had stood him in good stead professionally; the flip side meant that being stubborn and refusing to talk about things had ruined his marriage.
‘I owe her an apology,’ he said. ‘For a lot of things. I need to go and talk to her. But I’ll be back. I’ll come and see you on Saturday. And we’re going to smile all day until our faces hurt, for Ruby’s sake.’
When he walked back into the florist, the assistant raised her eyebrows. ‘Back again?’
He nodded. ‘Can you wrap up six roses for me, please?’ And there was only one colour he could choose. ‘Cream ones.’
‘Going to see your mum now, are you?’
That was the thing about growing up in a small town; everyone knew you, and they knew your business, too. ‘No. Actually, I’d like a different bouquet for her, please—something with lots of pinks and purples.’ Her favourite colours.