Page 3 of Pull Me Under

Kit glances at his watch. ‘We really should be heading off.’ He looks around. ‘I thought Dad would get up to see us off.’

My lips crimp together for a moment then I breathe deep and put on that grin again. ‘And miss his beauty sleep? He needs it more than most, Kit, you know that.’

But then Maisie explodes from the cottage like a tiny hurricane, still in her unicorn pyjamas under her coat, brandishing Captain Bear like a battle standard.

‘Uncle Jude! We’re going to NEW YORK!’

‘I heard, monster.’ I scoop her up, spin her until she shrieks. Pure joy, the kind only kids can manage before life teaches them to moderate their happiness. ‘You going to bring me back something good?’

‘A snow globe?’

‘Perfect. One with the Statue of Liberty giving me the finger.’

‘JUDE!’ Kit warns, but he’s fighting a smile.

We don’t drag out the goodbyes. Can’t. Kit grips my shoulder.

‘The spring tides are next week. Watch the moorings.’

What he means is call if you need anything. We both know I won’t.

‘Make sure you eat something besides coffee and whatever Nina forces on you,’ he adds.

‘Sure, Mum.’

Isla plants a kiss on my cheek and whispers, ‘Look after yourself too. Not just everyone else.’

Maisie demands fourteen hugs, counting them out loud with the seriousness of a nuclear physicist, arms wrapped around my neck like kelp. I give her all fourteen, slip in another for luck when she’s not counting.

‘Look after them, yeah?’ I tell her quietly. ‘You’re the sensible one.’

‘I know,’ she says solemnly. ‘Daddy needs supervision.’

Then they’re gone. The Range Rover swallowing them up, efficient and final.

The echo of their voices thins out like morning mist, leaving me with all the words I never managed to spit out. The ones about being scared. About missing Peter so much it feels like drowning. About how sometimes I wake up and forget for thirty seconds that our idyllic safe haven was splintered by one bad storm and a friend who never made it back to shore.

The harbour settles into its new quiet, heavy with absence. Even the gulls seem subdued, circling half-heartedly like they’re going through the motions.

I glance at the swell beyond the breakwater. Clean lines rolling in from the west, the kind that would be perfect at the reef break on the far side of the headland.

My board’s been leaning against the hallway wall at home for weeks now, gathering a fine layer of guilt.

One more thing I keep meaning to get back to.

One more thing there’s never time for.

I turn back to the boats. Nets that need mending before tomorrow’s dawn shot. The Mary Jane’s engine that’s been coughing like a sixty-a-day smoker since she was righted after the storm six months ago. Fuel filters that should’ve been changed last week.

Enough work to keep both hands and mind out of dangerous territory.

The phone buzzes.

Tom: Surgery’s quiet this morning if you need help with the boats. Also Nina says you haven’t eaten actual food in two days.

All good, mate. Had a pasty yesterday.

That was three days ago. I was there.