I saw then the gulf that Amy had left behind – a huge void, much bigger than one person, and more than I could ever fill. But I had to try. The stuff I thought was important – my job, my friends, the life I had built for myself – was miniscule next to the vacuum left by my sister. Right now, this was where I was needed. I had to come home.
I sent a message to Amy:
You’d have been so proud of the kids today.
And a second:
I can’t stay forever, but I’ll stay for now xo
Chapter Five
The funeral had brought none of the comfort or closure that I might have hoped for. The enormity of our loss remained entirely undiminished in the days that followed, and reaffirmed my decision to stay – for a while, at least.
I opened my computer and started a spreadsheet. I had to work out the financial impact of taking a short-term sabbatical from my life. Putting it all down on the screen forced me to consider the harsh reality.
There were far fewer options to spend money here than in Hong Kong, with all its temptations. There wasn’t a shoe shop for miles, and I could forget about eating out. For the next few months, I’d be swapping fusion dim-sum and gourmet cocktails at pop-up restaurants for home-cooked Sunday dinners, fish and chips, and nights at the pub. I sighed, already missing it.
My bank balance was in pretty good shape. It would be easy to negotiate unpaid leave from work, and I could sublet my apartment in Hong Kong for three months – or however long I ended up staying. The rent was a huge chunk of my outgoings, and I could comfortably lease a place in Seahouses without making a dent in my savings. The village was full of holiday lets and I was hopeful that I could get a good deal out of peak season. In fact, I could probably get a three-month rental in Seahouses for what I sometimes spent in one weekend in Hong Kong.
Adam and I bought a bag of chips and found a bench at the corner of the harbour, and I told him about my plan. An enormous seagull eyeballed us greedily.
‘And what about work?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been so swept up in it for so long, and now that this has happened…’
‘It’s good. You’ve got new priorities.’
I nodded. A fishing boat pulled into the harbour. ‘Being here, and remembering after everything that happened with Dad, then Mum… I can’t let Hannah, Lucas, and Betsy go through that.’
‘What happened with your mum?’
I looked the seagull right in eye and held its amber glare as I told Adam the story.
‘Dad was the anchor of our family, the big personality. Dr Edward Morton. Always playing games and the first to spot any opportunity for fun. Mum came alive when she was with him; she just sparkled in a way that she didn’t when he wasn’t there. Maybe we all did.
‘He loved nothing more than spending evenings sitting at the bar of The Ship, cheerfully dispensing medical advice to men who spent their days at sea and had no time to see a GP. A doctor can treat an ailment, but don’t forget who puts food on the table, he used to say. Old Salt does dangerous work, risking his life so that we can eat.
‘That’s what he called them – Old Salt – it’s what fishermen call each other. I can’t even remember how or when it happened, but one day, Amy called me Salt Sister and it stuck. We became the Salt Sisters.’ I smiled at the memory of Dad encouraging our new nicknames.
‘Dad was fit and healthy. At least that’s what we all thought. He never gave us any reason to suspect otherwise. Maybe he knew something was wrong and ignored it. Or maybe he knew that whatever he had was incurable, and he wanted to live his fullest life until the end. We never found out.
‘We had finished Sunday lunch and he was trying to round us all up to go for a walk along the beach. I was fifteen. Amy and I’d had some stupid row – I can’t even remember what we were fighting about – and I was sulking. I didn’t want to go on a family walk, so I said I had exam revision to do. Amy said if I wasn’t going, then she wasn’t either. We stayed at home, sulking in our bedrooms, ignoring each other. So Mum and Dad went off, just the two of them.’
I could still picture that day perfectly. There had been an easterly wind, the one that blows straight in off the sea, smearing soapy foam across the sand and leaving your lips with a taste of salt. The beach was quiet, with only a few hardy souls out walking.
‘Nobody heard Mum scream when Dad collapsed. She had to leave him there on the sand, clutching his chest, while she ran back up the path and flagged down a car on the main road.
‘The first thing we heard were the sirens of the ambulance. We all assumed it was a heart attack at first, even the paramedics. They took him to hospital and helped him to breathe, pumping air in and out of his lungs. But it turned out he had cancer. The doctors couldn’t even tell where it had started, but it had spread like wild weeds and taken over his body from the inside.’
That was how I had pictured him when they explained it – his insides like a sprawling, overgrown garden.
‘He never woke up again, and after three days there was nothing more anyone could do. That laugh, all that charm and brightness, just vanished - like a switch being flicked off. He looked like he was sleeping. There was still sand in his hair from where he had fallen. I kissed him goodbye.
‘We
