The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

I am now experienced enough to know that even the tiniest sniff of weirdness or desperation is sufficient for people to shut down. Nobody wants the truth. They just want tidy stories that maintain the status quo.

‘Just find Lisa,’ I whisper as I pull out of Calstock. The morning sun is a blood-orange glow.

17

The sky above Helston is angry indigo, and in the distance, there is thunder. As I drive along the narrow lanes towards Cadgwith, I pray for no approaching cars. The thought of having to back up to a passing point makes me feel queasy. I spot the sign indicating parking and pull into a small, gravelled area. As I get out of the car, the first drops of rain begin pelting my skin. I don’t have a clue where I am or where I should be going. A fierce south-westerly wind nearly knocks me off my feet and I wish I could race home to the relative safety of my mother’s front room. For some reason, Michael’s words in his diary from nearly seven years before pop into my mind: This is going to be the best year of my life. I carry on.

After a bit of wandering, I find a sign for the coastal path to Cagdwith Cove. The rain is lashing down, but I grit my teeth and push on. I make my way along a wooded path that shelters me from the worst of the rain and find myself going steadily downhill. To my left I can see a small cluster of stone and slate roof buildings. The narrow streets are empty: the tourists have escaped to a warm pub for lunch and the locals are far too sensible to be wandering about in this weather. By the time I make it to the village, the wind has eased, and the sun has managed to battle its way through the clouds. It doesn’t take long for me to find the gig club, a small, squat building that faces the bay. The wide doors have been thrown open to welcome the emerging sun, and from inside I can hear hammering. I move forward. I can see a man, tall and lanky, bending over what looks like an oversized rowboat.

‘Can I help you, Missus?’ comes a muted voice.

The man has extracted himself from the boat and is wiping his hands on a faded handkerchief. He must be in his late fifties with a lean body and heavily lined face that speaks of hard work and long hours in the open air. He has a shock of white hair and the most piercing green eyes I have ever seen.

‘I, ah …’ I’m having difficulty finding words. ‘Is this the Cadgwith Cove Gig Club?’

The man doesn’t reply, only points to the sign above the door. I stand silent and still, uncertain of what to say.

‘Is there anything I can do for you then?’ asks the man, studying me with a mixture of curiosity and impatience.

‘Ah, yes, well, the thing is … I’m looking for someone.’

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘And who might that be?’

‘It’s a girl, a woman I mean. Her name is Lisa, Lisa Edwards.’

Try as he might, the man can’t conceal the look of recognition on his face. Instead of answering, however, he turns and resumes working on the boat.

‘Can’t say that I knows her,’ comes his reply.

‘I have a photograph.’ I take a printout from my bag and walk over to stand next to him. The gig boat is in the process of being sanded down before painting. I am mesmerised by the pale beauty of the wood, and the streamlined perfection of the structure. At least eight metres long, it’s large enough to hold six rowers, a cox and pilot.

The man turns to me, his striking green eyes seeking mine.

‘Why do you want to know about her?’

I take a breath. I have been working out my story for the whole two-hour journey from Calstock.

‘Well … this is my son Michael; well, was my son Michael.’ I point to the photograph, and I must swallow hard before I can continue. ‘He passed away six years ago.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ says the man, studying the photograph.

‘Michael and Lisa were at Edgecombe Hall together, you know, the school near Falmouth? They were swimmers. She was a couple of years above him.’ Even though I have practised the speech in my head numerous times, I still feel as if it sounds stilted and unconvincing. ‘Now that a little time has passed, I’ve decided to put together a sort of memory book of his life.’ I hadn’t realised how hard it would be, saying it aloud. ‘I’ve got plenty of things from his childhood, but not so much from later years. I thought if I could speak to a few of his classmates …’ My voice cracks. I’m furious at myself for getting so emotional. This will require careful planning and clear thinking I had told myself only a few hours before. When I look back at the man, however, his wary expression has been replaced by one of kindness.

‘She’s Lisa Gannon now,’ he says. ‘Married a few years ago. Not long started as a Teaching Assistant at St Michael’s C of E Primary in St Keverne.’ He indicates back towards the car park. ‘Eight mile or so inland.’ I give him a grateful smile but cannot speak. He nods and returns to his work. ‘Not easy losing a child,’ he says softly. ‘You never get over it.’

18

The school is a solidly built stone and slate building, which sits on a busy street corner. Against all odds, I find a spot directly across from the school, and watch as a seemingly endless parade of cars park on the pavement and double yellow lines as parents arrive to collect their children. I wait until the playground is completely empty before approaching, and catch the main entrance door just before it shuts. The earlier