The rain had stopped and a blackbird was singing cautiously in the hedgerow. As I opened the little north facing window, I could see a peek of blue sky, a faint streak of promise emerging after days of dispiriting drizzle. Everything needed a good airing really. The cottage smelt damp, and the empty cupboards had an unpleasant odour, a mustiness that reminded me of accidentally trampling through a swathe of wild onions. Thirty quid didn't go as far as I'd hoped at the co-op but at least I could now do a little bit of cleaning, I could wipe down the shelves before I put away all these tins. I'm not sure what he thought he was going to live on but it's not going to be like it was all those years ago. I am going to make sure that we eat properly, I want us to sit down for meals that are nutritious, I am determined that we will be a normal family.

But mum wasn't being complimentary when she'd say he could charm the birds from the trees. To listen to him now, you'd never think he'd been inside for the best part of ten years, you'd never imagine that he was actually living hand to mouth in this rat's nest of a cottage; a filthy cooker, barely a stick of furniture, the gas not even connected. When he'd insisted I come and stay, it was like he was inviting me to move in to Buckingham Palace with him. He'd lumped my suitcase up the steep and slippery part of the lane, all the time cheerfully reminiscing about my childhood, events I couldn't actually even really recall. And when he opened the door, I tried hard not to look horrified about how he was living, but I found myself slipping him a handful of crisp fivers, telling him firmly to think of it as my share of the rent.

That first evening I'd been wary; of course I was. I mean, I know exactly what he's like but you actually have to give people a chance, don't you? And you know, when I wasn't thinking about everything that had gone on before, he really was my just my dad again, calling me Princess, and gazing at me like he couldn't believe it was me. Even as we'd made that sharp climb to what he called his gaff, despite being breathless and gasping, he'd sounded so earnest about what this all meant to him, in fact he'd sounded pathetically grateful and almost contrite. I'd barely had time to recoil at the state of the kitchen before he'd dropped my bag on the the icy flagstones, and taken my hands in his, telling me with tears in his eyes that I was beautiful, how I'd grown up to be a picture, and how proud of me he was. As I hung my head in silence, even those sentiments made me feel a little bit rubbish; realising then that he believed he was the sole reason for my return to the village and that made me want to cry along with him too.

A little awkwardly, I'd told him I was tired and, with extravagant chivalry, he'd offered me the only bed but it didn't seem right to take it, he'd spent so many years in bloody prison, hadn't he, he was entitled to a bit of comfort now, surely, such as it was. So I slept on the sofa with just a single blanket, my jersey over my pyjamas, my jacket laid over my legs, and it really wasn't unbearably cold. I've honestly known worse. Yes, even by Portwenn standards the place is cramped, but he has to start somewhere, doesn't he, he has to have an address, somewhere stable so he can integrate back into society, and find himself a decent job. And I don't want to push him too soon but I am determined to help him with that; when he's ready I will make sure he is presentable, that he has some nice interview clothes to wear, that he's turned out like a man who deserves a second chance.

For days afterwards, every time we bump into each other, a frequent occurrence in the tiny kitchen or on the narrow stairs, he takes my wrists again and stares at me like he can't quite believe I am there. I can't describe how it feels, a little bit uncomfortable perhaps but also, oddly, there seems quite a bit more hope for us now, because we each have the other to look out for, to take care of, and doesn't that make a lovely change from being made to feel unwanted and untrustworthy, a respite from that feeling of being basically unloved. For a while I cheer up a little bit, I mean, it didn't even matter that there was nothing for breakfast on that first morning, I'd already started to believe that my dad still really cared about me, that he needed me, making it inevitable I suppose that my frosty reserve began to thaw.

"The world's a different place since I was in the clink," he told me, as he stood in front of the tiny mirror, carefully combing his hair back, flat against his head. "But, trust me, Louisa, I am trying to adjust, I am trying to get it sorted. I want to do this for you! My beautiful daughter. "

In some ways then, it was like no time had passed at all, and we fell unbelievably easily into a routine. To be honest, I welcomed any distraction, any task or conversation, anything that would divert me from thinking about the pain that seemed to be crushing my heart inside my chest. To fill in time, I made daily trips to the co-op, I made sandwiches for lunch, and I spent hours lining the kitchen shelves and drawers with newspaper, rubbing the worn runners with an old candle I found in the cupboard, so that they would slide more easily in and out. I scrubbed the place until my hands were red and almost raw, and on Sunday night I was determined to make us a nice fish supper, to prepare it like I'd watched Martin do so many times. Though dad admitted he preferred deep fried cod over grilled sole, he ate it as if he might have enjoyed it a little, leaving me with the dishes after telling me he was going for a quick half at the Crab.

It was raining again and the evening was bleak. There seemed nothing else to do but have an early night. I had no stomach for reading, and there was no television. Even the radio just seemed an unwelcome intrusion, an aggravating black noise, impossibly glib presenters, and music that was neither familiar nor soothing. Lying there in the half light, the naked bulb in the kitchen left on to ensure dad's safe passage through the house, I could no longer prevent myself from thinking about Martin. I wondered what he might be doing right at this moment, I wondered if he felt any kind of regret. The image in my head is so vivid that, for a moment I am back there, I am running from the kitchen, relieved that he is home yet miserably aware of how upset he will be at the state of his flat. I thought the worst thing would be his ominous silence, his glowering displeasure when I tried to explain it all away. I anticipated a reaction to the daytime consumption of alcohol, and an arch disapproval of my appalling choice of friends.

But I was not prepared at all for the way he loomed over my unwanted visitor, a deep angry crease between his brows, his lip curled back to reveal his teeth, icy and menacing, man versus boy. There can't be much of an age difference between them, yet the gulf was vast; Andrew was reasonably tall but Martin towered over him, imperious and disdainful, his suit immaculate, his tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks gleaming and not a hair out of its place. Poor Andrew, you couldn't not notice how pathetic he was by comparison, his torso exposed, his skin almost translucent, his complexion sweaty and grey. And of course a doctor would recognise the drug thing; I almost feel guilty now for judging him as feeble, I feel sorry for thinking he was weak and hopeless especially now I know he's some sort of addict, now I understand that in fact he's actually ill.

But the thing that makes me feel really awful is this ache, the one just won't go away, the one that grows more intense by the day, eating away at me despite my grim determination that I must dig deep and carry on. My lungs seem thin and small, I can't seem to inflate them, I can't even seem to find the breath I need. My stomach, too, is full of acid, I feel an enormous constriction like my belt's two holes too tight. The worst thing is, right now my grief seems endless, the hurt interminable, like I might just spend my whole life lamenting his loss. But how can you change the way your heart feels, how do you stop yourself from loving someone just because they no longer care for you? Looking after Dad must become my focus, it will give me an important reason to stay optimistic, to keep perspective and just plough grimly on. I will do my best not to think of Martin, I will close the door on my recent life in London, because I have found another purpose and, in the meantime, that must be enough.

I suppose I must have fallen asleep eventually because I did not hear dad when he came home but I have no idea how long I had lain awake for; no chiming clocks in this flat, no counting the strikes upon the hour in a semi-conscious attempt to know the time. I wake with the morning light, stiff and cold, my feet like blocks of ice inside my socks, and I realise I cannot feel my nose. It's important to start as I mean to go on, though, so I don't hang about in my little makeshift bed. I mean wasn't Martin always extolling the value of breakfast, banging on about the importance of a nutritious start to the day. So I make toast, and bacon and scrambled eggs, and brew a pot of tea, and we sit in silence, me perched on the wobbly stool, Dad in the only chair, engrossed in his newspaper, smoking fag after fag, while his bacon congeals and his toast goes stone-cold.

When he has drained his third beaker, he jumps abruptly to his feet, announcing he's off to to the phone box because he has some important calls to make. I'm startled because I'm miles away, absently collecting spilt salt grains on my fingertip, thinking of another life.

"Oh…any jobs? Anything that looks promising?" I ask him hopefully.

"Umm…yeah, possibly." He replies, rubbing his hands together and smiling at me. "That's my day sorted, Princess, ringing a man about a job…"

"Great!…that's really good, Dad…" I call out breathlessly as he walks away, suddenly cheered by the fact he is whistling again, a sound I haven't heard for many many years. "So you'll let me know, yeah…I mean if there's anything I can do to help…"

I hear the creak of the back door, and then there's a pause; the whistling stopping as suddenly as it started. "Actually, Sweetheart, there is something you can do for me…lend us a tenner, would you? I wouldn't ask but I really need some change for the phone…"

I find my wallet and give him the last of my cash. He nods at me and slips it into the cigarette packet that resides permanently in the chest pocket of his shirt. After he leaves, I clear the table and put the leftover bacon on a plate, making it airtight with clingfilm and slipping it into the half empty fridge. After adjusting the temperature, I wrestle with a niggling sort of irritation, a little bit disappointed that I went to the trouble of cooking for him when he barely seemed to notice, never mind think to offer any thanks. It's ridiculous, I mean, how does he think he's going to be sharp for a job interview, impress a prospective employer, get his life back on an even keel on a breakfast of fag-ends and stewed tea? Muttering under my breath, I do the dishes, leaving them on the worn wooden worktop to drain before thinking better of it. Start as you mean to go on, I remind myself, opening the new packet of kitchen roll and wiping the motley collection of cutlery and plates dry, as I lean wearily against the cupboards.

Having done my best to make the place sanitary and presentable, I reluctantly pull out my books, miserably aware that this is just another crisis to face. I stare at the blank page before me, fighting the urge to doodle across it mindlessly. The truth is I have no idea what I am going to do with myself, and none of my educational prospects seem appealing in the slightest any longer. A return to London, alone, is too dismal to even contemplate right now, the prospect of finding a half decent flat even more daunting again. It's obvious that I can never again wander about in Hyde Park, or walk in Kensington Gardens, or any of those places near his flat that I have come to love. I suppose I'll even have to avoid all the sodding hospitals and, for gods sake, they are everywhere. You know, I couldn't care less about what happened to any of my other ex boyfriends but seeing Martin with somebody else would probably do me in. I couldn't bear it, and if I do consider returning to my college, the only solution seems to be moving south of the river, or finding a needle in a haystack, a liveable, affordable flat somewhere close to the Victoria Line.

In the meantime, I convince myself that being left alone all day is perfect and provides ample time to work on one of the last essays I am due to hand in for the term. But, despite my best intentions, my thoughts are clumsy and disjointed, and I struggle to write coherently, to keep up the high standards I'd been so determined to maintain. I love my course, I know I have a real vocation, I know that in my heart, and I've certainly worked too hard to throw the towel in now, but it's almost frightening, how my resolve to complete a first class degree at UCL seems to be rapidly slipping away. With my jaw tightly clenched, I'm distracted by the thought of other available options, the possibility of transferring somewhere closer to the village, but the idea of uprooting myself again, and moving to Plymouth or Bristol, seems too depressing to even consider.

I feel my eyes begin to well again, and I growl at myself as I fight again to stem the threatening tide of frustrated, disappointed tears. I bite my lip hard because I'm not having a bar of weeping, of feeling sorry for myself. I'm not spineless, I'm not feeble, I will not crumble like some timid emotional wreck. Clad in my heavy winter boots, my foot taps loudly and agitatedly against the leg of the chair. I blame being cooped up all morning, I probably just need some fresh air. I will go to the shops, look for some proper linen and maybe shout myself a crab sandwich for my lunch. Glancing at my watch, I wonder where Dad's got to, perhaps he might fancy a crab sandwich too? Having mostly ignored my textbook, I close it almost apologetically, before grabbing my coat and bag from the back of the chair, and marching resolutely out the front door.

The range in the shops though is a far cry from London but I do find a silly Portwenn souvenir tea towel, and pay for it from the loose change floating about in the bottom of my handbag. My wallet is empty and I ask the assistant if there is a cash machine in the village these days, or do I still have to catch a bus to the bank in Delabole? She shakes her head sadly and I realise how used to convenience I have become. Convenience and comfort, I think as I flex my stiff, aching neck. Perhaps I do need to go to town. We're short of so many things, basic household linen for starters. The threadbare towel dad gave me is like drying myself with a hessian sack, and I'd sighed when I'd tried to wrap it around my hair; no soft Egyptian cotton, finished off in the tumble drier for me now. Comparisons are pointless though, aren't they? It's up to me to make the best of things. Living with Martin was like a holiday in a luxury hotel. You can't come home and expect life to always be like that, you have to find a way to be content with the lot you've got.

At least there's no traffic to contend with here, no pollution, no noise. But then, stepping out into the lane, I'm almost collected by a little red sports car that comes haring down the hill, it's engine screaming as it passes. Flattening myself against the stone wall, I glare back at the driver, the bloody nerve of him to cheerfully give me a wave, while his passenger clings to her seatbelt, staring straight ahead as if she dare not take her eyes off the road. I recognise him then, by his floppy hair, recalling how he held a door open for Isobel once and she mooned over him for months. I'm pretty sure Richard Wenn was his name, a few years our senior, and one of the posh boys from the old families, the ones that lived in the big houses, the sort who mostly didn't mix with the likes of us. Judging by the stony-faced blond in the Burberry trench coat sitting alongside him, it seems like he's found a girlfriend from his own class, as pretentious and snooty as himself.

I walk off toward the Plat then, smoothing my coat, hoping nobody noticed my inelegant scrambling, what felt like a near-death experience, but there's not many people about. Seagulls mill around, pecking idly at nothing, fixing their beady little eyes on me as I pass, skirting around a delivery van unloading, a bicycle lain on its side, and a Land Rover, loaded high with empty wooden crates. As it registers with me as familiar, I hear her voice, that no-nonsense tone, that crisp elocution and, without thinking, I break into a trot. The nearest door is the Crab, and I launch myself through it, desperate for somewhere to hide. I know I can't avoid Joan forever but I simply can't face her today. I can't bear the thought of her bluntness, her questions, her told-you-so judgment and, as I dash into ladies toilets, and lock myself into a cubicle, I wonder what will be harder; I'm not sure how I'll feel if she's critical of Martin, which feels oddly worse than if she blames this disaster on me.

After what seems like forever, my arms aching from clutching my parcels to my chest, I edge out of my hiding place, back to the basin, washing my hands as thoroughly as I can without wanting to put my shopping on the floor. Cautiously, I pull the door open a crack, listening carefully, hoping the coast might be finally clear. But all I can hear is the sound of laughter from the bar, a trio of loud male voices, the sort of gloating, cruel, one-upmanship that so many men call banter. I listen for a while and realise that at least I've located my father, his accent clear as day among the softer Cornish burr. I wonder if he's hungry too, as I hear my stomach rumble, I may as well ask him while I'm here. In hindsight, it really was the first indicator of danger, the first crack in his charming and affable facade. I watch him now, and it's as if he's lost a bet, pointedly counting out my stack of fivers and laying them down on the bar.

"Double or nothing?" He asks one of the men hopefully, but they all laugh and shake their heads.

Forty quid, my forty quid, pocketed by a ruddy-faced fisherman who then proceeds to shout everyone in the bar a round. Another familiar face, Bert Large, sidles over; like everyone else he seems so much shorter now than I remember, and he's gained a significant paunch, one that ages him, one that he's conscious of too, if the way he clasps his hands on his stomach is any indication. Like most of the men in this village, he always did have an instinct for free beer and whiling away the hours talking rubbish. They're all here this afternoon, the same blokes, the same stories: Eddie Rix, his arm in a sling, Mike Chubb, wheezing with laughter, a silent old man with cottonwood in his ear; spellbound as they rest their pint glasses on their bellies, an encouraging audience for a showman who needs no encouragement. Tall tales and bullshit, my dad's speciality. At the bar, Rev. Counter scowls at me, swaying precariously on a barstool. I shake my head at all of them, and turn away, numb with disappointment.

I slink down to the phone box then and make a few phonecalls, prioritising arranging to get the gas back on because I'm already sick and tired of being cold. Then, with a trembling voice, I leave a message for my lecturers, explaining that a family emergency has seen me called back home to Cornwall indefinitely. On my way back to the cottage, I glance at the novels in the charity shop but, for the life of me, I can't face a Barbara Cartland or a Mills and Boon. The walk up the hill seems steeper than ever, my feet heavy and my legs devoid of strength. Though my afternoon was reasonably productive, a cold bacon sandwich for dinner feels like a failure; I'd bought vegetables and everything but I never was much good at cooking for one. And then I take a very long shower, to fill the minutes until bedtime; at least it's the one place in this dreary dump that I am warm.

Clearly the pub provides more entertainment than I do and I can't help but feel a little bit resentful; the next night when I suggest we do something together, he looks at me, and his smile seems condescending.

"Why don't you come with me, Princess. I'll buy you some dinner, and then we can go pairs in the darts?"

It doesn't seem to register with him, I'm not interested in night after night of the same utter bollocks. There's no music, there's no one my own age, they're all at home with screaming babies, or they've gone away to try and find work. I'd last five minutes, bored to my back teeth; how many times do I have to listen to fairy stories, fantasies about shipwrecked galleons laden with gold, languishing in the fathoms off Lundy Bay. Old people reliving their glory days; there is nothing more tedious on the face of the earth.

"No thanks." I reply, trying to sound reasonable.

"What's wrong with you?" Dad says, frowning back at me, utterly perplexed. "It's like you never learned to have any fun."

For a moment I am taken aback. What a ridiculous thing to say! I think about dancing with Libby, drinking champagne and laughing til my ribs ached. I recall art galleries and incredible restaurants, long walks on sunny afternoons, among beautiful gardens and picturesque countryside. Wandering down Portobello Road looking for treasure in the form of broken, yet repairable clocks. Sitting on the grass, or being dragged away laughing from the pelicans, my favourite place in Hyde Park, that was my sort of entertainment. Cosy evenings reclined on the sofa, reading a good book; slipping my feet into his lap, where he'd rub them absentmindedly, kneading my aching arches while scowling at his BMJ. Rainy Sunday afternoons making love until we were exhausted, there wasnt anything that was much more fun that that. And I wince then, as the pain of the recollection almost doubles me in two.

"Perhaps you and I've just got different ideas on what constitutes fun, Dad." I blurt out suddenly, my voice crackling with emotion, as I excuse myself and run quickly to the sanctuary of the loo.

Long after Dad disappears for the evening, I remain in there, silent and contemplative. How had it all been so perfect and how had we managed to destroy it, Martin and I, why can't I put my finger on the point that it all went wrong? But it did go wrong, horribly so, and now I am destined to a life duller than even ordinary drabness, among shabby, unshaven men with beer bellies, and chipped and dirty nails. An uninteresting existence among battery-powered clocks and where art means faded, mass produced Constable's 'The Haywain', amateurishly framed 500 piece-jigsaws and childish paint-by numbers. Where suits come from charity shops or get handed down the generations, where haircuts are biennial, and any man who shaves regularly, who takes pride in his appearance, becomes an object of suspicion.

I try to tell myself it's not forever, that I just need to see Dad settled but sadness seems to cling to me like an heavy winter fog. And even when he's home, it's no better during the day; we exist from horse race to bloody horse race, Aintree to Epsom, and a world of furtive phone calls and mysterious tipsters, bookies and betting slips, course conditions and handicaps. I know it must be hard for him, he's been deprived of the entertainment he enjoys for such a long time. But I've never been one for gambling, it seems such a waste of money especially when I've never seen a penny back of what I've lent him. I'm starting to eat into my savings, money I'm going to need to sort a flat out when I make it back to college. I feel a bit resentful, and then I just feel guilty for being selfish and a bit cross.

The first night he does not come home at all, I sit on the couch long after chucking out time, reading the same line of my book over and over again, and nibbling anxiously on the cold toast I made myself for dinner. This isn't how it was meant to be, he's never here and he doesn't seem to be able to find himself a job. And I want to spend time with him, like any daughter would her dad but he's apparently got far bigger fish to fry than me. My indignant breath condenses; I have done something very stupid, giving him the gas money upfront to pay the bill. I suppose I will be alright, I'll acclimatise to the bitter evening cold; I admit I'm trying hard to trust him but it gets harder by the day.

It would almost be easier to follow him to the Crab of an evening, at least it's always warm in there, even though I'm almost bored to tears. But he has made some new acquaintances, the sort of watchful blokes that ask lots of questions but never give anything away about themselves. They huddle in the corner, my dad whispering like a conspiratorial cartoon character, glancing around him frequently and covering his mouth with his hand when it's his turn to speak. I put my foot down, I told him they weren't welcome in the cottage and, though I could tell he wasn't happy, I think he knew he shouldn't try and argue with the one who is paying all the bills. But now he's like a phantom, coming home every few days to change his clothing and, this morning, all the money in the rent jar has disappeared.

By Wednesday, I've had enough of the rain and the isolation and I'm tired of the inside of this miserable house. The day has dawned clear, it feels like a good omen and, though I have barely enough cash for the bus fare, I'm determined to get to Wadebridge if only for a change of scene. The tide is coming in and the harbour is a hive of activity. The Lifeboat Station doors are wide open, the slipway is packed cheek by jowl with empty boat trailers, and two barking dogs chase seagulls wildly on the small expanse of sand. In amongst the industry, a van unloads its cargo among the laid out trestle tables: speakers and cables and fish bins full of vinyl LPs. Someone is stringing bunting from a lamp post and, in the middle of all the action, a thin woman with a wild mop of curly blonde hair stands with her hands on her hips, shouting instructions disparagingly, as if everyone was an idiot, sent to try her patience.

Funny how you can feel so terribly isolated, so bored, and so lonely yet a childhood friend appears before you, and you'd do anything to avoid her, you dip your head, pull your hat down hard and scurry hurriedly past, praying that she keeps her back turned. Your shin muscles burn as you hasten up the hill in a strange sort of half running walk, not daring to look back, willing the bus to arrive. And then you spend the hour long journey wondering about your motives, wondering why the prospect of facing Caroline is so daunting, conscious of the mess your life's become once more. News travels fast in a small town, both Joan and Caroline will be only too aware that I'm back here, they'll know my dad's here on parole and that we've set up house again in the nether regions of the village. Facing them is only a matter of time.

I get to Wadebridge, and without any good reason I just decide to keep going; it takes me two hours but I finally get to Truro just before eleven o'clock. I find a bank and stand in the queue, I go to the post office and send my attempt at an essay off to College; it feels odd to write the address, sad even, and l wander off to eat lunch by myself in a pub feeling thoroughly sick of myself. It's always a mistake though and, almost inevitably, I'd attracted the unwanted attention of a cocky young man who was also eating alone. I used to find such efforts amusing mostly, occasionally pathetic of course but generally I just ignored them because I suppose I was secure, and actually a bit smug. I've actually already got a boyfriend, I'd say, when I could get a word in edgeways, and their bubble would inevitably burst.

I take a sip of water, and yawn, staring in the opposite direction. I mean, who falls for this sort of chat? What sort of plonker would you have to be to be impressed by the sort of cliched lines he is spewing forth? I glance at him while he is suddenly distracted, as he briefly turns his glance toward a waitress who has bent over to retrieve a fork from the floor. I suppose he's not a bad looking bloke, but there's no substance to him, there's nothing genuine, he's not saying anything that he hasn't tried a hundred times before on as many single woman. It doesn't matter to him that I'm barely listening, never mind that I'm not responding. He talks for the sheer sake of talking, full of his own importance, loving the sound of his own voice.

"I'm actually studying to be a City Planner." He says, loftily. "What do you do?"

"I'll tell you what I don't do." I reply at last, sighing as I deliberately placing my knife and fork beside my half-eaten pasty. "And that's talk to blokes like you."

And then I stand up and just start walking, enshrouded in what feels like disappointment, filled with a feeling of mistrust, like nothing in the world is as it seems, and everybody just wants something from me. My footsteps become angry ones, up and down the cobbled streets, barely looking in the big shop windows, not meeting anybody's gaze. For a while I stop, sitting down in the sun near the cathedral but there is no heat in it, no warmth. And I don't know what to do, or where to go, there seems nowhere worth running to, except perhaps Sydney and I can't afford to go there. God, I'd barely scraped my bus fare together today, and I'm only hanging on to my college place because of past performance. I mean, I've already missed nearly two weeks and the term is nearly over. Leaving the country would be the final nail in the coffin. My lecturers have been accomodating so far, they've been totally brilliant but even they have to follow the rules.

So I trudge back towards the Bus Station, in time for the last bus that will get me to Portwenn tonight. That cottage will never feel like home, but perhaps I just need to try harder for my Dad. I can't expect him to behave just like normal, when he's been in prison for nearly ten years. Perhaps I'm being too judgmental, perhaps it's good that he's trying to make new friends. Just because I don't like them doesn't mean that he shouldn't either. His life and mine have been very different so it stands to reason his friends will be different too. Maybe now the cottage is habitable I can leave him to his own devices for a while. I could go back to London, find short term lodgings and finish the college year. It would make sense too, if I came back down for Christmas, I might talk to John, see if he's got any part time waitressing at the pub. I mean, he was very understanding when Dad turned up, he refunded me all my money and he really didn't have to. I think I'd have to be a little bit careful he didn't get the wrong idea but I will worry about when it happens, first of all I need to square my plan off with my Dad.

The sky glows pink as the sun sets, the days are short and getting shorter, and the heating makes me sleepy as we crawl north and stop what feels like at least a hundred times. Honestly, the route seems to take forever and it's dark when the driver deposits me at the top of Fore Street. Whatever happened on the Plat this morning has been tidied away. The lights are still on in the Life Boat Station but the doors are firmly shut and any thought I might have of sticking my head in at the pub vanishes at the sight of Joan's trusty old Land Rover, parked sedately on the sand. I never knew her to frequent the pub at all, any other social functions she was usually involved, often the organiser, but seeing her here at this time of night is quite a surprise. But people change don't they, and it's really none of my business if she's here or not. I'm cold, and regretting only half eating my pasty at lunchtime. I just want to get back to the cottage and make a nice cup of tea.

Of course, Dad's not home, and the place is in darkness. Through the little kitchen window, I see a glimpse of the moon. I fumble for the light switch and throw my bag on the table, rubbing my hands together and blowing on them as I wait for the kettle to boil. In a tin at the back of the cupboard I have hidden a packet of chocolate digestives. It does seem a bit mean-spirited but dad has a sweet tooth and will devour them in one sitting if he knows where they are. I take out four and put the tin back, holding one into my mouth as I fill the teapot and replace the cosy. At least when I'm the only one here, I don't feel bad about sitting in the only chair, and I certainly don't feel bad about being sneaky with the biscuits. In fact, knowing that I might be going to back to finish the college year has actually brightened me up significantly.

I warm my hands gratefully on my steaming mug of tea. I know I have enough money saved to pay for accomodation, and living expenses, for at least a couple of months. It's not much of a nest egg but at least it's something. I suppose I owe Martin a debt of gratitude for that too, because it was him that stoutly refused to accept any rent money from me, it was him who insisted I open a high interest savings account and squirrel it away for a rainy day. I raise the mug to my lips but it's still too hot to drink. I think about all those mornings I woke up to a cold cup of tea beside my bed, all those mornings he'd had to leave at some godforsaken hour but still went to great pains not to disturb me, still thought enough of me that he would make me a hot drink before he left. And once again I wrestle with the the reason why it had all gone so pear shaped between us, I feel a sickening sense of grief that we somehow fell apart. And I'm lost in my own life thoughts, staring at the wall opposite, when suddenly there is an earth shattering splintering of glass, a heart-stopping explosion as a brick comes crashing through the little kitchen window, bouncing off the table violently, and smashing my teapot to smithereens.