That One May Smile Read online

  Later, she had put the jacket away because it reminded her too much of that day and she had never wanted to see it again. She had planned to bring it to a charity shop with some other unwanted clothes but, like a lot of things recently, she hadn’t done so.

  Now she stood wondering what the hell was going on. She was no fool. Finding a dead body three months after her husband goes missing might just be a coincidence. A connection, between the dead body and her husband, wasn’t. She knew too she had not fooled those policemen. But I don’t know anything, she thought, panicking. Think! Think she told herself, calm down and think. She took a deep breath and tried to make sense of it.

  Simon must have put that piece of paper in my pocket, she decided. Not long before he went missing either, I wore that jacket all the time and I would have found it before. She sat on the bed, thinking. Simon put a piece of paper saying come to good in my pocket, and then he goes missing. I don’t hear a word from him or about him and then three months later I find a dead body a short distance from my house. Almost in my back garden, for God’s sake! Then, the gardai come and ask me about those very same words.

  For a long time she sat there trying to think straight. She rubbed her eyes wearily. God, she was so tired. Suddenly, from out of some deep recess of her mind came a thought causing her to jump up with a gasp. She ran from the room up to the attic room they had set up as an office and switched on the computer, waiting impatiently as it warmed up, her heart thumping noisily in the quiet of the attic space. It seemed like hours, but minutes later she had googled come to good. When the result came up she felt her heart skip a beat.

  How could she have forgotten? Cornwall. Their first romantic weekend away together. They had gone over on the ferry from Rosslare and had driven to Falmouth. It had rained all weekend, torrential rain that prevented even the most resilient of walkers from venturing out and they were only ever fair-weather walkers. They had driven around instead, admiring the scenery despite the rain, promising to come back again, someday in the future when the sun shone. Driving without plan, they had followed roads as the fancy took them, and had come upon a lovely old thatched inn where they had stopped for lunch.

  There was a big fire burning brightly and they had sat a long time, just chatting about nothing, enjoying each other’s company. She drank a bottle of very good merlot, she remembered, while he played with a pint of beer. They had a delightful meal, huddled over the fire listening to the rain pitter-pattering against the windows. The inn had guest rooms and, she smiled as it all came rushing back to her; they had been tempted to stay, checking in as Mr and Mrs Smith just for a laugh. But they hadn’t stayed. They had driven away in the dusk, rain still tumbling and had stopped to look back on the glow of light from the mullioned windows, promising to return and stay someday. On the way out of the village they stopped when they saw the reverse of a village name sign and Simon had pulled the car over so they could read the sign without getting wet. It was called Come-to-Good.

  They had laughed about the name the rest of the weekend, devising more and more ridiculous uses for it. He would pull her into his arms in the early morning, ‘come to good,’ he would whisper and it would be good, so very, very good. Despite the rain, the weekend had been the most romantic she had ever had and, only a week later, she had agreed to marry him. In all the excitement of the wedding, the honeymoon in a castle in Cork and then the move to their wonderful house in Foxrock, the memories of the small village of Come-to-Good had faded, buried in so many good times, in wonderful weekends away in a succession of gorgeous hotels in beautiful places.

  Smoothing the scrap of paper absentmindedly, she snapped her thoughts back to the present and wondered what the hell to do. Three months, three months of futile sitting and waiting for an answer. Walking back to her bedroom she went to the window and looked out. The road outside was chaotic with police cars and a white transit van, parked every which way. At the church gate, which she could just see, a garda was keeping church-goers and curious children at bay. The box grave with its sad attendant wasn’t, thankfully she thought, visible hidden as it was by the trees that surrounded her house and the laurel trees that encircled the graveyard.

  Looking at the scrap of paper again, she realised, this time, that he had forgotten the hyphens between the words. Instead of reading Come-To-Good, it read come to good. Probably why I didn’t recognise it immediately, she guessed. She stood a moment, wondering why he would have put it in her pocket. Was he thinking of that wonderful romantic weekend in Cornwall? She remembered the promise they had made at the time to return and stay at that lovely inn in Come-to-Good.

  Like a blow, the idea struck her and she looked at the piece of paper in horror. He had put the piece of paper in her pocket and disappeared. Oh my God, she gasped, the knowledge coming with fully-formed clarity, I was supposed to follow! She didn’t stop to think again. She knew she was right, she had no doubt. For some reason Simon had had to leave and he had left her his address and she had, stupidly, stupidly ignored it!

  She had a quick but refreshing shower, scrubbing the weeks of inactivity and hopelessness away along with days of grime and grease. Tying her long wet hair back she fished some clean clothes from the piles on the floor, threw some on and some into a battered holdall.

  Grabbing a small handbag, she hastily shoved in her car keys and mobile phone and ran down the stairs, then with a growl of annoyance she turned and ran up again and into the room she had used as an office.

  She turned on her lap-top, restless hopping from foot to foot as it powered up, impatient with its slowness. Sitting, she quickly typed in Irish Ferries and was speedily brought through their website. With a sigh of satisfaction she saw there was a ferry at 21.15 from Rosslare. She had loads of time; it was only...she glanced at the time on the screen...one o’clock. Was that all? So much had happened that morning she had assumed it was much, much later.

  It would only take her two maybe two and a half hours to get to Rosslare. She had loads of time to catch the ferry. She checked the arrival time. Just after mid-night. How long had it taken them to drive to Falmouth when they had gone? She couldn’t remember. They had taken an early ferry and stopped for lunch on the way.

  Closing the website, she typed in Google maps. Minutes later she had the information she needed. It would take her over five hours to drive to Falmouth. Adrenaline flowed through her, that wouldn’t be a problem. She’d doze on the ferry and be fine. Anyway she could sleep when she got there. A thought crossed her mind and sparkled in her eyes. This time tomorrow she could be with Simon!

  She didn’t know how long she sat there thinking of what she would say and what he would say and all the ramifications of each. Finally, she blinked and shook her head with a smile and, turning off her lap-top she picked up her bags and headed downstairs. No point in hanging around, she may as well head to Rosslare now.

  She stopped in the kitchen for a drink of water, using the mug she had used earlier, rinsing it carelessly before filling it, sipping the water looking through the window, her eyes glazed, seeing Simon’s reflection in the dirty glass. Soon, she shivered in pleasure; soon she would be with him.

  She turned to face the room, taking in the disorder. How Simon would laugh when he saw it! They’d tidy it together, she decided with a smile. When they came home. When Simon came home.

  She left the half-empty mug on the dirty counter-top and turned to go. She had dropped her bag onto the cluttered table and she picked it up now sending a card that had become adhered to it spinning to the ground. Kelly paused, bent and picked it up. It was one of the cards the sergeant had given her, his name and contact numbers written in plain, black typeface on a sharp white card. There was something about the starkness of it, the lack of embellishment that caught her eye and brought her back to reality with a crash.

  It wasn’t a romantic gesture on Simon’s part that had taken him away. It certainly wasn’t a romantic gesture to leave a note where she may or may not find it. The
re was nothing remotely romantic about finding a dead body. She closed her eyes as hot tears seared and fell. She didn’t know what to do.

  Looking at the card clenched in knuckle white fingers, she debated ringing the sergeant for half a second. Then Simon’s smile flashed before her and she knew she would do anything to have him back. She tore the card in two and, with a half-hearted flourish, threw it onto the floor. There, she thought childishly, then bent and picked them up again, putting the two halves together and stuffing them quickly into her handbag.

  Picking up her holdall and keys, she remembered with a grimace that the guard’s car had been parked outside. She closed her eyes on the irritation that surged. Blast! Damn and blast! She moved to the front door and sneaked a look out, giving a sigh of relief to see the drive empty.

  She opened the door slowly; peering out as she did so, prepared to retreat if necessary then breathed a sigh of relief to find the coast clear. She locked the front door behind her and quickly made her way to the car, afraid any moment a garda would stop her and ask her where she was going. Pulling out of her drive moments later she glanced in her rear view mirror and saw nobody running after her or jumping into cars to give chase. She laughed for the first time in a very long time. I really read too many detective novels, she thought, and turned smoothly onto the main road and quickly, soon after, was making good progress on the drive to Rosslare.

  The journey was uneventful and she arrived far too early at the ferry terminal. She bought an open return ticket, not knowing what she was going to discover when she arrived in Come-to-Good, not knowing when she would be returning. She sat in her car with very bad, take-away coffee that bore little, if any, resemblance to coffee. Or none that she had ever tasted anyway.

  She watched as other vehicles arrived; the articulated Lorries, the camper-vans and caravans and the assortment of cars. She saw the big ferry arrive and disgorge its cargo, a similar assortment of vehicles to those that were waiting to board, all eager to get going to their final destination, an air of excitement about everything.

  Was she excited or scared? She was afraid to think too much. Afraid to wonder about why, or to even wonder if she cared about why. Just as long as she got Simon back. Wasn’t that a question that was asked? What would you do for love? What would be her answer? Was she going to find out?

  She dozed for a moment, woken abruptly and with a moment’s panic when someone knocked on her window. A ferry official knocked again, waving her onward with an impatient hand. Embarrassed, she started her engine and followed the signs to park her car in the bowels of the ferry.

  Prevented from staying in the car by the rules and regulations of ferry travel she made her way to one of the lounges, found herself a marginally comfortable seat and tried to get some sleep. She didn’t think she would, so was stunned when woken almost four hours later by the loud chatter of a group of young men who were making their way down to the car-deck.

  She was momentarily disorientated and felt a little nauseous. Standing, she swayed a little and then realised, with a nervous giggle that it was the ferry moving and not her. She gathered her bag, holdall and jacket and followed the line of people descending to the car-decks. Soon she was sitting back in her car, engine running, excitement mounting.

  She followed the instructions to disembark, and then followed the well-signposted directions to exit Pembroke. Seeing a sign for a turn off to a service station she glanced at her petrol gauge then indicated and took the turn. Filling up with petrol she caught the smell of bacon drifting from a small restaurant next door. Saliva flooded her mouth in response and she realised she was hungry. She hadn’t felt hungry in so long.

  She parked her car and entered, ignoring the speculative glance of the only other occupant, a long-distance lorry driver who wondered, for only a fraction of a second, if she were looking for business before her disinterested glance told him otherwise. He shrugged, and stuffed a large portion of bacon into his mouth; he wasn’t really in the mood anyway.

  Kelly ordered a full breakfast from the disinterested woman behind the counter wondering if she had made a mistake. Soon, however, she was sitting in front of a plate of excellent bacon and eggs which she demolished with gusto. She finished off with some freshly-made toast and some very good coffee. God, that was good, she sighed, popping the last piece of buttered and heavily marmaladed toast into her mouth

  She left the restaurant feeling better than she had in weeks.

  Ferry traffic had gone and the roads were quiet. She checked her map. It was fairly straightforward. And she remembered from the last time, Simon saying it was well signposted. She was soon seeing signs for Swansea and then Cardiff; then almost before she knew it she was crossing the Severn Bridge from Wales to England. Darkness soon gave way to the magic half-light of early morning when the world seemed as new and as Kelly drove she watched it appear, taking form in the dark, almost mysteriously materialising.

  As Simon would, she thought. As Simon would!

  Traffic picked up as she drove from the M4 to the M5 but mid May was too early in the year for the heavy tourist traffic that made driving to, and around, the south of England such a nightmare and there was only light traffic most of the way.

  Four hours later Kelly was on the A39. She was almost there! She pulled over to the side of the road and pulled out her map. She had planned to drive into Falmouth and get directions but her maps were pretty detailed, she could probably find the road to Come-to-Good. She found the right page and searched the area and had almost given up when she saw it with a pang.

  Come-to-Good.

  She stopped a moment as memories overwhelmed her. Words, sounds, feelings cascading over her, swallowing her, making it hard to breathe. Her breath came back in a gasp and she struggled to put her finger in the hole that had appeared in the armour that she had built with difficulty over the last few months. She couldn’t afford to collapse now. She had to find out what, if anything, was going on. She took a deep, shaky breath. She’d come this far. She could do this.

  The inn in Come-to-Good had looked lovely when Kelly had seen it in the rain but in the glow of the early morning sunlight it was stunning, the sun catching the mullioned windows and turning each into a cascade of reflections. She stopped a moment staring in admiration before driving her car down the little lane at the side to the car park. Climbing out, she held her arms above her head and stretched, stiff after the long drive and then reached in and retrieved her bag, jacket and holdall.

  The door to the inn was solid oak which, if not original, was indisputably very old. It was worn smooth in parts from many hands opening and closing over the years. Kelly, like many before, ran her hands over the glossed areas appreciating the patina of the rich wood. It opened with a soft, ancient creak and Kelly stepped into the inn and, for a moment, back in time remembering the last time far too clearly.

  A cheery hello from behind the bar brought her out of what could have become a painful reverie and she stepped further into the room. She recognised the tall heavily built man immediately, and, stepping over to the bar, returned his greeting with a smile.

  ‘What can I do for you, love?’ the landlord asked, his hands resting on beautifully polished brass pumps.

  ‘Give me some answers,’ she thought to herself and aloud asked, ‘I know it’s very early but do you have a room for tonight?’

  The landlord looked at her unsmiling then shrugged. ‘You’re in luck. We had a room ready for a couple who rang at the last minute yesterday to cancel, so I can let you have that.’ He turned to take a ledger from under the counter. ‘Is it just yourself?’ he questioned, looking down as he flicked the pages so missing Kelly’s look of confusion.

  He looked up at the continued silence and repeated the question.

  This time Kelly didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. Just me.’

  The landlord nodded and turning the ledger toward her, he indicated for her to sign. To Kelly’s irritation it was the start of a new page and she couldn’t
think of any reason, quickly enough, to turn the pages back. Putting the ledger back beneath the bar the landlord pulled out a set of keys and, working one off the set, he handed it to her.

  ‘Room 8, top of the stairs, turn right and it’s the last door on the left,’ he said indicating the stairway in the corner of the room, ‘Breakfast is between seven and nine,’ he continued, ‘And we serve evening meals here in the bar from seven.’ He looked at her shrewdly, seeing her pale, wan face. ‘I can give you breakfast now, if you’d like, miss.’

  She smiled at him. ‘That’s very kind of you but I had breakfast a while ago. I could do with some sleep though!’

  He nodded. ‘We do a good lunch if you want, later on.’

  Kelly checked the time on a big clock behind the bar and was stunned to see it was nearly ten o’clock. ‘Is that time correct?’ she asked in disbelief, she thought she’d arrive around seven.

  ‘Never loses a minute, that clock.’ The landlord replied with pride. ‘Been there since I was a boy. Never stops, never goes slow.’ He spoke with an accent that spoke of long Cornish roots and Kelly smiled. Taking the proffered key she picked up her bag and followed his directions.

  She found her room easily and opening the door was pleasantly surprised to find a spacious, beautifully furnished room. It was a corner room with mullioned windows looking onto the front of the inn and also over the garden. The garden looked beautiful, Kelly thought, and spent several minutes trying to open the window to get a better view. The old latch gave way with a noisy groan and she opened the double-window wide. She leaned out, catching the scent of magnolia from a huge tree nearby, and took a deep breath. ‘Wow!’ she thought seeing the extent of the garden and made a mental note to explore it before she left.

  Closing the window slightly she turned to examine the rest of the room. The bathroom was small, but clever use of space allowed both a full size bath and separate shower. A wall unit held a pile of folded, fluffy, white towels. Kelly couldn’t resist squeezing one to see if it felt as soft and fluffy as it looked and, to her delight, it did. A small basket beside the wash-handbasin held a collection of toiletries which, she was pleased to see, proved to be some of her favourite scents.