Dying Fall

black eaves. It’s a fisherman’s cottage, situated just behind the coast road, with a tiny garden full of hollyhocks and giant daisies.
    Andrea Vickers, a smiling woman with wispy grey hair, greets them at the door.
    ‘Welcome to Lytham,’ she says.
    ‘Thanks,’ says Ruth, straightening her aching back and breathing in the salty air. ‘It’s lovely to be here.’
    It’s just as charming inside. In fact, it reminds Ruth of a house in a fairy tale. Everything is pretty and faded and slightly the wrong size. The sitting room has a rocking chair and a high-backed sofa covered in roses. In the kitchen, there are even three chairs at the round kitchen table.
    Cathbad puts on a deep, growling voice. ‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’
    Andrea turns to Kate, who is staring, wide-eyed. ‘You’ll have to ask your daddy to read you that story.’
    ‘He’s not …’ begins Ruth but she’s not sure how to go on. It seems unnecessarily intimate to be explaining Kate’s parentage to a woman she has only just met. Across the room Cathbad grins at her. Ruth scowls back.
    Upstairs it’s worse. Andrea throws open the door to a charming double with white-painted bed and matching wardrobe. ‘That’s for you two. Kate’s next door. It’s a lovely room for a little girl.’
    Ruth smiles tightly but says nothing. The room next door has a pink bed and ballerina wallpaper. She hopes that Cathbad will be very happy there.
    Back downstairs, Andrea explains the heating system and extols the attractions of Lytham. ‘There’s the park and the windmill and the lifeboat museum. And if you want adventure, Blackpool’s just up the road.’
    Ruth doesn’t want adventure, she is quite certain ofthat. Lytham suits her – the average age of the inhabitants, as they stroll along the promenade later that evening, seems to be about eighty. The seafront itself feels old-fashioned, almost Victorian, a wide green verge with stuccoed hotels on one side and the sea on the other. Dominating the view is the huge black-and-white windmill. They walk towards it, enjoying the exercise after a day spent cooped up in the car. Kate runs along the grass, chasing the seagulls and Cathbad and Ruth follow at a more leisurely pace, Cathbad occasionally commenting on good energies and the psychic qualities of people who live within sight of the sea.
    The windmill is shut, although a sign on the wooden steps announces proudly that it is open for an hour every afternoon. Kate is inclined to have a tantrum about this but Ruth bribes her with an ice cream. They walk back along the beach which is actually more of a marsh, with little streams making their way through waterlogged grass down to the sea. It reminds Ruth of the Saltmarsh. Fishing boats are moored above the tide line and seabirds peck their way across the mud. Across the estuary, they see houses, hills and, in the far distance, mountains.
    ‘What’s over there?’ asks Ruth.
    ‘Southport, I think,’ says Cathbad. ‘You can see as far as Wales apparently. That must be where those mountains are.’
    Hadn’t Judy said something about Southport? thinks Ruth. She decides not to mention it.
    ‘I’d expected it to be more built up,’ she says. ‘You know, amusement arcades and piers.’
    ‘I think that’s what Blackpool’s for,’ Cathbad says. ‘This is nice, though. Peaceful.’
    ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘That’s just what I want. A really peaceful holiday.’

CHAPTER 10
    Lytham is a surprise; Pendle University is a shock. After the beauty of Pendle Forest Ruth was expecting something rather picturesque, but as she follows Clayton Henry’s directions through the back streets of Preston, her confidence starts to falter. She passes grim terraced houses, boarded-up shops, deserted mills and factories. Surely the university can’t be here? Even her own university, often described as the poor relation to the University of East Anglia, has landscaped grounds and an ornamental lake. She drives between Indian supermarkets and Polish bakeries. Preston may be multicultural but none of the cultures seems to be having a very good time. The brilliant saris of the women in the streets contrast with their glum expressions. It’s a cold summer’s day and many of them are wearing anoraks over their saris, heavy boots visible under the bright silk hems. It’s like a metaphor for the dampening effect of British life – or British weather.
    How had Dan – urban, sophisticated Dan –