Outside the sun was low. They’d stuck with October for the reunions, and there was always this sense of the year coming to an end. That first meeting of Only Connect had been a time of transition. They all agreed on that. So the date seemed appropriate.

  Later kids had come along. Annie had swallowed her envy and her hurt and pretended to enjoy them. The reunion weekends had grown then; sometimes the place had the vibe of a chaotic playgroup, and later of a youth club for moody teens. They’d only come together for evening chapel at dusk. Now, the adults were alone again, and oddly it was as if they’d gone full circle. They had the same freedom and lack of responsibility as they’d had when they’d first come together as sixteen-year-olds. Tonight, she felt suddenly wild, ready for an adventure.

  Some of their children had become friends and they met up too, independently in smart London wine bars. Not in an austere former convent on Holy Island, which had been refurbished now, but still smelled a little of mould and elderly women. As if the ghosts of the original occupants still lingered.

  * * *

  It was early evening when she arrived at the Pilgrims’ House. She’d crossed the Lindisfarne causeway over the sand and the mud from the mainland just before the evening tide, and the road was empty. There’d be no day trippers to the island now. The setting sun behind her threw long shadows from the rescue towers and set the shore on fire. Although she lived closest, Annie was always the last to arrive. She drove through the village and on towards the house, isolated in the centre of the island, surrounded by scrubby, windblown trees. From here, it felt like a real island. There was no view of the causeway, only of the castle, towering above them. The others’ cars were parked in the lane. She sat in the van for a minute, with a sudden moment of shyness, even foreboding. The usual sense of awkwardness, as if she didn’t quite belong.

  It had been different when she and Dan had still been married. He’d been at the original conference and she’d fallen in love with him then, deeply, dangerously, self-destructively, as only a teenager can. It hadn’t been his scene, and she’d sensed his discomfort throughout, but he’d come back with her to the first reunion. Then there’d been the tragedy of Isobel’s death. She couldn’t blame him for staying away after that. She couldn’t blame him for anything. Not the guilt nor the divorce. Nor her loneliness.

  It was almost dark and she could see a soft light of candles in the clear glass windows of the tiny chapel. There was no fancy stained-glass here. She supposed the others were already inside and realized she must be even later than she’d anticipated. Perhaps they were waiting for her before they started their time of silence and meditation. She left the hampers in the van and hurried into the building. The candles had been lit on the table that served as an altar. There was that smell of old stone and incense. The roof was hardly bigger than one of the upturned cobles, the small boats pulled onto the beach during bad weather, and she thought she could smell the wood it was made from too.

  Her friends were sitting on the wooden benches, taking the same seats as they always did. Habit now. They turned and smiled at her but nobody spoke. That was the deal for evening chapel. Twenty minutes of silence and private meditation. Prayer for those who believed in it. It had seemed alien to them as teenagers, but now, Annie thought, they welcomed the peace, the ritual.

  Annie took a seat near the back, and Phil stood up and gave the welcome, and started them off. ‘Take this time to be grateful.’ But left to her own thoughts, here in the chapel, Annie found gratitude hard to conjure. She sat with her eyes closed and remembered a baby lying in a cot with blue covers – because Annie had decided she never wanted pink for her little girl – and saw the white cold skin. When Philip brought them all back to the present, Annie found that her cheeks were wet with tears. She was pleased she was sitting at the back and that the light was so poor, because she would have hated the others to see and to ask what the matter was.

  Chapter Three

  Rick Kelsall sat in the chapel and let his mind wander. He’d never been very good at sitting still, and he struggled to stop his foot tapping on the stone floor. Also, it was bloody cold. His head was full of plans and ideas, all jostling for priority. It had been an interesting day, and he still wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with the information he’d gained. Then there was the book, which might redeem him, or at least bring him back into the public eye. He’d complained about the attention when he’d been on the telly every week, but now he missed his public: the smiles, the waves, the recognition. He’d only been gone for a few months, but it was as if he’d disappeared into a black hole. When people did know who he was, there was more likely to be abuse than admiration. He shifted in his seat and wished he’d worn a scarf.

  The door opened and he turned to see Annie hurry into the building. She still looked good for her age. She’d never been a beauty like Charlotte, but she was interesting without trying, without realizing. He’d never fancied her, not really. Not like he’d fancied Louisa. He’d always felt close to Annie though. Friendship was too bland a word to describe it. He wriggled again and tried to find a better way to express how he felt about her.

  Philip stood up to call them to order. When they’d first come here as teenagers, nobody would have bet on Philip becoming a priest. Not in a million years. He’d been Rick’s most exciting friend, full of anger and rebellion and wild, impossible plans. Now he seemed to live his life in a state of complacency and contentment. Philip had achieved, Rick supposed, a kind of wisdom. He no longer battled the inevitable. He knew he was getting old but didn’t seem to care. Soon, he’d retire from his parish and his life would become even more boring. He might well move north again – so predictable – and he’d live out his smug, boring life until he died.

  Perhaps Philip didn’t even miss the adventures of their youth. Rick missed them all the time. He longed for them with a desperation that sometimes overwhelmed him. He would give anything to be seventeen again and sitting in this chapel for the first time. He would sell his soul for it. He wouldn’t even mind being twenty-two and fighting with Isobel, then watching her drive away to her death. Then, at least he’d felt alive.

  He realized that Philip had sat down once more. Rick hadn’t heard anything he’d said, hadn’t made the effort to listen; it would, no doubt, be much the same as at every reunion. Every introduction. These days, Philip provided comfort not originality.

  The chapel was quieter than any other place Rick knew. He’d lived in the city since he’d left home for university and there was always that background hum. Traffic. The rumble of a train. People shouting in the street, even in the early hours. Rick disliked silence. He wondered why they had to go through this ritual every time they came back to the island, though part of him knew that he’d be the first to complain if one of the others suggested ditching it. Partly to be awkward, but also, he supposed, because this quiet time in the chapel was part of the whole experience. It reminded him again of his youth. For one weekend, he felt as if he was starting out again, at the beginning. Not approaching the end.

  Almost before he’d settled into it, the twenty minutes was over. Philip was on his feet again, and they were making their way out. Rick waited for a moment, letting the others go ahead of him, gearing up for the evening ahead. He felt like an actor preparing for another performance, and wondered briefly what it would be like for once in his life to go on stage unscripted and unrehearsed.

  Also by Ann Cleeves

  The Vera Stanhope Series

  The Crow Trap

  Telling Tales

  Hidden Depths

  Silent Voices

  The Glass Room

  Harbour Street

  The Moth Catcher

  The Seagull

  Frozen (ebook short)

  The Darkest Evening

  The Shetland Series

  Raven Black

  White Nights

  Red Bones

  Blue Lightning

  Dead Water

  Thin Air

  Cold Earth

  Wild Fire

  The Two Rivers Series

  The Long Call

  The Heron’s Cry

  The Girls on the Shore (ebook short)

  About the Author

  ANN CLEEVES is the multi-million copy bestselling author behind three hit television series—Shetland, starring Douglas Henshall, Vera, starring Academy Award Nominee Brenda Blethyn, and The Long Call, starring Ben Aldridge—all of which are watched and loved in the United States. All three series are available on BritBox.

  The first Shetland novel, Raven Black, won the CWA Gold Dagger for best crime novel, and Ann was awarded the CWA Diamond Dagger in 2017. She lives in the United Kingdom. You can sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Begin Reading

  Excerpt: The Rising Tide

  Also by Ann Cleeves

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  First published in the United States by Minotaur Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

  THE GIRLS ON THE SHORE. Copyright © 2022 by Ann Cleeves. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  ISBN 978-1-250859372 (ebook)

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  Originally published in Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  First U.S. Edition: 2022

 

 

  Ann Cleeves, The Girls on the Shore

 

 

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