Leave Me At The Tide

Begin the story …

Chapter 1

 On May Day, the village green beside the church had been transformed into something almost enchanted. This year, it was more than tradition—it was the first fete hosted by the Whitmore’s, Stanley, his wife Edwina and their two daughters, Lily, the eldest and Ana. The villagers arrived in their Sunday best, eager to see what the Whitmore’s would bring.

Bunting fluttered between the stalls like stitched ribbons on a patchwork quilt. A string quartet played beneath the old oak, their bows moving in elegant synchrony. The scent of summer—grass, sugar, and something floral—drifted on every breeze.

From behind the church came the hiss and whistle of the passing train, sending children squealing with delight. They darted between trestle tables, shoes scuffing the dry grass. At the far end of the field, a brass band played beneath a canvas awning—slightly off-tempo but full of heart—as cornets and clarinets competed with conversation and the occasional bark of a dog tied to a post.

Women in wide-brimmed hats and lace gloves strolled past, their dresses swaying like petals. Men rolled up their sleeves, puffed on pipes, and argued over the weight of a marrow. In the centre of the green, the maypole stood ribboned in red and gold, its dancers breathless, tangled, euphoric.

Hand-painted signs lined the stalls: Guess the Weight of the Marrow, Coconut Shy, and, of course, Mrs Penrose’s ever-reliable Fortune-Telling Tent. Freshly baked scones cooled on gingham cloths. The air shifted with sweetness—candy floss spun in pink clouds, chestnuts crackled, elderflower sharp and floral. ‘Apple bobbing here!’ someone yelled, just as the church bells struck two.

Near the edge of the green, beneath a willow, an old man played the concertina. His tune was slow, wistful, half-forgotten—something about lost love or a ship that never returned. A few villagers paused to listen, their faces soft with memory.

Ana sat cross-legged beneath a sycamore, sketchbook open, her pencil dancing across the page. Children gathered to watch her draw the maypole dancers—ribbons streaming, feet flying. One little girl offered her a sugared plum in exchange for a portrait. Ana smiled and accepted.

Lily, radiant in a cornflower-blue dress, was deep in conversation with the baker’s wife, discovering the secret to her gooseberry jam. Her laugh rang out as she tasted a spoonful and declared it ‘a revelation.’ Later, she joined the maypole dance, her hair slipping free, her joy uncontained.

Edward St John Harrow, sleeves rolled and boots dusty, helped the blacksmith’s son repair a swing-boat chain. When the job was done, he lifted the boy into the seat and gave him a push, earning a cheer from the crowd. Later, he joined a game of skittles, surprising everyone with his aim.

Stanley, ever theatrical, held court by the coconut shy, recounting tales of his youth in Florence to a group of amused farmers. He wore a straw boater and a rose in his lapel, and when he knocked down all three coconuts with one attempt, he bowed like a stage actor.

Edwina, elegant and warm, presided over the cake stall beside the vicar’s wife, offering slices of lemon sponge and compliments in equal measure. She kissed cheeks, remembered names, and made everyone feel as if they belonged.

The fete was a tapestry of connection—guests mingling freely, no barriers, no whispers. Beneath another sycamore, a fiddler struck up a quick tune. The air smelled of horse sweat and hay as carts pulled laughing children for rides.

As twilight approached, lanterns were lit and hung from the branches. The green glowed gold and amber. Ana sketched the scene—Lily mid-spin, Edward laughing, Stanley gesturing, Edwina offering cake. The villagers blurred into warmth and motion.

It was, Ana thought, a day stitched with joy. A day that would live in the folds of memory long after the sun had set.

At the fountain, with a glass of elderflower cordial, Stanley gestured grandly, his voice carrying over the hum of the fete. Ana raised an eyebrow without looking up. Her pencil moved in quiet arcs, capturing the tilt of her sister’s chin, the sag of bunting between trees, the way the sky felt heavier than it looked. She shaded the clouds darker than they were.

From the far side of the green came Edward’s father, Lord Matthew St. John Harrow—tall, elegant, immaculate in a dark suit. He nodded to Stanley and tipped his hat.

His duty done, Edward strolled to the edge of the fete, hands in pockets, posture loose. He leaned against the wooden fence, scanning the crowd with a smile that reached his eyes.

Ana noticed how Lily’s movements slowed as she saw him. She crossed the field, her steps deliberate, her dress catching in the breeze.

‘Have you enjoyed your day?’ she said as she reached him.
‘I have. I’ve stayed in the house too long.’

They stood together in the hush as the quartet announced its last tune.
‘Do you ever wonder,’ Lily softly said, ‘if there’s something beyond all this? Something vast—and not entirely kind?’

Edward looked toward the field, where laughter and the flutter of bunting filled the air. ‘My father says the Balkans are a fuse waiting for a match.’
‘And what do you say?’
‘I’d rather hope he’s wrong.’ He paused, then turned to her. ‘‘I hear Europe is restless, that change is coming. But here—’ he faltered, then steadied his gaze on her. ‘Here, I want nothing to change. Not with this place. Not with you.’ He hesitated. ‘Especially with you.’

Lily laughed softly, uncertain how to respond to such a heartfelt confession from the man she had known since childhood.

Ana lingered beneath the sycamore, her pencil hovering. She could have sketched them, Lily’s uncertain smile, Edward’s earnest tilt forward—but something in the air felt fragile, like glass that would shatter if pressed too hard. She lowered the pencil. Some moments weren’t meant to be captured; they had to live unbound, trembling in memory before they could bear the weight of graphite. Instead, she drew the bunting sagging between trees, the brass band striking up a waltz, the children playing tag.

Finally, the sun began to sink, casting long shadows across the green. The quartet packed away their bows. A tired child cried over a dropped tart. Fathers hoisted sleepy children onto their shoulders. The fete was over for another year.

Back at Tide House, Lily stood at the iron gate at the garden’s edge, her gaze fixed on the sea as the tide drew back from the shore. The wind lifted strands of her hair and carried the scent of salt and distant rain.

She turned just as Edward dismounted from his carriage and walked toward her, slowly but deliberately.
‘I just wanted to say what a grand success your parents’ first fete was.’
‘Thank you. Mama will be in her element, no doubt.’
He held out his arm. ‘Shall we take a turn about the gardens?’
Taking his arm, Lily nodded.

Seeking warmth, Ana curled up on the window seat in the drawing room overlooking the garden and watched them. She turned a page in her sketchbook and began to draw.
She drew the garden wall first, the uneven stones, the moss that clung to them. Then the trees, their branches reaching like arms. She shaded the sky with a heavier hand, letting dusk settle into the paper.

Behind her, laughter rose and fell like a tide. Her parents had carried on the party with a few select guests at Tide House, while harried servants scrambled to assemble an impromptu spread of meats, cheeses, bread, and wine, meant for the coming days but now devoured in celebration.

But in the drawing's hush room, something shifted—like a shadow lengthening, or a tide beginning to turn.