by Lucy Coleman
‘Sid, come back here, you daft mutt!’
Great, I know the dog’s name but I have no idea about his owner’s name.
‘What breed is he?’ With his little pointed ears and short tail, he definitely isn’t a mongrel but I can’t place the breed. He looks a bit like an Airedale.
‘I believe he’s a Welsh terrier. I’m not sure he likes me too much, to be honest. And he needs a lot of walking.’
Did he steal him, I wonder? I guess not, because Sid comes haring back, wagging his little tail. He seems happy enough to wait while his collar is attached to a retractable dog lead. I give him a gentle rub on his back, noticing that the soft, fluffy top coat has an inner, more wiry layer beneath it. He’s a lovely dog and obviously demands a lot of attention.
‘He’s not yours, then?’
It’s awkward talking to someone when you don’t know their name, or anything about them and you are just about to enter the woods together. But Sid is straining on his leash, impatient to run on ahead and I speed up to tuck in behind them.
‘No, he belongs to a friend.’ The guy half turns his head as he speaks so that his voice carries over his shoulder.
After a minute or two, Sid settles down and his pace begins to even out.
‘Try to create a little slack on the lead; it will make him less anxious and less inclined to pull.’ We had a short-haired terrier when I was a child, Miffy we called her. She was always overexcited at walk time, but usually settled down pretty quickly.
He adjusts the leash to allow Sid to dictate the length and once he realises he’s not being held back, he slows to a trot and his interest turns to scanning the area for wildlife.
‘Great tip, thanks. I’m repaying a big favour, so aside from doing some odd jobs around the farm, I’m also the newly-designated dog walker.’
It’s the first thing he’s said so far that makes him sound reasonably pleasant. As we’re now totally surrounded by quite dense woodland, at least I don’t feel quite so uncomfortable in his company. We pass a sign that says private property.
‘This isn’t exactly a path, is it?’ I ask, curious as it’s very apparent there is no well-worn track to guide us forward and the sign indicates we’re trespassing.
‘No. It’s a short-cut through to Caswell Bay, which is the other side of this cove. Only the residents of Beach View Cottage would be likely to walk through here. Holly Cove is private and there’s nowhere to park, except for alongside the cottage. Strangers to the area would never be tempted to stop and investigate. Besides, it’s not named on the map, but if you look closely you will see it is there. If it wasn’t for the way the headland juts out here to cut it off, it would adjoin the beach at Caswell.’
It doesn’t take long before we’re descending quite a steep bit of track and as soon as we are clear of the woods, we have a spectacular view looking out over Caswell Bay.
Sheltered beneath limestone cliffs and with holly and pine-clad slopes, the large swathe of sandy beach is picturesque. Visible on our left, I recognise the small promenade and the cluster of huts and kiosks you see when driving along Caswell Bay Road. What you don’t see from that viewpoint are the giant fingers of rock that extend out onto the beach in several places. One particular stretch seems to almost divide the beach into separate coves. At high tide, it would make access between the two impossible.
‘Now that’s what I call a view,’ I say, just a little breathlessly.
Sid is straining on his leash again. I carefully follow on behind them until our feet are finally resting on the sandy beach.
‘Do we need to worry about the tide? I mean, our path won’t be cut off, will it?’
‘No, it’s low tide now and high tide isn’t until after eight tonight. So, this is your first time here?’
We walk in step quite comfortably, now, side by side. Sid is happy to trot along a few paces in front. His head darts back and forth as seagulls swoop and land on the muddy flats before us. There are quite a lot of people milling about, but because the expanse is so vast it still looks empty.
‘I’m Tia, by the way.’
He turns his head to look at me. ‘I know. I’m Nic.’
Well, that kills the conversation for a while and I’m glad when we reach the end of the beach and begin the long climb up to the cliff path. My head is buzzing with questions. If Max owns Holly Cove, did he sell the cottage to Nic? How long has Nic lived there? And why on earth didn’t Nic say something on the day he picked me up from the station?
The climb isn’t arduous, but you do find yourself puffing and panting a bit. Certainly, of the straggle of walkers heading in both directions, most are walking in silence and in single file. Here and there are benches for people to stop and catch their breath, or simply enjoy the view.
Right up on the top of the headland the ground is covered with low-growing gorse and bracken. Rabbits skitter through every now and again, their little white tails bobbing up between the wind-blown shrubs.
Nic shortens the leash and nods in the direction of a seat looking out to sea, a few feet away from the cliff edge. The wind is battering my ears, but it’s blowing against us and it’s a bit of a fight to push forward. We sit and he pulls a shallow container filled with water from his pocket, taking off the lid and placing it on the floor next to the bench. Sid’s tail wags as he starts to lap it up. This man can’t be all that bad to be so considerate.
‘That’s Caswell to the right and to the left is Langland Bay. It’s always windy here because you catch it from two directions. It’s something, though, isn’t it?’
My eyes squint a little, as the sun is bouncing off the white crests of the waves and sending out blindingly sharp glints of light. It must be magnificent in winter, although dangerous if the wind is in the wrong direction, or after heavy rainfall when the grass was slippery. I can’t even begin to imagine how far the cliff drops down to meet the sea beneath our feet. If someone strayed too close to the edge, would it be possible to survive a fall like that, I wonder.
As soon as Sid has finished, we move on. The path dips and climbs as it winds its way around to the next bay. From some of the lower spots you can see the water up close, as little inlets where the rock has worn and fallen away over time have eroded the cliff inland. In those places the drop is probably only twenty, or thirty, feet. Then you find yourself climbing again and the sea is way below you, the sheer cliff face dropping steeply away, out of sight. But for the most part the path is a very safe distance away from the edge. Although it looks a long way, it only takes about forty-five minutes before a place called the Langland’s Brasserie appears, rather welcomingly, in view.
The last part of the trek is a comfortable slope and before we know it, we’re walking across the terrace and collapse, with a sigh of relief, into the bistro chairs.
‘They do a great afternoon tea; fresh scones, cake and Earl Grey.’
Hint taken and when the waiter appears I place an order for two. Sitting back in my chair I keep my eyes straight ahead, desperately trying to appear as if I’m concentrating on taking in the surroundings. This bay is much smaller and the Brasserie sits lower within it. It’s also rather conveniently sheltered by the land that rises up behind it. It’s quite busy and we were lucky to find a table.
‘Most popular time of the day,’ Nic offers. ‘People tend to set off for a walk either after lunch, or mid-afternoon and then head back. The seafood is good here and it’s worth booking a table and doing dinner.’
I’m not sure how to handle this now he’s lost his reserved, rather frosty attitude. I sneak a glance at him while he’s leant over giving Sid a pat.
He’s tall, six-foot-one maybe, with short dark hair and pale blue eyes. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy and I’m guessing he’s probably late twenties, early thirties. He’s the sort of guy you wouldn’t expect to be living on his own.
‘OK. I know this is kind of awkward and I do owe you an apology,’ he admits.
He catches me staring at
him and it’s too late to pretend that wasn’t precisely what I was doing.
‘I think that maybe we started off on the wrong foot, that’s all, so no apology needed. It’s taking me a while to get used to my new environment and it’s quite an adjustment. I’m… um… a little sensitive, at the moment.’
Oh no, why did I say that? Too much information, Tia. Keep it simple.
‘Same here,’ he laughs. ‘I’m not sure farm life suits me, if I’m honest, so major adjustment for me, too. And, no offence meant, Sid, but dog walking isn’t my favourite pursuit, either.’
He pats Sid affectionately, or maybe, a little apologetically. He doesn’t have animals of his own, then, but I already knew that as the cottage is way too pristine.
‘I feel bad, knowing I’ve thrown you out of your beautiful cottage. It’s a lot to give up for six weeks and I really appreciate it.’
I mean what I say, I know it’s a transaction but it’s still a hardship by the sound of it.
‘Well, that’s generous of you. But I need the money as the roof needs some attention before next winter and the central heating boiler won’t creak along for much longer.’
‘Ah, I see.’
The waiter returns with a large tray and what looks like way too much food for two people to eat. Nic pours the tea, while I arrange the various plates on the table and dispense with the tray.
‘Looks delicious,’ I remark and see that Nic has already piled a spoonful of strawberry jam onto his scone. He begins ladling on some clotted cream.
‘Thanks for the treat.’ With that he lifts it to his mouth and takes a huge bite. Sid looks equally happy as he takes the small piece of dry scone from Nic’s other hand which he has slipped, rather discreetly, under the table.
‘My pleasure and thank you for allowing me to tag along.’
9
I Have a Plan
When I arrive back late afternoon I’m half-tempted to saunter down to the beach, to see if Max is around. But all this healthy fresh air and exercise is energising and the files on the table are calling out to me. I blitz my inbox and then concentrate on writing up the first draft of Veronica and Liam’s story.
A long email from Hayley confirms that she’s done well setting up the Skype meetings, although she expressed her apologies for the fact that they weren’t as evenly spaced as I would have preferred. I won’t have time to finish what I’m working on before I’m due to call the second couple, but that’s the way it goes.
By late evening I’ve taken it as far as I can, although it will need a lot of polishing before I can even think of letting Clarissa take a glance at it. But it’s enough to put me in a frame of mind for a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows, by way of a reward. I change into my PJs and while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil I pull up one of my music compilations on the laptop. With strains of John Newman and Northern soul in the background, I take myself off to the sitting room.
Curling up on the sofa I notice I have a couple of missed calls and a text. Both Hayley and my brother rang earlier this afternoon and when I open the text it’s from Hayley.
Tried phoning you. Checking U R OK. Found any interesting strangers on the beach? Text me when you pick this up.
Harrumph. Well, Max is interesting but I’m not into older guys. Strangers on a beach, indeed.
I’m fine. Focusing on work. No interesting strangers to report. Hope this isn’t interrupting your fav programme, if it is serves u right for being curious. Speak tomorrow and stop worrying.
It’s too late to call Will now, so that will have to keep until tomorrow. At least he remembered to phone on the mobile, so I guess he was listening to me when we spoke the other day.
It’s strange, but when I first arrived here it did cross my mind that it might feel a little eerie at night, but that’s not the case at all. But it is rather nice knowing that my neighbour, Max, is almost on the doorstep.
And what a surprise Nic has turned out to be. He’s a bit strange, sort of blowing hot and cold. Long, awkward silences stretched between us, to which he seemed to be oblivious. Then when he did say something, he appeared to be quite comfortable talking to me. There’s a story there, lurking behind those pale blue eyes. I think it might be the story of a broken heart and love lost. I know that isn’t quite the slant Clarissa intended, but maybe it’s just what’s needed to put things into perspective. And Nic did say he needed funds to do work on the cottage. Perhaps I’ll invite him around for a drink and a chat one evening, and ask whether he’d be interested in being interviewed for the feature.
But first, I need to find out a little more. Hopefully, when Olwen calls in tomorrow I can grab the opportunity to ask her a few harmless little questions about him.
As I grab my empty mug and walk towards the door, my eyes flick over the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to the left-hand side of the doorway. Meticulously arranged in height order, with the larger books at the bottom, I notice that one book at eye-level seems to have been pushed above the row of books and lies horizontally just below the shelf above. It’s too small a gap to ease it out and it almost looks hidden. I have to pull out two of the books beneath it in order to get my hand in. It’s The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks. I know the story, having read it several years ago and needing almost a whole box of tissues to get me through it. A story of tenderness and love, it is both heart-warming and heartbreaking.
Tucking it under my arm, I turn off the light and, after washing out my mug I make my way upstairs. Why would Nic have this book amongst his collection? He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who reads love stories and it’s unlike anything else he has on his bookshelves.
I clean my teeth and climb into bed. As I reach across to turn out the bedside light I stop and, picking up the book, ease open the cover. It wasn’t a gift as there’s no inscription but I can see by the creases in the spine it’s been well read, probably more than once. Someone loved this book and it meant something to them. I leaf through, wondering if perhaps there is a bookmark, or anything that might give some sort of clue. People often use old tickets, or whatever happens to be at hand, but nothing drops from the pages. And then I see it, written in pencil on the very last page, the blank page they insert before the back cover. It’s faint, but legible:
I know you are crying, you always do. I’m here to hold your hand and wipe away your tears. Always.
I wonder who wrote that poignant note? Has this been passed on from person to person, maybe ending up here in Nic’s collection more by chance, than selection? Or did it belong to someone who shared this cottage with Nic, but who doesn’t live here anymore?
Whatever it’s about, the words are rather haunting and, clearly, whoever wrote the message was well aware of the impact of this story on the reader. Well, maybe Olwen will know if a woman has ever lived here with Nic in the past. If it’s a sensitive topic then maybe my proposal won’t go down well – money, or no money. The last thing I want to do is offend him in any way, so I’d better tread carefully.
I stifle a yawn and know it’s time to snuggle down and let sleep overtake my busy thoughts. Sometimes I really wish I didn’t have this inquisitive nature, but then I suppose that’s what attracted me to journalism, in the first place.
*
I awaken once again feeling refreshed and full of energy. A quick run along the beach and back is exhilarating, as this morning the nip in the air is enough to make the salty spray sting a little. And the breeze coming off the water makes the waves choppy and angry looking. As I run past the cabins there’s no sign of Max, but there’s a little curl of smoke rising up from the metal chimney in the second cabin, before it’s whisked away and quickly dissipates.
I begin editing the draft article on Veronica and Liam, as I seem to have made them sound a little stiff. There was a lot of positive body language going on in their joint interview. Maybe I’ve focused a little too much on the materialistic side and the exciting life they lead because of that. It’s easy to forget that th
e thread that holds it all together is the love they have for each other. I guess the words I read inscribed in that book last night struck a chord with me and I look at what I’ve written with a fresh set of eyes.
Shortly after nine I decide to call the office. I want to run my idea past Clarissa and I really need to reassure Hayley that I’m doing OK; her text yesterday left me feeling a little guilty for not having been in touch.
‘Hi girl, how are you doing?’
‘Well, it’s good to hear your voice and I’m fine. Clarissa and Finlay had a falling out, yesterday. He was in early this morning and he hasn’t moved from his desk. Sorry, I mean, your desk.’
Ah, the reality begins to bite.
‘Poor Finlay. Was it very public?’
‘In the middle of the general office, no less. You could hear a pin drop, as everyone froze. It wasn’t very pleasant when she tore into him. But in all honesty, he deserved it as he took it upon himself to change the layout of one of the features without checking with her, first.’
I hear myself draw in a sharp breath between my teeth, as I imagine her reaction. No one questions Clarissa’s editorial decisions. The magazine is her baby and her life. And she’s good at what she does. It’s a tough industry and it spawns tough individuals, people who have a lot of self-belief and can also make things happen. These days it’s a fight for survival and under Clarissa’s leadership we’ve not only survived, but incredibly we’ve continued to increase our market share. Perhaps my job is safer than I think.
‘He’ll learn and that’s a mistake he probably won’t make again. By the way, I might have found a suitable candidate to replace the couple who dropped out. Could you send me the paperwork with the fee details so I know what the maximum is that I can offer him?’
‘Him? Shouldn’t it be them?’
‘Well, I have an idea but I need to run it past Clarissa first.’
‘And is this an interesting him?’
I can’t stop myself from letting out a little chuckle.