The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  Rachael held on to the edges of her seat. Her hair stung her cheeks and her eyes were watering. The road ran through waving sheaves of marram grass; the sea was a blistering blue. The exhilaration she felt was not so much a novelty as a reawakening, stirring up fragments of adolescence: the excitement of a rollercoaster or a cantering horse. Or dancing – she used to love to dance – though this was more like flying.

  They were soaring, as if windborne, towards a speck in the distance. The speck seemed to grow alarmingly, took on a box-like shape, mutated into a truck. The high-sided vehicle was straddling the road in front of them and showed no sign of yielding. Leo made no effort to brake and she was terrified there wouldn’t be room to overtake. If he tried to pass it they’d end up veering off the road into the dunes. The Lotus would flip over on impact like some fragile boat meeting a cresting wave; they would land on their unprotected heads.

  She opened her mouth to scream but the sound was snatched away from her. There was the rushing of a downdraught, the menacing tyres of the lorry, a strong odour of diesel and smouldering rubber, a black shadow cast. Then, suddenly, the horizon was clear again, bright and beckoning. She looked at her hands twisted together in her lap, and wondered how they had got into that position. She couldn’t feel her legs; they’d been hijacked by an attack of numbness. And her brain was trying to work out how (and if) she had survived – or whether she was skating through the after-life in some kind of limbo. Wheezing, because the air had been sucked from her chest, she croaked out: ‘What happened?’

  Leo had finally relaxed his foot on the accelerator pedal. ‘Road hog,’ he said. ‘But we had two inches. We only needed one.’

  ‘There might have been something coming towards us.’

  ‘I could see miles ahead. The view was fine.’

  ‘You didn’t slow down.’

  ‘Well that would have been fatal. If you err and dither you lose direction. You’re more likely to keep on track if you maintain velocity. Simple physics.’

  ‘It wasn’t simple,’ she said. ‘It was nerve-racking. I was absolutely petrified.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I gave you a fright. I can be as sedate as the next man in a nice little VW Golf. But this is a sports car and needs to be treated as such. You don’t use a racehorse to pull a cart.’

  She crossed her legs and tugged down the hem of her skirt. Leo pulled into a lay-by and cut the engine. Now she could hear the murmur of the tide, the chirruping of grasshoppers in the dunes, the plaintive cries of gulls. The lorry they had overtaken trundled past. Leo leaned across her and she shrank against the back of the seat. There was a panther-like quality to his movements: swift, sinuous, unpredictable. And he’d nearly killed her.

  He withdrew a hip flask from the glove box. ‘Drink?’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t drink and drive.’

  ‘Which is precisely why I’m offering it to you, Raquel.’

  ‘I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Go on, it’s medicinal. It will settle your nerves.’

  It was neat vodka and still early in the day. She gagged at first, but the powerful fiery spirit of it reclaimed her sooner than she’d expected. It scorched her throat and buzzed in her brain.

  ‘Better now? Do you want to stretch your legs in the dunes? Get some air?’

  ‘Not if there’s any chance of getting lost,’ she said. He didn’t pick up on the reference initially, but then gave her a quizzical look that made her feel foolish. She clambered out of the car, a little unsteadily, and removed her ballet pumps, dangling them from her fingertips. She walked towards the sea, savouring its briny tang, the dry sand chilly beneath the soles of her feet.

  She didn’t check to see whether Leo was following her. She wouldn’t have heard him in any case – the soft furrows absorbed both sound and vibration. But from the corner of her eye she caught a movement and turned. He’d got out of the car and was gesticulating, holding aloft some object in his hand. She would have ignored him, but she stubbed her toe and almost stumbled into a crater of debris: tin cans, plastic bottles, greasy paper and the charred remnants of a barbecue. She put her shoes on and started back to the car.

  ‘That’s enough fresh air for me,’ she said when he was in earshot. ‘This place is filthy.’

  He held out her smart phone. ‘I’m afraid they rang off,’ he said. ‘But it’s okay, I took the message.’

  ‘You answered my phone?’ The presumption shocked her.

  ‘Why not? Thought you might want to take the call. I wasn’t stealing your soul.’

  Something in his voice made her suspicious. ‘Was it a client?’

  ‘Clinic,’ he said.

  She snatched the phone and turned it off. She climbed into her seat and stuffed it into the bottom recess of her bag. She gripped the bag’s leather handles and stared through the windscreen at a red mist of outrage.

  ‘They were just confirming the appointment. Friday.’

  ‘It’s only a consultation,’ said Rachael.

  ‘Sure.’ Then he said, ‘I recognised the number. Went there myself for the snip.’

  When she didn’t answer he added, ‘Julia didn’t want any more kids after Bel. I didn’t feel emasculated. I’m not the type of artist who’s as profligate with his seed as his canvases. My creative energy goes into my work. I know how you feel. The trouble with children is that they can take over your life. No time to call your own. You have to have a robust sense of self not to be swamped by them.’ He unscrewed the top of the hip flask again. ‘Here, have another draught.’

  It gave her something to do with her hands, with her mouth. If she spoke, she was terrified she’d let out the wrong thing. She’d been told it could take a year for her fertility to return when she stopped the injections, so she’d expected to have plenty of time to adjust to the prospect of another baby. Instead she had been ambushed – and she was totally unprepared. Although she longed to confide in someone, she was wary of mentioning it to friends who might not understand her fears. Hence the clinic appointment. Leo seemed to have some sympathy, but she wasn’t sure she could trust him. And it would give him a hold over her.

  ‘You’ve been shaken up,’ he said. ‘I’d like to give you a treat, something restorative. Sure you won’t change your mind about lunch?’

  She savoured the final drops of the vodka on her tongue and shook her head. She did not want to sit opposite Leo and meet his eye, risk him dropping hints or asking questions she couldn’t answer.

  ‘Nothing in Southport to tempt you?’ he went on. ‘And please don’t say shopping. Okay, I’ll amend that. Actually I don’t mind shopping with women as long as it’s not shoes. You’d be amazed how singular the average woman’s feet are, how difficult it is to find the right style to support the arch or cup the heel or lengthen the leg, one that doesn’t pinch the toe or thicken the ankle. Cobbling – that’s where the money must be.’

  Rachael, who possessed a fine and much-valued collection of footwear, had to smile at this. An idea came to her, a way of salvaging the trip. ‘There’s a place the other side of Southport that’s supposed to have a good selection of cookers and I could do with a new one. Since we’ve got this far I wouldn’t mind having a look.’

  Leo was a practical man, after all. He liked machines, engines, good design. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Do you know the address?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  As they cruised down Lord Street in the 1975 Lotus, they garnered glances of amusement from passers-by who presumed they were shooting a commercial. Rachael didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention; she wasn’t an exhibitionist, but the vodka was having its effect, mellowing her mood, and the stares bounced off her as she tracked the Google map to Kitchen Solutions.

  ‘Wonderful nowadays,’ muttered Leo as he glided into the car park, ‘how the world has no problems that can’t be sorted by White Van Man whizzing past with his promise of Total Solutions.’

  ‘You can stay in the car if you want.’

&n
bsp; ‘My dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.’ Gallantly he escorted her into the showroom.

  Nothing could turn Rachael on, distract her from her worries, like a store of kitchen equipment: from tiny lemon zesters and cunning devices to take out cherry stones, through grinders, mincers and mixers, to full-scale appliances like the ones confronting her in splendid shiny rows. She walked up and down aisles of fridges, freezers, sink units, cookers and hobs, dazzling in enamel, chrome or stainless steel. She made her way to the display of expensive ranges, opening oven doors, inspecting warming drawers and grills. The most important piece of equipment in her life needed to be simple and functional. Not a flashy sports car, but a reliable tank that wouldn’t break down.

  A salesman hovered, eyeing the two of them, assessing their relationship. Rachael was beginning to feel light-headed, even audacious. ‘You can be my architect,’ she whispered to Leo. ‘You’re building me a new kitchen and getting rid of the crappy old one that was put in years ago. Fuck!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You installed it, didn’t you? You and Julia. A friend got you some knock-down cupboards and you put them up together, only you had to stop work because you bludgeoned your thumb and you had a triptych to finish for a commission for the foyer of some insurance firm and she tried to keep you going with painkillers and… oh shit…’ She rubbed her hand across her face in mortification.

  ‘Well recalled,’ he said dryly. ‘You might have been there.’

  ‘It was Matt,’ she said. ‘Whenever I’ve complained, you know, about a drawer not shutting properly or something, he’ll tell me I’d no idea of the blood, sweat and tears that went into whatever I’m dissing.’

  ‘It was only a fraction,’ he said, ‘of the blood, sweat and tears spilt in other areas. Don’t beat yourself up, Raquel. Time passes. Show me what you fancy.’

  ‘This.’ It was top of the range: lustrous steel, dual fuel, with three ovens, five gas burners, a griddle and rotisserie. ‘It’s as classic as your Lotus. It will go on forever.’

  The salesman swooped. He was young and blustering, rocking on his heels and puffing out his chest so the stripes on his shirt appeared to widen. Andrew (according to his name badge) had clearly decided Leo was sugar daddy, not architect. He discussed the cooking properties of the Rangemaster with Rachael, but when cost was mentioned he gave Leo a full, frank man-to-man appraisal.

  ‘What are your terms?’ Leo asked. ‘Would there be a discount for cash?’

  ‘I’ll have to check,’ said Andrew. ‘If you’d like to come over to my desk we can go through some figures.’

  He started to lead the way. Rachael hung back. ‘Perhaps this is a bit hasty.’

  ‘Depends,’ said Leo, ‘on how much you want it.’

  ‘Oh God!’ she sighed. ‘I’ve been lusting after it. But, you know, you have to be sensible.’

  ‘You’re talking to the wrong man then.’

  ‘I could ring Matt.’ But she felt awkward calling Matt at work in case he had a client with him and she came across as needy. Anyway, she knew how the conversation would go.

  He’d advise caution and then if he sensed her regret he’d try to chivvy her up. He’d end by saying ‘Of course, Rach, if it’s what you really want…’ which would make her feel worse – as if she’d overstepped some line and shouldn’t have got away with it.

  ‘You don’t even know what the deal is yet,’ said Leo. ‘I’ll get him down. Bastards are always trying it on with me so I’ll enjoy getting my own back. I’m a good haggler.’

  Rachael sat, as invited, but Leo stood over Andrew and his calculator, an intimidating presence. ‘It’s a display model, right?’ he said. ‘So you can knock a couple of hundred off for a start.’

  ‘It’s extremely high specification. It’s what the professionals use.’

  ‘She knows that. She is a professional. Ideal customer for you, I’d’ve thought.’

  Andrew began, copying figures from his calculator onto a sheet of paper. Leo picked up the sheet and ripped it in two. ‘Start again,’ he advised. ‘What’s your turnover, Raquel? Healthy enough isn’t it? She doesn’t need a long repayment schedule. In fact…’ He laid his hands flat on the desk; his fingernails, she’d noticed before, were rimed with paint, never completely clean. ‘If she pays a decent deposit you could lower the interest rate significantly. Plus an option to pay the balance early. You’d still make on the deal.’

  ‘I’d have to clear it with head office.’

  Leo gestured towards the telephone. ‘Be my guest.’ He murmured to Rachael. ‘You’ve got a deposit, right?’

  ‘Well I suppose…’

  ‘There’s madam’s cheque,’ he reminded her.

  Andrew kept his eyes fixed on them encouragingly as he spoke to his boss. Rachael had the sense of things running away from her, but she was jubilant, too, at the thought of her scoop. The price was good and rather than lose Mrs Dudley’s cheque in the black hole of her overdraft, she could pay it into the joint household account.

  Leo nudged her. ‘It’s in the bag.’

  She beamed and allowed him a squeeze of triumph. Then, withdrawing, she saw the pitfalls. How would she reconfigure her working space? How would she manage her orders if there were any setback with installation? What if she had to wind down the business? What if… As she handed over the credit card it struck her, too late, that she had fallen into a trap, that Leo wasn’t rooting for her at all. He was competing with Julia in a devious game of one-upmanship: delivery of the Rangemaster against donation of the house – only none of his money had been involved.

  ‘I must get to a bank,’ she said, when they outside on the forecourt again. ‘I need to pay in this cheque right away.’

  Why were there always queues at banks? And why was the person in front of her always the one with bags of change from the takings of some goddam car boot sale? She fidgeted impatiently behind the woman trawling through her coins. Leo was parked outside on a double yellow line, engaging admirers. She could see a portion of him nodding and gesticulating through the glass swing doors.

  At last they were on their way back. They zipped down the by-pass but snarled with traffic when the road became single lane through the woods. That brief flash of euphoria, their shared camaraderie, was long gone. To top it all, Rachael realised, she was going to be late for the school run. She shivered a little.

  ‘Cold?’ he said.

  ‘No, but could you put the roof up anyway? We’re not going to make it, are we? I’ll have to get someone else to collect Danny.’ She pulled out her phone and scrolled to her friend Emma’s number.

  A pothole yawned in the road in front of them and Leo tried to dodge it.

  Rachael paused in the middle of her text. ‘What’s that awful smell?’

  There came a loud clang and what sounded like a ricochet of gunshots. A billowing black cloud settled over their heads.

  Leo said, ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’

  14

  The Barbecue

  Drifting smoke; the scent of flesh charring over coals, redirected by a light breeze: at first Matt didn’t realise the barbecue was taking place in his own back garden. He’d been delayed at work by a flurry of phone calls and the need to meet the deadline of an appeal hearing. The French doors stood open and he could see Leo waving a pair of long-handled tongs like a wand above sausages spitting on the grill, a young girl prancing on either side of him. Matt recognised Kelly chewing her gum and flicking her ponytail, sultry Sheba in a slick vest and snug denim shorts. The leaves of the pear tree rustled as if someone were in its branches, but he couldn’t see either his wife or his son.

  He withdrew before he was noticed, finding the sight disturbing. There was in it too vivid a reminder of the past: images of Bel objecting to the raw slabs of meat, of Julia pretending to be polite to unwanted guests – random hangers-on Leo had accumulated during his day – and Leo himself, in his element. Matt felt a rush of anger – not because he hadn’t enjoyed Leo’s ability t
o entertain or the presence of pretty young art students, which made him popular with his schoolfellows – but because those days were over. He was a fully grown adult for fuck’s sake and he shouldn’t have to revert to teenage self-consciousness because his stepfather had reappeared with his own mysterious agenda. Taking advantage of Julia’s absence. And Rachael’s. And where was Rachael anyway?

  A loud guffaw from the garden almost drowned the whimper behind the sofa. Matt eased it away from the wall. He found Dan curled like a mouse against the skirting with his fingers in his mouth.

  ‘Hey, Danny boy. What happened?’

  Dan looked at him mournfully. ‘No one will help me.’

  ‘No one will help you what?’

  ‘I can’t climb the tree.’

  ‘The tree isn’t safe,’ said Matt.

  ‘Nathan’s in it. He climbed high up, right inside.’

  ‘Well he’d better come right out again.’

  ‘And I hurt my hand.’

  ‘How? Show me.’

  Dan proffered the two fingers he had previously been sucking. A pair of tiny blisters had erupted on his fingertips.

  ‘Did you touch something hot?’

  ‘He shouted at me.’

  ‘Right…’ As a child, Leo’s bellow had scared Matt too, but he’d soon realised it was just noise. Later, in adolescence, he’d sometimes pushed boundaries to see how Leo would react, but it was rarely satisfactory. Leo would either shut him out, his interest consumed elsewhere, or he would swerve suddenly into laughter and ridicule. You couldn’t know where you were with mercurial types; you couldn’t best them. So you gave up provoking. You took the easy way out. Anything for an uncomplicated life.

  ‘Where’s Mummy?’ asked Matt, not comprehending why Leo had been left in charge.

  ‘She’s in bed.’

  ‘In bed!’

  ‘She doesn’t feel well.’

  ‘One of her headaches?’

  Dan shrugged.