Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  The old, bleached wooden bench, greened in places with a patina of moss, was rickety and damp from the rain during the night. Karen pulled her brown parka under her bottom before they sat. She took a long breath. March had been warmer than usual and this morning the sun was almost hot on her face. It felt so good. Up here she could forget.

  Neither of them said anything for a while. She knew she didn’t have to speak, to make conversation with William.

  “This is heaven,” Will said, unzipping his black North Face jacket.

  Karen grinned. “Odd use of the word from a man of the Church.”

  “Heaven on earth,” he corrected. “But I’m not just a ‘man of the Church’ as you put it. I’m quite normal underneath.”

  “Hmm . . . not sure being a vicar is very normal these days, when virtually no one under ninety goes to church. You’re an endangered species.”

  He laughed. “Not quite true, but I wasn’t always a vicar. I started out in advertising . . . a copywriter.”

  “A copywriter?”

  “Is that so odd?”

  She thought about it. “I suppose not . . . you sort of assume vicars start their life as vicars, dedicated to being good, not making up dodgy copy for toothpaste commercials and the like. But then you do archery, which seems incongruous too.”

  “I think you’ve got a bit of a Jane Austen view of vicars, Karen. My grandmother taught me to shoot, which you’ll probably find peculiar too.”

  Karen laughed and nodded.

  “My mother died when I was born and Dodie, my grandmother, brought me up. She was a keen archer, won tournaments and all sorts. We spent hours and hours in the orchard practicing. I think she was worried I would be too namby-pamby, not having a father around very much.”

  “Where was your father?”

  “He was a biochemist, worked for ICI, and spent a lot of time traveling, mostly India. Dodie came to live with us after my mother died, and Dad used to come and go—more go than come.”

  “That’s really sad, not having a mother . . . or much of a father. So you have no memory at all of your mum?”

  William’s face went very still for a moment.

  “Only photographs. But I thought of Dodie as both a mother and a father, I suppose. She was an incredible woman.” His expression softened as he remembered. “So strong, a feminist before feminism really got started.”

  Karen was silent as she imagined William as a small boy, bow in hand, alongside this Valkyrie-type grandmother, surrounded by apple trees. What a strange upbringing, she thought.

  “And Janey married an advertising man . . .” the vicar was saying.

  Karen wasn’t sure what to make of this comment, and waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.

  “So why did you switch to the Church? I mean that’s an enormous leap.”

  For a moment William didn’t answer. “I just . . . I wanted something more.” His eyes lit up. “This is such a shitty world, and most of us just accept it as shitty. Advertising seems to epitomize all that is wrong with it. I spent my days thinking up manipulative ways to make people buy things they didn’t really need and might not be able to afford.” He laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, it was huge fun, but it left a bad taste in my mouth after a while.”

  “Still, you could have just volunteered at weekends or something—you hear of bankers doing that to assuage their conscience.”

  “I could have . . . it wasn’t a moment of epiphany or anything, just a slow realization that became too painful to ignore. But in the end my work just felt wrong. And then I met this extraordinary man, the vicar at our church, and he seemed to have some answers.”

  “So you were already religious.”

  “I’ve always believed in God. Dodie insisted on it!”

  “So has it ever wavered . . . your faith in God and heaven and all of it?”

  He shot her a rueful grin. “Only almost every week. But it’s mostly the Church I question—its teachings, I mean—never God himself.”

  “It must be wonderful to be so certain.”

  “It is . . .” He glanced sideways at her.

  “But?”

  “But . . . there’s also a responsibility. Trying all the time to live up to God’s ideals.”

  “I’m sure you do,” she said.

  “Oh no. I definitely don’t.”

  She laughed. “Well, if you don’t, then what chance do the rest of us stand?”

  He didn’t respond for a minute and his face wore a fleeting frown. “Yes, but that’s the thing, Karen. I wear this collar and do good works and stand at the pulpit delivering sermons about how we should all behave . . . and everyone thinks that makes me a good man.” He sighed. “Believe me, it doesn’t.”

  Surprised at the sudden gloom in his tone, she said, “Come on, Will. You may not be perfect, but at least you try.”

  The silence this time was not peaceful. The vicar’s unease was almost palpable.

  “This thing we do,” she said, “where you talk to me about my problems . . . well, it cuts both ways. You can tell me stuff too, you know.”

  “I . . . thanks . . . thanks for that, Karen. But I’m OK, nothing to discuss.”

  “That’s what I said before and you told me it never worked, bottling up your feelings.” She thought of his solitary childhood, and understood why William might choose to keep things to himself.

  He went silent and for a moment she thought he was going to confide in her.

  “No, well . . .” he began, but then he gave her his cheery vicar smile and got up.

  “Shall we get on?”

  Karen nodded, looking around for Largo just as he bounded out of a clump of bushes. She was intrigued that the reverend might hold a secret too dark for normal disclosure. But over the past weeks she’d become used to that contradiction in William—the wholehearted enthusiast vying with the troubled alter ego always hovering behind his light eyes.

  “So tell me, how’s it going with Sophie?” As they set off along the path, William disappeared once more behind the safe shield of the counseling role.

  “It’s fine. Not fine. Awkward. Annoying. I don’t know.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “If one of us was actually doing something, instead of just hanging about all day, it might be easier.”

  “Well, there’s always plenty to do volunteering, if either of you fancy that.”

  “Church things?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to drag you in by the back door.” He laughed. “Although perhaps you’re right not to trust me on this.”

  “Oh, don’t bring that up again! I was stupid to be paranoid about you before. It’s just Harry went on and on for years about me ‘turning to God.’ Much good it did him.”

  William turned to her. “I wish I’d been able to help him.”

  “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your god. Or on you, for that matter. You’ve been my savior these last few weeks. I don’t know how I would have coped without you.”

  For a moment they just stood still in the March sunshine, looking at each other. She wanted to smile, but a smile wouldn’t come. She felt as she did when they sat in silence sometimes, a sort of odd absorption in William’s presence. As if there were an open channel between them, connecting them, bringing calm to her scratchy, guilt-ridden soul. But this time, as her eyes met his, there was no calm, just a sudden fluttering around her heart. She saw him blink rapidly and take a short breath, turning quickly away.

  They walked on, the vicar increasing the pace, Karen almost running to keep up as they descended the hill that led to the village in silence. It wasn’t till they reached the drive of her house that either of them spoke, and then Will’s voice had taken on a more formal note.

  “I . . . let me know if you or Sophie are interested in voluntary work. There’s so much—visiting people who can’t get out, helping at the new lunch club or community center, charity shops—the list is endless.”

 
“I’ll suggest it to her.”

  “Right, well, thanks for the walk.”

  “Yes . . . thanks.”

  “Talk soon.”

  “Bye.”

  She walked up to the house, the dog pottering along behind, lost in thought. What just happened there? she asked herself, feeling oddly confused.

  “Karen.” A voice from the street brought her back to reality.

  She turned to see Patrick Gascoigne, her next-door neighbor, making his way across the gravel drive. Although a weekender—his home was a flat in Covent Garden, which he shared with his Turkish partner, Volkan—his family had owned the cottage for generations, and he was more of a fixture in the village than most of the full-time residents.

  “Patrick!” She was pleased to see him. A successful character actor, now in his sixties—his CV included everything from television to film to theater—he had an ebullient spirit, a seemingly unquenchable “can-do” approach to life.

  As he reached her, he bent down and gave Largo a friendly pat, rubbing his ears with both his hands, sending the dog into a frenzy of welcome.

  “Darling one.” He straightened up, focusing on Karen. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  “Well, mercifully, I don’t.” His round, always tanned face, framed by a greying tonsure on his balding head, held kind brown eyes that peered at her intently now. “Is it hell, darling?”

  She laughed, relieved by his direct approach.

  “Not really ‘hell’ exactly.”

  “What, then? Tell me.”

  “It’s . . . sort of empty . . . sad more than hellish. I . . . I feel lost, I suppose.”

  Tears sprang to Patrick’s eyes. “Oh, darling, that’s so horrid. Come here for a hug.” He squeezed her in a long bear hug, his plump body enveloping her, so comforting. Karen didn’t want it to stop.

  “Now,” Patrick said, when he’d finally released her. “You need some fun. Which was why I wanted to talk to you.” He pushed his hands into the jacket pockets of his antique green Barbour and gave her an eager grin. “It’s Volkan’s fiftieth next week. We’ve got endless jamborees in town, but I thought I’d do a spontaneous little supper party at the cottage as well. He loves it here.” Volkan, who did something in IT that Karen had never properly fathomed, was as quiet as Patrick was boisterous, but they’d been together for nearly twenty-five years and seemed utterly devoted.

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Saturday week. Are you free?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it. Can I bring Sophie?”

  “Of course you can, my dear. She’s staying for a while?”

  “Looks like it.” Karen glanced at the house, not knowing if her stepdaughter could hear them. Patrick, quick to notice her expression, raised his eyebrows and she gave a small frown to imply she couldn’t say any more.

  “Oops,” he winked. “Another time,” he added in a whisper. “I’m down from Thursday next week, organizing things, so pop over and we can have a chat then.”

  “Will do. And if you want any help with the party . . .”

  Patrick’s parties were always riotous, drunken affairs, accompanied by mounds of delicious food cooked entirely by himself.

  “That’s so sweet. I may take you up on that.”

  Karen’s heart was lighter for seeing Patrick, and she unlocked the door with a smile on her face.

  Sophie was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, gazing at her phone. As far as Karen could make out, she seldom did anything else. When her stepmother came in, she swung her feet off the sofa and sat up.

  “Hi . . . where have you been?”

  “I went for a walk on the Downs.”

  “With Maggie?”

  “No . . . with William Haskell.”

  Sophie’s face took on a sly expression. “Ah, the sexy vicar again. I must say, he’s very attentive. You’d think he’d be rushed off his feet with his real parishioners.” She threw her phone down on the blue cushion. “God, I’m bored. Who were you talking to outside?”

  “Patrick. He’s having a party for Volkan’s fiftieth, Saturday week. You’re invited.”

  Sophie groaned. “Thrilling. I might invent a reason to go up to town that weekend.”

  “Well, let me know so I can tell Patrick.” She turned to go. “I’m making myself some lunch, do you want a drink or something?”

  Sophie got to her feet. “No, thanks.” But she followed Karen into the kitchen and sat at the table, watching Karen make toast, take the hummus out of the fridge, slice a tomato, lift the chamomile tea bag out of the cup, squeeze it over the sink and put it in the bin.

  Karen took her plate and cup over to the table and sat opposite Sophie. As she ate she began to feel self-conscious. Her stepdaughter had an odd way of staring but not really focusing, so those dark eyes were upon her, but Karen wasn’t sure if Sophie was actually watching.

  “How are things?” she asked, to fill the silence.

  Sophie shrugged. “Pretty shit.”

  “If you’re bored, the vicar says there are lots of volunteering opportunities around. Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “Perleese.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t think of anything worse than hanging around a smelly charity shop or handing out soup to homeless people.”

  “That’s a bit mean of you.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I don’t see you lining up to do it either.”

  Which was true, but Karen was at least considering it.

  “Have you thought about what you might do . . . work-wise?”

  Karen knew this was a dangerous subject and steeled herself for some invective. But Sophie just sighed.

  “No one’ll ever give me a job. I’m fit for nothing.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s ridiculous.”

  “Really? Well, you tell me. What exactly am I qualified for?”

  Karen did a quick mental trawl through her stepdaughter’s CV and knew there was a problem. Her hesitation was noted.

  “See? There isn’t anything, is there?”

  “Maybe you should train for something.”

  “I can’t afford to!” Sophie snapped.

  “No, OK . . .” Karen didn’t know what to say. No University degree, no consistency or focus on anything but random entrepreneurial ventures, which hadn’t worked out. She felt a shard of panic in her gut. Would Sophie ever leave?

  She looked up to see tears forming in the girl’s eyes. Reaching over to lay a hand on Sophie’s arm, she was surprised when she wasn’t rebuffed.

  “I miss Daddy so much,” Sophie said. “I still can’t believe he’s gone and I’ll never see him again.”

  “I know . . .”

  “Do you?” The girl wasn’t being aggressive, her frown was simply questioning. “You seem to be fine. I haven’t seen you shed a single tear since he died.”

  Sophie was right. Karen had barely cried, except in front of William. It was surprisingly easy to cry with him. She wasn’t even sure if she was really grieving. Harry had left a very big void in her life, certainly. But was she really missing him, or the fact of him? She didn’t know. Feeling so leadenly sad and lost seemed as much to do with an inability to decide what she should do next as a genuine bereavement.

  “I have cried.”

  “Not in front of me.”

  Karen didn’t answer, she could see Sophie was spoiling for a fight.

  “Did you even love Daddy anymore?” The girl suddenly leaned forward across the table, her dark eyes boring into her stepmother.

  Karen, who had never been a person who blushed, suddenly found her cheeks reddening.

  Sophie’s eyes widened with shock. “Oh, my God, you didn’t, did you? You didn’t love him.”

  Karen swallowed. Pretense no longer felt like an option. “I did love your father, very much. But for the last few years he’s been drunk most of the time . . . I mean really drunk. And nasty—”

  “‘Nasty’? What do you mean, ‘nasty’?”


  “I mean cruel, Sophie. You didn’t see it—and he would hate me saying this to you—but your dad could be very cruel when he was drunk. I don’t think he meant it, but still, it was hard to cope with, day in, day out.”

  Sophie was shaking her head in disbelief.

  “That’s crap and you know it. You’re just making excuses. I saw the way he treated you. He totally adored you . . . although personally I never knew why.” She paused, still shaking her head. “Was it just the money, then? Was that why you married him?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I adored him too. But since he sold the company it’s been so different. All he did was booze. Ask his friends at the club. I literally had to pick him up and carry him to the car most days, he was so drunk. And when he’d had too much, he took it out on me.”

  As she watched her stepdaughter’s bewildered expression, Karen immediately regretted her words. She felt horribly disloyal to Harry. He was drunk for three years, loving for fifteen, she told herself. I’m not being fair. And there was no need for Sophie to know the grim details of her father’s behavior, it could only cause the girl pain, and Karen had vowed to herself not to say anything. But she felt she’d been goaded.

  “You’re such a bitch,” Sophie said quietly, getting up and standing, arms crossed, staring defiantly at Karen. “Unbelievable. You’re totally unbelievable. How dare you slag Daddy off like this when he’s barely dead and can’t defend himself. I don’t believe he was ever remotely cruel to you.” She turned to go, then clearly changed her mind. “If anything, you were the one who was cruel to him. Daddy would never have drunk so much if he’d been happy. I said it before and I’ll say it again: you killed him.”

  It was on the tip of Karen’s tongue to tell Sophie that Harry had hit her. But she restrained herself. Her stepdaughter wouldn’t believe that either. She knew by telling her she would only be trying to justify what Sophie had managed to intuit, that she did no longer love Harry—not in the way she had. She felt sorry for the girl now, clearly lost in so many ways, but she didn’t see how she could help her.