Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

“Sure. When did you have in mind?”

  “Well, I’m caught up in something at the moment, but I’ll be back around five. Could I drop by then?”

  “Yes, OK. See you then.”

  As she clicked her mobile off, she realized her own breath was short in her chest. The bloody fête. Always held in their garden by Harry’s insistence, it was a nightmare to organize and took up weeks of every summer with interminable committee meetings where people wittered on about nothing for hours on end and nothing ever got agreed. And in the end there was really nothing to agree. It was always held in the same place on the same date—the last Saturday in August—the stalls were pretty much the same from year to year, run by pretty much the same people, the small sum raised almost identical.

  But that didn’t prevent petty squabbles, long-standing jealousies and rivalries, snobbishness and competition getting their yearly airing in the community. And although the cause—renovation of the Norman bell tower on the church—was so far from being funded that the money was neither here nor there, the inhabitants of the village and the villages around all looked forward to the event with a curiously old-fashioned spirit. Except Karen, that is, whose lawn was chewed to ribbons, plants trampled, gravel strewn far and wide, and whose house was littered with vast tea urns, crates of tea cups and saucers, tombola prizes, waterproof fold-down canopies, second-hand books and pots of marmalade for weeks before the day—and weeks after, indeed. Even more annoyingly, Harry, who was usually a stickler for domestic order, had seemed to take an odd delight in the temporary chaos.

  I don’t have to do it again, she thought with a wave of relief as she waited for the vicar. And maybe he wasn’t even expecting her to, now that Harry was gone. But at least it gave her an opportunity to see William again and check out if her feelings for him had just been silly imaginings.

  She was in the garden when he arrived, half an hour early, clearing out the leaves and dead growth from the border beside the drive with a rake. It was a beautiful afternoon, the spring air still chilly but so clean and tangy with the scent of renewal from plants, trees and flowers just coming into bud. Spring was her favorite time of year. She stopped when she saw him, leaning on her rake, breathless from her exertions. They smiled at each other, both, she thought, reveling in the outdoors after months of winter.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she said, propping the rake up against the bricks of the house.

  “Miraculous, spring is miraculous, don’t you think?”

  They stood together, gazing around them in silence for a moment.

  “Every year we expect it, but there are no guarantees that Nature will do what she did last year. Then there it is again, the pale-pink apple blossom, the carpets of bluebells, that soft yellow of the primroses . . .”

  Karen laughed. “You’ve got it bad.”

  “I know, I know. I don’t care. I just love how happy it makes me feel. My grandmother used to chart each little bud, the first crocuses, the baby birds in the nests . . . it all went into these small black sketchbooks held together with elastic. And she’d do little green ink drawings alongside all the dates. I’ve still got them, they’re beautiful . . . I’ll show you one day—” He stopped and she saw him clamp his lips together, as if stopping more words from escaping, his eyes darting away from hers.

  And she knew why. It was an oddly intimate moment, the desire to share something that was obviously so precious to him.

  “I’ll get some tea and we can sit on the bench round by the house. It’ll probably be wet, but we’re used to that.”

  *

  For a while, mugs of tea in hand, they said nothing. It was what they did best. Then Karen heard Will give a small sigh.

  “I suppose we’d better talk about the fête.”

  “Must we?”

  He looked across at her, his eyes full of laughter. “Grim, I know.”

  “At least it’s not in your garden.”

  “No, and that’s the point. I don’t think anyone expects you to host the fête this year, Karen, not so soon after Harry’s death. So I’m offering you a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “Really? I can say no?”

  “Of course.” Then his face took on a crafty look. “Although it would be great if you still felt able, in Harry’s name . . . perhaps as a memorial to him—” He stopped and grinned. “That was a joke. I am assuming you’ll back out. And so are all the other committee members. I just thought I’d better confirm one way or the other.”

  Karen didn’t have to think too hard to come to her decision. It would be a nightmare, as usual, and further down the line she would no doubt curse herself for making that choice, but it would mean she could legitimately spend the summer having regular contact with William Haskell, and that was compensation enough.

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  His face lit up. “You will?”

  She laughed. “Yes, I will. Why not?”

  “Well, lots of reasons spring to mind, but perhaps I won’t mention them just now. Are you sure? You haven’t thought about it very long. I could come back tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to talk it over with Sophie.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Sophie, she might not even be here by then. I’ve said, I’ll do it. Harry would most certainly have wanted me to.”

  “Yes, but this is your decision, Karen. Harry’s not here.”

  “No . . . although sometimes it seems as if he is.” She was thinking of the previous night, when she’d dreamt she’d woken to find him beside her in bed, cold and pale but still alive. But as she looked more closely, she realized it wasn’t really him but a complete stranger, which was even more disconcerting. Now, in the warm spring sunshine, the image still haunted her. She told William.

  “Sounds like you’re making the transition from him being actually alive to him only being alive in your memory and inner life. I think it’s quite normal when someone’s only been dead a short while.”

  She didn’t understand what he was saying. “But it wasn’t actually him, it was a stranger.”

  “Must have been really frightening,” Will said.

  “It was. And creepy.”

  “Guilt messes with your mind, Karen,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe it’s time you forgave yourself.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  The vicar skewed round on the bench until he was looking at her directly, laying his empty tea mug on the bench between them. She noticed he had beautiful hands—square-palmed, with long fingers—they looked strong, as they must be to pull a bow.

  “Harry killed himself, Karen. Not deliberately, but through the drink. I’m not blaming him, he obviously wasn’t capable of doing anything different at the time—which is so sad—but whether you went to him or not when he called is immaterial. If it wasn’t that night it would probably have been another one very soon.”

  Karen took a deep breath. “It’s not so much that he died—although obviously it is, of course—it’s that I knew he was in real distress and I deliberately ignored it. Even if he hadn’t died, that’s such a horrible thing to do to anyone, let alone your husband.”

  The vicar frowned as he considered what she’d said. “OK . . . I think you’re being wise after the event here. You’re looking back and deciding you did know that his cry sounded different from usual, because a part of you had had enough and had stopped caring. But that’s the guilt speaking. At the time you were just reacting to the way he’d been treating you.”

  “Yes . . . what you say is logical, and if anyone else was telling me the story I probably wouldn’t blame them. So why can’t I get it out of my head?”

  “It’s not very long since it all happened.”

  “I know that. Although it seems like a decade.”

  “Well, ‘time heals’ didn’t get to be a cliché without being true first.”

  She nodded, knowing he was right, but his sympathetic gaze was suddenly too much for her and tears pricked behind her eyes.

  “I
’m just so sick of feeling like a bad person, William. Bad for what I did to Harry, bad for not liking Sophie more, bad for doing sod all with my life.”

  William began to chuckle. “Whoa, that really is so bad! But hold on a minute. You’re kind to animals—I’m sure Largo would back me up—and now you’ve agreed to have the fête here, that’s got to mean a shedload of brownie points in wherever you’re stashing them.”

  “Don’t tease.”

  “I’m sorry . . .” William put his hand over hers, holding it against the warm wood of the bench.

  Neither of them noticed Maggie’s head popping round the side of the house.

  “Yoo-hoo, Karen!” she called, coming into full view.

  William and Karen shot guiltily apart, the vicar getting up and knocking his mug over in the process, then bending to retrieve it from the grass, face burning.

  “Maggie . . .” Karen got up too.

  “Thought I heard voices . . . the front door was open,” Maggie said, a slightly fixed grin on her face as she glanced from one to the other.

  “Karen has very kindly agreed to have the fête here again this year,” William said. “I came over to tell her she didn’t have to, but she insisted.”

  “Great, that’ll be a big relief for everyone.”

  “It certainly will be. But you talk to her. She might have just agreed out of politeness.”

  “Unlikely,” Maggie replied with asperity. “You of all people should know, Karen isn’t given to being polite meaninglessly.”

  She was obviously remembering the time on the Downs when Karen had been short with William, but the vicar looked bewildered.

  “Umm, yes . . . I mean . . . I hadn’t noticed . . .” He gave up, not looking at either woman. “I’d better run.” Now he did address Karen. “I won’t tell the committee till the morning, in case you change your mind.”

  “It’s OK,” she replied. “You can tell them now. I won’t change my mind.”

  When he’d gone, his footsteps safely dying away down the path toward his house, Maggie turned to her friend.

  Her expression was stony. “What were you two doing?”

  Karen sat down hard on the bench. “Nothing. We weren’t doing anything. I was upset about Harry and he was comforting me.”

  “Hmm . . . you don’t look upset.”

  “Not now, but I was.”

  Maggie clearly didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “I thought you said you didn’t like William and you were sick of him hanging around.”

  “I was, but actually he’s been great. I told you, we’ve had a few walks together and he’s talked me through stuff about Harry . . . he’s really helped.”

  Maggie was still eyeing her suspiciously. “If you say so.”

  “Stop staring at me like that.”

  “Well, it didn’t look as if he was just ‘comforting’ you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her friend gave her a look of mock surprise. “You don’t know?”

  Karen didn’t reply, just sat there, her mouth twisting with discomfort at Maggie’s grilling. She did know, of course. But she found it was impossible to be with William and maintain normal barriers. They just had this instant, joyous ease with each other, which was hard to hide . . . hard because it was so unconscious.

  Maggie plunked herself down next to Karen on the bench. “OK. I’ll believe it was all perfectly innocent if you look me in the eye and tell me it was.”

  Which Karen couldn’t do, of course.

  Maggie leaned forward, frowning. “Karen?”

  “He wasn’t holding my hand, he just put his hand over mine as a comfort thing. Really. But you’re right, I’m afraid, I do have feelings for him—”

  “God, Karen!” Maggie interrupted, but Karen held her hand up.

  “It’s nothing, honestly. Just a stupid crush. He’s been so good to me, Maggie, listening endlessly while I pour my heart out. I’m sure it’s just a mad reaction to Harry’s death and everything . . . I’m definitely not myself. But I promise you, Will’s done absolutely nothing wrong. He certainly doesn’t have the slightest interest in me, he’s just doing his job.”

  There was silence while Maggie digested this.

  “Does he know how you feel?”

  “NO, and I wouldn’t dream of telling him.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Bloody hell, Karen, he’s a vicar. If he was caught up in any sort of scandal it’d be curtains for his whole career, not to mention his family.”

  “For heaven’s sake! William’s not caught up in anything. You’re making a drama out of nothing. Please, can you drop it? I’ll get over it soon, I’m sure. It’s just been such a strange time.”

  Karen saw her friend’s face lighten a little. “Please . . .”

  “OK.” Maggie’s tone was grudging. Then she put her arm through Karen’s and gave it a squeeze. “It’s probably my fault. I’ve had so much to do with this Indian trip coming up and having to organize all my patients to see someone else while I’m away, I’ve been neglecting you.”

  “Rubbish. You’ve been great. Everyone’s been great. I’m just a bit of a crazy woman right now.”

  “Your husband’s just died, Kar, I think you have every right to be crazy . . . not that you are. I’m just worrying that as soon as I’m on that plane and my back is turned, you’ll run off with the vicar!”

  They both began to laugh.

  “That’s so not going to happen,” Karen assured her. And wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible, she added, “Tell me how it’s going with the trip. Have you got all your jabs and stuff? You must be so excited.”

  “I am excited, but sort of nervous too. Raki’s family is incredibly nice, but there are so many of them: aunts, uncles, cousins—masses of cousins—small children who seem to belong to everyone. It’s quite confusing . . . and exhausting.”

  “I’m sure. But you won’t be in Delhi for very long, will you?”

  “No, and I’m looking forward to getting that leg over with. We’re only spending a week with them initially, then it’s on the road, and we go back for another visit later on. It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Karen said, then regretted it because her friend looked stricken.

  “Oh, and I’ll miss you too. I feel so bad for leaving you like this. It’s such a long time.”

  “Don’t be daft. By the time you get back I’ll be a lot less crazy—with a bit of luck—and I’ll have made some decisions about my life, maybe.”

  Maggie shot her a warning glance. “Just so long as those decisions don’t include our dear reverend . . .”

  Chapter Seven

  They sat side by side on the bed—in harmony for once—united by a scratched and cracked leather photograph album that had been on the top shelf of Harry’s cupboard, full of unnamed photos from a long time ago that neither of them could identify. Sophie pointed to a particularly stern lady in a high-necked Edwardian summer dress posed with a small boy, hair smarmed down, in a sailor suit. She grinned. It was a long time since Karen had seen Sophie amused.

  “That must be Dad.” She pointed to the boy.

  “Can’t be, he’s not that old. This must have been taken early last century . . . perhaps his father, your grandfather.”

  “Didn’t he ever tell you?”

  “No, oddly, he didn’t. In fact, I’ve never seen this album before today.”

  Sophie frowned. “Here’s a thought. Maybe it’s not Dad’s album at all. Maybe it belonged to the person who lived here before. It was right at the back of the shelf.” She scrambled through the stiff pages to the flyleaf, but there was only an inscription that read: “Holmewood Court, 1908.”

  “Doesn’t help much. Harry never mentioned a house called Holmewood Court.”

  Her stepdaughter was laughing. “Hilarious. Here we are, going all gooey-eyed over some random child and assuming it’s Daddy when, in fact, none of these people may be anything to do with us.”

 
; They had been attempting to clear out Harry’s things, but every time Karen picked something to put in the charity box, Sophie would drag it out and claim it was impossible to get rid of. Only Harry’s clothes had made the cut so far, and even they had been subject to cherry-picking by his daughter. She’d kept three of his cashmere sweaters, his Barbour, a Ralph Lauren cotton shirt. Books were happily discarded, but his shaving bowl, his alarm clock, all his pens and pads and desk furniture, his briefcase . . . the list was long.

  Karen, however, insisted that if Sophie wanted to keep things, she had to pack them up and store them in one of the spare rooms. Because she was experiencing a mounting desire to remove all physical reminders of her husband from the house, hoping that by doing so she might manage to distance herself from her guilt. And in the past weeks, her nightmares had certainly lessened, perhaps as a result of her mind being taken up, to an unhealthy extent, by William Haskell.

  *

  Jennifer Simmons’ drawing room windows were open wide, the curtains billowing in what little breeze there was. But it was an unusually hot and muggy evening for April, and Karen—wedged on the overstuffed sofa cushions between Martha Chowney and Janet Phelps, the seventy-six-year-old organist—felt a small trickle of sweat creep down her spine.

  There were six people present, five had sent apologies. Jennifer, the committee chairman, was taking notes in the absence of Bernard, the self-appointed secretary, who was in Denmark at his daughter’s wedding. Karen looked across at William, perched on a wobbly ladderback chair beside the chairman, his dog collar looking very constricting and uncomfortable in the heat. Since the moment, ten days ago, when Maggie had found them tête-à-tête on the bench, they had stopped all contact with each other. But now the fête committee was scheduled to meet once a week over the summer, they had no choice.

  For Karen, this was both something she longed for, and something she dreaded. She knew, of course, that there was absolutely no future in her relationship with Will, so she’d tried to be tough with herself, tried to move past her crush. But the vicar was everywhere in the village. It seemed that each time she went out, whether to the farm shop, walking on the hills, gardening, or a trip to town, there he was, as if some unbreakable thread bound them. And people talked about him a lot, always with a certain awe. They said he was pouring every ounce of his energy into making things better for as many people as possible.