‘Well. Don’t get too excited. I’ve been writing my opus magnum for the best part of five years.’
Perhaps he’s not much better as an author as he is a statue. ‘At least you can do that sitting down.’
‘True.’ George sips his coffee, gratefully. ‘Hmm. Nice and hot.’
‘Ida said it’s what you like.’
‘Thank you. This is very kind of you.’
‘No problem. I didn’t like to think of you being cold.’ I move away as I’ve exhausted the extent of my chit-chat. ‘I should go.’
‘Have a nice day, Jodie.’ He raises his cup to me. ‘Thanks again.’
‘No problem. Good luck with the novel,’ I call as I walk away.
The wind is blustery, puffing in spiteful bursts. Some of the more lusty gusts threaten to blow me off my feet. I lean into it as I walk and am relieved when I finally see Sunny Days coming into view. That was a harder workout than any gym treadmill. Back on the gangway, I pause to catch my breath and notice that there’s smoke curling out of the chimney of the eclectic Sea Breezes next door. Ida’s friend must have returned as I suspected. Though the blinds are all still closed.
Letting myself into Sunny Days, I strip off my inadequate coat and newly acquired hat and scarf and hang them in the hall. There’s no sign of Marilyn and the houseboat is even more immaculate than when I left, if that’s humanly possible.
On the kitchen table there’s a note that says See you tomorrow! Mxx in big, loopy writing. There’s a smiley face drawn beneath it and another plethora of kisses. Joy. It must be nice to go through life like Marilyn, untroubled by woes and perpetually sunny. There’s also a big bunch of vibrant yellow daffodils in a vase in the middle of the table which, I have to admit, is very thoughtful of her. The colour is like shot of sunshine.
I make a cup of tea and, while I drink it, reluctantly flick on my phone again. Nothing more from Chris, but one from Bill which simply says, OK? I message back Fine.
What to do with the rest of my day? The shelves are stacked high with books of all manner – romantic comedies, sporting autobiographies, several I recognise as winning literary awards of some sort. Probably bought by Bill but never read. I don’t get much time to read at home and this should be a luxury, but my attention span is terrible. I’d put on the radio, but I can’t bear to disturb the peace. It’s as if too much sound hurts my brain. And all the songs make me want to weep. It’s nice to hear the gentle shush of the waves, but the caw of the gulls sounds too much like a crying child and I wish they’d be quiet.
I take what’s left of my tea and a blanket from the sofa and head out onto the top deck, which I’ve yet to explore. There’s another couple of steamer chairs here and there are cushions for them in a locker. The cushions have still got the tags on and don’t look like they’ve ever been used. I lay one out and settle myself under the blanket to do nothing more taxing than look out at the sea. George is right, it’s a very beautiful view and, thankfully, the harbour is sheltered from the wind. It’s so quiet and peaceful that I let a sigh escape. There’s a plethora of yachts moored up, then the dark circle of the fort beyond and, further out to sea, there’s an enormous cruise ship going by – probably filled with shiny, happy people enjoying their pre-paid drinks package. I sip my tea.
Chris and I did a cruise. A few years ago now. To the Caribbean. Waking up to a different island every day was blissful. We laughed, drank too many rum cocktails, danced the night away, were careless with our contraception. It was a wonderful holiday. I thought we had it all then.
Due to my largely sleepless night, it’s not long before my eyes begin to grow heavy. The tide must be coming in or going out as I can feel a slight movement of the boat beneath me and that’s helping to make me drowsy too.
Then, just as I’m edging into sleep, there’s an ear-splitting noise which jolts me back to sitting and sets my nerves jangling. It sounds for all the world like someone starting up a chainsaw.
‘What the hell?’ I throw aside my blanket and go and look over the rail. Instantly, I can see who the culprit is.
Chapter Ten
Ida’s friend, Ned Haddon, is on the back of the boat next door. He’s busy attacking a lump of wood and, as much as I’d suspected, using a chainsaw to do it. Despite the cool of the day, he’s just in a white T-shirt and dark trousers, ear defenders and protective goggles. He looks tall, broad-shouldered but, beyond that, I can’t tell you much else.
This won’t do. This won’t do at all.
‘Hey! Hey!’ I shout down to him trying to attract his attention but because of the ear defenders and the nerve-shredding noise of the chainsaw he can’t hear a word of it. Damn him.
Still, if he’s chopping wood for the fire, hopefully he won’t be much longer. However, as I watch it becomes clear that he’s sculpting the wood rather than just hacking it into logs. It isn’t a great leap to make me realise that those pieces on the boat are obviously carved by his own hand. When Ida said he was an artist, I imagined nice watercolour paintings of seaside scenes. Looks as if I was wrong. It appears that Mr Ned Haddon practises the noisiest form of art there could possibly be. Just my luck.
For some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away. His body movements flow as he cuts through the wood, this way and that, almost in a slow dance and, despite being cross at the noise, I’m finding it mesmerising. Eventually, even the buzz of the saw finds a rhythm and, if I had ear defenders on too, it might be considered quite soothing. As I watch, a face starts to emerge in the wood. Chips of bark and sawdust fly everywhere, some bits somersaulting off into the sea. He’s creating the face of a woman in the timber. I can see him shaping her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. It’s strangely sensual to see her emerging beneath his hands. The way he uses the chainsaw is just how an artist would use a brush. The machine he’s wielding isn’t your usual chainsaw, it looks to be lightweight and compact, clearly meant for the job in hand. It’s bloody noisy though. Still, I’m riveted. His talent is obvious and I wonder how long he’s been doing this or how he started. Let’s face it, the chainsaw isn’t the usual medium of choice for an artist.
As I’m leaning over the rail, staring down, he turns and catches my eye. He kills the chainsaw, tilts back his goggles and lifts his ear defenders. ‘Hi there!’
‘Hi.’ I think this is the same guy that I saw out on the paddleboard in the harbour. Was it only yesterday?
Closer up, I can see that he’s very good-looking. His hair’s long, worn framing his face, and it’s a rich toffee brown with highlights which look as if they’ve been put there by years of sunshine. His skin’s bronzed too and I’m assuming that he must spend a lot of his time outdoors. He’s lean, slender, but there are taut muscles in his arms and the shape of his body beneath his clothes hints at being toned too. I’d guess that he’s younger than me, maybe mid-to-late thirties. His face looks young, carefree.
‘I thought there was no one home,’ he calls up to me. ‘Is the noise bothering you?’
‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Though I confess that I’m interested in watching you too.’
‘It’s just something small I’m working on. Bread and butter stuff. You’re here on holiday?’
‘Kind of.’ He doesn’t need to know my business. ‘My brother owns this place.’
‘Ah. He’s made a great job of it. Very fancy. I came over and looked through the windows when it was empty. I’m about to stop for a coffee. Want to join me instead of shouting at each other?’
I think not and consider telling him that I have things to do. Important things. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t even know what to do with myself to quell the restlessness inside me. Plus, call me nosy, but I’d also like to have a closer look at his work. In our line of business, you never know when inspiration might strike or when you could see something that could be useful for a future project. So I’m torn between my reluctance to talk to anyone and a need to know more about this unusual form of art. I also wouldn’t mind seeing what his houseboat is like inside, compa
red to Bill’s – purely from an interior design point of view, you understand.
While I’m dithering, Ned puts down his chainsaw. ‘I have some new coffee that I’m going to brew, I’d be happy to share the experience. I’m only trying to be neighbourly. It’s up to you.’
‘OK,’ I hear myself say. It’s out of my mouth before my brain has chance to fully process it.
He smiles up at me. ‘Cool. Come right round. I’ll see you in a second.’
Ned goes inside and I stand there frozen at the rail, panic building inside of me. I’ve lived in London all of my life, in my current apartment for five years and I’ve barely spoken to any of my neighbours. I wouldn’t know who half of them are if I passed them in the street. I try to avoid bumping into them in our shared garden. And yet, here I am, in a quest for solitude, agreeing to coffee in the home of a stranger. I think I’ve gone mad.
Still, I can hardly tell him that I’ve changed my mind. I couldn’t just not turn up and I have no way of calling him. I’ll pop round there for long enough to knock back a coffee – the thought of which is quite appealing – have a look at his work and his boat, then I’ll politely leave. And while I’m there, I’ll reiterate my need for peace and quiet, which is, generally, not compatible with chainsaws.
Bracing myself, I take the blanket inside and throw it back on the sofa, before heading round to my neighbour’s house for coffee. I can do this. This morning I talked to a fidgety statue and a café owner and managed that OK. The conversation will be strictly on the level of inane chit-chat. We’ll pass the time of day and I’ll find out a bit more about his work. This man knows nothing about me and I’d like to keep it that way.
Chapter Eleven
Ned Haddon’s boat couldn’t be more different to Bill’s. Given the outside, I suppose that I’d expected nothing else. The front door’s already open as I walk up the gangway and onto the deck. Inside, Ned is at the sink drying cups. He turns to me and grins. ‘Welcome aboard!’
‘This is an amazing space,’ I tell him, genuinely surprised at how wonderful it is. The exterior might be a ramshackle hotchpotch of colour and untidiness, but in here you can tell, instantly, that it’s the home of an artist. It’s cluttered, filled with eclectic furnishings, clashing colours and is fabulously bohemian. Yet it isn’t what I envisaged at all. Shame on me, I thought it might be a bit grungy and unkempt. Far from it. Ned’s home is a veritable treasure trove of delights.
The main room is spacious and open, like Bill’s boat. However, the kitchen looks as if it has been hand-built, more than likely by Ned himself, I’d assume. There are only a few cupboards along one side but the doors have been exquisitely carved with oriental symbols. Hanging above the small copper sink, there are myriad glass baubles in every colour you can think of, perfectly placed to catch the light. As a result, a rainbow is reflected across the room in the sunshine, which makes me think that every room should have its own rainbow. Ahead of me there’s a wood-burning stove that’s gently warming the room. I continue my appraisal and it’s hard to take in everything at once.
Light floods in from the side windows and there’s a huge sign saying CAUTION: ADULT AT PLAY. One wall is made up of covered pegs adorned with hats – top hats, embroidered ones, a cowboy hat, a faded red fez, a tricorn edged with gold braid – enough to require further study. The other wall is decorated with a mural made entirely of driftwood, delicate pieces interlaced to form a swirling design like the crest of a wave. There’s a well-worn sofa in teal velvet opposite a blood red chesterfield, both of which have cosy-looking crochet blankets slung over them. A large rag rug covers the floorboards between them. On the far wall hangs a colourful cloth which is heavily embroidered with yin and yang symbols. In front of that is a crate with a bronze Buddha head on it and lots of candles in mosaic holders. Ned clearly favours rich, jewel colours and definitely has an eye for putting them together. Or maybe there’s a female influence here? Ida never mentioned that he had a wife or partner, but perhaps there is someone in his life.
‘You have a lot of lovely things,’ I say rather lamely, when I realise that I’m still staring and haven’t said much. In London, my apartment is minimalist, sparse, monochrome. I like to think it’s stylish but I wonder, looking round at the warmth and cosiness in this place, if Chris and I ever really made it a home? Perhaps that was part of the problem. However, I shut my mind down before I can dwell further on it.
‘Most of this stuff is collected from my travels over the years,’ Ned gestures around the living area. ‘Much of it old tat.’
‘Treasures,’ I correct. ‘Memories. You must love it or you wouldn’t hold on to it.’ I’m generally not a hoarder. I’m the opposite. An enthusiastic thrower-outer. Yet there’s one room in my home that’s filled with memories and I wonder how I’ll ever bear to part with the few precious possessions in there.
‘I have one very modern luxury,’ he says. ‘A state-of-the-art, all-singing, all-dancing coffee machine. I have a friend with a café by the beach. She got it at trade price for me.’
‘Ida? I had the pleasure of meeting her,’ I tell him. ‘I went down to the café this morning. She said you were her friend and my neighbour.’
‘I’ve known Ida for years. We went to art college together. If you know who I am, then you have the advantage.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Here I am in your home and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Jodie Jackson.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Jodie.’ Ned shakes my hand and, with the work he does, I thought they might be rough, calloused, but his fingers are smooth, warm and strong. ‘I apologise for the racket. I’ve been so used to either not having neighbours or competing with noise from the builders that I’ve got out of the habit of being considerate. I didn’t think to check if anyone had moved in.’
‘I’m not here permanently. Just for a while.’
‘A holiday?’
‘Kind of. An extended stay.’ A week, a month, a year. I’m not sure. I just know that I can’t go home yet. ‘London was getting a bit much,’ I offer, evasively. He doesn’t need to know any more than that.
‘I hate the place,’ Ned says. ‘I have to go over there sometimes – for work, for personal stuff, but it’s my idea of hell. I scuttle back here as fast as I can.’
I never used to think of living in London in negative terms, but now I’m not so sure.
‘It can be overwhelming,’ I agree. ‘I’ve come here in search of peace and quiet.’ A bit passive-aggressive perhaps, but I think it’s worth mentioning that.
He holds up his hands to show that my point has hit home. ‘My bad. I’ll try not to work if you’re around. I do have a workshop that I can go to. I was just fiddling with some new ideas while I thought no one was around.’
Ned turns his attention to the coffee machine, measuring out beans, grinding them, fiddling with levers, milk and cups.
‘Do you mind if I look around?’
‘Help yourself,’ he says over his shoulder.
So I entertain myself by wandering round his living room, taking in all that’s displayed there.
‘While this does its thing, I’ll just go and change my tee. I’m covered in sawdust.’ He goes through a beaded curtain and disappears out of view while I continue my exploration of his personal possessions.
As I pass the back of the teal sofa, I glance towards what must be the bedroom and I catch a glimpse of Ned stripping off his T-shirt – beaded curtains, it seems, provide little in the way of privacy. His body is as lean and toned, as I imagined and, without my bidding, my heart does a little skitter. My goodness. Being a chainsaw artist is clearly a good workout too. I avert my gaze and concentrate, instead, on an incense burner in the shape of a lotus flower. Much better for the equilibrium.
A few moments later, Ned comes out of the bedroom, pulling his T-shirt down, and I pretend to be absorbed in a line of fossils on a hammered metal coffee table.
‘Almost there,’ he says. ‘What takes your fancy?
Flat white, cappuccino, cortado? I can offer you all of the coffee-based joys. I even have chocolate sprinkles, if that’s what your heart desires. However, this is good stuff, so I’d recommend it as unadulterated as you can take it.’
‘I’m impressed. A flat white will be just fine.’ He crashes and bangs a bit more and then delivers the perfect flat white.
‘This is great.’ I sip it appreciatively.
‘I’m a man of many talents,’ he says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. ‘We can sit outside while it’s fine.’
So, exceptionally good coffee in hand, I follow him out of the front door and we go round the outside of the boat until we reach the rear deck.
Chapter Twelve
I couldn’t see from my lofty view on Sunny Days but, out here, there’s a kind of porch with a bench that looks as if it’s been made from an old door and painted in a bright shade of turquoise. It’s covered with a floral throw, a range of eclectic scatter cushions and a coffee table made from the trunk of a tree. Next to the sofa there are two storm lanterns with well-used candles in them. There’s a rocking chair painted in sunshine yellow and fairy lights are strung here and there. On the wall behind the bench, there are more examples of Ned’s work – a mermaid’s head, an octopus, a few different types of fish. At the front of the boat, there’s a pile of silvered driftwood, obviously waiting for Ned to work his magic on it.
‘I use a lot of driftwood,’ he says, following my glance. ‘I collect it from the nearby beaches when I can. I find it speaks to me.’ He picks up a piece and holds it out to me. ‘You probably think I’m mad, but I can already see the figure in that waiting to come out.’
‘It’s a real talent,’ I tell him. ‘I admire that. Your work is wonderful. Very accessible.’ I run my hand over the smooth, worn surface of the wood before Ned lays it back on the pile with the other pieces.
Sunny Days and Sea Breezes Page 5