Sunny Days and Sea Breezes

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Here, sit down.’ Ned quickly shakes the sawdust from the throw and cushions. If Ned feels as awkward as I do, then he doesn’t show it. He stretches out his legs and kicks off his boots to reveal bare feet. I note that they’re tanned to a nut brown. He has rather nice feet and nice hands too, now that I come to look. His fingers are long and slender, and I know from our brief contact that they’re strong and soft. He sees me staring at him and smiles. I look away, feeling guilty at being caught assessing my host.

  To deflect attention from myself, I turn to my coffee and sip it. The flavour is rich and deep flavour. ‘This is wonderful.’

  ‘I buy my beans from a little shop in Seaview. This blend is new in. It’s grown by a women’s co-operative in Peru. This is my first cup. Cheers.’ Ned tries it too and nods his approval. ‘Not bad at all.’

  The sun comes out, making the water in the harbour sparkle like diamonds. In front of us is the part-carved sturdy branch that he was working on earlier. The small chainsaw is propped up in a metal box. He nods at the delicate face that’s emerging from the wood. ‘Thought I’d try to create some fairies with a seasonal flair – spring through to winter, that kind of thing,’ he tells me. ‘I go to a lot of festivals over the summer and do some carving there. I create them quickly, in about ten minutes, and sell them at the end of my demo. It’s generally how I make my living over the summer and I like to have something new to offer for regulars, something that people can tuck into a corner of their garden. This is the type of sculpture that should go down well.’

  ‘I’ve never been to a festival.’

  ‘Seriously?’ He looks at me clearly amazed by my shortcomings in the festival department. ‘Everyone should go to at least one festival in their lives. Put it on your bucket list.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Though I’m not sure that roughing it in a tent is my kind of thing.

  ‘So what are you going to do with yourself while you’re here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I hadn’t thought much beyond getting away. ‘Read, walk, sleep.’ Try to find who I am, who I was, again? ‘Take some time away from work?’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I’m an interior designer.’

  Ned smiles. ‘No wonder you were so interested in all my ”treasures”.’

  ‘You have a very good eye. The colour is your choice?’ I stroke a peacock blue cushion next to me.

  ‘Yeah. The brighter the better. Do you approve?’

  ‘I do. It’s all put together very well.’

  ‘Did you fit out your brother’s boat?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Bill is very fussy. That’s all his own work. He always likes to have a project on the go.’ I think about inviting Ned over to look at Sunny Days, but stop short. Time alone, I remind myself. ‘I work with him in his company. He’s been good enough to allow me this time away.’

  ‘So the world of interior design was all a bit much?’

  From anyone else it could sound like he was taking the piss, but I feel that Ned is genuine. ‘Our company does a lot of high-pressure projects – hotels, offices, bars, shopping centres. It’s pretty full-on. I just needed some calm in my life.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘I’m not sure how good it’ll be. My brother has appointed me a babysitter while I’m here. She’s possibly the most talkative person on the planet.’

  ‘Marilyn?’ he says.

  I laugh. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I saw her going in and out when they were working on the boat. They were the most well-fed builders on the island. She’s the very best in babysitter material. You’re lucky.’

  ‘She seems like a lovely person. I’m not sure that I can cope with her . . . exuberance . . . right now.’

  ‘Marilyn’s a great lady,’ he assures me. ‘I’ve known her for years and have nothing but admiration for her. She’s one of life’s optimists and is so kind-hearted. She’ll will do anything for anyone. Ida and I were at art college with one of her boys, Declan. We were best friends at the time.’

  ‘That sounds like you’re no longer friends with him?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Ned says.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be nosy.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s just that she’s had a tough life,’ Ned says.

  ‘I confess that I don’t know much about Marilyn.’ I don’t like to admit that I’ve been trying to avoid her company. Even the bright colours of her clothes are too much for me to cope with. They make my eyeballs throb. ‘We haven’t had much chance to talk.’ Which is a blatant lie and I now feel guilty that I’ve been trying to avoid her.

  ‘What she’s been through would have broken most other people – understandably – but she’s still standing, still smiling. I don’t know how she does it.’

  I wait for him to tell me more.

  ‘The McConaugheys are a big, boisterous family – well-known round here. Marilyn’s got six kids and more grandchildren than I can remember. Her daughter runs the local pub on the next beach along.’ He nods in the general direction. ‘It’s a great place to go off season.’

  I haven’t been there yet and can’t think why I would do. Even the thought of going out and socialising brings me out in hives.

  ‘It was years ago now,’ Ned continues. ‘When we were still at college. But she lost Declan. To drugs. Christ, it was terrible. I remember it like it was yesterday. Marilyn tried everything – we all did – but she couldn’t help him to turn it round. None of us could.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

  He shrugs. ‘Why would you? He was a great lad. The life and soul of the party. You can tell where he got it from. His mum’s great company. Declan was a really gifted artist too. Had more talent in his little finger than I’ll ever have. He just became too fond of the chemicals.’ Ned sighs sadly. ‘We all dabbled a bit. What student doesn’t? But it got hold of Declan. It went from recreational to addiction too quickly for us to do anything to stop it. The amount of time I spent in Marilyn’s kitchen trying to talk to him.’ He looks across at me and shakes his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing to watch your friend suffer like that. How much worse must it be when it’s one of your kids?’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine.’ I can feel the colour draining from my face, my head going light and my throat closing with emotion.

  ‘It was fifteen years ago,’ Ned carries on, oblivious to the nerve he’s hit. ‘But it leaves a mark on you. When you’d expect her to be crumbling, Marilyn was a rock for us all. I don’t know how she kept going. I think I’d go to pieces.’

  I’m about to. I’m frightened that I can’t hold back the tears and I don’t want to cry in front of a stranger. This is why I had to get away from work, for people who knew me. I’d keep breaking down in meetings, in the hairdressers, at the gym. Other people’s pain is a doorway straight into my own. I can’t watch films or even listen to music without welling up. I can’t listen to stories of people losing their children in tragic circumstances.

  I put my cup down and it rattles in my saucer. Jumping up, I say crisply, ‘I’d better go. Thank you for the coffee.’

  Ned jumps up too, startled by my hasty departure. ‘What?’ he says. ‘You’re leaving? I’ve said something wrong?’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. I have things to do.’ We both know that’s a lie.

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone on like that. You’ve come here to get away from your troubles and I’m telling you sad stories.’

  ‘It’s not that at all. Really, it isn’t.’ I make a bolt for the front of the boat.

  ‘Jodie,’ Ned shouts after me. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go.’

  But I keep on walking.

  ‘You know where I am,’ he calls after me. ‘I can offer wine as well as coffee.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say over my shoulder while still hurrying away. ‘I just need some time by myself.’

  I rush down the gangway and back to the safe, sanc
tuary of Sunny Days. I catch Ned looking after me as I flee, a concerned expression on his face. This is why I don’t talk to people. My heartache is always there, just beneath the surface, and it only takes a tiny scratch to expose it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I can’t sleep. When I close my eyes I just relive everything, all over again. My heart is making the same agonising, groaning noises as the boat as it rises and falls. Then I realise that it’s not only my heart and the keening sound is coming out of me. So at first light I get up and sit in the kitchen drinking coffee. I opt for instant even though there’s an enormous coffee machine here too. It looks terrifying and perhaps I should have got some useful tips from Ned as he seemed to be quite a handy barista. Still, he’s now on my growing list of People to Avoid.

  Four cups of coffee in and I pluck up the courage to listen to Chris’s stream of messages. He has been leaving them constantly since I left.

  ‘Jodie. Just call me,’ he pleads. Hearing his voice twists my insides into knots.

  ‘That’s all I ask. We need to talk.’

  But do we need to talk? What is there to say? There are times when talking makes no difference at all. It can’t change anything.

  In among them is one from Della. ‘Chummie, where the fuck are you? I haven’t heard from you for days. You’re not answering my messages on WhatsApp.’ Her voice sounds tight with anxiety. ‘I bumped into Bill at the gym at lunchtime and he said you’re not in the office. He was very coy about where you actually are. What’s going on? Call me, woman.’

  Della’s been a friend for about five years – my closest friend. We both joined a book group at our local library on the same evening and were both suitably appalled by the choice of book – a dry and heavy tome that made my eyes glaze over within minutes. It was clear that Della felt the same. When the other women began to drone on about what they saw as the literary merits of the book and we hadn’t even started to read it, we both looked up and caught each other’s eye. Our expressions were the same and both said that we were in the wrong place. Very quickly, we were exchanging ‘kill me’ messages with our eyes and sniggering into our hands. Then Della made indications towards the door and we both ended up sneaking out early. Instead, of continuing our quest for literary appreciation, we headed to the nearest bar where we giggled like schoolgirls over too many glasses of wine. I’d joined the book group primarily to meet people outside work as I had pitifully few friends – I still do – so I suppose on that level it worked. I never did get into reading that much, though. I discovered that I just don’t have the time.

  However, Della and I clicked instantly – the way you do with very few people who cross your path in life. She’s fun, has an acerbic wit and takes no prisoners. She’s a tall brunette with curves in all the right places who oozes confidence. Whenever we go out together she turns heads. Della’s a young-looking thirty-five, gloriously single and never short of admirers. She always insists that she’s having too much of a good time to want to settle down. She’s fun, feisty and loud. We’re chalk and cheese, but somehow it works. Recently, she’s been such a rock for me. I don’t know what I would have done without her. But even my best friend couldn’t help me pick up the pieces this time.

  I will call Della – we usually text or speak a dozen times a day and, when work allows, we go to the gym near to both of our offices together at lunchtime. She’ll be wondering what on earth’s the matter and, if I don’t contact her soon, there’ll be hell to pay. My husband is a different matter altogether. If I never speak to him again it will be too soon.

  I’m still at the kitchen table, listening to his messages over again when Marilyn rocks up. The door bangs open. ‘Cooooeeee!’

  I click the phone off, but not before she catches the end of Chris’s message.

  ‘He sounds like a right misery guts,’ she says as she throws her glittery gold bag on the floor.

  Today’s outfit is no less eye-catching than her previous attire. She’s wearing matching gold sandals, the leopard-print jeggings and a white floaty blouse. Her earrings and her multitude of bangles jingle-jangle as she moves. Her scarlet nails are immaculate and match her lipstick. Never has a cleaner looked more glamorous.

  ‘You could say that,’ I agree.

  ‘And you look like you need some more coffee, Miss.’ She nods at the coffee machine and pulls an alarmed face at it. ‘I can’t work this beggar.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘Instant it is, then. Toast, too? I’ve brought fresh bread from the bakery. I got sourdough. I know what you London people like. Don’t think about saying no.’

  ‘Toast would be lovely.’ I’m not even sure that I ate dinner yesterday, but my stomach growls that we didn’t. ‘No more coffee, though. I’ve had too much already. I’ll have the jitters soon.’

  A few minutes later, while I’m still staring at my silent phone, coffee and toast is put in front of me along with a small pot of jam. Today it’s peach prosecco preserve with glitter. And why not? In Marilyn’s world, it’s obvious that clothes and food should be as sparkly as possible.

  She sits down with me, clearly to make sure that I actually eat it. I spread some of the glittery jam on the hot toast and, to my surprise, it really does taste rather good. I drink the coffee too. I daren’t not. Hello, jitters, welcome back.

  ‘You can talk to me, you know,’ she says. ‘There’s not much I haven’t seen or done. You shouldn’t keep pain to yourself. It’s not good for your humours.’

  That makes me smile. ‘We’re not Victorian, Marilyn. I’ll be fine. I just need . . . ’

  ‘Peace and quiet. So you keep telling me. Well, I think peace and quiet is very over-rated. You’re young. You’re beautiful. Whatever’s happened, you need to get out there and start enjoying yourself again.’

  ‘It’s easier said than done.’ I don’t know that I feel young and beautiful. I feel as old as the hills. Is forty-two still classed as young? I know all too well that some doors are closing to me already.

  ‘Of course it is,’ she agrees. ‘But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. I take it this is all because of him.’ She shoots a glare at my phone as if it’s Chris standing there.

  ‘That’s part of it.’

  ‘Lover?’

  ‘Husband,’ I tell her.

  She shakes her head. ‘These men. I’ve cried a table over too many of them in the past. They’re not worth it, darling.’

  I’m sure she’s right. Chris isn’t worthy of my tears.

  ‘I lost my husband ten years ago,’ she tells me.

  I wonder why Ned didn’t mention that? ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘He didn’t die,’ she snorts. ‘Far from it. He decided he wanted to be a lady, shaved off his beard and moved to Hull. He’s Veronica now and very happy by all accounts. He took some of my best frocks with him. Bastard.’

  That makes me laugh out loud, a proper guffaw, and it’s a sound I barely recognise.

  ‘You’ve got to pick yourself up, dust yourself down and get on with it. Whatever you’ve been through. Life’s for living.’

  I well up again. These days, my emotions are not under my control. ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  I nod. At least I think so. And more. So much more.

  Marilyn puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’ve known loss, proper loss, love. Loss that makes you wonder how you can even keep breathing. So I do understand some of what you’re going through.’

  And, because of Ned’s revelation, I know that she does. She might not have lost her husband in the traditional sense of the word, but she has buried a son. She knows what grief can do to a person. She understands me more than she realises, but I can’t confide in her. I can’t offer my sympathy either. The words simply won’t come out.

  ‘But every day is an adventure. When you get up in the morning, you never know what it might bring. Sometimes it’s wonderful, sometimes it’s heartache. Those of us who are here
should make sure we enjoy every moment to honour those who aren’t.’

  Once again, she touches on the root of my pain, but when it’s clear that I’m not going to share any further, Marilyn stands up. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘You get yourself up and out. A nice walk on the beach will be a tonic and it’s quite mild today.’

  ‘I went to the café yesterday,’ I tell her. I don’t want her to think that all I’m doing is sitting here brooding – especially when that actually sounds quite appealing. ‘I met Ida and then I bumped into the living statue on the seafront, George.’

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Sounds like you had a busy day being all peaceful and quiet. George is a poppet. He’s the world’s most twitchy statue, I’m sure, but very sweet.’

  ‘I met Ned too.’ I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly more coy. I already know Marilyn enough to realise that she’ll read more into this than there is. ‘We had a coffee together and I watched him work for a bit.’

  ‘Oh, that Ned, he’s as hot as butter!’ Marilyn fans herself. ‘If I were a younger woman, he’d have to watch himself.’ She whips my plate and mug away, taking it to the sink. ‘Clever boy too. I’ve got one of his sculptures in my garden under my apple tree. So lovely.’

  ‘He definitely has a talent.’ I feel myself flush. Perhaps I need to fan myself too.

  Over her shoulder she adds, ‘I’m glad you’re getting to know some people. Friends are important.’ She says it more pointedly than she needs to. ‘Right, off you go. I need to get on.’

  ‘Marilyn, the place is absolutely spotless.’

  ‘That’s because I’m looking after you.’ She gives me a big, beaming smile and it’s so hard not to respond.

  ‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I won’t rest until you’re as happy as pizza.’ And with that she whips a duster out of the cupboard and heads off to wave it at imaginary cobwebs.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Putting on my new red woollies, I head out to the beach. As Marilyn said, it’s quite mild today, but there’s still a gusty breeze from the sea and my scarf feels cosy and soothing against my neck. Perhaps there are healing powers in the feel of soft wool. I don’t know.