Summer at the Highland Coral Beach (The Port Willow Bay series Port Willow Bay)

by Kiley Dunbar

  ‘It’s this!’ She held the bikini against herself, smiling a little awkwardly. It was skimpier than she remembered it looking online.

  When she glanced up, Atholl was smiling too, with the familiar closed lips drawn a little to one side to hide his sudden bashfulness. She’d seen that smile a few times and each time it melted her a little more. His eyes were shining in spite of the flush on his pale cheeks.

  ‘Very nice. But if you’re planning on wearing that to the ceilidh I’m afraid to say you’ve got our Highland customs all wrong. It’ll be more of a kilts and tartan sashes kind of thing.’ His eyes crinkled at the sides.

  ‘Have you got swimming things, Atholl?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well then… will you take me to the coral beach later today, once the water’s warmed up a little with the sun.’

  Atholl only nodded, his eyes fixed on the bikini she crumpled in her hands.

  ‘That’s not all I wanted to ask you, actually.’

  He swallowed before replying. ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No. You see, that day on Skye you gave me something I couldn’t have imagined for myself – a way of beginning to say goodbye.’

  His fingers twitched by his side as though he were going to reach for her, but he didn’t. Instead they both smiled, acknowledging the huge burden that had been alleviated, if only a little, by the simple ceremony they had created together two days ago.

  ‘Now I can give you something back,’ she went on. ‘A way to your own fresh start.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Wait there.’ She turned to rummage in the bag she’d carried on her walk yesterday, the romantic novel falling onto the floor at her feet. He stooped to return it to her and when he stood again, found her holding out a larger book with a big, hopeful grin on her face.

  ‘I spotted this at the store yesterday and I read it last night.’

  She held it out for the perplexed Atholl to look at.

  ‘A book about evergreen herbs? I’m not with ye.’

  ‘You will be soon. Are there spades up at the But and Ben? Can we go there first before our swim?’

  In their hurry to snip the tags from her bikini, pack sun lotion and beach towels and make sandwiches to take with them, the other package Atholl had brought for Beatrice lay forgotten upon her dressing table.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Summer Earth

  The sun was already high in the sky when they reached the But and Ben and the air was alive with lazily buzzing insects and the chatter of unseen sparrows hiding from the fierce heat.

  Atholl leaned on the two spades watching Beatrice walking up and down the rows in the middle of Lana’s lavender field. The gardening book was tucked under her arm, open at a particular page illustrated with photographs in blues and green.

  ‘So you see, it’s an old remedy for reviving neglected lavender that can’t otherwise be salvaged by pruning,’ she said.

  ‘Digging it all up?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And burying it?’

  ‘Well, not completely buried, you have to leave the newest growth peeping out of the soil.’

  Atholl contemplated the task.

  ‘There must be at least two hundred lavender bushes here; it’ll be back-breaking work digging trenches deep enough to submerge all those. Do you know anything about gardening?’

  ‘I’ve a little herb garden back home. Well, it’s more of a container by the back door, but I’ve kept some rosemary and mint alive for years now. And I’ve worked on a community walled garden project back in Warwick. I helped plant the potatoes!’

  Atholl didn’t look as impressed as she’d hoped.

  ‘Look, the book says there’s a chance they’ll regrow, and you’ll have a new visitor attraction for your crafting guests, and it’ll be a lovely asset for the workshop and café. Your visitors can look out at the sea of blue lavender as they drink their tea with heather honey buns, and you can set up that lavender oil distilling thingy that you talked about and you can even teach lavender oil distillation and sell it in your own shop! Can you picture it, Atholl?’

  This last part was delivered on tiptoe and with an animated stretch of her arms as she scanned the field around her, already able to envision the revived lavender on a bright spring day, as opposed to the tired rows of leggy, brittle, grey-stemmed bushes with the sparsest of flower heads drooping in the scorching heat and choked with dandelions that she could see now.

  Atholl looked from her bright eyes to the ground. ‘And this gardening expert in your book, do they say how long it’ll take for them to fully recover?’

  ‘Well…’ she hesitated. ‘There’s no guarantee they will recover. The roots might never settle and the plants could rot away entirely.’

  ‘Whit?’

  ‘But, it could work! And the book says these things take as long as they take. What do you think? It’s worth the risk to save them, right? And if it doesn’t work, you can do as you said and rip them out and plant more willows.’

  Atholl was nodding again with a contemplative frown. ‘But by then you’ll be long gone and I’ll be in a braw mess sorting out your bright ideas by myself.’ A beat passed between them. Beatrice swallowed. ‘Are you wanting to help me with this digging?’ he added.

  ‘Of course. Two spades, remember?’

  ‘Well then, I’ll get the kettle on, we might manage a whole row by dinner time.’

  To give Atholl his due, he didn’t blanch at Beatrice’s excited cries accompanied by an exuberant handclap and some kind of rain dance amongst the dying shrubs.

  ‘Anything to keep you happy. And busy,’ he shouted over his shoulder as he approached the workshop door.

  The close and building heat of a late summer’s day made the work hard going but the pair kept their spades to the ground and their backs bent. Atholl dug his willow knife into the soil to release the most stubborn roots as each lavender came up one at a time. Beatrice filled the watering can from the trough by the door and damped down the plants’ roots while Atholl backfilled the newly dug, deeper trenches with his homemade compost from the heap behind the willows. It wasn’t long before they were sinking the first rescued lavender into its planting hole and Atholl firmed it into the fresh earth with his boot.

  ‘So, umm, did you speak to your mum, or your sister yet? About me running off like that?’ Beatrice asked between trips to the water trough with the metal can.

  ‘It’s no’ their business. And you don’t need to explain yourself to anyone.’

  ‘Really? You don’t think I should ring them?’

  ‘No. I do not. They liked you, and that’s enough for family, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh.’

  Beatrice found herself thinking of Rich’s dad. He’d have demanded to know what was wrong with her and she’d have ended up humiliated by his questions and put in her place by his callous, casual remarks. She could hear him now braying about their lost baby and how she really shouldn’t be trying again so soon because nobody knew ‘what was wrong with Beatrice yet’ and she’d risk losing another child if she recklessly forged ahead with her plan to get pregnant again. Rich had asked him to leave, yet again, and there had been another blazing row on the doorstep. How had they lived with his toxicity for so long, she wondered? How must Rich be managing alone with it now? Had he told his dad where he’d gone or was he making a clean break? She thought of all those years watching Rich eaten up with worry about his father’s dependence on alcohol and all that energy expended hoping for his father’s approval, only to be disappointed time and again. Many times he’d seen Beatrice take the brunt of his father’s casual misogyny and cruelty but he’d always open the door to him whenever he stumbled up their driveway, which told her Rich would probably still be in contact with his dad now. Her heart ached a little and she hoped he’d made an especial effort to talk to, or even visit, his nice, dependable mum in Portugal this summer, the only uncomplicated, loving family member he had left.
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br />   But here was Atholl Fergusson with his – she was realising – laid back attitude to family affairs, happily digging at the ground, the topic already forgotten, seemingly secure in the knowledge his loved ones wouldn’t mind Beatrice’s eccentricities one bit.

  ‘What about Kitty and Gene, do they know… about me?’

  Atholl’s look told her that of course they didn’t. It was her news to tell if she ever wanted to.

  So they dug on, the branches scratching their skin and the acrid, sappy perfume of lavender roots rising in the now humid, salty air. The thrum of distant combine harvesters and the call of the gulls watching the moored fishing boats being hosed down over the hill at Port Willow jetty accompanied their work.

  ‘You know, Beattie…’ Atholl began slowly, weighing his words. ‘Mum would understand. My mother’s first baby, my big sister – Ida was her name – was lost when she was only a few days old. My mother was only young at the time and she and Dad grieved sore for her. When it came to the time Ida would have gone to school my mother wanted to do something for her, so she decided to make an inn bedroom into a fairy-tale room, so other wee lassies could sleep there and imagine themselves a princess, turning her grief into someone else’s joy. Gene was born shortly after that, then myself, then Sheila and Kelly came along. We all held sleepovers in that room with our pals when we were wee. And for a long time, that was the inn’s most popular room with the visitors; we were famous for it. But that was a long time ago. It’s old hat now, I suppose.’

  ‘I like your mum’s imagination, and that she had a way of turning some of her sadness into something else. She must have been pretty resourceful.’

  ‘She’s no’ one to sit still. She’s a do-er, like somebody else I know.’

  Beatrice shrugged and laughed. ‘Who can you mean?’

  Atholl laughed too before turning contemplative. ‘So, you said that digging these lavenders could help me somehow?’

  She prepared herself for the task of convincing him. ‘Well, they were Gene’s ex-wife’s, right?’

  ‘They’re no’ divorced. As far as everyone’s concerned they’re still married.’

  ‘OK, they were his wife’s. He’s been stuck in the past waiting for her to come home, but now we’ve successfully got him cooking again and he and Kitty seem to be getting on well…’

  Atholl joined in. ‘And he even came to the ceilidh planning meeting this morning which is more interest than he’s taken in Harvest Home since Lana left, so aye, I’m with you so far, but what’s your point?’

  ‘I thought we could help him move on if we gave this field a new lease of life. If instead of watching it turn into a desolate bit of weedy scrubland, he could see it flourish from a fresh start too. Maybe maintaining the field was Lana’s job at first, but now that responsibility might weigh on Gene and he can’t face it.’ She indicated the field with her hand. ‘It’s become a rotting relic, a reminder of better times. And you know those tasks that you know you should tackle, but you just can’t face? Maybe it’s one of those.’

  A niggling, invasive thought arose as she spoke, bringing back thoughts of Richard and all their unfinished business, but she pressed on, shaking the anxious feelings away, trying to convince Atholl.

  ‘If we can encourage him out here to take care of the field he planted in the first place, it might make him happy – relieved even – and he can move on. We just need to get it freshened up so he can take over, so it isn’t too overwhelming a task for him.’

  ‘And so helping me in a roundabout way because he’ll be one step closer to recovering from Lana leaving him, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly! And because it’s nice to help him, of course. He’s so close to standing on his own two feet again; soon you’ll be able to tell him you’re leaving the inn in his capable hands and you’re setting up a proper willow crafting business here, with a proper visitors’ centre and a busy workshop, and everything you told me you dreamed of.’

  ‘You’ve got it all figured out, then.’

  ‘He needs one last gentle shove in the right direction, and voilà, everybody’s happy!’

  ‘A shame you’ll no’ be here to see it.’

  Beatrice dug her spade into the ground just as Atholl stopped digging and surveyed the landscape.

  After a moment’s heavy silence, Atholl said, ‘The season’s changing, can you feel it?’

  Beatrice wondered if he’d been thinking of September coming and how she’d be checking out on the last day of August, the day after the ceilidh, and now only three days away. ‘Don’t say it’s nearly autumn, I can’t bear it. The long dark days. I’m dreading them. I want it to stay summer forever.’ She suppressed a shudder and tried to focus on Atholl’s voice.

  ‘The harvests are nearly in across the county and the nights are drawing in. The ceilidh’s come round fast this year. My only hope is that Gene can stomach it.’

  ‘I hope so; it seems a shame to hide away from life.’

  Atholl cocked an eyebrow, throwing Beatrice a level look, amused but not unkind.

  ‘Oh, all right! I know I can’t talk, running away to the Highlands and everything, but he must be recovering by now. It’s been a long time.’

  ‘What did your horticulturalist say about the lavender?’ He nodded towards the book, now cast aside on the chair by the cottage door. ‘These things take as long as they take.’

  There was nothing she could do but smile and absorb the sentiment and they worked on in silence. Beatrice’s clothes clung to her and she could feel the sweat and grime on her neck beneath her hair. She was glad they’d be swimming soon. Eventually she called out, ‘I’m getting tired now.’

  ‘You’ve done well. That’s two rows of lavender replanted and one meeting chaired and it’s only two o’clock,’ Atholl replied.

  She smiled and wiped her hair back off her face. ‘I’ve enjoyed having a place to be and things to do. It’s been a good distraction from everything.’

  ‘There’s no’ many women would spend their summer holidays helping out a family o’ strangers.’

  Beatrice smiled at the word. They had been strangers but now they were beginning to feel like family. ‘I’ve enjoyed it.’ It struck her that she meant it. She had found moments of calm and quiet and belonging, things she thought she could never recover.

  ‘Any excuse to make a list, eh?’ He laughed and she pitched a gardening glove at him, and they both called it a day and headed down to the coral beach to cool off.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Undercurrents at the Coral Beach

  It wasn’t until Beatrice was barefoot on the shards of coral and attempting to wiggle into her bikini while keeping the towel wrapped around her that she fully realised what she’d let herself in for. It would have been considerably easier if Atholl wasn’t standing by the water’s edge undressing and piling his clothes on a rock.

  It was the ideal afternoon for swimming, the kind of late August day that promises building heat and clear blue skies until nightfall.

  The perfect crescent of white coral reflected the glaring sunlight, making Beatrice squint and wish she’d remembered her sunglasses. The turquoise water lapped gently at the sharply rising rocks that enclosed the little beach and everything appeared sun-bleached and subtropical.

  Beatrice scanned the shore for signs of other humans – or worse, crazed cattle – before she struggled into the bikini top, glad to see she and Atholl had the bay all to themselves. Not even Echo had followed them on their trip out to the But and Ben and down onto the serenely quiet beach.

  ‘Are you no’ ready? Can I turn round yet?’ Atholl called from the water’s edge as he peeled his stripy top off.

  ‘N… not yet,’ she cried, still holding the towel around herself despite being safely clad in her bikini. She wanted just a second longer to take in the view of Atholl Fergusson, his hair gleaming in the sunlight in messy copper coils as he lay his discarded top on the rocks and worked at the buckle on his belt, causing the mu
scles between his shoulder blades and down his back to flex and move.

  Taking a moment to give herself a stern talking to about trying to be sensible and not stare in slack-jawed wonder at Atholl, she tightened the towel around her and made her way to his side, taking a sudden great interest in the coral shards under her feet while Atholl finished undressing and stood before her in black swimming shorts, gazing out to the hazy blue horizon.

  ‘So, um… ready?’ she managed. ‘It’s not going to be cold, is it?’

  Atholl’s blue eyes met hers. ‘Define cold.’

  Beatrice laughed and hesitantly dipped a toe into the water. ‘Hah! That is cold.’

  ‘There’s nothing for it but to wade in, then go for the dive, get it over with quick.’ Atholl was looking out at the water again. ‘But you’ll need to lose the towel.’

  Glancing down her body, she wished with all her might she’d bought the tasteful – well, OK, boring – one piece she’d seen online as it would have covered her up a bit more. Atholl’s eyes were fixed firmly on the clear water dead ahead so she quickly removed the towel and threw it onto the rock.

  ‘Do it together?’ she said, feeling the warm air on her belly and thighs and a sense of surprise that she wasn’t as mortified as she’d thought she would be a moment ago. Atholl’s hand slipping around hers stilled her breath and she stumbled taking her first steps into the shallow water.

  ‘You all right?’ Atholl asked, his eyes briefly flitting to Beatrice’s.

  ‘This coral’s so sharp, it really hurts your feet.’

  ‘I know. You get used to that too. I swam here a lot as a bairn and I don’t remember it bothering me.’

  Beatrice tried to admire the beautiful bay she’d dreamt of swimming in since she saw it from the top of Rother Path on the first day of her trip but her nerves were screaming from the pain on the soles of her feet, the cool water – now up to her knees – and the warm reassurance of Atholl’s hand still enclosing hers, squeezing her fingers gently and steadying her in response to every stumbling step she took.