The Summer Seaside Kitchen

by Jenny Colgan

  ‘Rogers was very insistent.’

  Margo blinked once more.

  ‘I’ll get it booked.’

  ‘Also, I need an outdoor shop.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somewhere you buy outdoor stuff. I don’t know.’

  The only personal thing Margo usually spent time on for her boss was rudely deflecting calls from breathy-sounding girls. This was new.

  ‘What kind of outdoor stuff?’

  ‘I don’t know! That’s fine! Off you go! Close the door!’

  Margo always knew when to beat a hasty retreat, which was why she’d lasted so long with Joel, who got through staff at the speed of light, generally unable to avoid sleeping with the pretty ones, who then got upset, and taking no interest in the older ones, who then got upset. Margo was both gay and unflappable, which made her more or less perfect for the job, and every time he was rude to her, she put in for another pay rise, which he would always approve without comment. She picked up the phone to the airline.

  ‘Well, it’s settled then,’ Mrs Kennedy was saying.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Kennedy. Honestly. Anything but that. I haven’t danced in years.’

  ‘What’s settled?’

  Charlie had seen her from the other end of the street, and hurried up to say hello.

  ‘Would you still fit the costume?’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  Flora rolled her eyes.

  ‘Yes!’ she said crossly.

  ‘Well then, it’s settled,’ repeated Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘I don’t think it’s settled!’ said Flora.

  ‘What’s settled?’ said Charlie again. ‘Flora, I need your leftovers.’

  ‘There are none today. Everything’s going to the party.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Flora’s going to dance at the party,’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘Are you?’ said Charlie.

  ‘No,’ said Flora. ‘I’m out of practice.’

  ‘Can you still get a bun out of that hair?’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘No,’ said Flora, who had bad memories of the tightly scraped-back hair she’d always had to have to show off her neck. ‘So you’ll have to disqualify me.’

  ‘We’ll be doing Ghillie Callum and Seann Triubhas.’

  ‘To a band?’ said Charlie.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘This will be great.’

  ‘Teàrlach, you’re not helping.’

  Charlie smiled to himself.

  ‘What?’ said Flora.

  ‘Ach, you won’t remember… I think I’ve seen you dance before.’

  Flora narrowed her eyes at him.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘We came over from Bute. While back. There was an inter-islands mod.’

  Flora blinked. The mod was the Highlands and Islands celebration of traditional music. And also a great opportunity for teenagers to get away from their parents and misbehave.

  ‘I knew I recognised you from somewhere,’ he said, his smile crinkling his blue eyes.

  ‘What? Which one were you?’ said Flora.

  ‘Oh, just one of the pipers.’

  ‘That doesn’t really narrow it down.’

  ‘No, I know.’

  ‘I don’t want to see the pictures,’ said Flora suddenly. ‘I had a bit of a rough hand with the blusher.’

  ‘I had quite a lot more hair then,’ said Charlie.

  He fell quiet for a moment.

  ‘You were a good dancer,’ he said.

  ‘She wasn’t that good,’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  ‘I do remember you,’ said Charlie. ‘Your hair came loose.’

  ‘It always did.’

  ‘It was the palest colour I’d ever seen.’

  ‘Imagine you remembering that.’

  ‘I’ll see you at six,’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  Flora glanced anxiously at her watch.

  ‘What? But I’ve got to instruct the girls!’

  ‘They’re dancing too,’ said Mrs Kennedy smugly. ‘Just make sure they know what they’re doing…’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake!’

  ‘… if you want me to come to Mr Rogers’ party. And think well of him.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Charlie, smiling.

  ‘This is blackmail,’ said Flora, looking at Mrs Kennedy’s stooped back walking away.

  Charlie glanced around. Jan was striding purposefully up the street towards them.

  ‘Okay. Duty calls,’ he said, and lifted his hand and walked away. Jan immediately started bending his ear about something.

  ‘See you later,’ said Flora.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The rest of the day was a crazed frenzy. Everyone baked and baked until the windows of the Summer Seaside Kitchen were completely fogged up. The entire village dropped by because they knew Flora was somehow behind all this and they wanted to know what to wear and who else was going and whether they’d feel strange. There was barely a household that hadn’t received an invitation.

  Fintan kept calling, beside himself with nerves as professional caterers and drinks suppliers turned up, but as far as Flora could tell, he seemed to be dealing with it admirably.

  Meanwhile, the Summer Seaside Kitchen carried on, pie after pie, great piles of oatcakes; Innes driving vanloads of food over to the Rock. They were all pink in the face and quite sweaty, but it looked like they’d be done in time. Raspberries, piles of them; frozen batches of last summer’s brambles; plus, mostly, the glorious cloudberries that grew at the very tip of Mure, their sharp, burstingly fresh flavour scenting the kitchen and making Agot, whom Innes had dropped off after she kept being a pain in the neck in the van, and who was now being an utter menace in the kitchen, run round and round in circles and point-blank refuse to take her afternoon nap, which boded very badly indeed for the evening ahead. Even the offer of a hunk of grilled cheese didn’t settle her; she eyed it and declared that she actually needed pie instead.

  Flora decorated the top of each pie as carefully as possible, with cut-out berries, and leaves, and even a little Mure flag. The radio started playing a Karine Polwart song – ‘Harder to Walk These Days Than Run’ – which they all knew. Flora and Agot sang along very loudly to the fast bits and even did a bit of dancing, and they were both giggling and covered in flour when suddenly, completely out of the blue, Joel walked in carrying an overnight bag.

  Flora dropped the sieve right away.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, as he stood there framed in the doorway.

  With him there, all the excitement of the last few weeks seemed somehow inappropriate; she wasn’t sure if this was the kind of thing he really wanted her to be doing, whatever Colton said.

  And God, with the light behind him, he looked… he looked so handsome. She’d thought she’d started to forget about him. She was wrong. Out of place, of course, in his smart City suit and his phone clutched in his hand, as if it would magically conjure up a signal on its own.

  She realised she had flour on her nose, and moved to brush it off. Joel still didn’t say anything. Was he angry? Should she be doing more paperwork? But her brief was to get the island onside, wasn’t it? And that was what she was trying to do.

  Joel was taken aback, suddenly, by the startling nature of seeing them there. It was the oddest thing. He’d never known anything quite like this; he had never thought about families, not in this way. But if he had… It was so strange. The laughing girl with the pale hair; the tiny child who looked like a miniature witch, who even now was running up to him, that strange white hair cascading out behind her, shouting ‘YOEL!’ with a huge grin on her face; the music; the turning, laughing women; the soft scent in the air; the warmth of the lights.

  It was like walking into something he was already nostalgic for, without it ever being his; without it even having passed him by. It was a very strange feeling. From when he was very young, Joel had learned that if ever he wanted something, he should just take it, because so few people seemed to care what he did or how he d
id it. But this; this didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t even see how it ever could. You couldn’t buy what they had.

  He blinked.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Flora, moving forward, concerned at his stern face. Agot meanwhile had grabbed onto his leg and didn’t seem to be in the mood to let go. There was flour everywhere, as well as the salt spray from the harbour. ‘I’m not sure you’re dressed for Mure.’

  Joel didn’t mention the bag full of brand-new outdoor clothes Margo had picked up for him. He’d looked at them and felt it would be unutterably ridiculous to put them on; to pose as something he so obviously was not.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I know any other way to dress.’

  Suits, Flora thought, were his armour. Why, she didn’t know.

  He stepped into the room. They’d kept it feeling like somebody’s house, and the little tables had cloths on them. Every surface was taken over with baking for that night.

  ‘It smells good.’

  ‘Is there something else I should be doing?’ Flora asked, a little shakily.

  Joel smiled.

  ‘No. I’m not sure these aren’t some of the more useful billable hours we’ve ever done. Can I have a slice?’

  ‘HAVE PIE!’ said Agot loudly, offering him a grubby piece of pastry from her little paw.

  ‘Oh,’ said Joel. ‘Actually, you know I’ve changed my mind.’

  Both Agot and Flora looked at him with a comically similar expression.

  ‘Ah. Thank you.’

  Bramble got up sleepily to examine him, and added some dog hairs to the mix on his trousers.

  ‘So are you dressing for tonight?’ said Flora cheerily, wishing she wasn’t quite so red in the face and sweaty and had washed her hair.

  ‘I’ve got a suit,’ said Joel.

  Flora looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

  ‘Not a kilt?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No. Definitely not.’

  ‘Well, it’s kind of a tradition.’

  ‘Yes, well, so’s taking heroin and I’m not doing that either.’

  ‘Joel!’ said Flora crossly.

  ‘WHA’S HERON?’ said Agot.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Joel. ‘Honestly, I’d… I’d feel strange.’

  ‘The first time,’ said Flora.

  Joel shook his head.

  ‘It’s just not me. Is Colton dressing up?’

  ‘It’s not dressing up!’ said Flora. ‘It’s just what you wear. And yes, of course he is. In fact he’s going a bit too far.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘No, seriously. I want to please the client.’

  ‘Well, you’d better find yourself a kilt, then.’

  Joel sighed.

  ‘And how will I do that?’

  ‘One of the boys will have one.’

  ‘Really? A spare?’

  ‘Well, Fintan will be in the kitchen all night. I don’t think he’s wearing his.’

  ‘So he gets to wear trousers like a normal person.’

  ‘Oh no, he’ll have his kilt on. Just his regular one, not his formals.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Joel. ‘I don’t think so, Flora.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, is everything…? What’s our strategy for tonight?’

  Flora looked down at the pies.

  ‘Well, this is mine, more or less.’

  ‘Yes, but apart from that?’

  ‘Just be charming, and mention moving the wind farm further out if the subject comes up. I’ll point out the councillors to you. Go charm Mrs Buchanan if you can – she’s tough as old boots. You could talk to my dad. Oh. And Reverend Anderssen. He’s from a proper old Viking family; don’t let the chubby hail-fellow-well-met routine put you off.’

  ‘And being related to the invading power is a good thing, is it?’

  ‘Seemed to work in America,’ observed Flora, taking out a batch from the oven and putting another one in.

  Joel smiled.

  ‘So if he’s Scandinavian, he won’t mind if I don’t wear a kilt?’

  Flora gave him a look.

  ‘Yes, well, try it and see how you get on.’

  ‘Oh God,’ sighed Joel, starting to regret his impetuous decision to come.

  ‘It could be worse,’ said Flora. ‘Wait till you see what I have to wear.’

  ‘Well, I’ll think about it.’

  He looked as if he were about to tarry a little, but instead he turned back towards the door.

  ‘Right, I’d better check in with Colton.’

  ‘Don’t say I mentioned his outfit,’ said Flora. He’d shown her what he was about to wear, and she’d attempted to be complimentary. But Joel just nodded briskly, and was gone.

  ‘HE SAD,’ said Agot sagely.

  Flora looked at her curiously.

  ‘What does sad mean?’ she asked.

  ‘DOAN NO,’ said Agot, losing interest. ‘MORE PIE!’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  ‘Well, it just about fits,’ said Mrs Kennedy doubtfully.

  Flora wasn’t so sure. But everything else was ready. Great jugs of the evening-churned cream, foamy and yellow in the plain earthenware pottery, had been delivered to go with the pies, which would be cut up and served later by the giggling local girls the hotel had recruited to help out. She hadn’t seen Fintan, assumed he was loitering outside the kitchen with the big-boy caterers. Obviously no expense had been spared; she’d seen Kelvin the fisherman and his boys deliver huge amounts of locally sourced langoustines and raised her eyebrows.

  ‘I know,’ said Kelvin. ‘I wish he’d asked us before. How much money does he have, anyway?’

  ‘All of it, I think,’ said Flora.

  She’d had a quick shower back at the farmhouse, then headed out for the Rock, which was a hive of people setting things up and rushing about busily. She went to the room that had been set aside for performers and looked at her old costume. She’d already brushed the kilt and washed the shirt, bodice and socks. The shoes she’d had to borrow; her own were so soft and used they were falling apart. Dancers’ shoes weren’t designed to last.

  She had always loved this pale green tartan. Most of the girls liked the big brash colours that made you stand out: the vibrant blues and reds and purples that drew the eye as you all flew together. But this subtle pale colour with the forest-green bodice was one of the few things she’d ever worn that emphasised her pale eyes, rather than making them disappear.

  ‘Have you practised?’ said Mrs Kennedy.

  In fact, she had run through the dances a few times – in private, in case the boys teased her. She didn’t have the height she’d once had on the jumps, but as soon as the music had started up again, her muscle memory had kicked in and she’d remembered the steps immediately.

  Iona and Isla arrived, giggling when they saw Flora – whom they thought of as grown-up, and very glamorous for living in London – fully dressed in the regalia.

  ‘What’s London like?’ asked Isla timidly as they laced up their shoes. ‘Is it busy and full of robbers and that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘But it’s still… it’s good.’

  In fact, she found it difficult to remember, at this distance, exactly what it was like, in the same way you can’t remember what it’s like to be cold when you’re hot, and vice versa. Her brain just seemed to eradicate anything that wasn’t the simple experience of being back on the island.

  ‘There’s loads of bars and places to go and things going on, and the buildings just go on for ever, and people come from all over the world, not just like summer here, but really from everywhere. Albania and West Africa and Portugal and everywhere you’ve ever heard of.’

  ‘Have you ever seen anybody famous?’

  Flora smiled.

  ‘I saw Graham Norton on the street. Does that count?’

  They thought about it and decided that it did.

  ‘So are you all leaving again after the summer?�
� said Flora. They shrugged. What else was there to do? Most of them would be going, to Inverness, or Oban, or Aberdeen, or Glasgow, or further. Even though some people did move to the islands, they were different: English eccentrics who thought they’d find a purer way of life up here (this provoked many an eye-roll); Canadians in search of their roots; retired people. Not really the lifeblood of a community. Not these young girls with their fresh blooming skin and flashing eyes, warming up and stretching their long pale limbs.

  They were in a back room at the Rock, a place that was meant, Flora assumed, to house functions or weddings one day. It was a beautiful room, filled with oil paintings and pale tartan wallpaper; a massive fire was lit, and comfortable sofas were dotted around. Everything gave off an air of luxury and ease and comfort, but once again those huge picture windows opened on to extraordinary empty views; in this case towards the rocks behind the resort, where pining gulls and eagles dipped and soared in the beams of the endless light.

  The girls were clustered around the doors, though, watching everyone arrive as seven o’clock came round.

  Mure done up for a night out was quite an amusing sight; women accustomed to spending the entire year in wellingtons or thick fur-lined boots for the unforgiving winter trying out pastel dresses and high-heeled shoes in exotic colours. Thankfully the rain had stayed away. There was no sun, but the sky was palest blue and white and grey; one of those evenings where the sky shaded into the sea, which shaded into the land, with no difference between them.