A Second Chance Summer

by Katharine E Smith

  I round the corner, see the clifftops falling away in front of me, revealing more sparkling sea and the path stretching on, but this is where I take a detour and where I also wish I’d covered my legs for the walk. The area around the path is well-maintained but thick with plantlife and there are some definite sharp thistles in there. I push through the low-hanging branches of a wind-beaten tree, and there it is. Exactly as it was, only this time baking in the sun. It’s smaller than I remembered; did people ever really live in here? Some tiny trailing purple flowers with delicate, soft-looking leaves grow from the stone walls, and I can see that the roof looks a little more holey than it did. I walk up to it slowly; do I dare go in?

  Nudging at the door tentatively, it seems fairly stable, so I push it further and go in. It is cool inside, and smells of earth, and damp. There is the fireplace I remember, the hook where Sam hung his jumper that he’d carefully peeled from me; and there are the windows, with just a slight view of the sea now, as the trees and bushes have grown in the intervening years. Holiday agents would describe this place as having a ‘sea glimpse’.

  I sit on the floor and pour a little coffee from my flask into its tartan cup. I don’t want to stay too long; it feels quite strange being here and I still have that tiny seed of doubt about the safety of the building. But I want to breathe it in, revisit that golden summer, that summer of Sam – when everything seemed straightforward, and obvious, and opportunities were endless.

  Before I stupidly let Geoff into my life, with his controlling ways, and the awful things he said and did.

  I don’t like to think of him. He was the polar opposite of Sam, which is, I suppose, why I agreed to go out with him, but if I’d ever known quite how different he was, I don’t think I’d have let it happen. I’d have been better off on my own.

  But I push those thoughts away. I was young; Geoff was young, really. I don’t suppose either of us really knew what we were doing.

  Instead, I think back to that storm; Sam’s hands on me, his warmth against my shivering body. His mouth kissing my neck, whispering into my ear, while the thunder crashed and the lightning threw its weight about, below them the sea thrashing wildly and, in the hut, Sam and I moving gently and sweetly together.

  I sit for a while, after I’ve drunk my coffee, on the cold earth floor, thinking about that moment, and I feel tears coming; not for me, now, but for my teenage self. I was so hopeful, and trusting, and I remember being absolutely sure that Sam and I were meant to be together. I was devastated at the end of that summer, when I had to leave, but I had my place at university. My parents would never have forgiven me if I’d given that up for a boy – and rightly so – and I’d never have earned a living down here out of season.

  Anyway, Sam promised me that he loved me and we would keep things going. I could come and visit him, and he’d come up to me, too. “I haven’t seen enough of the rest of the country,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t bother, to be honest. The industrialised Midlands versus this,” I’d gestured to the sea, the cliffs, and the vast expanse of sky.

  “It’s not always like this,” he’d smiled. “But you’re right, I’m lucky to be here.”

  We’d said our goodbyes and Julie and I had trudged onto the train, both in tears, mourning the end of our summer of freedom.

  At first, Sam had kept in touch. A lot. I’d had five texts from him before I’d even got home. We talked every night, for about three weeks, and then there was nothing. I rang him but the number seemed to be dead. I realised I had no other way of contacting him, and I could hardly just pop down to Cornwall. I waited, feeling agitated, then worried for him, then angry, then broken-hearted. Mum and Dad were concerned about me, as I lost so much weight, but they just couldn’t or wouldn’t understand how I could be that way over someone I’d only known such a short time. Eventually, I stopped talking to them about it. And then Geoff came along.

  I met him at my cousin Amy’s party. The two of them worked together, and he seemed quite nice; grown-up, smart. He liked rugby, and music, and beer. He asked me out and I said no, but he got my number from Amy – who didn’t ask me for my permission and I really wish she had – and phoned and texted me, until eventually I gave in and said yes. I should have listened to my gut feeling, but I didn’t really have the energy. With Sam on my mind, and in my heart, I let Geoff take me out wherever he wanted to go. We’d go to see bands he liked, rugby matches, to his local. I’ve already said, he did things by the book: flowers, chocolates, a beautiful bracelet at Christmas. He tried to charm my mum – although I think she saw through him immediately – and bought bottles of expensive whisky for my dad. I knew they still didn’t like him but I suppose at least they thought I was getting over Sam. And I was concentrating on my studies – which I was, because Geoff wouldn’t let me have a social life outside of seeing him. I hardly even saw Julie while I was with Geoff, unless it was under some strict conditions set by him: it was easier if she had a man on the scene, although Geoff didn’t even like me talking to her boyfriends.

  He very quickly became jealous, and controlling, telling me what to wear. He was very keen for me to do well at university, and seemed very much the supportive boyfriend in that respect, but he often picked me up after I’d been at the library; giving the impression that he was doing me a favour but in reality he was keeping me from mixing with any other people; particularly any men.

  He really lost it with me when we were talking about going on holiday. I suggested Cornwall and he hit the roof. “Do you think I’m stupid? You want to go down there to see that Sam, don’t you?”

  I was shocked. I didn’t think I’d ever mentioned Sam to him. The name pulled at my heartstrings and I wanted to cry but also it pumped some anger into me – anger at Sam for letting me down, and Geoff, for thinking he could tell me what to do.

  “No,” I shouted, “I do not want to go there to see Sam. I want to go there because I love it. It’s somewhere that makes me happy, which is more than can be said for you.”

  He was immediately apologetic and placating. It seemed like he regretted what he’d said. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. Let’s choose somewhere together; somewhere neither of us has ever been. That way we can explore it together, make our own memories. ”

  We went on an all-inclusive to Greece. And it was on the plane back from that holiday that I first tried to finish with Geoff, but it was another year before he was finally, truly, out of my life.

  Chapter Eleven

  I allow the last drops of coffee to drip from my cup onto the cold earth, then I screw the cup onto the flask, bending slightly to walk through that rickety old doorway, back outside. I’m immediately hit by the warmth and amazed at the difference between the air out here and the more stagnant atmosphere of the ramshackle little building. I’m also struck by the sounds; the birdsong, which I’d barely noticed before, seems to hit me, coming from all around. I recognise the steady chirruping of a blackbird and I wonder if I’m near its nest, but I couldn’t tell you which types of birds the other songs belong to; I’d need Sam for that.

  I edge my way gently back through the scratchy undergrowth, pushing the branches of the tree out of the way and trying to pick my route carefully. I can see the main coastal path ahead of me now, and the wide open sunshine, waiting to welcome me into its warmth. At the last moment, I don’t quite know what happens. Maybe one of my feet has become entangled with a bramble, or I’ve – yet again – managed to stumble into a hole; either way, I lose my footing and I come bursting, swearing, out of the undergrowth, only my bum on the path, landing with a sore bump and clearly startling the man who has just come up the steep steps that would take me down, and on around the path.

  “Shit. Sorry,” I say, looking up into the shocked face of Sam. “Oh!” I exclaim, and I feel the blood rush straight up to my face. Great. Last time I saw him, I’d just fallen into a hole in the sand. Now it looks like I’m trying to ambush him.

  “Alice? A
re you OK?” he asks and I can tell, even though I haven’t seen him properly for ten years, and he is doing an admirable job of keeping a straight face, that he is trying not to laugh.

  I pull a stray leaf from my hair, and straighten my top, trying to remember that I’m annoyed at him, but it’s no use. I am suddenly convulsed with laughter and tears are squeezing from my eyes.

  “Are you crying or laughing?” he asks me, still trying to keep that concerned look.

  “I’m… laughing…” I say, making myself more comfortable, pulling my knees up and resting my head on them briefly. I look back up at Sam and he’s laughing openly now, too.

  “I wish you’d seen yourself,” he says. “I thought you were going to knock me into the sea!”

  “Sorry,” I splutter. “Sorry…” I can’t form a proper sentence yet. I do feel like I may be in danger of crying but I don’t know if it’s from the pain which is starting to swell in my ankle, the emotion of seeing Sam again, or the sheer embarrassment of the situation.

  “Here.” He reaches a hand out, and pulls me to my feet. I stagger a little, and gingerly try to put my right foot on the floor. I yelp.

  “Let me have a look,” Sam crouches and gently touches my ankle. I wish I’d bothered to shave my legs this morning. “It looks like it might be swelling,” he says. “You might have sprained it. Look, lean on me, and we’ll head back to town together.”

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I say, but I clearly won’t be. In seconds, Sam has his arm around my waist and I am leaning into him, using my good foot and limping. I can’t believe I’m in such close physical proximity to the man I have dreamed about for so many years; but this isn’t quite the situation I’d imagined.

  “So… this is weird,” he says.

  “Yep,” I laugh.

  “Good job I was there, though, you’d have had to drag yourself back along the path to town otherwise. Could have taken a while.”

  The image of me slithering along the clifftop path has me laughing helplessly again. We stop for a second.

  Sam chuckles. “You always were a classy type.”

  “I know, a lot of people have commented on my natural grace.”

  “Not to mention elegance.”

  I can’t quite meet his eye, but I grin, and I elbow him.

  “Ow! Come on, let’s at least get you to somewhere you can sit down. But I think we need to get a cold compress on that ankle.”

  There’s something about the way he says ‘we’ that makes my heart jump. I let him take my weight again and together we move along the path. We don’t talk much; I’m too busy trying to ignore the pain, but also thinking how soft the hairs on his arms are; how warm he feels, and how strong. Like Luke, he is bulkier than his eighteen-year-old self, but it’s nice. He feels solid.

  “Think you can get to the Beach Bar?” he asks. “If you can get there, we can use their First Aid kit.”

  “I’m sure I can,” I say, “and then you’ll have to let me buy you a drink to say thank you.”

  “If you insist,” he grins.

  I can feel my skin becoming sweaty next to his, from the heat of the day, and the close contact. I guess it’s his sweat too. Mingling with mine. I try not to think of it. I really don’t think I could walk without his support, and I have to remind myself he is just being kind, looking after me. He is being Sam.

  “I was trying to work out which birds I could hear,” I say conversationally. “Are you still into all that?”

  “Oh yeah, I volunteer with the RSPB down at Land’s End some weekends. I love it.” Sam’s voice is slightly gruffer these days, but his Cornish accent is still there; rounding words off as they roll from his mouth.

  “Luke said you work over at Falmouth?” I don’t want to sound like I’ve been talking about him, but I need us to be talking; the silence only lends itself to thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking.

  “Yeah…” he doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about this; certainly not as much as he did about the birds. “Pays the bills.” I take this as an end to that particular line of conversation. We go quiet once more.

  “You’re back, though?” he says suddenly.

  “Yes, well, for the summer at least.” I don’t know where ‘at least’ came from; I don’t think I’ll be able to stay down here any longer than that.

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, it is, I’m really loving it. Pretending to be eighteen again…”

  He laughs quietly, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

  “No, nor me.” My mind is whirling; what did he mean by that? Just that being eighteen was great, or is he thinking of that summer, too?

  We both go quiet. I listen to the sea, and the steady but slow crunch and slide of our shoes on the path (the sliding sound being my injured foot); try again to distinguish some of the different birdsong. Despite the increasing pain in my ankle, I find that I don’t really want this walk to end. Because what happens next? We go to the Beach Bar, bandage my ankle. I buy him a drink, if he’ll let me, and then we go our separate ways.

  I want to ask him so many things, but I’m scared of the answers, and worried that he’ll think it’s none of my business. I feel like I should just appreciate this situation as it is, right now.

  As we come up to the top of a steep bit of path, a headwind knocks us both slightly, and Sam’s arm tightens round my waist. “You OK?”

  “Yep,” I manage. From here, we can see the beach, and the town spreading out before us. The beach is busy, with small colourful tents and wind-breaks dotted across it. The wind carries the sound of joyful children’s voices towards us, as they chase waves in and out on the shoreline. Further out, the slick surfers bide their time, like sharks stalking their prey.

  We have to take the official route back, bypassing the steep slope I came up earlier. As we head away from the isolation of the coastal path, and back towards the town, I become increasingly aware of our proximity to each other. Sam doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps hold of me as we walk down the slipway onto the beach. We don’t stop till we get to the bar, where Sam shouts to a guy we can just see in the backroom: “Got your First Aid kit, Andrew? Got a sprained ankle here!”

  He sits me on a sandy settee, and makes me put my foot up on the table. I can see the ankle is discoloured, and twice as big as it was earlier. So… stubbly legs and an elephant ankle. This is going well.

  “Here,” Sam soaks a thick serviette in water from a jug, and wraps it around the offending area. It is immediately soothing.

  “Mate,” Andrew calls from the bar, “here you go. Want a drink as well?”

  Sam looks at me. “I’ll have a beer, please,” I say, “and this is on me, OK?” I start fishing around in my bag for my purse. “I’ll sort it,” Sam says firmly, “you can always pay me back later.”

  I don’t protest; I hold the serviette around my ankle and Sam returns with two cold beers, and the First Aid box. He unwraps a bandage and carefully removes the serviette. “That looks nasty, but we’ll soon have it back to normal.” Skilfully, he wraps the bandage, alternating it around my ankle, then my foot, so it feels firm and secure. He fastens it by tucking the end in. “How’s that?” His blue eyes are on mine and I look into them properly for the first time in a while.

  “That’s great,” I say, looking away and taking a hurried sip of my beer. “Thank you.”

  “It’s no problem.” He moves to sit next to me on the settee and I fight the urge to lean into him. How is it that after a full ten years, this still feels so familiar, so comfortable; so right?

  Both of us are quiet for a while then I say, “So what have you been doing, then?”

  He splutters. This was a little joke of ours; born from the way his cousin used to ring him pretty much every day but have nothing to say – instead, putting the onus on Sam to make the conversation. I used to encourage Sam to come up with increasingly outrageous answers.

  “Well, let’s see… when did we last see each other? Except for t
he other night?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  “Right, ten years ago. OK, I guess you missed the Circus Years, and my stint as a Blue Peter presenter.”

  “Oh, yeah, I don’t think I saw any of that.”

  “How about the mission to Mars?”

  “Was that you?”

  “Yeah, course that was me.”

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “I have, it’s true.”

  We’re quiet again. I can’t think what to say. The questions are burning away in me, and I want to tell him I’ve missed him, but I think I might sound a bit mad.

  “It doesn’t seem like ten years,” he says.

  “No, not now I’m back here. It feels like I’ve never been away,” I kick myself for the cliché.

  “Seems like that to me as well,” he says softly.

  I dare to look again into his eyes and I think I see a reflection of my feelings there. Maybe the beer’s going to my head, and all that sunshine. Or maybe I’m still in shock after that fall.

  “Lots more bars here, though, and flash restaurants.” Why have I changed the subject?

  “Yep, that’s true. I guess all that’s happened since you left.”

  “Luke seems to be doing well,” I say.

  “He is, he’s doing great. So gutted about May, though.”

  “I know, she was always so lovely. Remember when we used to hang out there, that summer? Well, I suppose it wasn’t just that summer for you.”

  “No. No, she was always happy to have us round.”

  “Did you know Luke and Julie are seeing each other?”

  “Yes,” Sam grins. “It’s great he’s got something to smile about. How is Julie?”

  “She’s the same as ever, really,” I say. “We’re meant to be reliving our days of freedom! This was her idea, to come back and now she’s launched herself into a relationship!”