by Chris Ward
‘Seriously?’
‘They showed up last year. It chucked it down with rain and the race got abandoned, but I think they were interested enough to come back.’
Grace shrugged and grinned. ‘Better to be famous for five minutes.’
They ate in silence for a while. Grace looked out across the bay towards Sharker’s Rock, where a handful of surfers were riding gentle sets bending around the headland. In the cove itself, the water was a flat calm mirror. Several people were swimming far enough out that she could see them, even though the beach itself was out of sight.
‘I’ve missed this place,’ she said. ‘I can see why so many people stay.’
‘Ah, but when you’re stuck here through the winter you can see why so many people leave.’
‘Hasn’t your mum got a year-round license yet?’
Joan shook her head. ‘She hasn’t greased enough palms at the county council. Sophie at the Gourmet Garden got one a couple of years ago, but the rumour was that she had to bang a couple of councillors to get it. Locals started calling it the Shag Shack.’
‘But she’s what, fifty?’
‘And the rest. Most of the councillors are dinosaurs, though. I imagine it’s a load of rubbish, but you know what people are like round here. After I came out of hospital in the chair, I told a couple of people I’d been shot, and a week or so later one of the old dears at the bowls club asked Mum if the police had caught the shooter yet.’
Grace laughed, almost dropping a flask of coffee. ‘The good and bad of small towns,’ she said. ‘Everyone’s willing to help you out, but at the same time your entire life is common knowledge.’
Joan smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. By the way, you start work tomorrow. Are you ready?’
‘I’ve waited a million tables. Easy.’
‘I know you can do the job. I’m not talking about that. Daniel Woakes comes in every morning for a newspaper. Can you handle that?’
14
Old flame
The layout of the Blue Sands Café and Shop had changed a little since Grace had last been inside. The shop area was still to the right, with the café to the left, but where before customers could only access one at a time by separate outside doors, the former partition wall had now been knocked through so customers could move back and forth. The shop area looked a little smaller to Grace before she realised the counter had been moved forward to accommodate Joan’s wheelchair, but otherwise it looked the same as ever. The same racks of books and postcards, boxes of buckets and spades, trinkets made out of shells, local art prints in stacks, some rusty ship parts found on the beach still hanging from the ceiling. The same tea towels hung from the walls, the same chocolate bars filled the rack on the counter, and baring the addition of honeycomb, the ice-cream flavours hadn’t changed.
‘That can of dandelion and burdock we could never sell is still there,’ Joan said, pointing at the soft drinks fridge. ‘Although it’s now nineteen years out of date so we’re not officially allowed to sell it. Mum put a vintage sticker on it as a kind of joke, just in case one of those council inspectors comes round.’
The cakes counter, with its Eccles cakes, cheesecakes, and caramel shortbread, looked identical. The pasty selection had expanded to include pork and apple on top of the usual steak and cheese and onion varieties.
‘Mum wanted to order in chicken tikka ones,’ Joan said, tapping the glass of the heated oven display. ‘Partly to reflect the changing times, and partly because they’re lush. Dad put his foot down, though. Called it a sacrilege. Won’t touch the pork ones, even though they’re lush, too.’
Grace hooked an apron over her head and tied the strings around her waist. ‘Ready for business,’ she said. ‘I think.’
‘You can hide in the back room if you want,’ Joan said. ‘He usually comes in around nine. I’ll call you when he’s gone.’
Grace shook her head. ‘It’s not like I’m setting myself up to rekindle our relationship,’ she said. ‘He’s married. He has kids. I just need to get this over with as quickly as possible, so it’s not going to be awkward between us for the rest of the summer.’
‘Try not to say or do anything stupid,’ Joan said. ‘His wife and kids often come in for ice-creams. And don’t tell Mum I told you, but we need the business. There’s a lot of competition around these days, and with the Gourmet Garden getting its year-round license, it gets all the loyalty from locals.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ Grace said. ‘But yeah, if you see his wife and kids, I really would like to hide in the back for that one.’
‘Noted.’ Joan clapped her hands together. ‘Right. Let’s get ready for opening. For obvious reasons, you can put all the beach gear racks outside while I stock up the pasties.’
They got to work. As she carried racks of buckets and spades, postcards, and polystyrene surfboards outside, a light, chilly breeze ruffling her hair, Grace felt a moment of almost pure peace. It really hadn’t changed all that much from when she was a teenager. The beach still looked the same, the sounds of the sea and the birds felt like old friends, and the breeze tugging on the polystyrene surfboard she carried felt almost playful.
‘Are you open yet?’ came a gruff man’s voice from behind her. Grace turned, and found herself faced with a rugged man in shorts, a check shirt and hiking boots, with a heavy rucksack on his back.
Grace checked her watch. ‘About five minutes, but you can go inside, the pasty counter might be ready.’
The man smiled. ‘How did you know?’
‘Coast path walkers are always the first customers of the day,’ she said. ‘Which way are you heading?’
‘North. Aiming for Newquay today.’
‘Wow, that’s quite a distance.’
The man turned his face up to the clear sky. ‘Looks a good day for it. Figured I’d press on while I could. Rain due in a day or two.’
‘Good idea. Go on in.’
The man smiled thanks and went inside. As a teenager, Grace had never seen the appeal in slogging around the undulating Southwest Coast Path, with its total change of elevation equal to climbing Everest four times, but now she was older, and much of a fitness freak, she could understand. All those hours with only the cliffs, the sea, and the sky for company, especially in the modern world when your mind was forever cluttered with due dates, appointments, and social media interactions. It was idyllic.
Grace continued to arrange the racks around the front of the shop. A couple of minutes later, the hiker reappeared with a couple of wrapped pasties under his arm.
‘Thank you kindly,’ he said.
‘Have a good day.’
‘Will do.’
Grace watched him walk across the road and along the promenade. At the corner he turned out of sight. If she walked out a little way, she could see the coastal path rising up to the headland, so she wondered if she would see him in a few minutes, climbing slowly up. It made her think of journeys, in particular her own. A few days ago she had felt like she had stalled somewhat, but now it was more of a pit stop, a chance for refueling and repair before continuing on. Who knew what the future held? By this time next year, she could be a—
‘Excuse me, have the papers arrived yet?’
Grace froze. Almost too afraid to turn around, she replayed the words in her mind, recalling the soft but powerful intonation, the firmness in the words that she had once found so electric. He was standing there, right behind her, his shadow stretching over hers as though they were entwined once again, all these years after she had let him go.
‘I think so,’ she said, her voice little more than a dry-throated croak. ‘Why don’t you go inside?’
The shadow didn’t move. Grace felt a cold sweat breaking out across her back. She clutched the polystyrene surfboard hard enough to crease its spongy surface.
‘Grace … is that you?’
She turned, and there he stood behind her, lit by the morning sun above the hills, a glow given to a face that was a
fine vintage version of the one she had adored as a teenager, all handsome angles and gentle curves. She wasn’t sure what she had expected now that she was seeing him in closeup; after all, they were the same age, but Daniel looked as good, if not better than he had during their few months together ten years ago. He was wider at the shoulders, a little more rugged with a hint of stubble, his hair a fraction longer, but the deep brown of his eyes was the same, the arch of his nose, the smile when it came—
‘Yes, it’s me.’
She turned away before she could do or say something stupid, making a show of putting the last polystyrene surfboard into the rack outside the door.
‘I heard you were back.’
So, the cat was out, the beans spilled. Grace steeled herself, looked up, and nodded.
‘Just for the summer.’
‘It’s great to see you. Really, I mean it.’
Grace forced a smile. It wasn’t great to see him. It reminded her of what she had walked away from, what she had lost. She could be standing in a mirror position to now, beside him, holding his hand perhaps. The little girl she had seen could be theirs. She could be running the Low Anchor by his side, walking on the beach on summer mornings, lying beside him at night.
Instead she was eking out an existence in a café in Bristol, being hit on and insulted by rich idiots, pretending that she was on the road to making it, whatever that meant, when the man she had left in order to pursue her dream of undefined success had done everything she had not in her absence.
‘It’s not great to see you,’ she muttered, thinking it was a whisper too low to be heard, but realising the wind had dropped at exactly the wrong moment, giving her words a quiet, distant songbird clarity that made Daniel frown.
‘Oh, right. Well—’
‘I didn’t mean it!’ she snapped quickly, reaching out and grabbing his arm before she could get control over what she was doing. She felt thick muscle beneath his shirt; the surfer’s beef had gone hard from hauling beer barrels. She couldn’t imagine what he looked like without the shirt, but she doubted it would be a disappointment.
He had a small smile on his face. ‘You’re pinching me.’
Grace let go. ‘Oh. I’m sorry. This is a bit awkward. Look, I’m happy to see you, Daniel. Just, you know, it’s weird.’
He smiled again, and she felt her heart melting just like it had ten years before. Only this time, rather than warm and sticky like a Danish pastry, it felt weak and flat like ice-cream left in the sun. His arms belonged around someone else now; she had given them up and had to live with it.
‘I hope we can hang out sometime. I’d like to introduce you to Isabella. She’s always interested in meeting my old friends.’
Grace stared at him, throat dry. ‘Friends?’
Daniel’s smile turned cheeky, the way it always had when he was about to suggest something a little risqué, like a midnight tryst out at Blue Point or a drive up the cliff in his battered old VW Beetle to watch the sunrise, something that had never involved just watching.
‘Well, I’d have to tell her that, wouldn’t I? I don’t think she’d appreciate the full details. She’s not the jealous type, but you know … you’ve aged well, Grace.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He gave a suggestive shrug. ‘You’ve hardly aged. You look great.’
Grace felt her cheeks turn tomato red. She felt the sweat beading under her brow, and she hoped the sun was bright enough that he couldn’t see it.
‘You look good too,’ she said, immediately regretting her words, feeling as though she was hitting on him. ‘I mean, you’ve not got fat or bald, and you still have both eyes.’
‘For the time being. The birds get a little close sometimes, but they’ve not been quite hungry enough. How long are you staying? Did you move back down?’
‘Just for a few months.’
‘Things not working out up there? Where is it, Bristol?’
‘I just felt like a change of scenery.’
Daniel nodded. ‘Well, there’s no better place. Summers have been a lot nicer recently. Global warming and all that.’
‘That’s good. Uh, I mean about the weather.’
Their conversation having shifted to something as shockingly mundane as discussing the weather, Grace began to feel a little more comfortable, although she was already missing the almost flirtatious thrill of their opening salvo.
Daniel glanced over his shoulder, as though someone was waiting for him. ‘Well, I’d better get back. Got to get the kids’ breakfast.’
‘Aren’t they late for school?’
‘It’s Saturday.’
‘Ah, right.’
‘It was nice to see you again, Grace. Maybe we’ll see each other about?’
It was framed as a question, so Grace gave a nod as he stepped past her, heading into the shop. She looked at his back, the broad shoulders, the powerful hips she’d once had license to hold, and realised she couldn’t face him again on the way out. She turned and fled down the alley beside the shop, around to the back, where she used a key Joan had given her to go in through the back door, into a room crammed with stock. A small staff toilet cubicle stood to the side, so Grace slipped inside and locked the door.
She had been sitting there for a few minutes when a gentle knock came on the door.
‘Grace? Are you still alive in there?’
Not sure what she would say to anyone, Grace unlocked the door and pushed it open. Joan sat there in her chair, a motherly smile on her face.
‘I’m guessing you met Daniel? Don’t worry, he’s gone now.’
Grace started to get up, but found she couldn’t move. ‘It was awful,’ she said, feeling tears run down her cheeks. ‘I thought I could handle it, but I couldn’t.’
Then, sobbing like a child, she leaned forward and laid her head on Joan’s lap.
‘There, there,’ Joan said, patting her on the back as she cried. ‘You’ll be fine. I really wish this could have happened somewhere other than the toilet, though.’
15
Private audience
She hadn’t expected to pull it off on the first attempt, but as she leaned forward on the bike, lungs bursting, then looked back around at the pathetic distance she’d made it up Melrose Hill before her strength gave out, she knew she had a long way to go if she was even going to compete in the race without embarrassing herself.
From here, just beyond the bulge of the Singing Rock, she wasn’t even high enough to see the beach. The toughest stretch was still above her, with the bulge doing its business like it always had, the switchback so sharp that any momentum built in the run up was stolen away, meaning you had to take on the longer section almost from a standing start. Frustrated, she climbed back onto the pink BMX, pedaled a couple of futile metres, then decided it was time for breakfast.
She was just turning back downhill when an older woman wearing shorts and a t-shirt appeared around the bend, leading an unkempt but jovial golden retriever on a thick leash.
Grace stared. As the woman reached her, she couldn’t help but say, ‘Mrs. Oldfield? Is that you?’
The woman looked up. She frowned for a couple of seconds before recognition spread across her face. ‘Grace Clelland? Well, I’ll never. I thought you were long gone. Down for a holiday?’
Grace smiled. ‘Something like that. You look well.’
The woman who had been Grace’s secondary school art teacher scowled. ‘I can still do the dragon if the kids are kicking their balls a little too close to my drive,’ she said. ‘Alas, sometimes I wish they would. These days they just stand around staring at those silly devices in their hands. The art of conversation has died.’
‘It’s the modern world, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad to see that you’re at least getting out and about. You’re not really trying to cycle up Melrose on this old thing, are you?’
Grace laughed and patted the bike. ‘I’m reliving my youth.’
Mrs.
Oldfield lifted an eyebrow. ‘Rather you than me. I think I’d empty the streets if I did the same. Especially in those lycra shorts. Kids have gone soft since the switch got outlawed.’
The dog nosed at Grace’s feet. She reached down to give the thick fur coat a stroke. ‘This isn’t really Trixie, is it? I mean, she looks just like her.’
Mrs. Oldfield laughed. ‘No, this is Daisy, Trixie’s granddaughter. She’s just five years old. I’ve still got Trixie’s daughter, Penny, at home, but she’s twelve now and can’t handle the hill. I just walk her around the village in the evening. Poor old Trixie, she lived to nearly seventeen. Had a good life, that old dog.’
‘It’s been lovely to meet you again, Mrs. Oldfield,’ Grace said.
‘And you, dear. Are you staying locally?’
‘Down in one of the chalets. Actually, I’ll be working in the café with Joan over the summer.’
‘Oh, how lovely. Like when you were teenagers, skipping out of school to surf instead of handing in your homework.’
Grace felt an old shudder of fear as Mrs. Oldfield’s tone turned dark. Just as she was about to apologise for whatever assignment she had lied about completing, Mrs. Oldfield laughed.
‘Ha, look at you, dear. Having kittens. Once a teacher, always a teacher. You have a lovely day.’
‘Thanks, and you.’
Grace watched Mrs. Oldfield and Daisy make their way slowly up Melrose Hill, the dog taking the lead while the old lady made switchbacks to make the climb easier. Mrs. Oldfield appeared in no hurry, regularly pausing by the hedgerow to gaze into the fields and across the valley at the beach. She decided to take a leaf out of the old teacher’s book, perhaps try to calm down, be a little less hard on herself. In the city she had felt caught in an ongoing stampede towards success, one that she had found herself near the back of, struggling to keep up. But what was she really looking for?
She free-wheeled back down the hill to the chalet, took a shower, and got ready for work. It was a pleasant day, warm, a few clouds in the air, a light breeze blowing off the sea. The school holidays and the influx of tourists were still some weeks away, but Blue Sands was starting to fill with retired couples and small groups taking advantage of the weather before the kids took over. By mid-morning, the café was full, with a handful of other retired types in the shop, browsing the books and postcards.