Summer at Blue Sands Cove

by Chris Ward

  ‘You’re my lucky charm,’ Joan said, wheeling up beside Grace, who stood in the shop behind the pasty counter. ‘Business has been great since you came back.’

  ‘Wasn’t it before?’

  Joan grimaced. ‘Truth be told, last summer sucked. It rained all the time, and we had a hard time keeping up with her up the road and her specials menu. Apparently Sophie did a cooking course last winter, and all her sautéed steaks and bologna sausage stews kept us locked out of the main food crowd. Food is where the money is. We have to sell a hundred postcards to make a penny.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  Joan looked about to say something else, but then gave a small smile and turned back to the café counter where a young couple were waiting to order.

  ‘Hi guys, how can I help you?’

  That night, Joan said she had some accounting to do, so sent Grace home, an unsold pasty wrapped and under her arm for tea. Rather than go back to the chalet, though, Grace decided to walk up the southern cliff path, out towards Sharker’s Rock. With the sun low in the sky, the breeze had got up, so she wrapped a light wind cheater around her shoulders and tucked the pasty inside. The path was a gentle undulation through mounds of couch grass and past blankets of impenetrable gorse and heather. The view of Blue Sands Cove opened out below her as she climbed, the path extending for a mile or so along rolling cliffs until you reached a final inaccessible lump, below which was the remote headland of Sharker’s Rock.

  At the best viewing spot of the bay to the north, the council had erected a bench, dedicated to a deceased local called William Benn who had regularly walked his dog to this spot. As Grace sat down on what the locals now called William bench, she noticed a shape moving through the water.

  The Masked Surfer.

  From here, she wouldn’t have been able to recognise his identity even without his mask, but in full surfing gear she had no chance. She let her imagination run wild, wondering if he was perhaps some locally-living TV celebrity, practicing his art in anonymity. This evening the break was pretty low over the reef of slate outcrops around Sharker’s Rock, but as Grace slowly ate her pasty, she watched him make the most of it, cutting and weaving through the curling tubes with obvious mastery, catching the waves at the exact moment that they peaked, riding the glassy faces perfectly as the tubes crashed onto the jagged slate just a couple of feet below the surface.

  You had to be good to surf the reef by Sharker’s Rock. Grace had done it a couple of times, but it was not for the faint-hearted, and she’d rarely felt daring enough. With the underwater rocks causing the break, a mistake could prove costly. She was lucky enough that she didn’t know anyone who had drowned, but a couple of guys her age had got hammered in a fall and limped back to shore with broken bones.

  The Masked Surfer, however, had a pro look about him. He seemed to know precisely which waves were right and which were just too steep or breaking just too close to the rocks, pulling out of a couple of rides that looked safe to Grace. She watched him with wonder, feeling special, that she was privy to a private session, something few others saw.

  The sun was just touching the horizon when the Masked Surfer decided his work for the evening was done. He took one last wave, riding it to the end this time rather than cutting out. As the wave died, he lowered himself back to the board and began paddling for the distant beach.

  Grace stood up without really thinking about what she was doing. She had long ago finished her pasty, so she stuffed the paper wrapper into her pocket, patted William bench goodbye, and started walking back along the cliff path.

  Even though the Masked Surfer had to paddle all the way across the bay and then walk up to the foreshore from the low tide mark, Grace would have to hurry to catch him. Walking quickly on the upward slopes and jogging lightly on the down, she reached the bottom of the path just as the Masked Surfer was walking across the shingle of the foreshore, his wetsuit glistening as the sun set behind him.

  His van was parked on the beach access road as before. Grace slowed her pace in order to reach it just as he stood his board up against the side, took a key out of a pocket inside the neck of his wetsuit and opened the back door.

  She could smell the salt water on him, mixed with the smells of wax from his board and the rubber of his suit. He had his back to her, and she quickly sized him up: he was a shade over six feet, powerfully built, his shoulders broad. She wondered how hard they would feel to the touch.

  Barely an arms’ length away she stopped. Speak, she compelled herself, trying to channel Joan’s inner strength long enough to flap her own natural shyness away.

  ‘Nice rides,’ she said, a little phlegm catching in her throat at exactly the wrong time to make the words sound like the receding tide drawing sand back through shingle.

  He looked back as though he had known she was there, and Grace found herself regarding a pair of sky blue eyes, the only part of his face that was visible besides the tip of his nose and a line for his mouth.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice deeper than she had expected, as though he was intentionally making it so.

  ‘Are you local? I can tell you know the reef out at Sharker’s Rock well.’

  His shoulder twitched in what might have been a shrug. ‘Local enough,’ he said. Then, to avoid any further comment, he leaned down to pull the Velcro leash strap off his ankle. Grace found herself staring at the lower flap of his wetsuit mask. While you couldn’t have pulled it off from gripping the front, by putting your fingers under the flap you could peel it off his head, and if he tried to pull away it would only speed up the process.

  Her hand twitched, but she pulled it back at the last moment.

  She preferred the mystery.

  A moment later, he stood up again, and the chance was gone.

  ‘I used to surf out there,’ she said. ‘Going back a few years. I’ve been out of the game a while.’

  He watched her, unspeaking. Gave a small nod.

  ‘I mean, I’d love to try it again, but I’m a little nervous.’

  ‘Guys go out at high tide, I hear,’ he said. ‘You’re safe among others.’

  ‘But no one tries it at low tide, when the waves are really steep. No one except you.’

  He gave another little shrug. ‘So?’

  ‘Aren’t you scared?’

  He watched her. She sensed a smile under the mask. ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you could take me out sometime,’ she said, her heart thundering so loud she thought she might cough or even vomit up her pasty. ‘I’d love to learn from … a master.’

  He cocked his head a little. ‘You’re the shorebreak girl, aren’t you?’

  Grace took a step back, out from the shadow behind his van into the glare of the setting sun, hoping it would hide the red flush in her cheeks.

  ‘My name’s Grace,’ she said.

  She sensed another smile. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Grace.’ Then, closing the door of his van, he added, ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’ she said, trailing after him as he went around to the driver’s side.

  He glanced back. ‘I do.’ That hidden smile again. ‘See you around, Grace.’

  He climbed up into the van, sitting on a towel Grace saw was already draped over the seat. He closed the door, then gave her a little wave as he started up the engine and backed up the beach access, out onto the main road. Another wave, then he was turning the van around, and driving up Melrose Hill, the rumble of the engine slowly receding into the distance.

  16

  Barbeque truths

  ‘I need to find out who he is,’ Grace said, turning a sausage over on the barbeque she had set up on the small patch of grass at the front of the chalet. ‘I can’t stop thinking about him.’

  Joan shook her head. ‘Do you think that’ll stop you thinking about Daniel?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘You know, Grace, I know you’d love this to be some kind of cool movie-type thing, b
ut you’re going to be disappointed. I just know it. He’ll be like some weirdo or something. Why would he bother with the mask otherwise?’

  ‘Because he likes being mysterious?’

  ‘Look, the only people who wear masks do it for a reason. Either they’re hiding something, or they’re rough. Think, Jason Vorhees, the Phantom of the Opera.’

  ‘One’s a kind of zombie and the other’s a disfigured opera singer. This guy’s just a surfer. Perhaps he’s trying to stay warm?’

  ‘Then why not take off the mask when he’s back on the beach? He’s been coming here for several months and no one’s ever seen his face. He could be a serial killer on the run.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Did you get a look in the back of his van? Were there any meat hooks?’

  Grace smiled and shook her head. ‘Not that I could see. It was empty.’

  ‘I imagine he just takes his victims back to some processing factory.’

  ‘I think you’re overreacting.’

  Joan took a sip from a glass of wine. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Hey,’ Grace said, nodding towards the road that passed the line of chalets, heading up the valley. ‘There’s Jason King. Let’s see what he knows. Jason!’

  The young owner of J’s Surf Shack stopped at the gate. He had a rucksack slung over one shoulder and looked like he’d just finished work.

  ‘You all right there?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Are you on your way home?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Yeah, just finished clearing up. That barbeque looks hot.’

  ‘It is. You got time for a chat?’

  Jason gave an awkward shrug which reminded Grace of the library nerd he had once been, unsure whether he had been invited to the party or not.

  ‘I’ve got burgers that are cooked and buns that are toasted if you tell me what you know about the Masked Surfer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy with the transit van who surfs the reef off Sharker’s Rock.’

  Jason came in through the gate and threw his rucksack down on the grass. ‘You mean Billy?’

  ‘Billy? Is that his name?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just what I call him. Not gonna call him “the Masked Surfer” or anything silly like that.’

  ‘And Billy is a better name?’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you know anything about him?’ Joan asked, handing Jason a can of beer from a cooler.

  ‘Wow, look at this, cold beer too,’ Jason said, staring at the can of Carlsberg as though he’d never seen a beer before.

  Grace smiled and lifted the glass of wine she was holding. ‘Welcome to the party, Jason. Cheers, everyone.’

  Jason popped his can and lifted it up with the same awkward reluctance he did everything else, it seemed. ‘Happy summer time,’ he said, flashing a bashful smile.

  ‘And the waves rose high and the kraken smiled,

  For dinner he could see, could see,

  The sailors wailed as the ship topped and tailed,

  And sank into the sea so green, so green!’

  Grace and Joan laughed as Jason, arms spread, brought his drunken sea shanty to an end, nudging the foldout table with his knee to produce a rattle of cutlery.

  ‘Where on earth did you learn that?’ Joan asked.

  ‘Tiktok,’ Jason said, sipping his beer.

  Grace rolled her eyes. ‘You mean Facebook for twelve-year-olds.’

  ‘And they upload sea shanties?’ Joan asked.

  Jason grinned. ‘Apparently it’s a thing. I’ll learn a couple more for next time.’

  ‘Next time?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re going to make this a regular thing, right?’

  ‘This what?’

  ‘This party.’

  Grace looked around, eyes a little blurry even though she’d been more responsible after nearly repainting the chalet’s living room the other day. There was only Joan, sitting in her chair, and Jason from J’s Surf Shack, but he was right. They’d had a ball, drinking, eating, telling jokes, singing ridiculous songs. It was just what she had needed.

  ‘It’s summer,’ she said. ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘That’s great,’ Jason said. ‘Blue Sands has gone a little flat the last couple of years. We need to liven it up a little.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I’d better go. Work in the morning.’

  ‘Same,’ Joan slurred. ‘Night, Jason.’

  He waved them farewell then headed down the path and up the road out of sight. Grace began to tidy up, but Joan put up a hand.

  ‘Leave that,’ she said, then added with a smirk, ‘You can do it in the morning. I’ll let you come in an hour late.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Joan was already pushing her chair towards the chalet doors. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I have something I need to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s freezing out here. Let’s get inside first.’

  Grace doused the last embers of the barbeque, which they had kept going to warm them as the chill evening winds whistled up the valley with increasing frequency, then helped Joan get her chair inside. Closing the doors on the night, she helped Joan onto the sofa, then went to the kitchen and made two coffees.

  ‘Look at us,’ Joan said, taking her coffee from Grace and resting it on her lap. ‘A couple of old maids. Wasn’t so long ago our last nightcap would have been a Sambuca slammer and a final desperate turn of the dancefloor.’

  ‘We’re not done yet,’ Grace said, then let out a ridiculous belch which had her grasping for her mouth as though to catch the offending monstrosity before it escaped too far. ‘Well, not quite done.’

  Joan was staring at the coffee in her hands. ‘Mum and Dad are selling up,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The house, the café, everything.’

  ‘You’re having a laugh.’

  ‘I wish. Dad got offered a promotion to his company’s head office in Plymouth. He’s pretty old so it’s his last chance, really. Means they’re going to move up Dartmoor way rather than have him commute from down here. Mum could have kept the café, but really, it’s been her pet for years. Dad’s job’s been propping it up.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Can’t you run it?’

  Leaving the coffee dangerously perched in her midriff, Joan spread her arms. ‘Look at me. Do you really think I’m capable of it?’

  ‘I know the chair makes things difficult. You could get staff in—’

  ‘We survive at the moment because Mum and me pay ourselves starvation wages. We’re not exactly making you rich either, are we?’

  ‘But you can’t just sell up. It’s been in your family for years.’

  ‘And it needs fresh blood. Someone with energy. Mobility. New ideas.’

  ‘What if you applied for the year-round license? Would that make a difference?’

  ‘We’d never get it. One of us would have to sleep with old Tomlinson, the councillor in charge of planning permission.’

  ‘How old is he? Or more to the point, how young is he?’

  Joan laughed. ‘At least eight-five. Probably more. He looks it at any rate.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s out of the question. Knowing my luck, he’d probably turn me down anyway.’

  ‘I appreciate your willingness to take one for the team. However, I think old Tomlinson would prefer his palms greased in a different way. And we’re barely making enough of that to keep the lights on.’

  ‘Then we have to think of something else.’

  Joan was staring at Grace, who realised she was leaning forward in the chair, the coffee clutched earnestly between her fingers.

  ‘I don’t think you heard me, did you? The café’s being sold. It’s not open for debate. Mum and Dad are tacking it on to the house sale in order to make the deal more attractive, and when they move, I’ll probably have to go with them. You’re acting like we
could keep the café open if we make it successful enough. It’s not going to happen. If you think it is, you must be drunker than me.’

  Maybe it was the drink, maybe not, but as Grace stared at Joan, concentrating to stop her eyesight from blurring, she saw something there that Joan’s words tried to hide.

  Hope.

  17

  Rival

  ‘I wish I’d never said anything.’

  A few days later, and Joan was still grumbling about her drunken confession. ‘It’s put a cloud over everything. Mum’s not going to put the sign outside until the end of the season anyway, so I wasn’t going to tell you at all.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. It gives me time to do something about it.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

  Grace stopped polishing the pasty oven and turned to Joan, who was on the other side of the counter, replenishing the display of chocolate bars.

  ‘Look. I have big city experience. I have ideas.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t know, like—’

  ‘Exactly. You don’t know.’ The rumble of a van came from outside, making Joan turn. ‘Hold that thought. The pasties are here.’

  A van with a pasty company logo pulled up outside. Through the windows, a man in a blue and black uniform got out, went around the back, and unloaded several boxes on to a trolley, which he then wheeled through the door, hoicking it open expertly with one foot before reversing the trolley inside.

  ‘Got your frozen,’ he said, righting the trolley and sliding the stack of boxes off into a neat pile. ‘Just get your fresh.’