Summer at Blue Sands Cove

by Chris Ward

  ‘Why don’t you just tell him you’re not interested? Although I’m not sure why you wouldn’t be. He’s kind of cute in a certain friend’s-little-brother kind of way. And it’s not like you’re beating them off, is it?’

  ‘Thanks. He’s just not my type.’

  ‘Well, wait until he asks, and then tell him.’

  ‘I suck at putdowns.’

  Joan rolled her eyes. ‘At least you get the chance.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Joan patted her arm, careful to avoid a couple of vicious scratches. ‘It’s okay. Just relax, Grace. Stop worrying so much.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  Joan chuckled. ‘I can’t believe you nearly wiped out Isabella. Daniel came in earlier to tell me to let you know she’s fine, just a little shaken. He took her to the doctor for the scratch on her arm, just to make sure there was no infection.’

  Grace rolled her eyes. ‘Seriously? And people complain about the NHS being abused. I’ve seen cat scratches worse than that. And it’s only because she was fussing over me that she got it. If she’d just waited for Jason, nothing would have happened.’

  ‘I think several people need to calm down,’ Joan said. ‘But yeah, slight overreaction. He treats her like a princess.’

  ‘Well, she does look like one.’

  ‘You’re starting to turn green.’

  ‘That’s not jealousy. That’s the poison from all those thorns. You know, the hundred or so that got me that I didn’t burden the local GP with.’

  ‘You’ll know better next time. Listen, I have to get back to the café. Are you going to be all right? Take the day off. Mum’s off today, but that’s okay, we’ve got a part-timer coming in for training.’

  Grace reached out for Joan’s hand. ‘Sorry, Joan. I’m being kind of useless at the moment. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’

  ‘I’m happy enough with you just being here,’ Joan said. ‘It’s been a magical summer already, and it’s just getting started. Are you going to be fit for the barbeque this weekend?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  Joan headed back to the café, leaving Grace to mope around the chalet feeling sorry for herself. The scratches that seemed to have covered every square inch of her body were pulling her skin tight, making it sore. For a while she just sat around, reading or staring out of the window, but after a while the boredom began to set in. She remembered the mantra they had used as kids, that seawater could fix anything.

  She decided to go for a swim.

  She wasn’t in the mood for being seen, however, so she climbed up the cliff path to the south, wincing with each step. Instead of heading out to Sharker’s Rock, she took a fork leading further south, over the top of the headland and down into the neighbouring valley. Here, a grey sand, mostly shingle beach was accessible only via a steep path, meaning it was usually deserted. Grace climbed down, feeling more peaceful with each step as the curving crescent of deserted beach came up to meet her.

  The sea was a calm lake. A couple of seabirds bobbed just offshore, before taking suddenly to flight, engaging in a brief squawking argument and then flapping off towards the headland. Far out to sea, a fishing boat moved imperceptibly slowly across the horizon.

  Grace stripped down to her swimsuit and walked to the water’s edge. As always, it was crisply freezing at first, but once her body had become accustomed to it, the water’s caress made her feel better. She swam out a little way until she could no longer feel the rocks under her feet, treading water as the hawthorn scratches loosened.

  Peace. Solitude. Silence.

  She breathed in the sea air, wishing she could stay like this forever. She did a gentle circle, taking in the headlands, looking past Sharker’s Rock to the Mourning Lady just visible across the bay beyond. Out along the horizon, the fishing boat barely seemed to have moved.

  ‘Nearly there!’

  Grace turned at the sound of the distant voice. Two small figures were descending the cliff path. They were moving quickly, the woman in front of the man, both laughing gaily as they went, their voices a soft, loving lilt even if most of their words were inaudible.

  They were both naked.

  Grace stared. Her eyes weren’t sharp enough to recognise them yet, but from the way certain parts … jiggled … she could tell they were … older.

  Panicking as they reached the bottom of the path and began to step across the stones towards the narrow stretch of grey sand, Grace looked around, but she was totally exposed. There were no nearby rocky outcrops she could hide behind, and the sea was flat calm. All they would have to do was look up and—

  ‘Grace! Is that you? What are you doing down here? We didn’t know you were a convert to this kind of thing.’

  With a heavy heart, Grace now recognised them. Belinda and Ron. Joan’s parents. She considered taking a deep breath and seeing how far down she could swim before releasing it again.

  She was far enough offshore that certain parts remained out of focus if she didn’t concentrate too hard, but they were making no attempt to hide anything. She now remembered old pub rumours that this was a nudist beach, although she’d never seen any proof, nor heard of any. It was another one of those things you laughed about over a few pints on a Saturday night.

  Now the proof was hanging freely in front of her. Joan’s mum lifted a hand to wave, making other parts shake. ‘Grace? Are you all right out there? If you’ve gone a bit deep, Ron can swim out and help you. He might look like a hippo but he can swim like a fish.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Grace called, wondering whether she could swim as far as the fishing boat still sitting on the horizon. Or failing that, the southern tip of Ireland. ‘I just got a few scratches from a little accident this morning, and I didn’t want people to see.’

  ‘Oh, Joan told us about your accident. When will you learn, eh? You always were a bit impulsive. Well, you enjoy your swim. We’re going to have a little run about and then I’ll get the sandwiches from the car. You will join us for lunch, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ Grace called, hope drifting away like the wispy cirrus clouds.

  ‘I apologise for them,’ Joan said.

  ‘Pass me the wine. If I drink enough perhaps I’ll recover my sight.’

  Joan couldn’t help but grin. ‘I would have mentioned it if I’d thought there was a risk of you going over to Penworth Bay. But you know, why would you swim there when you could swim at Blue Sands?’

  ‘Because I look like the guy out of Hellraiser!’

  ‘Ah, you’re overreacting. You can barely see anything.’

  ‘That’s because I was in the sea for so long my skin dissolved.’

  Joan could barely keep the grin off her face. ‘Mum said you had a lovely lunch. Did they wear clothes?’

  ‘T-shirts. Because they said they were worried about burning.’ Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I wanted to burn. I prayed for fire. Once, your dad got up to adjust his towel.’ She squeezed her eyes shut and winced at the memory. ‘I wasn’t expecting it.’

  ‘She makes a good sandwich, though, doesn’t she?’

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘Was it sausage?’

  ‘Shut up. Ham and cheese.’

  ‘Oh. Could have been worse. I so wish I could have seen your face.’

  ‘I was trying to tear it off. In particular my eyes. Is that a regular thing?’

  ‘They got into it last year. Mum’s gone all new-age since the menopause. Decided she wanted to reignite their marriage, and Dad’s up for anything. And with their planned move, they’ve been getting down there pretty regularly.’

  ‘In many ways it’s a good thing they saw me. It maybe encouraged them to be more … restrained.’

  Joan grimaced. ‘Yeah, that’s a theatre show I wouldn’t want to see.’ She twisted round in the chair. ‘Come on. Let’s get some meat on this fire.’

  ‘Is that meant to be another joke?’

  The barbeque was crackling away in the chalet’s lit
tle garden. Grace, glass of wine in hand, went back inside and retrieved a wrapped package from the sideboard near the sofa. She carried it back outside and handed it to Joan.

  ‘Here. This is Mrs. Oldfield’s second effort.’

  Joan sighed as she took it. ‘Graceful, I really appreciate this, but—’

  ‘Just open it and have a look.’

  With another sigh, Joan did so. She held up a tea towel with the café’s name on it and a series of ripples above and below it.

  ‘What’s this? Corrugated iron? We’re not a shed company.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be the sea. Don’t you like it?’

  Joan grimaced. ‘I just don’t see how this is going to help us.’

  ‘When people see the logo they’ll think of the sea. It’ll make them want to visit Blue Sands and sit outside your café all summer long.’

  ‘It’s more likely to make them think of the café at B&Q with all the screaming kids eating sloppy ice-cream while their dads shop for chainsaws.’

  ‘Do B&Qs have cafés?’

  Joan shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘So you don’t like it then? I can try another idea—’

  Joan put up a hand. ‘There’s something else I need to tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sophie from the Gourmet Garden must have got wind somehow that Mum was thinking to sell up. She put in an offer. It’s way over what Mum planned to ask, enough that she can afford the little café over in Plymouth that she had her eye on. You know, her pet project while Dad works. That’s probably why Mum and Dad were mucking about butt naked over at Penworth Bay. She’s planning to accept.’

  ‘She can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She can’t let Sophie have a monopoly on the cafés. She’ll just change the name to something generic like Gourmet Garden Two and sell the same generic food she sells now.’

  ‘Have you eaten at the Gourmet Garden? It’s anything but generic. At least, not according to the menu. Lime-infused lobsters, and all that.’

  ‘I’m refusing to out of loyalty to you and your mum.’

  ‘That’s nice, but before you knock it, you probably should.’ Joan smirked. ‘Perhaps you could invite Jason out on a date there.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Go on, I dare you.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  Joan had a mischievous gleam in her eyes. ‘Okay, here’s a challenge. You ask Jason out on a date, and then take him to the Gourmet Garden’s late-night gourmet-whatever that Sophie does. Then come back and tell me that the food sucks, and that we have no chance of stopping her from achieving her world domination.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘And in return, I’ll talk to Mum about your t-shirts, and see if I can get her to hold off on any decision until at least the end of summer.’

  Grace was definitely drunk, because even though she was sure in the morning she would regret it, right now it seemed like a really good idea.

  ‘Deal,’ she said, holding out a hand.

  22

  Dating

  It was a beautiful sunny day outside, but inside the Blue Sands café, thunderclouds were brewing.

  ‘It’s your lunch break, Graceful,’ Joan said. ‘Go and do what needs to be done.’

  Grace, standing by the sandals and hats rack with the intention of burying herself in a fit of tidying for the next couple of hours, glanced back and scowled.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I let you off yesterday, but you have no excuse today.’

  Belinda was adjusting t-shirts on a rack in the corner. ‘What needs to be done?’

  ‘Grace has a massive crush on Jason.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ Joan glared at Grace.

  ‘Oh, how lovely,’ Joan’s mum said. ‘Such a nice boy. Every time I see him, I want to pat him on the head.’

  Grace scowled as Joan laughed into her hand and then nodded at the door.

  When Grace walked into J’s Surf Shack, Jason, wearing a Quicksilver vest, was lifting a heavy longboard up onto a rack, giving her a full view of his muscular torso. All angles and slabs of meat, he looked like he had just broken out of a stone egg. If she found him attractive it would certainly solve a few things, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the Jason-from-school image which invaded her thoughts every time she looked at him. He might be buffed like a marble statue, but he was still the diminutive book nerd with the nervous tick who had taken her library card once or twice every couple of months.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, swallowing down her pride.

  Jason looked around, giving her a nod without any kind of self-consciousness about the amount of male flesh on display. ‘Grace. How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine,’ she croaked.

  Jason turned back to the board and with a grunt managed to hook it back into the rack, the muscles on his shoulders and back rippling with the effort.

  ‘Take a look around,’ he said, the awkwardness of the other day seemingly vanished. Perhaps he had gone off her? ‘Or is there anything specific that you’re after?’

  Grace took a step forward. ‘Ah….’ Do it for the café. ‘Um … I wondered….’ Don’t be scared, you muppet! ‘I wanted to check out Sophie’s Gourmet Garden, you know, to take a look at the café’s competition. But I didn’t want to go alone. So, I wondered if … you’d like to go with me.’

  There. The words were out. They felt like traitors laughing and dancing on her tongue. Grace stared at Jason, waiting for his reaction, hoping she didn’t appear constipated or in any other kind of pain.

  Jason frowned for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Sure,’ he said, just as a bell tinkled over the door. ‘Hang, on, let me just serve this chap.’ He looked past her shoulder. ‘Hey, guy. Anything in particular that you’re after?’

  ‘My wax.’

  Grace turned at the sound of the low, powerful voice as Jason walked past her to the counter. The man standing there wore a Burton hoodie, the hood up, the strings pulled tight. Large sunglasses covered his eyes, and he wore a light wind-cheater balaclava which covered his mouth and nose. Grace stared, unable to move. She felt like she was looking at a movie star, or even a ghost.

  Jason reached under the counter and took out a package wrapped in brown paper. The stranger put a twenty-pound note on the table and slid it across.

  ‘Keep the change,’ he said, in that same low voice, before swiping the package off the counter and putting it into his pocket. In a moment he was gone, pushing out through the doors.

  Grace stared at Jason, who shrugged.

  ‘Was that … him?’

  ‘Billy, yeah. He comes in from time to time. Always dressed like that. Orders his wax from the USA, reckons it’s better. Could just get it off Amazon I suppose, but I think he likes to support local businesses.’

  The rumble of a starting engine came from outside. Grace ran to the window in time to see a transit van pulling away from the curb.

  Grace looked back at Jason. Something hung in the air between them which was slowly dissipating. An air of cool, of mystery. Grace’s fingers were tingling, as though she’d been close to an electrical charge.

  ‘The Masked Surfer.’

  She realised she was staring at Jason, who just gave an awkward shrug. ‘I suppose that’s what some people call him. A bit cheesy, if you ask me.’

  ‘And you have no idea who he is?’

  ‘Nope. If he wants to wear that getup, that’s all good by me. A bit weird, I reckon, but that’s his deal, isn’t it?’

  Grace was still staring at the door. ‘Who could he be?’

  Jason laughed. ‘I reckon he’s some old greengrocer called Alf who doesn’t want people to know his identity because he reads loads of spy magazines in his spare time and thinks it’s funny to get people going.’

  ‘You read too many books.’

  Jason shrugged again. ‘Yeah. Used to, yeah.’


  She turned to look at him. He had a strange look on his face, like a dog that had lost its master and was looking for some kind of instruction. Grace had completely forgotten the thread of their previous conversation until Jason said, ‘So, um, this dinner date? Ah, what time?’

  Joan was sitting in her chair on the promenade, a pint of beer on the stone wall in front of her. ‘Is that what you’re wearing? Seriously?’

  Grace shrugged. The hoodie was a little oversized, and the brand wouldn’t impress anyone outside of TK Maxx or the job centre queue, but it was comfortable.

  ‘I’m trying not to make a good impression.’

  Joan rolled her eyes. ‘You didn’t brush your hair.’

  ‘Or my teeth.’

  ‘Grace!’

  ‘What?’

  Joan handed her a pack of Wrigley’s. ‘At least chew one of these. I’ll take them off your wages.’

  ‘Do you have garlic flavour?’

  ‘Don’t be so reluctant. You might like him.’

  ‘If you had a little brother, it would be like dating him. He’s shorter than me for a start—much shorter—and he used to work in the school library. He used to have bucked teeth.’

  ‘Yeah, and now he’s completely ripped, a gun surfer, and has teeth so straight he could star in a Colgate advert.’

  ‘He’s still Jason from the library.’

  ‘Stop being so shallow and give him a chance.’ Joan grinned. ‘And remember our deal. If you survive the first date, I’ll talk to Mum.’

  Grace frowned. ‘Am I really being shallow?’

  ‘Just a little. You show up lamenting your pathetic love life, pining over your lost love who’s now got a perfect family, and then you act like a dick when I kindly try to set you up with a friend.’

  Joan had a grin on her face. Grace rolled her eyes. ‘All right, I’ll try.’

  Jason was waiting on the promenade across the street from the Gourmet Garden. He looked a little awkward as he stepped forward to meet Grace, on Joan’s insistence now wearing a tasteful summer frock which exposed her legs below the knees. Jason was wearing an O’Neill t-shirt which still had the creases from being recently taken out of a packet, and a pair of jeans with brand-designed ripped knees.