My Summer of Magic Moments Page 4

  Half an hour later she was back inside kneading the dough again. She’d thought it would be ready to go in the oven at this stage, but on rereading the recipe she realized it needed a further hour of ‘proving’ after she’d done a bit more kneading and shaped it into an oval-styled bloomer. Blimey. All this for one loaf of bread. It had better be worth it. She could have walked to the deli and back a couple of times by the time it would be ready and picked up something probably a lot more yummy from Lynda’s artisan bread basket.

  Finally the loaf was ready to go into the oven with a dusting of flour on the top. It would be ready in thirty minutes, apparently. She checked her watch. It was four hours since she’d started. Oh my.

  Half an hour later, she opened the oven door cautiously … Here goes. The loaf looked rather pale. She took it out, but it didn’t feel quite right under her touch. Should it be bouncier, crispier? She hazarded a guess that it wasn’t quite done and popped it back in for ten minutes. It was smelling lovely, there was nothing quite like the scent of freshly baked bread. Maybe some things were worth waiting for.

  The bloomer finally came out looking golden and generally the right kind of shape. She ought to let it cool, but the fresh-baked smell kept drawing her back to the kitchen. She couldn’t wait any longer and was soon slathering butter onto a just-cut slice. Hmm, pretty good. It was tasty – maybe a touch on the doughy side, but not at all bad for a first attempt. It would go well with the rest of the soup for supper, or perhaps make a scrummy bacon sandwich.

  As evening approached after a long, relaxed afternoon with her book, she sat out on the deckchair on her first-floor balcony watching shades of bold pink and peach diffuse the sky over a sunset sea. With her second glass of chilled white wine to hand, she sat quite still, listening to the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore. A pair of black-and-white terns swooped steadily across the bay, then headed inland over the dunes to roost.

  She’d popped a cardigan on over her T-shirt. It was a balmy evening nonetheless, calm and still. It was beautiful here, so very peaceful; the solitude restful. Yes, she’d enjoy seeing her sister at the end of next week, but for now this was what she needed. In fact, despite the run-down state of the cottage, this was just about perfect.

  The next morning, Claire was up early again. She wandered out onto the bedroom’s balcony to greet the day and spotted the six a.m. pile of clothes – a little further up the beach this time. Her heart gave a little leap. Damn, she must have missed him going out. But hey, she was definitely going to settle down on the deckchair for the view on his way back in. Her cup of tea could wait.

  Of course he was much further away from the cottages this time, probably being cautious now he knew there was someone next door. She sat watching for a while, and then there he was, swimming towards the shore and rising out of the water, tall, toned, dripping in salt water and stark-bollock-naked yet again. Oh yes, what a body. It felt like her guilty secret – lurking in the shadows of her balcony admiring the ‘sea view’. But she just couldn’t resist. Even if he was a grumpy-ass, she didn’t have to speak with him to admire his fit physique.

  She had a pretty chilled-out day after that. She toasted some of her homemade bloomer for breakfast with butter and strawberry jam – scrummy. She spent a pleasant couple of hours reading, and then went for a leisurely stroll, in the opposite direction from Bamburgh this time, enjoying the views towards Seahouses and the Farne Islands. She dipped her feet in the cool North Sea and let the breaking waves froth over them, rising up to her shins.

  She heard the engine of a car revving close by that evening, a scrunch of gravel, and then there were no lights on next door after that, so he must have gone home. It was Sunday. He might well be a weekender, she mused. She really was on her own in that little cluster of cottages now.

  It seemed very quiet and dark that night: the woodwork creaking in the wind, a rattle of the window frame, a loose gutter flapping, and that was about it. She snuggled down under her duvet, wondering if he owned the house next door, if he might be back next weekend, or if he had just been on holiday himself and that was the last she’d ever see of him.

  5

  Fish and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar, a 99 Flake ice cream, and a harbour view

  Her days settled into their own rhythm: waking, walking, reading. It was wonderful not having a schedule, or deadlines, or anyone else to please. If she wanted to lie in, she could, though that didn’t seem to happen – she was still waking up very early. If she wanted to go back to bed with her book in the afternoon, she could. If she wanted to bathe at three a.m., she could – in fact she did just that one night. She could walk, run, sing, dance along to her iPod, bake, wander around naked (she didn’t actually feel like doing that, but she could). She could do nothing, do anything – within reason; no car and little money was a bit of a hold-back. There was a golden beach, an expanse of sky, and a bucketload of time. It was totally up to her.

  The first week of her holiday passed by. She’d walked back to the village again on the Wednesday, chatting to Lynda in the deli, buying some wholemeal flour for her next baking adventure, and some gorgeous local cheese and pâté. She’d also picked up some ‘Bamburgh Bangers’ from the butchers and made herself an epic sandwich with her own fresh bread, sausages and fried onions – the taste was amazing!

  Her favourite spot of an evening was out on the grassy patch of her garden, where she watched the last of the beachgoers drift home, the sea birds pottering about the shoreline until it was time to roost, the changing light, a melting of peach and gold turning the sky into soft, watercolour shades after the bold acrylic colours of the day as she sat on a deckchair with her book and a glass of Pinot Grigio, a cardie slung around her shoulders as dusk crept in. It didn’t get really dark till half past ten.

  It had been a good first week: and she was certainly enjoying her time out, and she was beginning to relax for the first time in ages. Being on her own was working out well.

  Her sister’s car rolled into the gravel driveway at ten o’clock sharp on Saturday morning. Claire had felt a touch of trepidation the night before; they got on well enough, but she knew Sally would take control of the weekend – it was just her way. There had also been a midweek phone call. ‘You’ve got a spare room there, haven’t you?’ And the Saturday day visit had become a nightover, and in fact a weekend break. She hadn’t dared admit to Sally what state the cottage was in. She desperately hoped it would stay sunny and they’d be able to spend most of the time outdoors. Her sister was bringing her car, so having transport would be a bonus, anyhow.

  ‘Hi, Claire.’

  Sally eased out of her BMW saloon with a broad smile, bearing a bunch of sunny peach and yellow carnations. Her sister was taller than her, her hair a richer shade of brunette than Claire’s which fell in a groomed sweep to her shoulders. At thirty-three, she was three years older than Claire. She was wearing her trademark beige chinos with a pink stripy blouse. She was definitely of the ‘Yummy Mummy’ brigade, and Claire always felt slightly scruffy and uncoordinated beside her. She gave Claire a big hug, took her overnight case out of the boot, and strode towards the cottage door, as always moving swiftly and with confidence.

  ‘You’re looking good, sis,’ she said authoritatively.

  ‘Ah, you’re just saying that.’

  ‘No, course not. It’s the hair.’

  ‘What, you mean I’ve got some now?’

  ‘Well, yes. That short crop, though. Suits you. I think I said last time it has a kind of an Audrey Hepburn look about it. Anne Hathaway, even.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Claire’s voice was timid. It had been a long time since she’d felt anywhere near to looking good. She remembered it well, that gutting feeling seven months ago when her hair began to fall out. Oh yes, having your hair coming out in clumps, you realize how pointless it’s been worrying for all those years since your teens about whether it’s too curly, too mousy or too dark.

  ‘Right, wel
l what’s the plan of action?’

  Claire hadn’t really got her head past making them some coffee and possibly taking a stroll on the beach. ‘Coffee?’ She smiled. ‘We can sit out in the garden facing the sea.’ She needed to get her sister out of the house quickly before she could make too close an inspection of the accommodation. ‘It’s just instant, I’m afraid.’ She knew Sally would rather have freshly ground coffee in a cafetière, which actually would have been rather nice, but with the last-minute travel arrangements, there was only so much she could pack, and she hadn’t thought to buy some in the village.

  As they sat overlooking the beach, watching the distant rolling waves – the tide out this morning – they began to reminisce.

  ‘Hey, do you remember being here with Gran and Mum in the school summer holidays?’ Sal started.

  ‘Yeah. I think it was those holidays that inspired me to come and stay over this way.’

  ‘Crammed into that little caravan. That twin bedroom we had was tiny. We were nearly face to face as we slept.’

  ‘Yeah, and when you snored it was literally in my face.’

  ‘I never snored.’

  Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘And then Dad used to come up at the weekends,’ she continued.

  ‘Yeah. Dad.’ They both went quiet, thinking of him, memories slamming into both their minds. That tall, solid man, whose hair had turned from a rich dark brown to white over the years, who’d watched all their netball matches, taken them swimming, played rounders on the beach, given them ice creams, new shoes, wedding dresses, love and support.

  Claire felt that familiar knot in her throat. ‘Bless him.’ They both sighed.

  When he’d died, Claire was about to take her journalism finals after going back to college as a mature student. He’d never got to see her graduation. That was five years ago now. She still missed him so much. His big Dad bear hugs and down-to-earth advice. But sometimes, even now, when times got tough, she’d hear his voice in her head: ‘Come on, Claire, you can do it – show them what you’re made of, love.’

  In a way she was glad that he hadn’t had to see her go through all the cancer stuff. But his hugs would have helped her through it all.

  ‘Yes,’ Claire resumed. ‘And he used to turn up after work at that caravan on a Friday, still in his jacket and tie, laden with sweets. Mum used to go mad, saying they’d ruin our teeth. Then he’d take us all out to that little harbour place for fish and chips.’

  ‘Oh, and those fish and chips,’ Sal took up. ‘They were the best ever. Fresh from the newspaper, sitting down on the harbour wall. The seagulls used to go crazy for the scraps.’

  ‘And remember that one that pooped on Mum’s head!’ Claire grinned. It had ruined her mum’s hairdo, and she’d been livid at the time.

  They laughed, sharing memories of a happy childhood.

  ‘That was Seahouses, wasn’t it? That’s just down the road,’ Claire added.

  ‘We could go there for some lunch,’ Sal suggested. ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Now that sounds like a good idea.’ Hot crispy batter, flaky white fish, vinegar, salt, crispy chips. Mmmm.

  Sally took a sip of coffee, ‘Yep, it’s a plan. My treat.’

  The two sisters sat on the stone harbour wall, each with a plastic carton resting on their knees. The nostalgic days of wrapping the fish and chips in recycled newspaper were no more. Still, the smell was delicious, and the taste was damn good. They’d put plenty of salt and vinegar on. How come fish-shop salt and vinegar always tasted better than that at home? They dived in with their little wooden forks, breaking off bits of crispy batter and chunks of juicy cod. It was one of the best meals Claire had had in ages.

  ‘So, how are you doing really, sis? Enjoying the break?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a nice week. And I’m okay,’ Claire replied, chip poised in mid-air.

  ‘Good to hear it. It’s been a pretty tough time for you.’

  ‘Suppose so.’ Claire was swinging her legs against the harbour wall like she used to as a kid.

  ‘Listen to you, making light of it. You’ve been amazing, you know. Dealing with everything you’ve had to. Getting through that shitty cancer. All the treatment.’

  ‘Well I didn’t have a lot of choice in it all, did I? But I’m feeling much better than I have in ages. Getting back to fitness too.’

  ‘Good for you … Look, Claire, I’m not very good at this stuff, and I never said it at the time, but I really wanted to say … I’m proud of you.’

  Sal never came out with soppy stuff like this. She was a ‘pull your socks up and get on with it’ kind of girl. Claire found herself getting all emotional. The next chip got jammed in her throat. She gulped. Sniffed. Looked up at the skyline, then across at the boats bobbing in the harbour.

  ‘Wonder if there are any dishy fishermen around?’ Sal broke the tension.

  ‘Hmm, a nice lifeboat man might do. All hunky and heroic,’ Claire rejoined.

  ‘Yeah, and he wouldn’t stink of fish all day. Good thinking.’

  They laughed, tucking back into the last of their chips, Claire scraping up all the crispy fragments at the bottom.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Claire. For the fish and chips. For being a great sister. For everything.

  ‘You are so welcome. Come on, let’s head back. We’ll stop off for a bottle or two of wine to take back on the way.’

  They were about to turn right to cross into the cottage’s driveway from the main road when a black 4x4 made the turn in front of them from the left. Claire recognized the sandy-blond hair of her neighbour. Her stomach gave a weird flutter.

  They had to drive past his vehicle to get to their parking bay outside Farne View. He got out of the car at the same time as them. He still wasn’t smiling. He was dressed in dark jeans and a blue checked shirt, open at the neck. Claire had forgotten just how tall and broad-shouldered he was. She looked across to say a brief ‘Hello’, just as Sally was giving her an intrigued raised-eyebrow, mouthing, ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Neighbour,’ Claire mouthed back. Her sister wouldn’t be so excited had she actually spoken to him.

  Mr Grumpy did actually manage a ‘Hello’ and a curt nod back, but Claire caught that hint of annoyance lingering across his brow. It felt very much like they were invading his space.

  As soon as they got through the door, Sal blurted out, ‘Who the hell is that hunk next door? You didn’t mention any dishy neighbours on the phone. No wonder you were hesitant about me coming down. Wanted to keep him all to yourself, hey? No need for any lifeboat men now.’ She winked exaggeratedly. ‘Of course, being a married woman and all that, I’d stand back graciously. He’d be all yours.’

  ‘Hah, he’s a right misery, to be honest. Met him last weekend. Looks can be deceiving, I tell you. I had to get some help with changing a gas bottle – you’d have thought I’d asked him to lick the toilets out.’

  Sal had a weird look on her face. ‘Hmm, I’m just picturing him licking …’

  ‘Enough! Stop it, you crazy woman.’ Even with No. 8 The Cocktail Zone on her list, the reality of sex seemed so far out of Claire’s world right now, she felt uncomfortable just thinking about it. She might as well declare her body a sex-free zone and be done with it. It would be one less thing to worry about.

  Sally ventured up to the spare room to drop her case, which she’d left in the hall earlier. Claire waited nervously, then heard the squeal. Her sister shouted down the staircase.

  ‘Have you seen that bed … and the mattress? What the hell kind of place is this? Ugh! I wouldn’t be surprised if it has bed bugs or lice or something. Thank God I had the sense to bring my own mattress protector and fresh linen –’ She appeared at the kitchen door. ‘How the hell do you sleep here at night, Clairebo? It’s pretty run-down, isn’t it? Not what I was expecting at all.’

  ‘It’s a bit basic, yeah.’

  ‘Basic? That’s complimentary. It’s a bloody shack. I daren’t tell Mum – she’d be here in a
shot, turfing you out and booking you into the nearest four-star hotel.’

  ‘Don’t you mention a thing.’ Claire shot her sister a sharp look. ‘I like it here. It’s quirky.’

  ‘Hah, you can say that again.’

  ‘Well, while it’s dry, let’s get out and stretch our legs,’ Claire soothed. ‘The beach here is amazing.’ A walk would de-stress Sally, hopefully, and get them both out of the cottage for a while. And later, with all the food and wine she’d kindly bought, and wouldn’t take a penny for, at the Co-op back in Seahouses, her sister would be nice and snoozy by the time bedtime arrived and would have forgotten the stains on the mattress. She could hope for a miracle.

  As they passed next door’s garden, Claire was sure she could hear what sounded like a large dog barking from the house. Hmm, she hadn’t heard or seen a dog there last weekend. She put the thought to the back of her mind as she and her sister strolled along the shoreline, soon taking off their shoes and paddling in the shallows. Claire couldn’t resist a splashing session – taking the two of them right back to the days of sibling fun-fighting. Both ended up laughing and rather damp from the waist down. No matter – the sun was warm and they’d dry in no time.

  ‘It’s nice to see you smiling again.’ Sally touched her arm.

  ‘Nice to be smiling again. See, told you – I’m fine. And even if the house is a bit ramshackle, it seems to be doing me some good.’

  ‘Maybe it is,’ Sal had to concede.

  At the end of the day, supper eaten and cleared away, they sat out on the balcony taking in the evening sun with the last of the red wine. Claire had produced a supper of local cheese and her third attempt at homemade bread – a white bloomer with a rosemary and sea-salt crust, cold meats, juicy tomatoes, olives (a bit of an Italian theme going on), with a bottle of Chianti. Now the pair of them sat chatting easily. Claire’s concerns about her sister’s intrusion on her hideaway time had eased. It was actually really nice. They were beginning to rediscover that close sisterly bond they’d had as teenagers, which had somehow slipped into the middle distance when husbands and children and other diversions were around. She’d forgotten quite how well they did get on when it was just the two of them.