The Hidden Beach

by Karen Swan

  She turned towards town, ambling down the hill, the sea pale and glinting beyond the red rooftops, the sun warming her face and bare legs as she walked in her yellow-checked Vans and poppy-printed romper, her hair caught up in her usual bird’s-nest topknot. Some locals were pushing their bags up to their house in a wheelbarrow, and she guessed the ferry had just come in.

  Sure enough, she turned the corner onto the main street and saw a mass of Stockholmers and tourists disgorging into the square, suitcases being wheeled along the boardwalks to the grand Yacht Hotel or towards boats, bare legs flashing, flip-flops slapping. The place was heaving, a flotilla of sleek, high-masted yachts moored in the deeper waters offshore, the marina already crammed with day-trip speedboats and smaller sailing vessels whose rigging laced the sky like spiders’ webs. A small, rather tatty-looking cabin boat was chugging through the sound towards what appeared to be the only empty berth, its underpowered engine causing barely a ripple of wake behind it.

  She headed to the bakery and stocked up on pastries for breakfast for everyone tomorrow, and crispbreads; then on to Westerbergs, the general store that was the focus of island life – food was bought there, services advertised, news exchanged and shared. The place had everything, from batteries to plants; bags of compost were piled up by the steps, potted geraniums and bright watering cans beside them. She caught sight of one of the delivery trikes standing inert in the shade – a rare sight; Kris called them the unicorns. It was sky blue, with rust patches, and had been fitted with a large wooden tray to the front that could take everything from shopping to suitcases. This particular one had also been fitted with an electric motor. There was a problem, though – they couldn’t be pre-booked. It was first come, first served. She’d need to be quick!

  She jogged in. The bright, functional arrangement of the stacked shelves was always somehow a surprise, with trays of glossy fruit and vegetables set out like colour-coded Lego bricks. The shop was busy, but no customers were at the till, although the shelves were looking alarmingly scant, as though everyone had already stocked up for their Midsommar parties. Obviously she could ask the others to bring what else they needed from the city, but she would do her best here first. She scooped up two baskets and, with the speed of a seasoned local, quickly filled it with some milk and cereal, pasta, herrings, potatoes, cream, sugar, two punnets of strawberries, some twine and several loops of picture wire. She needed beer, too, but it was impossible to carry with a basket in each hand.

  ‘I’ve just got to get some beers too,’ she said to the till operator, setting it all down carefully. Someone else was doing the same at the other till, but he had almost nothing in his basket; a small cardboard box would take his shopping. She ran back to the alcohol aisle. There had been three six-packs left of Evil Twin, Kris’s favourite. She had come in for two, but the sight of ‘only’ three put her into panic mode, so she took them all.

  The girl at the till was already scanning the barcodes and packing everything into a box for her. ‘And can I hire the bike outside, please?’ Bell said breathlessly, as she set the bottles down and pulled out her bank card.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the gentleman over there has just rented it,’ the girl said, nodding her head towards the other till. Bell looked over just as the man standing by the register glanced up, as though he had overheard.

  Dark hair, faded baseball cap, expensive-looking anthracite-grey metal sunglasses. He looked to be mid-thirties or thereabouts. His face and forearms were incredibly tanned but his upper arms, peeking from the sleeves of his t-shirt, were paler. He gave an unsmiling nod and she looked away – he was one of the proverbial yachtie types that swarmed here in the summer months. No doubt his wife and kids were sitting by the Sea Club pool, or buying Ralph Lauren knits in the expensive boutique that fronted the harbour like a civic proclamation of the island’s good style and stealth wealth.

  She looked again at his shopping haul – some bottles of wine, a wriggling bag of pinched lobsters, a carton of juice and the weekend papers. She frowned. Whilst the bag of lobsters might not be much fun to carry, did he really need the trike?

  ‘That’ll be four hundred and thirty-two kroner,’ the shop girl said.

  ‘Huh?’ Bell glanced back again.

  ‘Four thirty-two, please.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked down at her shop – the girl had packed everything into a box for her, but with her cuttings basket and the cases of beer too . . . She handed over her card. How the hell was she supposed to carry this all the way home? The extra beer had been a mistake. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll have to come back for the beer later,’ she muttered as the man walked past, carrying his shopping perfectly easily. She stared daggers at his back, feeling her good mood dissipate.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we can’t keep anything by the tills today. We have a very large order coming in for the weekend. It’s our biggest delivery of the year.’ The girl jerked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the window. Sure enough, pallets of boxes were being unloaded from the ferry, destined for here.

  ‘Oh, what?’ Bell cried, noticing the long queue forming behind her. Great! ‘For God’s sake . . .’ she tutted. ‘Well, can you at least help load me up, then?’ She wondered if there was someone’s wheelbarrow she could use. Surely an enterprising teenager would be happy to earn some easy cash? The girl, shooting her an annoyed look, put the box into her outstretched arms, then two of the six-pack cartons on top, with the third six-pack just under her chin and the basket of flowers resting in front of that. It was very precariously balanced.

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’ the girl asked, looking concerned as Bell started to stagger away. She could barely see anything, certainly not her feet.

  ‘Well, I’m going to have to be, aren’t I?’ she muttered. ‘If someone would be so kind as to open the door . . .?’

  Someone – she couldn’t see who – did, and she walked carefully down the ramp, people side-stepping out of her way as they saw her overloaded progress. ‘Talk about beast of burden,’ she muttered under her breath as she passed the man easily dropping his small box and folded newspaper onto the trike’s vast wooden tray.

  She walked eight paces, stopped and turned back. ‘Excuse me.’

  He took a moment to respond, turning around with a quizzical look. ‘Yes?’

  ‘That trike.’

  He looked down at it, as though needing to confirm first. ‘. . . Yes?’

  ‘Do you really need it?’ He frowned, perhaps because he had picked up on the indignation in her voice. ‘Because I would happily pay twice what you’ve just paid to hire it.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry, but I do need it.’

  ‘As much as me?’ she panted, her arms already beginning to ache.

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘Three times, then.’

  ‘Miss, it’s not a question of money.’

  ‘No, you’re quite right, it’s a question of need and forgive me if I’m sounding rude, but right now, honestly? My need is greater than yours.’ She changed her stance and improved her grip. ‘So tell me, how much will it take for you to let me put this lot down?’

  He stared at her for a moment. She wasn’t a tall woman anyway, but she was truly dwarfed by the pile of shopping in her arms. ‘Let me.’ And he reached for the beers and set them down on the wooden tray; immediately, the load on her reduced by half. She gave a groan of relief.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as he took the box and basket from her too, and she stretched her arms out. They were already stiff. But any hopes that he might be a knight in shining armour were short-lived.

  ‘Why did you buy so much if you knew you couldn’t carry it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well . . . because I saw the trike out here.’

  ‘Didn’t you know it was first come, first served?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t you see me ahead of you at the till?’

  ‘I did, but it didn’t look like you were going to need the trike,’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in the words as she scanned the scant, utter
ly middle-class provisions.

  ‘I’ve bought some gas,’ he said, kicking his foot lightly towards three large canisters set beside the bags of compost outside.

  ‘Oh.’ Dammit. She looked back at him, embarrassed. ‘I see.’ An awkward silence bloomed. ‘Well then, I’m sorry about that. Clearly you do need the trike. I’ll just . . .’ She sighed and bent down to pick up the box again, immediately feeling the strain in her arms. ‘If you wouldn’t mind reloading me up again?’

  She waited as he stared at her with an air of bafflement. She could scarcely see his face behind his glasses and cap. ‘Where do you need to get to?’ he asked finally.

  Oh thank God! ‘Just past the Yacht Hotel, that first right up the hill.’

  His mouth pursed a little. ‘That’s gangplank access.’

  ‘Yes – but I usually go up and across the back when I’ve got the wheelbarrow.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring the wheelbarrow today, then?’

  She gave a gasp of despair. ‘Ugh, because it’s got a puncture. Oh my God, forget it, I’ll walk back. Don’t put yourself to any trouble! Just load me up.’

  ‘It’s fine, I’ll drop you.’

  ‘No, really, I’ve clearly inconvenienced you quite enough already!’ The sarcasm was plainly apparent now.

  ‘Are you always this rude to complete strangers?’

  ‘Just give me my beer!’

  He leaned forward and took the box from her arms. ‘Get on,’ he said, exhaling like the frustrated father of a teenager. ‘You’ll have to show me where.’

  She stood in equally frustrated silence. On the one hand, she didn’t want to accept his help now. On the other, she had asked for it – and needed it. While she prevaricated, he reached down and loaded the gas canisters, securing them to the back of the tray with webbing straps. He threw a leg over the bike and cast her an enquiring look.

  Without a word, she indignantly climbed onto the tray and sat down cross-legged between the packs of beers, her flower basket, the gas canisters and his lobsters. Their pincers had been taped together, but they were still moving, the bag rustling and creeping towards her. She gave a small squeal and tried to inch out of the way.

  ‘It’s best to track back that way,’ she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. He started up the trike, turning a full circle away from the marina. He took the first left inland, and immediately the path became narrow and sandy as they wound their way up the gentle hill between picket-fenced gardens and the small reddish-brown historic cabins. With nothing to hold on to, she had to splay her arms out and down on the tray, trying to balance as they went over the rough ground. The bike struggled a little with the load as they went up the hill, but soon enough they were at the top and it was an easy, level cruise the rest of the way back through the trees.

  The runners were out in force now, and they attracted some amused looks from passing joggers, with Bell cross-legged on the tray and trying to avoid the wriggling lobster bag.

  ‘This one here,’ she said finally, pointing to the narrow lane at the end that had the gangplank running down the length of it.

  He came to a stop and she jumped off.

  ‘How far down are you?’ he asked, squinting at the cascade of cabin roofs all the way down to the marina again.

  ‘It’s fine. I can get the rest of the way. It’s not far now.’ She picked up the box again and waited with her arms outstretched. Without offering to help any further, he loaded her up with the beers and the flower basket again. ‘Thank you,’ she said resentfully. ‘You’ve been very kind.’ He hadn’t been kind at all. He had been reluctantly polite. ‘Can I pay you for your help?’

  He looked baffled again. ‘. . . No.’

  ‘Okay then. Well, thanks,’ she said briskly and turned away, walking carefully and wondering how she was going to manage on the gangways when she couldn’t see her feet. But she didn’t need to worry about falling and making a fool of herself in front of him. Her foot wasn’t even on the first tread when she heard the bike start up again, and he drove off.

  Sandhamn, 27 July 2009

  He ran the produce past the scanner, the beep-beep-beeps like a meditation as the customers shuffled forwards in the queue, one after another. It was the end of July and he hadn’t moved from here all day, his body stiff from standing, his mind numbed to the monotony of repeating the same words on a loop. ‘Do you have a loyalty card?’; ‘Do you need a box?’; ‘Would you like a token?’; ‘Thank you, please come again.’

  ‘It’s good discipline,’ his father had said.

  ‘Thank you, please come again . . . Hello.’

  Schnapps. Fizzy cola bottles. Cigarettes. Durex –

  He looked up automatically, and she smiled back at him. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi.’ He looked down again, away, unable to maintain a gaze with those blue eyes. He felt like he’d been zapped with an electric current. The air suddenly felt thick, like a duvet; he could scarcely breathe through it. ‘Do you have a loyalty card?’ His voice was strange too.

  ‘No.’

  He kept his eyes on the produce, the scanner beeping like a heart monitor. Regular. Rhythmic. ‘Will you be coming here frequently this summer?’

  ‘. . . I hope so.’

  ‘Then a loyalty card would be beneficial for you.’

  ‘Okay.’ He heard the smile in the word, though he didn’t dare look back at her again.

  ‘I’ll need to ask you to fill this in.’ He reached under the counter and pulled out one of the forms. He got a commission for every new loyalty account he bagged, but it wasn’t percentages on his mind right now. ‘You need to put your name and address there, and your telephone number there.’

  Her eyes met his. ‘Right here? Where it says name, address and number?’

  He looked down again. She was teasing him. ‘Ah, you’re cute,’ she said quietly, like it was a secret, writing her details in clear handwriting, the pink tip of her tongue peeking out through her teeth as she wrote.

  She handed it back. ‘There. Can you read it okay? It’s important you can see my details clearly.’

  ‘Thanks, they’re clear.’ He scarcely had to look at it to commit it to memory. ‘That’s two hundred and forty-nine kroner, seventy. Do you need a box?’

  Her smile grew as she handed over the money. ‘Just a little one, please.’

  He found one that the gum had been packed in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He could feel her staring at him. ‘Do you want a token?’ he asked, handing back her change and managing to avoid eye contact.

  There was a slight hesitation, then she leaned in towards him, her hands pressed flat on the conveyor belt. ‘I think I want you to call me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why?’

  She laughed and as his eyes flickered up to hers, just for a moment, he felt the electric shock again. ‘You know why.’

  He watched her pick up her shopping and walk towards the door. ‘Thank you, please come again . . .’ he croaked, checking the form in his hands. ‘Hanna.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘There! How’s that?’ Bell asked, placing the floral crown lightly upon her head.

  ‘My queen!’ Kris crooned, clapping delightedly as she got up and gave a twirl. ‘Sensational. You should wear your hair down more often.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not practical with three kids to keep an eye on. It’d be permanently dipping in paint or ketchup.’

  ‘Eww.’

  ‘Ta-da!’ Tove cried, finishing off her crown, which she had made more ‘fabulous’ by fashioning and embellishing picture wire strips that met and dipped in a central point, like a jubilee crown and intertwining them with ivy.

  ‘Nice!’ Kris grinned.

  ‘Nice? She gets called a queen and I get nice?’ She planted her hands on her narrow hips in mock indignation.

  They were all sitting on the deck, post-lunch – Kris’s superlative herrings and potatoes, followed by strawberry cream cake, completely demolished. They had
polished off two of the three cases of beer, and all around them the island was humming to the sounds of Midsommar celebrations. Cheers and singing could be heard from distant houses, children running down the gangplanks in national dress costumes, flags flying from poles. Midsommar wasn’t officially the Swedes’ national day, but to many, it was as important – if not more so – than Christmas itself. After the long, dark Scandinavian winters, the unsetting midsummer sun was a national celebration of light and levity, their reward for enduring the hard seasons.

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ Marc asked, coming through and drying his hands on a tea towel. ‘We don’t want to miss it.’

  ‘But I don’t think I can move,’ Kris protested, patting his hands around his six-pack.

  ‘You can dance it off with me,’ Marc said, kissing him with a wink.

  ‘Well, before we go . . .’ Tove reached behind her and grabbed the bottle of schnapps from the ice bucket. She poured it into shot glasses. ‘Happy Midsommar!’

  They cheered and drank, knocking it back with vim.

  Like everyone else, they left the house unlocked as they ran merrily down the gangplanks, beer bottles in hand, joining the throngs all streaming towards the same grassy patch where the maypole was erected. It was set in a large grassy parcel of land surrounded by houses, on the opposite side of town, and hundreds were gathered there. The sheer number of people was always amazing to Bell. It was a tiny island, with a year-round population of less than a hundred – where did everybody go to after this?

  They stood for a moment taking in the scene, looking for friends’ faces and deciding where to stand. A fiddlers’ group was playing, smorgasbords were set out on tables around the edges, young and old were talking and laughing. The maypole – decorated with greenery and flowers – had already been hoisted into position, and everyone was preparing for the next dance. Bell scanned the crowd, looking for Hanna and Max. The kids loved the maypole dancing – although Linus was becoming more reluctant with age – but even he couldn’t resist the ‘Små Grodorna’ song, where everyone pretended to be frogs. Frogs. As a non-Swede, it was the one custom that baffled her and she always made her excuses to duck out, looking on with bemusement as Kris, Marc and Tove went crazy for it.