At work after that he was strictly professional. As if it had never happened. So that’s how it was going to be, she had thought. Fine. She could do professional.
Then after a few days he had called her into his office and said how sorry he was that she hadn’t been able to stay the night. As if it had been her decision. Making her frown and wonder if she’d misremembered it. I would have liked waking up with you, he said. I would have enjoyed fucking you all over again in the morning.
He closed the door and she ended up on her knees, sucking him off. There was something so deliciously naughty about it, so illicit, that she almost got off on the act itself, never mind that he didn’t reciprocate.
Not then, not ever. That should have set off alarm bells, shouldn’t it?
And then, one Sunday, he had turned up at the flat. She’d invited him in. Mel, thankfully, happened to be out. He looked as out of place as anyone could possibly ever be, but he was making an effort not to look at the kitchen that had seen better days, the threadbare carpet in the hall. She wanted to take him to her room, but he was stalling. As if he wanted to be here with her really badly but was trying to hold off. Was trying to do the right thing. She made him a coffee, which to his credit he sipped without commenting, although he placed it carefully on the counter and didn’t finish it. He didn’t have the chance to, because, once he’d finished talking, she took him by the hand and led him to her bedroom just the same.
He said lots of things about probably we shouldn’t be doing this and if they knew and professional relationship. And then he said even more about thinking about her all the time, not being able to concentrate, wanting her badly and needing her because life seemed to make sense now that he had her.
He hadn’t been thinking about her every minute, of course he hadn’t. That was ridiculous. If that were true, he would have come round a lot sooner. She has thought about the logistics of it since, how to think about someone constantly, and it just doesn’t happen like that. Which means that he was lying, and, if he was lying about that, then he could have been lying about everything else, too. Every single non-work-related thing that he said to her was probably a lie.
But even now she doesn’t hate him. She hates herself instead, for being so thoroughly fooled by a man. For allowing herself to be used. She can’t blame him for any of it, because she should have been able to tell. She should have seen through him. She should have never been tempted in the first place.
Get a grip, Rachel.
She eats a small amount of the porridge. Her stomach is still feeling iffy. The alcohol went to her head and then to her heart and then to her stomach.
She is sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop, trying to muster up the enthusiasm to look at her emails. The outside world seems very remote. It’s only been a few days, and already she feels Norwich is like somewhere she’s imagined.
The laptop pings. It’s an email from Lucy. And the subject line is ‘Christening???’.
Fraser
Fraser has spent the entire morning battling a headache. In reality he is probably still a bit drunk, and, despite drinking pints of water and coffee before leaving the kitchen this morning, he can feel that the transition from drunk to hungover has begun. He has no energy to do any shovelling. He can’t even be bothered to yell at Lefty, despite him doing stupid things like bringing the shovel down on his own foot. Thank God for the steel toecaps, even if the boots don’t fit him properly.
His mind fidgets back and forth and, inevitably, frustration and his sore head make him even grouchier than usual. He has an urge to hit something, and if he stays here much longer Lefty is going to find himself launched off the cliff for no valid reason other than that he’s breathing.
At about eleven he gives up, leaves Lefty working and walks back to the bird observatory. On a whim.
On a mission.
Two of the birdwatchers are inside, sitting on the sofa with laptops and piles of notes, no doubt collating yesterday’s data. He thought they usually did that in the evenings, but Eugene and Hugh have apparently stayed behind.
‘Fraser! How’re you doing?’
He knows them from previous visits, has never exactly made friends with any of them, although they greet him with enthusiasm whenever he sees them. They see Fraser as the expert, which he is: the one who can tell them the best place to see the birds they’re here for. If anyone’s in charge here, it’s him.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’
‘You want a coffee?’ Eugene asks. Fraser has always thought he’s a bit up himself.
The living room is untidy but not beyond what he might expect. He casts a casual eye over it, taking off his boots at the door (which he always does) and going to get himself a drink of water from the kitchen. The kitchen surfaces are full of dirty plates and dishes, a bottle of milk left out, cornflakes scattered. Crumbs on the floor.
The grouchiness coalesces into something harder. He goes back to the living area.
‘We logged purple sandpipers yesterday,’ Eugene says. ‘We thought they should all have gone by now.’
‘Aye, they’re leaving every day.’
‘D’you want to sit down?’
He’s standing there, with his glass of water. Has no intention of lowering himself to their level. ‘How are you finding it, having your evening meals cooked?’
‘Oh, fine,’ Hugh says. ‘She’s not a bad cook really.’
They exchange glances.
‘Anything not meeting your expectations?’ he asks.
They don’t detect anything in his tone, which is just as well.
‘She had a bit of a go at Eugene yesterday,’ Hugh says, ‘would you believe.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Told me off for leaving mud on the floor!’ Eugene adds, chortling.
‘And did you?’
‘Did I what?’
‘Tread mud over the floor. Or did you take your boots off at the door, like any normal adult would? Like I just did?’
Eugene frowns. He’s caught up. The stance, the stare, the folded arms, the tone of Fraser’s voice.
‘We’re not used to having someone here during the week,’ Hugh says, with an uneasy little laugh, his tone placatory.
‘I can see that,’ Fraser says, looking round at the kitchen.
Hugh puts his laptop on the table, gets to his feet.
‘I’ll just do these dishes,’ he says.
‘Aye, pal, you do that,’ Fraser says. ‘Not wishing to interfere with your holiday an’ all, but perhaps have a wee bit of respect for Rachel’s hard work, aye?’
Eugene is looking at his laptop. Fraser takes a step towards him. ‘Have I made things nice and clear? Eugene?’
‘Sure,’ Eugene says, not looking up.
Honestly, Fraser thinks, heading back up the hill, relieved at least that he managed to get through that without taking a swipe at anyone, it’s like dealing with fucking children. What will it be like if they have actual fucking children, staying in the bird observatory for holidays instead of birdwatching? What if they get big families staying in there?
He sees the younger one, the gangly youth who to his knowledge has never actually spoken, on the headland. Dressed all in green with a camo hat and a pair of binoculars, looking out over the cliffs. Fuck knows where the other two are. He doesn’t want to know.
Rachel
Rachel can’t quite bring herself to read Lucy’s email, so she types a quick generic reply, hoping that will keep her sister satisfied for a while.
Hey,
All good here. Loving the fresh air and the big skies. I get lots of time to myself in between trips down to the bird observatory. First set of birders are a bit of a nightmare but I’ve decided there’s no point trying to clean up after them during the week, so I’m going to leave it until they fuck off back to the mainland and then I’ll get on with it.
She pauses. It’s no good. She had better read Lucy’s actual email, in case something has
happened.
Hi, sis,
All good here. Emily is sleeping off and on and doing really well. We went to the health visitor yesterday for the first time to get her weighed. There’s like a little clinic for mums and babies and you just turn up and can chat to the HVs about anything you’re worried about. Waiting room full of mums with babies of various sizes. Funny how huge some of them look – Emily’s going to be there before I know it but at the moment she looks just tiny compared to most of them. There’s another mum who had her little boy the week before Emily, and she’s from Castle Drive, so I ended up talking to her for most of it. There’s one little girl who must be nearly a year old who has the most amazing hair, with like a blond quiff with darker ends. Like she’s had a reverse balayage. Apparently she was born with black hair and then it started growing through blonde. Such a cutie! Emily’s getting a bit more hair too now but not at the back yet.
I’m sleeping when I can and when Ian gets in from work he takes over for a bit so I can have a bath or a nap or something – Ian does bottle, bath and bed which is nice, although I don’t often get to sleep at that time. Then it’s all systems go again about 12ish for the first wake-up.
We are busy planning Emily’s christening – looks like we’re going to have it on 27th July. Ian’s parents are coming over; makes sense to do it while they’re here. I’m hoping you’ll be there – can you keep the date free? We will have a meal out afterwards so I need to know if you’re coming, but perhaps not just yet.
Mum and Dad send love.
Lucy xxx
Lucy has not asked her anything about the island, particularly, and there is nothing Rachel can ask about Emily, although her heart burns with questions. July feels like a long way away. She will worry about that when she gets to it.
She puts off going to the bird observatory until later in the afternoon, but when she eventually goes she’s pleasantly surprised. The kitchen is not exactly spotless, but some attempt has been made at least to clear up from breakfast, and the floor needs a vacuum but there are no muddy footprints. The bathroom smells of damp towels and the bedclothes are all over the place, but it’s better than she expected.
Hugh and Steve are on the sofa, feet up on the table, ignoring her beyond an initial hello.
Tonight it’s a pasta bake, easy enough to do. She makes the heel of the loaf from this morning into garlic bread, sets up the breadmaker ready for tomorrow. Gradually the others return, poring over the day’s logs and talking about short-eared owls and tern terraces and all of them ignoring her.
Once they’re eating she wipes over the surfaces and leaves them to it, vaguely hoping that they will do their own washing-up.
For a change she makes it back to the lighthouse early, and there is no sign of Fraser or Lefty. Finding the kitchen empty, despite her tiredness she decides to make cheese scones – something she is reasonably confident of not fucking up – as a way of saying thank you to Fraser for all the cooking. She doesn’t know if he likes cheese scones, but if they don’t go down well she can take them down to the bird observatory tomorrow. Once they are in the oven, she has a momentary panic that Fraser has been saving the flour and the cheese for something in particular – although there is plenty – and is washing up, half-wishing she had not started, when the door opens and Fraser and Lefty come in.
‘Sorry,’ she says immediately, aware of her face pink from the oven and now getting suddenly even redder. ‘Taking over in your kitchen. But these are my favourites.’
‘Smells good,’ Fraser says, hanging up his coat.
Bess thinks so too. She came racing in as soon as the door opened, and now she’s sitting at Rachel’s feet, huge brown eyes giving her her full undivided attention.
‘Can I give her a bit of cheese?’
‘Aye, well, she’ll follow you around for the rest of your life,’ he says.
Lefty is standing in the doorway, pulling off his boots and watching her.
‘How about you, Lefty?’ she asks, determined to build bridges. ‘You like cheese scones?’
‘Aye,’ he says, ‘right enough.’
She can smell them beginning to catch, opens the oven door and rescues them just as the ones on the edge of the baking sheet are looking a bit on the brown side. Fraser has disappeared. Lefty is watching her warily.
‘Get the butter out,’ she tells him. ‘They’re best while they’re still hot, I think.’
The domestic goddess apron does not sit comfortably around her neck, especially in someone else’s kitchen. The only way she can make it work is to bluster her way through it. Lefty has got the tub of butter out of the fridge and is standing next to her, looking hungrily at the scones. Rachel hoofs the biggest one on to a piece of kitchen towel, holds it awkwardly and slices into it, revealing a steaming yellow interior. Thankfully it’s cooked through. She passes it to Lefty. ‘I’ll leave you to butter it.’
She watches as Lefty slathers each side in butter.
‘So,’ she says brightly. ‘What have you been up to today?’
He looks up at her, startled.
‘Making tern boxes.’
‘What are they?’
‘Boxes, for the tern chicks.’
‘Oh.’ She’s at a loss for a moment. ‘Are there terns here already?’
‘Not for another few weeks.’
‘They breed here?’
‘Aye. They migrate from the Antarctic. Longest migration of any bird.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye.’ He takes a mouthful of scone. ‘S’good,’ he says.
Fraser comes back into the room and something happens between them. Rachel misses it – the glance, or whatever it is, or maybe it’s just something that stirs in the air. Lefty shrinks, and takes his scone, and scoots out of the door and across the hallway.
‘Wow,’ Rachel says. ‘That’s weird. It’s like he’s scared of you.’
Fraser ignores her, leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded across his massive chest. She has the strangest feeling of having transgressed. She is in his kitchen. She has taken over, and he clearly doesn’t like it.
‘How’s your day been?’ she asks, as cheerfully as she can manage.
‘Okay.’
‘Want a cheese scone?’
If he says no, she will know she has pissed him off beyond all repair. He doesn’t say yes, but with what sounds like a resigned sigh he collects a side plate from the cupboard and takes one delicately from the wire rack, breaking off a chunk and chewing it thoughtfully, watching her with inscrutable dark eyes.
‘Lefty was telling me about the tern boxes. Were you both doing that?’
‘Aye. Counted some shorebirds just now. They’re on the way out.’
‘Don’t they stay?’
‘Some of them. Most of them are heading north now for the summer.’ He takes a second big mouthful of scone, chews. ‘This is not bad,’ he says, after a moment.
‘Thanks,’ she says. The relief is overwhelming.
‘The birdwatchers were telling me what a good cook you are,’ he says.
‘Really?’ She’s surprised at this. First that he’s been talking to them at all, and secondly that they have actually said something nice.
‘Oh, aye. They think you’re doing a grand job.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Did they actually say that?’
‘More or less. Definitely they like the food.’
‘Hmm.’
Fraser
After dinner Fraser and Rachel stay in the kitchen and, because he’s been thinking about it most of the day, though it’s probably the worst idea in the world, he gets the whisky and the glasses out again.
‘Really?’ she says, looking at the bottle.
‘You don’t want any?’
‘After last night?’
That’s how it is, then. ‘Hangover?’
She’s deliberately not meeting his eye.
‘Not as such,’ she says. ‘I’d better not, anyway. Thanks, though.’<
br />
They move back to more formal topics of conversation, staying well clear of anything personal. There are things she’s quite happy to talk about: books, popular culture (which he genuinely has no clue about; there is a TV in the lounge with an intermittent satellite connection but it’s regularly blown off course by the wind and he can never be bothered to keep resetting it); food.
She also seems happy to listen when he tells her about the birds, about the island’s schedule, how it operates by season.
‘April is when everything comes to life,’ he tells her.
She’s resting her chin on her hand and she’s looking at him, either concentrating intently, or taking the piss.
‘The puffins will be landing over the next week or so. They’ll stay for the summer, and leave again towards the end of August.’
‘I’ve never seen a puffin,’ she says. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting them.’
‘Aye, they’re great wee birds,’ he says. ‘We don’t get as many here as they get on May, but there are still so many in the season that you’ll have to watch where you’re walking.’
‘I know they use the same burrows every year.’
‘They do. The adults mate for life, and they live for thirty-odd years. That’s why it’s such a big deal when you step on one accidentally and collapse it. I mean, sometimes they recycle a rabbit hole if they need to, but it’s a pain for them to have to dig a new burrow. It’s bad enough if you were to step on one now, before they arrive, but bear in mind it’s much worse if you step on one while there’s pufflings inside. Or eggs.’
‘Pufflings?’ She is delighted at the word, incredulous almost.
‘Aye, that’s what the chicks are called. Wee black fluffy things. They’ll be all over the place soon enough.’
‘I can’t wait. I guess all the birdwatchers are waiting for them too.’
‘They’re not so bothered about the puffins.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘It’s not the seabirds they’re so interested in. They come here and help with the counts, but really what they’re looking forward to is the migration later in the year. We’re a stopping-off point for hundreds of birds, most of them just brief visitors. You get a chance to see birds here that you’d never usually see on the British Isles.’
You, Me & the Sea Page 13
