You, Me & the Sea

by Elizabeth Haynes

  She comes to stand next to him and with no warning slips an arm under his, curving around his waist, and he realises she’s giving him a hug. He moves slightly, puts his arms around her back because that’s what you’re expected to do and it feels strange and soft and when he breathes out he feels her arms tighten a little bit.

  He didn’t want this. Didn’t think he needed it. Feels a surge of some hot, bright pain, as if it’s passing through, as if it’s leaving his body. And now he thinks he doesn’t want to let go. He feels heavy with weariness.

  She moves her head and he releases her quickly. He can’t bring himself to look at her. Feels a cool hand on his hot cheek, then her breath, and then she plants a quick kiss on his mouth. And then another.

  the fuck is this

  And he is about to respond and she’s gone.

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ she says, from the doorway.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He leaves it an hour. Then another thirty minutes. He watches the clock on the wall drag round to half-past two.

  There’s no point going to bed anyway; he’s not going to sleep.

  At last he gets up, sighing heavily. Bess isn’t keen to go out – it’s raining – but he waits with the door open until she trots out into the darkness. He watches the light sweep across the low cloud, soothed by the rhythm of it, the constancy, and after a minute he goes outside in his socked feet, not caring about the rain. Stands there on the grass, taking deep lungfuls of the cold, wet air.

  When Bess scampers back in he turns off the lights and goes up the stairs as quietly as he can.

  In the bathroom he uses the toilet and brushes his teeth, not quite able to meet his own eyes in the mirror. And then he looks. Studies his face. He feels old, and looks it. It has never mattered to him before, because that’s what life is, isn’t it? Time passing. He can no more control his own face’s ageing than he can bring Maggie back to life. He has lines around his eyes; his brows are rough and unkempt and growing in every direction; his beard is overdue a trim. He’s never bothered shaping it. It grows up his cheeks in patches, down his neck and under his collar, merging almost seamlessly with his chest hair. Bits of his beard, his hair, are threaded with grey.

  You fucked that up, right enough, he tells himself.

  In bed he finds himself lying awake for what feels like hours. The wind has picked up outside, he can hear it, the rain hammering on the window. If it had been like this earlier the helicopter wouldn’t have flown. He thinks about that for a while, about the shit, the detritus of the last few years and how it’s been lifted off the island. He could have a fresh start. And he thinks of all the things he should have got rid of a long time ago and how they’re still here. Stones in his pockets. Maggie’s picture, staring at him from the chest of drawers.

  Fraser sighs, turns on to his side.

  6

  Amarjit

  Rachel

  In the morning Rachel sits at the kitchen table, working up to opening the laptop and doing today’s blog. There is something in the slow cooker already that smells amazing – meat and garlic and a rich sauce – and she finds she has something of an appetite, for a change. Which is just as well, because Fraser has gone out, already, and left her a full cooked breakfast on the top of the range, tin foil over it. The eggs have gone a wee bit rubbery but everything tastes amazing, as always. Mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage, bacon, a hash brown, and a little ramekin with baked beans in it.

  She senses this is some kind of weird thank-you for her sympathetic ear last night, which is a good thing, because this morning she feels low. The shouting in the night, the desperation in his voice – she had rushed in there almost without thinking about it. And then, the minute he’d woken up and stared at her in his room, sitting on his bed, she’d had the sudden draining horror of having overstepped the mark in a particularly hideous way, invaded his space when he was at his most … vulnerable. How would she feel, if he’d just come into her room when she was asleep? At least she had got to apologise to him directly, over the cocoa. Although there was such a depth of sorrow there. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Maggie, not really. She’d sort of forced him into it. And they’d both had another night of disturbed sleep. As a result she had slept late, and now he isn’t here to apologise to again.

  And to make matters worse, she had hugged him and given him a peck on the cheek when he clearly didn’t want her to do anything of the kind.

  The embarrassment of it is tempered only by the fact that surely it didn’t mean anything; he can’t imagine for one moment that it means something. It was the middle of the night and she’d felt this overwhelming sadness for him and she’d given him a hug and then, because it’s the way she’d probably comfort Mel or anyone else who was unhappy, she’d given him a little kiss and it was only in the seconds afterwards that she’d thought that this wasn’t the right thing to do, they are not actually friends even though it feels a bit like it’s heading that way. He is her colleague. She is working with him. And she’s not going to be here for very long, which in the cold light of day is some comfort.

  But he’s left her breakfast. That’s a good sign.

  When she’s finished eating she lifts the plate to take it to the sink and hears a chink and a clatter, as if something small has fallen from the table. She looks underneath and spots something on the grey flagstones: small, pale blue, neatly rounded. It’s a piece of Lefty’s sea glass. She touches it and holds it to the light. It’s quite beautiful. She slips it into her pocket and washes up her plate, wondering how it got there and whether Lefty has mislaid it.

  She opens up her laptop and tackles her emails – firstly to Marion and Craig, about her first week on the island, the problem she’s been having with the first set of birders. She tries to point out that she’s fully aware of her responsibilities here, it’s not that she’s shirking on cleaning, but that there seemed to be an issue with that one guy in particular from the off. And there are things that are needed for the bird observatory, if they want to make it more of a holiday let. Matching glasses and tableware. Wine glasses, come to that – there are pint glasses and various tumblers which, judging by the beers and ciders they’re advertising, came free with some promotion – but nothing for wine, let alone anything else.

  Marion replies a few minutes later. Rachel stares at the email, scared to open it in case it contains some sort of disciplinary warning. Or says that they’ve reconsidered the job offer altogether. She helps herself to Fraser’s coffee and opens it with a big breath.

  Dear Rachel,

  Thank you for your email. Please don’t worry. Fraser already emailed to explain – I had heard from the customer in question but I suspected it was more to do with the increased cost of the holiday accommodation in comparison to previous years when the service was a hostel, as he had already complained to me about this at the time of booking. By the sound of it you’re doing a good job.

  I’ll be in touch again soon, as I’m trying to arrange for a builder and an architect to come over on the boat to assess the cottages. It would be great if you could meet with them and discuss requirements. I’ll try to come over with them too and bring you some things for the observatory but I can’t guarantee it.

  Best wishes,

  Marion

  The reply from Marion prompts five minutes’ worth of staring into space and thinking about Fraser.

  Fraser already emailed to explain.

  The laptop pops up another email notification: this one from Craig, not commenting on the birders but asking her for Friday’s shopping list. Wine, she thinks. Maybe gin. Her first thought. But this is the shopping list for the observatory, not for the lighthouse – Fraser’s in charge of that.

  Her phone pings with a WhatsApp from Lucy – two pictures that she’d rather not see.

  One of the pictures is from about six months ago. It’s of Lucy and Rachel, a selfie with Lucy’s arm outstretched, holding her phone, her other arm around Rachel’s shoulders. She has seen
this picture before; she saw it immediately it was taken, remembers thinking how bloody pale she looked, how wide-eyed and terrified, but she had been smiling and that was why Lucy had loved it. She had had a print of it made, framed it, given a copy to Rachel, which had gone into a drawer. She remembers that day clearly enough. Doesn’t necessarily want to be reminded of it. But there are very few photos of Lucy and Rachel together, before Emily.

  The other one was taken just after Emily was born, when she was placed in Rachel’s arms. Rachel is looking up at the camera, smiling. And Emily’s tiny, red, scrunched-up little face, the only part of her not swaddled in towels.

  She has to reply, or else Lucy will just keep on.

  She shuts the app down. She doesn’t want to see the pictures any more.

  Fraser

  Sometimes he thinks he shouts at Lefty to give himself something to do. It doesn’t make any difference, anyway, because he carries on regardless. The lad barely flinches any more. He is used to Fraser’s dark moods, used to being shouted at. Unlike the early days when he used to cower every time Fraser came near, now he seems to have realised that he’s not actually going to get beaten up. Sometimes he even answers back, although never very loudly.

  ‘Aye, well, I’m going as fast as I can,’ he mutters under his breath now.

  Fraser hears it clearly because of the wind direction.

  He thinks about going over there but in reality he’s not got the energy left, not after a day of hauling gravel about, and especially not now the weather has turned. They have maybe half an hour, judging by the clouds gathering over the Firth.

  And besides, he’s just seen Rachel heading for the bird observatory, pulling that stupid flimsy jacket around herself and lifting the hood over her flying hair, only for it to blow off again. He has decided that he won’t have a go at Lefty in front of her. He doesn’t want her to be unnecessarily scared.

  He doesn’t want her to think badly of him.

  All the anger from yesterday, from last night, has gone. He has been thinking about her all day. When he tries to take his mind off it by shifting gravel, it’s still there. Instead he thinks about Maggie, and Lefty, and all the other things that usually make the grinding fury rise up and choke him, but even that doesn’t seem to be working. It keeps coming back, the weight of her pressing down into his mattress, the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the concern in her voice. Are you okay?

  And then that really fucking awkward hug in the kitchen.

  He is not in any way fooled by it, by that kiss. Rachel is twenty-whatever-the-fuck-she-is, pretty and sweet and kind, and he is an ugly old bastard, arteries clogged with anger and shame. He does not believe for one minute that she is attracted to him. She feels sorry for him, which is far worse. He doesn’t want anyone’s pity. He does not have the time or the energy to care about what anyone else thinks of him.

  He looks across at Lefty, who’s being blown about in the wind as if he weighs nothing, still gamely wielding the shovel, even if the gravel is half falling off it before he gets it to where it needs to be.

  Rachel

  Rachel is just leaving the observatory, having tidied up a bit and made a casserole for later. She feels she is ahead of the game now, pleased with herself. Fraser and Lefty are still working on the tern terrace although it’s starting to rain and the wind has picked up.

  She can hear Fraser yelling at Lefty, the roar of Not like that you fucking imbecile floating across on the wind.

  Despite the rain she heads up the hill towards them, sees Fraser straighten as she approaches, slowly easing himself to his full height as if his back is hurting. Lefty hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care, keeps going, and is still shovelling when she reaches them.

  ‘All right?’ she asks, holding her hair back from the wind, for the want of something better to say. Now she’s here she’s aware of interrupting them.

  ‘All okay here,’ Fraser says.

  ‘I could make you a coffee, bring it up in a flask or something?’

  ‘We’re nearly done.’

  ‘Right. Anything I can do to help?’

  Now Lefty stops, and Rachel looks across to see him stagger a little bit in the wind, right himself, putting his weight on the shovel. He’s not looking at her. His head drops, and for a minute she thinks he’s actually going to keel over.

  Fraser mutters something and tosses the rake he’s holding to one side, taking three huge strides to Lefty and taking him by the shoulders. ‘Sit down, you idiot.’

  ‘Ach, I’m all right,’ Lefty says.

  ‘I’ll take him back,’ Rachel says.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ Fraser says, quickly. ‘We’re nearly finished.’

  She has a sudden urgent desire to intervene. Whatever’s going on here does not feel comfortable, and for all of his protests she has the strong sense that Lefty is not okay.

  ‘Come back with me, Lefty. Fraser can finish up.’

  Even as she says it, she can feel Fraser bristling. Lefty looks up at her briefly and she’s struck by the pale skin and the dark shadows, and a spark of injustice – the only time she ever really feels angry – lights up inside her and she takes him firmly by the arm.

  ‘You can manage on your own, can’t you, Fraser?’

  She doesn’t wait for a response. Lefty resists for the briefest second and then goes along with her, stumbling a little across the gravel, glancing over his shoulder at Fraser.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, quietly, when they’re almost back to the path, ‘don’t you worry about him.’

  It’s not easy walking side by side on the rutted path. Lefty is marching along on autopilot but she can’t let go of him. She can feel how unsteady he is. She can feel the hard wiriness of his physique, muscle over bone, not an ounce of softness.

  At the last hill he says, ‘I can manage,’ and almost pushes her away.

  She follows him up the hill and into the lighthouse, peeling off her jacket. Lefty kicks off his boots and heads straight for his room.

  ‘Lefty?’

  In the doorway he turns. Not looking at her. ‘Aye?’

  She fishes in her pocket for the sea glass. ‘I found this. This morning. In the kitchen. Is it yours?’

  It lies in her palm. She brings it closer so he can see. Briefly he reaches out, his hand a mess of dark tattoos, a red scar like an old burn. He touches the sea glass with one bony finger – bitten, mud-rimmed nails, shredded cuticles.

  ‘I left it for you,’ he says.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Aye. Like a … you know.’

  ‘It’s a present?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, thank you. It’s lovely.’

  ‘It’s my best one,’ he says.

  Before she can say anything else, he goes inside and shuts the door firmly. Rachel can hear the motor of the quad bike as it reverses into the workshop. Fraser’s back.

  Fraser

  Rachel is sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and looking at things on her phone. He’s relieved to see she’s alone, which means Lefty is in his room. He can’t have missed much; they got back just minutes before he did.

  He has half a mind to go straight back out again. The rain has stopped, of course, which is inevitable as soon as you give up on a job. But he’s had enough of shovelling gravel, they’ve made good progress, and he’s tired. He’s too tired to argue with her, tempting as it is. The way she just strolled up and took Lefty’s arm and carted him off with her, without waiting to ask! When he had expressly told her to leave him alone. The only positive as far as he can see is that Lefty was past the point of conversation, so it’s not likely that anything was said.

  ‘You’re tough on him,’ Rachel says. ‘There’s coffee in the pot.’

  He wants to tell her to mind her own business, but then he remembers her sitting on the edge of his bed in the middle of the night. He has only just stopped kicking himself for telling her to go away.

  ‘He’s a lazy wee fucker,’ he mumbles
instead.

  ‘You don’t seem to like him very much.’

  He thinks about this for a while, as he pours himself a coffee. ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘Well, if you’re trying to work with him. Surely it would be easier if you—’

  ‘I don’t like anyone very much.’

  Right. He sees the way her mouth shuts quickly. She doesn’t ask anything else, and that’s something, even if he does think that he’s done it again, just at the point where he was starting to make things better with her. He sits still, warming his hands around the mug, trying not to look at her and not quite able to stop himself.

  ‘How’re the birders?’

  ‘I’ve done a casserole,’ she says defensively. ‘I’ll go back later. Just didn’t want to hang around down there.’

  There’s a strange sort of hollowness to her voice, and he thinks that she’s still worrying about the bloody idiots in the observatory. As though they count for anything. As though any of it matters. He finishes his coffee, gets to his feet.

  ‘I was going to check on the shorebirds,’ he says, reaching for his binoculars.

  ‘Right.’

  He slams the door behind him, stupidly, because now she’ll think he’s angry at her – which he is, because she’s doing exactly what he told her not to do, talking to Lefty, but more importantly he’s angry at himself because he can’t concentrate on work, can’t stop thinking about things.

  He changes his mind about the shorebirds and heads instead towards the cottages, stopping halfway down the hill and looking down towards the loch. There are eiders displaying on the surface of the black water, elaborate pairing rituals that happen every year. He watches them for a while, only half-paying attention.