Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea

by Jane Linfoot

  For dinner we have grilled chicken and carrots, which suddenly come back on-limits when I explain that’s what Cheryl (formerly Cole) eats when she’s getting in shape for a tour. And I know this because Sadie the ‘do everything in the office’ person at Zinc Inc used to lend me her Closer magazine every Friday afternoon, then ask questions to check I’d read it from end to end. I just never imagined it was knowledge I’d ever get to use.

  It was dusk when Loella pulled up in the lane, totally blocking it with her battered red off-roader. I can only assume she has some local artistic licence which allows that, or else shepherd’s hut man has seen the size of the thing and the scrapes down the sides, and on balance decided to shut the fuck up. I was worried Barney might hitch a lift too, in the hope of bagging more gullible Airbnb cottage garden owners, but luckily he didn’t. In any case, it was literally a couple of bounces around bends and then we were down at The Deck, blocking the mews there.

  While Loella goes off to find somewhere to double park, I send Aunty Jo ahead of me through the door with a shove that’s considerably bigger than she is. ‘No need to get all fidgety, Aunty Jo, there are lots of people we know.’

  As we make our way towards the chairs arranged in rows in front of a white pull-up screen and Beth dances over, I’m waving back at so many people I feel like I’ve been here way longer than a week.

  ‘Josie, you must meet my dad, Malcolm. I saved you seats next to him.’ As Beth turns to me she drops her voice. ‘We lost Mum five years ago, but it’s been so much tougher since he retired in the autumn.’

  By the time I wriggle out of my jacket and into the chair beside them, they’re already deep in some discussion about perennial geraniums, whatever they are. When they finally pause I hiss into Aunty Jo’s ear, ‘How do you know so much about gardening?’

  She gives a sniff. ‘I’ve heard about it from Harry over the years. I can definitely hold my own on alliums.’ She glances behind us to where there’s a guy arranging boxes of slides. ‘And you can’t beat a good magic lantern show.’

  As Loella claps her hands at the front I have a brief moment of polka-dot dress envy, then everyone goes quiet. ‘So welcome everybody. Jeremy’s standing by at the projector with an hour’s worth of slides showing his take on last year’s Wild and Blooming Festival in St Aidan. Then afterwards we’ll move on to coffee, cake and chat.’ As everyone claps she slips to the back, switches off the lights and sits down.

  As I settle into my seat my main worry is about what’s going to happen if I snore. With the promise of so many flower pictures, probably all the same, I’m already biting back a yawn. Realistically, my concentration isn’t great at the best of times. In the dark, after a hard day of paper stripping, I’m likely to stay awake approximately a nanosecond. Then Jeremy starts clicking his handset, there’s a flash of lights on the screen as he flips through his first few slides to find where to begin.

  My stomach clenches and I clamp my eyes closed. Why the heck did I not think? I prod Aunty Jo as I get up and whisper, ‘The flashing isn’t good, I’d better go.’

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ She’s wrenching her gaze away from daisies blowing in a summer breeze.

  ‘You stay – I’ll see you at the end.’ I ease into the aisle and dip to avoid the light beam from the projector. The last thing I want to do is disturb everyone by causing a big on-screen shadow as I go, so I drop down and crawl between the chairs, returning all the perturbed looks with smiles and little waves, trying to look like I planned this all along.

  On my hands and knees, trailing my jacket along the rough-hewn boards might not be the most dignified way to leave, and it makes a mockery of how long I spent getting my eyeliner perfect. But it’s better than staying and ending up like I did a couple of weeks after my stroke – coming round on my parents’ living room floor, looking up at my mum and dad’s terrified faces with my words extra blurry and wet pants. And all because the strobe lights on the Top of the Pops revisit to 1977 gave me a seizure.

  Afterwards my mum was furious with my dad for making us watch it, but those two love their nostalgia. That was the year of Queen’s Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and they always go all moony when that comes on. My mum once confessed to Tash and I about having Freddy Mercury posters on her bedroom wall, but obviously Dad thinks it’s all about him. Usually Tash and I end up fake vomming over the chair arm, which they hate, so at least me sliding off the cushions and hitting the floor jerking saved them from that.

  Even though the fit only lasted seconds it was lucky Tash was there to take control. Luckier still that Dad hadn’t given in and let Mum take up the old laminate floor and put down carpet instead. She’d actually got as far as choosing one, but it’s a point of honour in their relationship that Dad resists every one of her forward pushes. Imagine if I’d made a massive wet patch in front of the sofa on her brand new Nordic loop. She’d have been beside herself.

  As it was, the puddle ran all the way under the coffee table and out the other side, where it hit Tiddlywink’s foot. Apparently Tiddlywink didn’t move a muscle, she just stood rigid and watched it soaking into the blue velvet of her Little Mermaid slipper. That child is one cool cookie, nothing fazes her. By the time I came round and got back downstairs in some dry clothes, it was all mopped up, and we got in before the Friday night rush at A&E. But, needless to say, I don’t want to relive that. Especially not in front of the happy gardeners.

  Plum is waiting for me by the door, her paint-spattered overalls looking a lot like her sea pictures. ‘Everything okay?’

  I nod. ‘I don’t do flashing lights, I’ll go for a walk instead.’ I’d rather they didn’t know the details.

  ‘Right.’ Her eyes are full of concern, but she skips the awkward questions and sticks with the practical stuff. ‘You’re welcome to come and wait upstairs, I promise to find you a paint-free corner.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll grab some alone time.’ I make my smile extra bright.

  Her whisper turns to a chortle. ‘Good luck with that – no one’s ever on their own for long in St Aidan.’

  I step outside, still doing up my coat. As I pull my scarf tighter against a flurry of wind, the cobbles are washed with pale light from the shop windows. I stop by Crusty Cobs to count the strawberry tarts – four – and custard slices – three – and only hurry on when I start to shiver. When I get to the harbour the water is shiny black, and the rigging is clinking against the dark lines of masts as they bob against the sky. As I stride past the rows of tiny pastel-painted cottages fronting onto the quayside Aunty Jo’s tunes are on slow-mo in my head.

  Whatever I’m doing, I always have a mental backing track playing. The day of the jump I had Titanium on repeat, when I was out on my building sites it was always something fast and bouncy. Blasting around the country with Marcus in his ever changing convertibles, Cold Play was where our musical tastes collided. For me that When I Ruled the World song was like Marcus’s signature tune and the backing track to our life together. Since I’ve been ill I can’t believe how much lippy I get though making damn sure my happy, super smiley outside shell hasn’t changed any. But, however hard I try on the inside, all I can get in my head are slow chords and heart-wrenching, minor keys. At times, even Aunty Jo’s ‘wring out your hanky’ songs feel too upbeat.

  That’s another strange thing. Just as reading and writing and speaking are all powered by different parts of the brain, singing stems from yet another area. I might struggle to put two words together, but entire lines of lyrics pop up in my mind without me wanting them to be there at all. It’s happening as I slip along the dune path down to the beach. There’s a crescent moon in the sky, and the music playing in my ears slows to a Johnny Cash plod … full of broken thoughts … I cannot repair … I will let you down … I will make you hurt … It’s as if the working part of my brain automatically knows those are exactly the right lines. However much I put on a happy face to the outside world, really, really mournful music is the true expression
of who I am and where my life is right now.

  As I thread my way down to where the breakers are rushing up the beach in pale wavy lines my eyes are getting more used to the darkness. Around the bay the arc of pinprick lights follows the line of the coast, but their gentle twinkle against the mottled black of the sky isn’t a threat. When I slide my phone out of my pocket, it lights up and tells me what I already know – the little line of dots in the screen corner has gone. The signal and internet give out somewhere higher up the hill which means my phone genie, Siri, has gone all silent on me, not that she’s ever that cooperative. Not only that, but even if I needed to, I couldn’t ring Mum or Bella.

  The realisation slides into focus as slowly as the music – for the first time in months I’m totally on my own. Out of reach. Away from the protection of the people who love me and who have been keeping me safe by never letting me out of their sight. It’s like I’ve accidentally wandered into a no man’s land away from where I should be. There’s a sensible voice in my head telling me I should go back to where I’m safe, where there are people at least. But at the same time I don’t want to rush.

  As my foot catches on a stick of driftwood I stoop and pick it up. It’s straight and smooth like a bone and, without thinking, I head to where the beach is firmer and begin to scratch marks in the sand with the wooden point. It’s easier when there’s no one watching. When there’s no one there to see how badly I’m doing, my hand is somehow more free to move. I try one small line, then another crossing it. Then do the same again. And again. Then I try a row of those ‘s’s that always catch me out on paper because the pen won’t curl fast enough so, however hard I try, they end up twice the size of all the other letters.

  Scratching with the end of a stick with the wind snatching at my hair, knowing that soon the crash and fall of the tide will thunder over the marks and suck away the traces of where I’ve been, it’s easier. My lips twist into a smile as I look along my wandering line of ‘s’s and ‘x’s and see a whole empty beach stretching into the distance, all waiting to be written on.

  A cry in the darkness behind me makes me turn. There’s a big figure and a smaller one, their jackets flapping in the shadows, and another shout as the smaller one springs towards me.

  ‘Edie Browne! What are you writing?’ Only one person calls me that.

  ‘Nothing much.’ The wind snatches my words away.

  He lets out a wail. ‘That’s way more than when you were writing on paper.’

  ‘It’s easier here.’ Anyone else, I’d be fed up at them finding me. Cam I don’t mind, although I can’t say the same for Barney.

  ‘What? On the beach, in the dark?’ He’s very judgmental for six. ‘We’re going for ice cream.’

  ‘Brill.’ Shouldn’t he be asleep by now?

  ‘At the Surf Shack.’ He points to a wooden building with swinging lights on its deck, further along the sand. ‘You could come too.’

  That’s a bad idea, for a hundred reasons I can’t immediately put my stick on. I’m hesitating when Barney arrives.

  ‘Best coffee along the bay. They do a mean hot chocolate too.’

  ‘I’m not …’ Not getting my excuses together fast enough for starters.

  ‘Cam wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important to him.’

  Even in the dark, with only the smallest shimmer of moonlight reflecting off the blackness of the sea, I can sense his disapproval. If he’s trying to make me feel hugely that I have to, it’s working. If I hadn’t been caught out before, I might have given in already. I slide out my phone, then slide it back in my pocket because it’s not telling me anything. Realistically, I reckon they’ve barely started their flower slides yet.

  Barney’s insistent. ‘Five minutes. Then you can go back to whatever’s so pressing.’

  He’s overstepping again. Totally ignoring that I’m on a private walk. If it wasn’t for Cam, I wouldn’t be considering this. But, to be fair, without Cam he wouldn’t be asking.

  As we kick our way along the beach and up the broad wooden steps of the Surf Shack I’m hoping this won’t be another ‘boat in the bay’ fiasco. But I have to admit there’s something about Cam’s small scrap of a figure beside me, kicking sand in the half light, that makes my heart turn over. That’s what’s tugging me.

  As we push through the door into what looks like a hut made from thousands of mismatched planks hammered together, we’re hit by a wall of warmth, and a broad smile from the guy behind the counter. Apart from a few salt-streaked surfers, we’re the only customers. Cam heads for a rough-hewn table, slides onto a metal chair, swings his feet and looks up expectantly.

  I grab the chair that’s close to Cam and as far away from Barney as possible. It’s only when he slides into his seat and I get the full benefit of taut denim stretched across muscly thighs that it hits me. I’m so used to thinking of myself as out of the dating scene I forgot to worry that people could think I was here for entirely the wrong reason.

  There’s not even time for me to have a good look at the piles of goodies under glass domes on the counter because the guy from behind the counter is already at the table. The glass he puts down in front of Cam is filled with scoops of colourful ice cream, and topped with wafers and a long spoon.

  ‘Wow, quick work.’ It’s one of my blurts.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cam’s eyes are huge, but as he picks up the long spoon, he still hasn’t smiled.

  The waiter laughs. ‘Same order, same time every week. We like to be ready for our regulars.’ He turns to me. ‘So what can I get for you?’

  ‘A small coffee, please.’ Despite the cake stacks, sometimes it’s best to be minimal.

  Barney turns to me. ‘Way too boring – this is chocolate central. Look at the chalkboard – you have to be wilder.’

  As far as I’m concerned, the board he’s waving at might be taller than the waiter but it’s still just a load of squiggles. At least I remember enough about cafés to wing it. ‘A small coffee with chocolate then.’ There’s definitely a name for it, I just can’t nail what it is.

  ‘A mocha?’ The waiter beams. ‘One mochaccino, coming up.’ He turns to Barney.

  ‘Great choice – same here, but I’ll go large.’

  It’s not just never being allowed to be on your own that’s off kilter here, it’s also coffee sizing. When the waiter comes back it turns out ‘small’ means enormous and ‘large’ is more like one of those boat things that crosses the channel with cars on. They’ve both got lumps of floating cream approximately the size of the Isle of Wight. Around the island the liquid is so thick and chocolatey I wish I was getting the full benefit. But at least it warms me, and the cream is fabulously thick and sticky as I suck it off my spoon.

  Cam takes a bite of his wafer then gives me a hard stare. ‘But why didn’t you have ice cream?’

  It’s easier being put on the spot by someone Cam’s size. ‘I was too icy already.’

  ‘Next time you have to have ice cream.’

  If I was shivering before, that thought makes my insides go glacial. ‘We’ll see.’ By next Friday I hope to have come up with a plan that doesn’t involve crawling or gardeners or freezing my shit off on the beach. Or not being able to read the menu at whatever this place is called.

  Barney watches Cam working his way down his ice cream, then turns to me. ‘Cam’s ice creams at the Surf Shack are a long-standing Friday night tradition.’

  As if that explains anything. And then suddenly it all falls into place. Sadie from Zinc Inc had kids and an ex, and didn’t spare us the details. Single dads and mahoosive ‘daddy loves you more’ sweeteners? Compensatory ice creams don’t come any larger than the one Cam’s wading through now. The warning bells couldn’t be clanging any louder.

  Knowing the tussles Sadie and her husband had, if this is a divorce, I need to keep my distance. Run for the hills, and now wouldn’t be a moment too soon. As if Sadie hadn’t drilled it into us single women, going within a country mile of a single dad is too
near, especially if they’re using the kids to draw you in.

  ‘That’s great.’ In my head I’m already taking giant strides towards the door. ‘But you have to be careful with …’ I rack my brain, and for once it comes up trumps ‘… inducements … especially with children.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Barney’s rubbing his lip with his thumb, but by the way his eyes clash with mine he’s being deliberately bloody-minded.

  ‘Bribery’s never good. And it’s late too.’ Simply by being here, I’m condoning all of it.

  Barney’s voice rises. ‘And it’s so wrong to have a blast on the beach and an ice cream to make ourselves feel better?’

  I squeeze Cam’s shoulder as I get up and focus on the freckles on his nose, not how sad his eyes are. ‘Sorry Cam, I have to go now. I promised Aunty Jo.’ I hope he’ll understand. And it is the truth. If I’m not back at the gallery when the lights go on again, Aunty Jo will worry. Ring my mother. Send out the lifeboats. I dip in my pocket, pull out some cash and wedge it under the bottle full of fairy lights in the middle of the table.

  Then I back towards the door and give them a wave. ‘Okay, see you soon. Love you, bye.’ This time I don’t mind I’ve blurted it, so long as it was for Cam. It’s only as I’m speeding down the steps outside that I remember I should have looked at the numbers on the note.

  12

  Day 145: Monday, 26th March

  At Periwinkle Cottage

  Epic Achievement: Finding Unicorn slices really exist.

  If I thought a gardeners’ slideshow was bad there was worse to come. That’s the trouble with a deserted seaside town in winter; now people know we’re here they expect us to come to every event. Somehow we manage to dodge Saturday’s picnic and daffodil walk near St Austell with the gardeners’ club, because they’re all going in cars and, until one of us gets back behind the wheel, Aunty Jo and I don’t have our own transport. It’s one thing getting a lift into St Aidan, quite another committing to all day in someone else’s car. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Beth was pressing us to go to a Dance Till Your Feet Drop Off eighties disco. I couldn’t even fall back on the flashing lights excuse, because she said they don’t run to those. Much as I love retro tunes, dancing in the dark is what you do with besties, not strangers, but some lucky star must have been passing over because Aunty Jo did another of her surprise interventions and insisted our Saturday evening was already spoken for.