Edie Browne's Cottage by the Sea

by Jane Linfoot

  ‘So, one last song for all of us here in Happy-by-the-Sea.’ Everyone starts shouting again, but he recrosses his ankles and shakes his head. ‘This one’s mine.’

  If he starts playing Dire Straits’ Romeo and Juliet I might just start to cry. But I’m in luck because he doesn’t. As the first slow, laid-back notes drift across the bay, and he raises an eyebrow at me, I already know the tune.

  Just a perfect day,

  Drink Sangria in the park

  And then later

  When it gets dark, we go home …’

  It probably is every bit of the cliché he said I’d say it was, but I forgive him for that. However overdone this one is, I love it anyway, and from the smiles on everyone else’s faces, so do they.

  ‘Oh it’s such a perfect day,

  I’m glad I spent it with you …’

  For the smallest fraction of a second it’s like he’s singing this just for me. That he somehow senses the warm fuzzy feeling that seems to have inexplicably wrapped itself around me like a blanket some time around my third hot dog. It’s complete bollocks anyway, because he wasn’t even here for most of the day, he only rolled up recently, and it’s nothing to do with him anyway. The perfect part is definitely mine. The kind of perfect that’s down to an afternoon of flowers and laughing. This one snatched moment, sitting watching the sun slide down towards the sea, with the soft sand giving underneath me as I shift, the frill of the water as it sidles up the beach. Me, but not just me on my own; this is me sitting in the middle of people who all care for each other and only want the best for people. A freckle-faced little boy with his hand on one of my knees, and a dog snoring on my other. One of those moments where you wish the world would stop turning, because for this split second I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, or any other way. Because I’m truly and utterly …

  Then to my complete horror/shock/mortification, I slide back into real life and realise I’m singing along too.

  29

  Day 198: Friday, 18th May

  Walking on the beach

  Epic Achievement: Rationalising the randomness. (And embracing it, for now.)

  As places go, sleepy St Aidan with its handful of shops and hotchpotch of cottages that slide down to the sea, couldn’t be more different from the hum and buzz of the cities I left behind. In Bath and Bristol, even though there are parks and trees, mostly it’s an undulating ocean of roofs and chimneys and walls and windows, with roads and noise that go on forever. Out of season, in a tiny seaside ghost town where most of the houses aren’t lived in anyway, I was expecting the kind of emptiness where I could ease my way back to normality against a backdrop of waves rushing up the beach and the cry of seagulls, with the only excitement being the occasional treat from an evening-opening chippy. But if I was counting on my days here being calm and serene and coherent, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  I’m trying to put my finger on the difference between before and now, because in theory, juggling a house, a partner and a full-time job, which is what I did for years up until I moved out of Marcus’s, life should have been frantic. But actually I feel way busier now. Back then everything I did was mapped out as far into the future as I could see, and further. Projects were forecasted, holidays and weekends away were pencilled in. My detailed monthly planners were filled up ages ahead with meetings and – less so – fun and relaxation. Then every day was broken up into boxes, short bites of time that were perfectly synchronised so activities flowed easily from one to the next. There were a huge number of people in my life then too, but because they all popped up in the right squares, somehow they fitted in seamlessly.

  Even though I maybe wasn’t naturally organised to start with, by the end I was so on top of my game we even knew what we’d be eating for dinner weeks before we ate it. On the surface I was still my original, slightly ditsy, smiley self. But if you bothered to look underneath it was a whole neater and tidier story.

  Once I’d learned the trick of ruling out surprises, I came to rely on how certain life was. I have to admit, I got to like how reassuring it is to know things aren’t going to go tits up at any moment. Until the day Marcus dropped his kiddie bombshell, the only unpredictable bits of my life were the songs coming up on the radio, and the odd site crisis. When the worst I had to deal with was the wrong kind of door closers getting fitted to kitchen cupboards, or the odd hammer getting dropped into a bath so we had to sanction a new one – well, I’d say that super-busy had been realigned into wonderfully manageable.

  Then I think of now … when there are hardly any people and barely any tasks – and yet life is completely chaotic. Hardly anyone goes out to office jobs, people spend so much more time chatting, doing things together, popping in and out of each other’s houses and gardens. Everyone’s looking out for everyone else, but in some ways that’s exhausting. It’s like coping with a family the size of a town.

  Once I get to thinking about it, it’s lovely that everyone in St Aidan is so welcoming. It’s amazing that they’re all so involved, and reaching out so much to help us. But no one plans more than a day or two ahead, and that’s if you’re lucky. Most times they don’t look further than the next cup of tea. People have ideas, then they do them immediately. What happens from one second to the next depends on the latest brainwave. Every single event, from egg hunts to impromptu singalongs, rolls straight out. It’s all very well being spontaneous, but when I’m so used to order it can feel overwhelming. And my other difficulty here is that I still haven’t completely got to grips with time yet. I know light and dark, and meals, but in between time is silky; however hard I try to anchor it down, the knots still slip.

  As Aunty Jo said when we were poring over her calendar together this morning, I’ve already been here over two months now. After so much anything-could-happen randomness, I’m wondering how it will feel when I finally get back to Bath and my safe, reliable little boxes.

  St Aidan might have been empty when I arrived but it certainly isn’t now the season’s getting going. There’s no hope of a parking space at weekends – not that parking bothers us for now – but the businesses are buzzing. The good part is my plank signs are selling by the stack, and they’ve ordered more. Loella and Beth helped me choose some of my calligraphy doodles and then had them printed as postcards. Plum has given me my own little rack to sell them at the gallery, and I’ve framed some as little pictures too. And the orders for cushions keep pinging in, so there’s always something to do.

  Now the visitors are coming, Plum’s using the gallery space for exhibitions, and the classes were going to stop. In passing I mentioned to Loella that it seemed a shame when Aunty Jo’s barn is standing empty, and the same afternoon Morgan arrived with some really pretty tables and chairs that were going begging up at The Harbourside Hotel. So it’s official, the workshops will move up here until Aunty Jo sells, or the end of the season.

  As if life wasn’t full enough, now we’ve added in dog walks too. All it takes for those to happen is Barney knocking on the door with Dustin. With my slippery timescale, whenever he’s ready works better for me too. If we had set arrangements I’d spend all my time worrying when they were going to be. At first when Dustin arrived last week we took him for walks with Robert, but he settled in really fast. Seeing as his legs are so much longer, he’s getting extra walks on his own now too.

  The best walks are the ones when Robert comes too and Cam is there to do the talking. Luckily Dustin loves playing football, so when it’s just Barney, Dustin and me, I end up getting all athletic and running twice the distance booting the ball up and down the beach. My small talk’s not brilliant at the best of times, but somehow lately when I’m out with just Barney it’s like my tongue’s glued to the roof of my mouth. But as Barney keeps saying, at least it means I get my miles in and it saves Aunty Jo the trouble. Unless there’s a gardening club outing, she refuses to set foot on the sand, and she’s not the world’s most enthusiastic walker even when we restrict ourselves to cobbles
and pavements.

  This morning when Barney wanders into view he’s got both dogs in tow. As it’s already baking in the garden room, where we’re finishing our coffee, I grab a cardi and a scarf and hurry outside before Aunty Jo gets too nervy about what Dustin might do to her freshly painted cottage walls.

  Before we go anywhere I get the kind of exuberant ‘good morning’ greeting of licks and jumps and barks from Dustin that makes my heart want to burst, then bob down and get a smaller version from Robert. As I follow Barney out onto the lane, he hands me Dustin’s lead.

  ‘Poor old Dustin, Josie’s not warming, is she?’

  ‘You thought she would?’ I’m not sure why it matters. I’m moving my legs extra fast to put some distance between us along the lane, trying to make it look like it’s Dustin’s idea.

  ‘Everyone’s smitten by Dustin, I had hoped she’d fall a lot more in love than she has.’ He and Robert break into a run to catch me. ‘Hang on, some of us back here have only got short legs.’

  ‘Sorry, Dustin’s pulling.’ And some people’s legs go all the way up to their armpits. Just saying. Obviously not Robert’s.

  ‘Dustin never pulls, he’s trained to walk to heel, Edie Browne. You’re never going to get the most out of the morning if you’re marching.’

  I’m hurling out the excuses. ‘I’m used to going fast with Aunty Jo.’ It’s her way of getting it over. ‘We all know how wound up she is.’

  He’s straight back at me. ‘What, and you’re not?’

  My voice rises to a squeak. If I wasn’t so incensed I’d mind more that we’ve hit the pavement now, and we’re so close our shoulders are bumping. ‘I’m the least uptight person I know. I’ve always been laid-back.’

  He’s coughing into his fist. ‘And I’m an astronaut …’

  It sounds like a distraction, but I can’t actually remember. ‘What do they do again?’

  ‘They orbit the moon in rockets.’ He’s closing his eyes. ‘This has nothing to do with spacemen, Edie, all I’m saying is if you dared to let go more you might surprise yourself.’

  Which is rich coming from someone who barely cracked a smile for weeks, and makes me want to run back to the comfort of my well ordered life-boxes faster than ever. But I’m saved an argument when we run straight into one of Dustin’s many admirers. Dustin’s so much of a waggy bear, not many people pass us on the streets without stopping for a word and a pat, so once I’m down in the village I’m spared getting all self-conscious and tongue-tied.

  Another thing now the days are brighter is how much I’m loving being on the beach itself. When I’m up at the cottage I’m always looking out to see what shade the sea is, trying to catch the reflections of its mood, whether it’s wild and dishevelled and unpredictable, or serene and calm. On our way down, I long for every new glimpse, framed between the cottages as we wind down through the town, loving the moment when we get down to the quayside and see the whole bay shining in front of us like it is now.

  As soon as we cross the harbour we let the dogs off the leads, and they shoot off across the dunes and leap down onto the beach, followed by Barney. I’m teetering on the edge of the last tuft of reeds, working out if I can jump down onto the sand or if I need to edge down on my bottom when Barney turns.

  ‘Need a hand?’

  It’s the same as the day we went sailing. It’s not actually a question because the next moment my feet are flying through the air, only instead of landing in a puddle in the bottom of the boat, this time when I land I’m standing, my boobs crushed against his ribs. I wait for him to take a step back, but he doesn’t. He just stares right on down at me, except at close range those dark brown eyes are softer. And I’m stuck there, listening to the rush of the surf falling over the sand, and the bang of his heart – or possibly it’s mine. It’s one of those moments where the world seems to stop turning – there’s enough time for me to watch his mouth part, his head tilt slightly, and for my stomach to leave my body entirely as his wrist lands on my shoulder.

  His voice is low. ‘We’ve almost got the beach to ourselves.’

  Then his eyes blur out of focus, and for one crazy second I swear he’s going to snog me. And the worst thing of all, my lips are parting, ready, and I’m already anticipating the softness and the warmth.

  Then he blows out a breath, takes a step back. ‘Sorry, I was miles away there.’

  I spin, run across the soft sand, down to where the zigzags carved by the waves are like whale bones and the water stretches to infinity. Somehow the bluster of the wind beating on my ears and the incredible curve of the shore stretching in both directions around the curl of the bay isn’t covering up how badly I misread that. As I turn around I’m gushing to move this on. ‘It’s only a few steps down from the promenade, but it’s so much more wonderful to be down on the beach, with the sea thundering up on the sand, and my feet pounding towards the waves.’

  As he catches me up a few strides later I’m kicking myself for not being able to wrench my eyes away from his throat as he swallows. ‘So I take it we’ve converted you?’

  I let my eyes fall to the foam sucking backwards, leaving the shiny expanse of wet sand. Not that I’m overcompensating, but I’m filling the space with anything so there isn’t the tiniest crack for my embarrassment. ‘I love that the tide just keeps tumbling in then runs back out again, day after day. How the water’s got navy blue dapples today when it was bright turquoise yesterday. The way it seems like time’s standing still, and yet with so much power it feels like it could go on forever.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then.’

  ‘I guess you can. And the longer I’m here, the more questions there are.’ My strides are so long my breath is coming in little bursts. ‘I mean, where does all that splashy foam come from … and why are there white horses dancing some days and not others … and how come periwinkle shells are so twisty?’

  You can tell from the gush how hard I’m trying here. We’re a good way along the bay when I look over my shoulder and realise I’m talking to myself, and that Barney stopped walking way back.

  ‘Come on, snails.’ He’s so far behind I’m having to yell.

  He’s calling back. ‘You keep going as far as the rock pile, Robert and I will wait for you here.’

  I’m not going to grumble. Instead I throw another stick for Dustin, rub the sand off the shell I just picked up. As we carry on along the beach I’m forcing the last five minutes out of my head in the hope I’ll never think of it again. Put it this way, some moments are best shared because laughing them off diminishes them. But me getting this so wrong makes it too witheringly awful to mention, even to Bella. As for how up for it I was, that’s too embarrassing to admit, even to myself.

  There’s a cool breeze snatching at my hair and making my raggy ponytail even more messy. But the mottled colours of the sea and the warmth of the sun on my back reminds me of all the summers when Marcus and I used to go down to Devon. His family had rented the same rambling seaside house for the same two weeks in summer since he was a kid, and we always came along at some point to join in. It was all very Swallows and Amazons, nothing like my semi-detached childhood at all. There was a boat house, and a dinghy with brown sails, and a housekeeper, and lobster, and they cooked whole fish in the embers in a fire pit in the garden. And there was a thing called a fish kettle that his mum actually knew how to use, and the Prosecco came out of the boot in wooden boxes from the wine merchants instead of from the supermarket. Even though they always seemed really pleased to see us, and laughed instead of minding when I didn’t want to eat oysters, I always felt like I’d made a mistake with the front door I’d knocked on, and accidentally arrived at the wrong party. It was the same feeling I had when we went to their proper house in the country too. The year Tiddlywink was born, Marcus’s parents finally invited me to theirs for a big Christmas with all the frills. Bella was like, ‘Yes, you’re in, girl, bring on the log fires and canapés from Waitrose’,’ but I was ca
cking it so much I had to say Tash was desperate for me to help at hers, and so we went there instead. That could have been my biggest mistake. Letting a guy smell a newborn close up can go either way, and in my case it turned out to be the wrong one. That’s the trouble, once you start looking back on a relationship, the cracks hadn’t just happened. Once you remember what you’re looking for, and start doing the kind of deep thinking you can only do when you’re walking on your own along an – almost – empty beach it’s surprising how far back you can trace them.

  By the time I reach the rocks and turn, Barney is so far away he looks really small, sitting on the sand resting his elbows on his knees. But I know he’s watching us all the way back, because every time I lift my hand and waggle Dustin’s stick in the air and try to act as if I didn’t just make the biggest mistake of my life to date, he waves back at us. Eventually we pick up the pace and jog the rest of the way along the beach. As we arrive back, Dustin bounds up and sticks his nose in Barney’s ear then gives it a good washing, then checks that Robert’s still smelling the same. By the time he’s finished, Dustin’s tongue is lolling, and I’m warm and gasping, but I force myself to ask, because why wouldn’t I?

  ‘Is everything okay, why didn’t you come?’

  ‘We’re fine, I wanted you and Dustin to try walking by yourselves. How was it?’

  ‘Good, he chased sticks, mostly.’

  ‘I was meaning for you, not him.’ There’s a twist to Barney’s lips. ‘Were you okay out there on your own?’

  ‘I wasn’t on my own.’ Having the empty thinking space was delicious. Whatever anyone says, it’s hard to drift off completely when there’s someone – anyone – walking beside you.

  ‘That’s exactly what I hoped you’d feel, we’ll do the same again tomorrow. When I organised for Dustin to stay I didn’t dare hope you’d bond as you have, but if you had a dog of your own who was specifically trained to look after you, you’d feel even more secure.’