A Cottage by the Sea

by Carole Matthews

  Harry doesn’t like it when we spend hours reminiscing about a life and a time that he wasn’t involved with. I’ll admit that when we get started on the ‘good old days’ we do get a bit carried away with ourselves. Once we get going, we can talk for hours. You can’t help but do that with good friends, can you? It’s not as if we have huge reunions every five minutes. We all have busy lives and often only manage to get together every couple of months for a catch-up. We normally go out for a glass of wine and a pizza, nothing more exciting than that. We haven’t had a girls’ holiday together since we all went to Prague on my hen weekend over seven years ago now. So, as reluctant as he is, I’m sure that Harry can’t begrudge me a week with my friends.

  ‘I’m dying of thirst,’ Harry says sullenly.

  My heart sinks. What he means is he needs alcohol. I think this interminable car journey is the longest I’ve seen him go without a drink lately. I don’t quite know what’s going on, but recently there have been far too many late nights at work, too much restorative red wine. When he does eventually come home, I can’t prise him away from his iPad or his mobile phone. It seems as if he’d rather spend time doing who knows what on Twitter than be with me.

  It pains me to say that I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t in raised voices. We’ve been married for seven years, but I can’t see us making another seven at this rate. It’s not so much the seven-year itch as the seven-year slump. The last few months in particular have been just awful and, as a couple, we’re as far apart as we’ve ever been. We get up at different times, go to work, eat dinner separately. Sex is a distant memory as I’m usually in bed and long asleep by the time Harry climbs the stairs. The weekends are no better. Harry’s taken to shutting himself in his office and I mooch round the house by myself until I too give up trying to have fun and resort to the distraction of paperwork. It’s no way to live. It’s barely half a life. We are living to work, not working to live.

  If I’m honest, there are times when I’ve felt like walking out. The only thing keeping me from doing that is the fact that I remember the Harry who I married – just about. The man who was charming, sophisticated and great company. It’s simply a phase, I keep telling myself. It can’t be roses round the door all the time. But sometimes it’s hard when I look at the stranger sitting next to me.

  We’re both desperate for this break and I’m so hoping that we can spend some time together, relaxing, having fun and getting back to how we once were. That’s all we need, I’m sure. Time. Time to sort things out. Time to have a laugh. Time to work out where it’s all gone wrong.

  I glance across at him. He’s still a good-looking man. Tall, once quite muscular, but now that he’s drinking more there’s a hint of a paunch as he’s never been one to embrace the idea of vigorous exercise. We used to like walking, but now it’s all I can do to get him out of the flat at the weekend to go for a stroll down the road. The distance between our front door and the pub is the only walking he likes to do these days. His blue chambray shirt is straining slightly at the seams. I daren’t suggest a diet as that would only be another reason to argue, but I’m gently trying to introduce healthier options into our evening meals. Harry’s older than me. At forty-four, he’s twelve years my senior. Not a lot these days, I guess, but I wonder if it will become more of an issue as the years pass. Still, we have to patch up where we are now before I can worry about the future. I want to run my hand through his hair. It’s cropped short, greying slightly at the temples. He hates it when I touch it.

  This person was once the life and soul of the party. Harry only had to walk into a room to make it light up and I was in awe of him. He was always so confident, so assured, that it spilled over on to me and I blossomed in his love. We were great as a couple. We might never have had a wild passion as such, but we were solid. Or so I thought. We fell into step nicely. As a couple the whole was better than the sum of two parts. I sigh to myself. Now look at us. Two people circling each other, never quite in time. This holiday will do us good. It will bring us back together, I’m sure. Because, more than anything, I want my husband to fall in love with me all over again.

  Harry’s voice breaks into my thoughts. ‘Found out where we are yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. Though, if I’m honest, I’m not exactly sure. Anxiously, I twiddle one of my curls as I try to figure out where we are on the lines and squiggles of the map. I wasn’t blessed with the map-reading gene, hence our heavy reliance on the sat nav. ‘It’s just over this hill. I think.’

  With a tut, he stomps on the accelerator and we set off again. A few minutes later, over the brow of the hill as I’d predicted, I’m mightily relieved to see a sign for Cwtch Cottage – pronounced Cutch, so Ella tells me.

  ‘This is it,’ I assure Harry and we turn into a narrow track.

  We slow to walking pace as the lane is bordered by high hedgerows on each side, with a tall line of grass right down the middle of it, like a secret passage. We squeeze our way towards the cottage. Already I feel as if I’m entering a different world.

  ‘I hope this doesn’t scratch the paintwork,’ Harry grumbles.

  I feel stupid in this car. A Bentley doesn’t fit with the scenery. Frankly, it doesn’t fit with me at all, but it’s Harry’s new toy. His pride and joy. He treated himself to it a month or so ago when he had his annual bonus from work. Though I’ve no idea why anyone would feel the need to spend so much on a car. It’s an insane amount of money to blow. To top it off, he bought a personal number plate too. He loves its gleaming black showiness. I just wish that we had something a little more anonymous. Something in beige, so that the local vandals won’t feel the need to run a key down the side of it. This car is criminal damage waiting to happen. To me a man with a flash car is like him walking around, waving his willy. Though as I hardly ever drive now – who needs to in London? – I don’t feel that I can really impose a low-key choice of car on my other half. If this is what Harry wants, then who am I to argue?

  A profusion of wild flowers blooms in the hedgerow, glorious shades of pink, yellow and white. I open the window to let their colourful heads trail over my hand. The scent is heady.

  ‘You’ll get seeds and all sorts in the car,’ Harry says. ‘Next summer there’ll be dandelions growing in the carpet and we’ll wonder why. Shut the window.’

  Reluctantly, I do.

  Thankfully, a short and bumpy ride later, Ella’s cottage comes into view. ‘We’re here!’

  The sight of it takes my breath away. Cwtch Cottage stands in splendid isolation on a rocky promontory at the entrance to a small, secluded bay overlooking the sea. It’s a simple structure, long and low, painted white, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anywhere quite so beautiful.

  ‘Oh, look at it, Harry,’ I say. ‘Wasn’t this worth that awful journey? It’s stunning.’

  Ella had shown me photographs of the cottage, but they just hadn’t conveyed how spectacular the setting was. There’s an unbroken view right to the horizon where the sea meets the sky.

  Harry brings the Bentley to a standstill at the end of the bay and stares out of the window, open-mouthed. ‘Christ, there’s nothing here.’

  ‘It’s wonderful.’

  The tight band that seems to be melded to my heart these days eases slightly. I think I can actually hear it sigh with relief. Tears prickle behind my eyes. You can keep your Seychelles and your Maldives, this is paradise to me. How I wish we were staying here for two weeks or even longer. A week seems barely adequate.

  My husband is less moved by the surroundings. The expression on his face is bleak. ‘Where’s the nearest pub?’

  ‘I don’t know. Ella said that it was quite remote.’

  ‘You’re not bloody kidding.’

  ‘Oh, Harry.’ I kiss his cheek. ‘It will be lovely, you’ll see.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything for miles.’ He punches his digit at his mobile phone. ‘No signal either.’

  Smiling, I offe
r up a silent prayer of thanks. A whole seven days without having to compete with Twitter!

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘I’m really looking forward to this. We can have some time just to be together, to chill out, to put things right.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with us,’ Harry says crisply.

  But there is, I think. We both know that there is.

  Chapter Three

  We park up outside the cottage next to Ella and Art’s cars. I climb out and massage my back. Even in a posh car all the hours of sitting have taken their toll. The breeze lifts my hair from my neck and I can taste the tang of salt in the air. The heat of the sun on my cold skin feels like a loving caress. Ella rushes out to greet us.

  ‘Hey!’ she shouts and grabs hold of me in as near to a bear-hug as someone who is five foot nothing can manage. We do a little dance while still holding tightly on to each other. ‘God, it’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Well, now we’ve got a whole week to gossip to our hearts’ content.’

  ‘How lovely.’ Ella looks as excited as a child at Christmas. ‘Was it a pig of a journey?’

  ‘It wasn’t the best,’ I respond wryly.

  ‘The weekends are always a nightmare. Too many cars on the road.’

  ‘We’re here now,’ I say. ‘Let relaxation commence.’

  Harry is hanging back, fussing with the cases and the gifts that we’ve brought.

  She flicks her head in Harry’s direction. ‘Is he in a mood?’

  ‘Frightful,’ I tell her and we giggle together like schoolgirls.

  ‘We’ll soon get the old bugger sozzled,’ she promises. ‘That’ll make him loosen up a bit.’

  Ella’s not to know that I’m worried about his drinking. Harry has always liked a drink and turns into a total party animal after a bottle or two. But, in the last six months, I feel that it’s become a more regular habit and has tipped over the edge into something else.

  ‘Liking’ a drink has suddenly become ‘needing’ a drink, I feel, and I’m concerned about the amount of wine that he gets through in a week now. I’ve even been tempted to hide our recycling box so that the neighbours don’t see the amount of empty bottles in there. Whenever I’ve tried to raise the issue with him, he’s just snapped at me. But I’m frightened that Harry can’t do without alcohol to get him through the day. I haven’t yet mentioned my unease to either Ella or Flick. Somehow by keeping it to myself, I could pretend that it really wasn’t a problem and I don’t want to start the holiday on a negative note by voicing my fears, so I keep quiet.

  Harry comes and takes Ella in his arms. ‘Hello, darling,’ he says. ‘How’s life with you?’

  ‘It’s good. Sorry that we’re in the middle of nowhere,’ Ella gushes. ‘I know that you like having a multiplicity of bars and coffee shops close to hand. But just look at the view!’

  ‘Fantastic,’ he says in a voice that barely disguises the fact that he’s disappointed that we’re not admiring a white sandy beach in the Caribbean. He eyes the seagulls suspiciously. ‘Brought my own booze. Thought I might need it.’

  Harry flicks a thumb towards the boot of the car where there are two cases of wine nestling. Inwardly, I sigh. I couldn’t persuade him that we didn’t need to bring quite so much booze with us. Harry insisted that he needed it to ‘get in the holiday mood’.

  ‘Let’s take a closer look at the beach,’ I suggest. ‘Coming, Harry?’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ he says. ‘See if I can get a signal.’ He waves his mobile at me.

  Why? I wonder. Why? Can’t he leave it alone for five minutes?

  Ella leads me by the hand to the edge of the terrace. Away from the shelter of the cottage, a stiff wind whips in from the sea. But the breeze is warm and the cool spray spritzing my face feels wonderful, zingy. It’s late June and summer is only just starting to live up to its promise. The weather for the last week has been sweltering, sultry, and it’s so nice to be out of London and its oppressive city heat. I lift my arms and reach out to the sun. I should be in an advert for Ocean Breeze shower gel or something. No doubt my mass of brunette curls, untameable at the best of times, will take on a life of their very own here.

  ‘God, this is brilliant.’ I want to throw off my clothes and run barefoot in the sand. ‘How do you stay away from this place?’

  ‘It’s increasingly hard,’ Ella admits.

  ‘I’m not surprised. I’d never want to leave.’

  Ella inherited the cottage when her mum died a few months ago after a stroke. It wasn’t entirely unexpected as Mrs Hawley wasn’t in the best of health and had been in a nursing home for a few years prior to that, suffering from a hefty catalogue of illnesses. But it’s never easy to lose a parent whatever the circumstances. Barely a year earlier Ella had helped to nurse her dad through terminal cancer, so she’s gone through a rough time. Flick and I have supported her as much as we could but, as she was an only child, the weight of the burden had fallen on Ella.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ I tell my friend. ‘You’re positively blooming.’ She blushes at that. ‘The sea air must suit you.’

  Ella favours the Goth look. Today she’s abandoned her trademark black clothes for faded denim shorts and a fitted white shirt. Her dyed black cropped hair is messier than usual and it suits her. Her normally pale face has a smidgen of tan and the pinched look, from nursing ailing parents for too long, has all but gone. She’s put a few pounds on her waif-like frame and – I’d never dare to tell her this – it sits well on her.

  ‘I do feel like a different person when I’m down here,’ she confesses. ‘Perhaps I’ve found my spiritual home.’

  ‘“Spiritual home”,’ I tease. ‘You’ve been smoking those strange-smelling cigarettes again.’

  ‘No,’ Ella says, ‘not me!’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it suits you.’ I nod back towards the cars. ‘I see that Art’s already here.’

  ‘He came down last night,’ Ella says. She lowers her voice. ‘He’s a grumpy bastard too. He and Harry can sit on deckchairs and get pissed together.’

  ‘Is he being supportive?’

  She sighs. ‘In his own sweet way. You know what men are like. Art doesn’t do illness or death.’

  ‘He probably doesn’t know what to say for the best,’ I offer. ‘It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t care, sweetheart.’

  ‘I know. Sometimes I feel I’m bottling things up for Art’s sake when what I really want is a good blub. He’s just so hopeless at dealing with emotion.’

  ‘Tell me about it. After all these years of marriage, Harry still has no idea what to do if, on the rare occasion, I actually cry.’

  ‘I’ve been down here for a few weeks already,’ she tells me. ‘Just making sure that the place is spick and span. With Mum having been in the nursing home for so long, it hasn’t been used for a while.’

  ‘How are you coping, generally?’ I ask, giving her a squeeze.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Some days better than others. I miss Mum terribly, but she hadn’t been herself for ages, so it was a relief in some ways. She hated living like that. She’ll be happier now that she’s with Dad.’ We both start to well up. ‘Don’t start me off!’ Ella cuffs away the tears. ‘We’re here to have fun this week, put all this out of my mind for a time.’

  ‘And fun we will have,’ I assure her. ‘I’ve so looked forward to seeing you. We can have a good catch-up and relax.’

  Cwtch Cottage has been in Ella’s family for many years. I think it had originally been handed down to Ella’s parents by an old spinster aunt of her dad’s. Ella spent all her childhood holidays here and always used to tell us how fond she was of the place. Then when her dad fell ill and couldn’t travel, her mum didn’t want to come here on her own without him. Ella used to bring her occasionally, but the visits were few and far between. Then, in turn, her mum became too frail to make the journey and the cottage was pretty much abandoned.

  ‘The place needs a bit of TLC,’ Ella
continues. Much like my good self, I think. ‘I’ve tried to get down at least a couple of times a year, but it hasn’t always been easy. Thankfully, there’s a lovely lady in St Brides who keeps an eye on it for me, makes sure it’s not swallowed up by the sea or too overrun by spiders. Still, I’m going to have my work cut out getting it back up to scratch.’

  ‘Well, it looks very lovely to me.’