The Beach at Doonshean

by Penny Feeny

  ‘And how’s the boy himself?’

  Did he mean Matt? Or Danny? ‘Oh… fine.’ She began to tease back the poultry flesh. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Leo, but I have to concentrate on this because if I don’t do it right it gets into a shocking mess and…’

  ‘No worries. I’ll settle in. The attic, you said?’

  Rachael cast him a doubtful look but his back was turned and he didn’t register it.

  By the time he returned she’d removed the carcasses and swept the frail ribcages and sturdy thigh bones into her stock pot. She was inserting the centrepiece stuffing into the cavity of the first chicken.

  ‘Impressive handiwork,’ said Leo. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘You can pass me the string.’ He fetched it for her, then pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I don’t really like being watched,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you used to give cookery classes.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was information for people who wanted to learn. This isn’t the same as teaching. I feel I’m making an exhibition of myself.’

  ‘You make a fine exhibition, Raquel.’

  ‘Why do you call me that?’

  ‘Oh…’ He leaned his elbow on the table and his cheek on his hand, studying her. ‘Too many Rachels in your generation, aren’t there? It gets confusing. This way I can keep tally.’

  She knotted the string with a deft tug and moved onto her second bird. ‘Does Matt know you’re here?’

  ‘I spoke to him a couple of days ago. Told him I might pass by. He’ll be home tonight though, won’t he? I wouldn’t want to disturb him at work.’

  ‘You’re disturbing me at work.’

  ‘My dear!’ He sprang up, nearly knocking the chair over. ‘I’m sorry. Christ, that was thoughtless.’

  ‘Well…’ Now he was veering too far in the other direction. That was the problem with Leo. You could never be quite certain how sincere he was. And any flattery came hedged with qualifications.

  ‘I’m so bad at that,’ he continued. ‘Putting myself in other people’s shoes. But you’re right. I hate being interrupted during the creative process. How could I forget that you are a creative too, an artist no less.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ She concentrated on spreading the herb stuffing over the sheet of ham before rolling it up.

  ‘Look at those colours,’ said Leo. ‘Green and pink and white. Visual harmony.’

  ‘Well, flavour’s paramount of course, but I like to co-ordinate too. Especially salads: I mix beetroot with red onion and cherry tomato, and chicory and fennel look good against the green of avocado and baby spinach. And then—’ She broke off, suddenly suspicious that he’d been humouring her, that what was a passion to her was only dreary domesticity to him. Where was the intellectual stimulus in producing a decorative plate of food? How could it compare to someone who leapt around drenching six-foot canvases in acrylic paint – even if the average viewer was baffled by the image and had to buy an expensive catalogue to have it explained.

  ‘You have a natural talent,’ said Leo. ‘Matt’s a lucky guy.’

  Other men had said this to her and she never knew how to react; whether it was because they were obsessed with their stomachs or because they fancied her. Once or twice she’d tried the response: ‘I’m lucky too’ and encountered blankness.

  When she’d met Matt – while ladling pasta at a function for young solicitors – the first thing she’d noticed was his tie: the bold patterns and raging colours clutching at his collar like a cry for help. When he’d persuaded her to go for a drink with him, she’d challenged him to take the tie off and tell her what he liked about it.

  Gladly he’d loosened the knot and placed it in her hands like a gift of silk ribbon. ‘It’s striking,’ he’d offered. ‘Makes a statement. I wouldn’t want something wishy-washy.’ And when she learnt that he couldn’t distinguish one shade from another, she fell in love with his misplaced confidence.

  This, along with his knack of reassurance, had drawn her to him. She’d no idea whether it was because tragedy had entered his life so early and forged his character or whether it was a trait inherited from the father he’d scarcely known. But she relied on his encouragement – and she envied his ability to see the positive in everything, because she was beleaguered by doubts. She’d been an ugly duckling as a child and still couldn’t consider herself beautiful. She’d also struggled with dyslexia and become convinced she’d never be good at anything. And now, although she’d discovered she could cook, it was such an ephemeral skill: once a meal was demolished there was nothing to show for it.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ignoring Leo’s comment. ‘I need to get these birds roasted so they’ve time to chill overnight. I like to keep ahead of myself, but you have to achieve a balance between advance preparation and absolute freshness, so…’

  ‘How do you wow them at the lunch?’ said Leo. ‘Chef’s hat askew? Tight black T-shirt? Are you always to be found with a knife in your hand?’

  ‘Actually I’m just delivering the buffet and setting it out. They don’t want me to serve, which is just as well because…’

  ‘Because then you can come out with me.’

  ‘Oh, but…’

  ‘No buts. We’ll go for a spin and find a pub somewhere. Did you see my new toy?’

  ‘Toy?’

  ‘A 1975 Lotus Elan +2. One of the last to be produced. Nick wants – or rather his wife insists – that he sell and I’m trying to decide if I want to buy. Completely impractical, but that’s the charm isn’t it? And I quite like tinkering with engines. I’ve never minded getting my hands dirty.’

  ‘I’d have to get back for Danny.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m looking forward to seeing him myself. He probably doesn’t remember the last time, does he? When would it have been, two years ago perhaps? And he’d have been what, three? There you go. Three years old. He won’t have a clue who I am.’

  ‘You told him who you weren’t,’ said Rachael. ‘You told him you weren’t his grandfather.’

  Leo was unrepentant. ‘Well I’m not.’ He gave her the smile he shared with Bel, the one that made people, however frosty, melt into forgiveness. She continued with her stringing.

  He said, ‘Look, I can see you’re busy. I’ll get out of your hair if you promise to come with me tomorrow.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Oh… I’ll think about it.’ He clasped his hands behind his neck and surveyed the ceiling.

  Rachael looked up too, horrified that a cobweb might have materialised in a corner. One of her priorities was to put in decent lighting, clear bright halogen, so she could see exactly what she was doing. There was so much that needed updating in this house but she and Matt were on a tight budget. She wrapped the stuffed chickens in foil and stepped around Leo’s sprawling legs to put them in the oven. ‘Um, if you don’t mind… Matt will be home around six.’

  ‘Raquel, I believe you’re dismissing me.’ He rose and let his hand rest for a moment between her shoulder blades, an innocent fatherly touch. ‘I shall see you later.’

  As soon as he had gone she rang Matt. ‘Did he tell you he was coming?’

  ‘I think he said he might. Why the panic?’

  ‘I’m not panicking. It’s just the way he sauntered in like he owned the place. He’s taken his stuff up to the attic.’

  ‘I can see you might find that a bit tricky, but it’s not for long surely?’

  ‘I think he’s after something, but I don’t know what. He hinted at unfinished stuff with Bel. Or Julia. I didn’t know whether to tell him where to find them.’

  ‘Is that what he wants? Are they ignoring his calls?’

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘It’s not like they’re in hiding,’ said Matt. ‘On the other hand he’s already majorly pissed Julia off. Perhaps you’d better warn her.’

  ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘Okay, but it will have to wa
it till I get home.’

  Rachael added, ‘He says he wants to take me out tomorrow afternoon.’ There was a pause, as if Matt were considering the import of this. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She struggled to put her reservation into words. ‘There’s no special reason. I just don’t feel comfortable alone with him.’

  ‘We haven’t seen him for ages,’ he said. ‘You’re not still bothered about his performance at the wedding, are you?’

  ‘He was so rude, Matt. Nobody knew how to take him.’

  ‘I know he can be a liability. Perhaps he wants to get back in favour.’

  ‘Actually I think he wants to show off the car.’

  ‘What car?’

  ‘It isn’t even his. He’s borrowed it from a friend who’s trying to sell it, but I bet he’ll hammer it and then say he doesn’t want to buy after all.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be a good influence, Rach.’

  She hung up in defeat. Sometimes Matt’s positivity could be wearing. Because he was so sure of himself he’d grind her down until she agreed with him, talk her out of her choices, into his. It was like being strapped into a runaway vehicle unable to reach the brakes. Which was why she was keeping her looming life-changing predicament to herself – even though she was feeling hopelessly ambivalent about it.

  13

  The Lotus

  Leo insisted on driving Rachael to the client’s house in Childwall, even managed to find space in the boot of the Lotus for her crates and boxes. The previous evening he’d put on a surprising performance as a children’s entertainer: organising games in the garden for Dan and Nathan, the latter’s sister Kelly and her friend Sheba. The girls were on the awkward cusp between puberty and womanhood, but they shrieked as loudly as the younger boys as they raced around the pear tree. Matt had watched them from the French windows. ‘That’s what this place needs,’ he’d said. ‘Lots of kids.’

  The client, Mrs Dudley, chaired several committees and was raising funds to send the local amateur orchestra on a European tour. She was a squat, wide-hipped woman who seemed about to overbalance on her tiny feet. Her magenta skirt and jacket strained at the seams; her matching fingernails couldn’t have withstood the intricacies of preparing a buffet lunch for fifty. She’d charged steeply for the lunch tickets, so none of the guests would have been under the illusion she’d cooked the food herself. Nevertheless, she was keen for Rachael to deliver and arrange her dishes and then disappear.

  This suited Rachael too. Leo heaved the containers of food from the boot and carried them into the house. He was looking like a superannuated cowboy in his dusty denims and plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Mrs Dudley found it hard to contain her curiosity. ‘Don’t I know you?’ she said.

  ‘No, love, afraid not.’

  ‘You didn’t put in Lynne Page’s bathroom?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or Liz Everett’s new windows.’

  ‘Sorry, darling,’ drawled Leo in his poshest accent.

  ‘My father-in-law’s a famous artist,’ said Rachael, unveiling her green, pink and white circles of stuffed chicken and transferring them to her client’s platters.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Dudley. ‘Well, that must be it. Are you on the telly much?’

  ‘Frequently,’ said Leo.

  ‘Then I must look out for you, though music’s more my thing actually. Hence this bash. You’ve done a very nice job, dear, thank you.’

  ‘I wonder if you’d be able to settle the balance now,’ said Rachael, adding a final scatter of pomegranate seeds to the salads. ‘A cheque will be fine.’

  ‘I know I should be more hard-faced,’ confessed Mrs Dudley. ‘But the fact is, the ladies haven’t all paid up yet. They will of course. They know it’s for charity. Why don’t you pop an invoice in the post?’

  ‘I did explain my terms,’ Rachael said, aware that her voice was beginning to rise, ‘when you gave me the deposit. I have to be strict because I’ve had problems in the past. Can you imagine what your house might smell like when you’re left with several kilos of raw fish because somebody’s cancelled at the last minute?’

  ‘But I haven’t cancelled,’ Mrs Dudley pointed out.

  ‘You did agree you’d pay the balance on delivery though.’

  ‘I’m asking you to wait, that’s all. This isn’t for my benefit, remember. It’s for a good cause.’

  Leo stepped in. ‘I think you’re confusing the issue here,’ he said. ‘Because Mrs Wentworth is not herself a charity.’

  Mrs Dudley flushed and teetered out of the room. Leo picked up the crate of empty plastic containers and held it against his chest. Rachael rearranged her tower of salmon beignets, adjusted the garnish of watercress.

  Five minutes later they were back on the street and she was tucking a freshly written cheque into her wallet. The fact was, her business account had toppled into the red and she’d recently had to make purchases from the joint household account. Now she could pay the money back. Matt understood her cash flow was erratic, but it was important to her to be self-sufficient, to prove her business could be viable.

  ‘Thank you for sticking up for me,’ she said.

  Leo shrugged. ‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘You have a product. Wanker’s supposed to pay for it, but he’ll do any damn thing to weasel out of giving you the full whack. That’s why you have a dealer – among other reasons. Simple self-protection. Now, are you ready?’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘Well, there’s the thing. Southport, I thought.’

  ‘Southport!’

  ‘It will be a good test. Especially the road through the dunes.’

  ‘I have to be back by 3.30.’

  ‘Christ, Raquel, that’s hours yet.’

  He rolled back the soft hood of the Lotus and secured it. ‘All manual, you see,’ he said. ‘Nothing electronic to go wrong.’ Then he leapt over the door and into the driver’s seat like a much younger man and started the ignition.

  Rachael fastened her seatbelt. They were very low down and close to the road, vulnerable to exhaust fumes and the bullying manoeuvres of 4x4s. Leo was making more noise than necessary, she thought, revving the car’s engine at every traffic light and screeching around corners. They had to battle the drone of traffic as well as the onrush of wind so they scarcely spoke as they raced northwards.

  ‘I used to come up here with Julia,’ Leo shouted above the engine as they navigated Crosby. ‘I had a bike in those days, a Triumph – that was vintage too – an old honker. Gave me endless trouble but I loved it.’

  Rachael tried to imagine her mother-in-law, helmeted, on the back of a motorbike.

  ‘Julia hated it,’ he added.

  ‘Was she scared?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘But she got hopping mad when I lost it. The bike, I mean. I’d parked up and we’d gone for a frolic in the dunes. Sand dunes can be very disorientating and we completely lost our sense of direction. Took us hours to find it again. She was very chary of riding with me after that, but it wasn’t so much a question of fear as of not being in control. She isn’t good out of her comfort zone, Julia. You must have noticed – you’re a bit the same, aren’t you?’

  Rachael gritted her teeth, didn’t answer.

  He continued, ‘Though, when we first met, I managed to convince her a jolt was what she needed. She said being with me was like a fairground ride. Harrowing.’

  ‘I’d have thought she’d want to avoid harrowing.’

  ‘Well it’s kill or cure, isn’t it? Sometimes you need to take your mind off things. Unfortunately the treatment didn’t work long-term. She’s feisty, the first Mrs Wentworth, but we don’t bring out the best in each other.’

  ‘The first?’ said Rachael. (She knew an affair had caused the divorce.) ‘I didn’t realise you’d remarried.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘I haven’t. The second Mrs Wentworth, Raquel, is you.’

 
‘Oh…’

  He took his hand off the steering wheel and for a frozen second she thought he was going to place it on her knee. The day was warm and her legs were bare. Instead he curled his palm smoothly around the knob of the gearstick and nudged the accelerator. As they sped along the Formby Bypass, Rachael thought of the other things she could have been doing: meeting friends, testing recipes, going to the gym. Or completing those tasks that nagged at her, like sorting Danny’s outgrown clothes or tackling her accounts. Actually she was grateful to be spared the accounts: at present they didn’t make positive reading. Forget all that; she was going to enjoy herself.

  He suggested they look out for a pub. She said she wasn’t thirsty.

  ‘I won’t drink and drive,’ he said, ‘if that’s what’s worrying you.’

  It was, but she wouldn’t admit it. ‘No, I’m fine as I am, honestly.’

  ‘Not hungry either?’

  ‘I don’t eat during the day. It’s easier.’

  ‘Exactly!’ This time he did clap his hand on her leg, but in an extravagant comradely gesture. ‘A woman after my own heart. You get absorbed in a project, the last thing you want to do is break off for a fucking sandwich.’

  ‘My throat closes up,’ said Rachael. ‘If I’m tasting stuff a lot I just can’t swallow. I think it’s a useful reflex. It allows my tongue to get on with its work but it doesn’t mess up my appetite.’

  ‘When you’re concentrating,’ said Leo, surveying the road ahead, ‘you don’t have any appetite. That’s why grazing’s bad for you – Julia was right about that. It’s part of the same malaise: superficiality, short attention spans. Nothing sticks for more than two minutes.’

  ‘You mean like that boy.’

  ‘What boy?’

  ‘Nathan. Remember? He was round last night with his sister.’

  ‘Ah… with the freckles? Interesting lad, isn’t he?’

  ‘Interesting? I think he’s weird.’

  ‘Well,’ said Leo. ‘Weird, wonderful, whatever. Biggest crime in the world is being boring.’ He swung the car across the roundabout and onto the coast road, which was straight but narrow. ‘Now this is more of a challenge. Are you ready for the full throttle?’