Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  “Why don’t you come over here? Spend a month or so with us and clear your head. Just get on a plane, nothing’s stopping you.”

  “Thanks, but I want to stay here for a while.”

  There was a long pause. “If you won’t come to us, I’ll have to come to you,” he said.

  “No, no, you can’t.” She instantly regretted the panic in her voice.

  “Why ever not? Karen? What’s going on? Why can’t I come and stay? We haven’t seen each other in ages.”

  “Because I’m not there. I’m not at home.”

  “Yes, but you could go home if I was coming over.”

  “I don’t want to, not at the moment.”

  Johnny’s Mr. Fixit mentality was finally stumped. His tone held a distinct huffiness as he said, “OK, well, let me know when you’re feeling a bit more sociable.”

  “Johnny . . . please. I’m just in a weird mood at the moment.”

  “Telling me.”

  “Don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not. But it’s hard to have a normal conversation with you these days, Karen. I just always end up repeating myself about Harry and his drinking, or the live-in stepdaughter. And now it’s some other unspecified moron you’re putting in the way of finding happiness. When are you going to take control of your life and stop being such a victim?”

  Karen hated it when her brother went all pious and preachy.

  There was a tense silence.

  “Listen, I’ll call you soon,” she said.

  “Look forward to it.”

  “Bye, then.”

  “Bye.”

  Am I such a victim? she asked herself, upset by her brother’s snippiness. OK, Johnny knew her better than anyone, but he had such a different outlook on life. He never complained, never moaned about anything personal. She felt he was becoming like a wind-up toy these days, but Karen knew that didn’t mean everything was rosy, it just meant he was incapable of admitting he wasn’t coping. And because she did share her worries with him, he had labeled her a victim. She didn’t feel like a victim. She wasn’t a victim. Things had just been hard recently.

  Although it was getting dark, she went through to the bathroom and took her damp swimming costume off the towel rail, struggled into it then pulled on her blue hooded toweling beach dress and pink jelly-shoes and hurried across the road, past Mike’s place—closed up for the night—to the sea. It was just past high tide, the water already darkening with the fading light as she yanked off her robe and strode into the surf, the cold water making her stiffen and hold her breath for a second before she dived into the waves. Not a soul was swimming, although families and couples still crunched on the shingle and strolled down the lit-up promenade.

  Karen set off out to sea, then turned right along the shore. She was a strong swimmer, legacy of the Olympic freestyle champion the school had employed as their sports director—a man dedicated to teaching his charges to swim with a proper technique, not just swim to save themselves from drowning.

  Tonight the water felt cleansing, invigorating as she swam up and down, pushing herself harder in order to block out her thoughts, the only important thing the breath she gasped every third stroke, the burning of her thigh muscles as she kicked through the water, the smooth rhythm of her arms, extending forward, pulling back, fingers pressed tightly together to get the most traction: in, out, in, out. The sea was not rough, but the wind was getting up and it was hard work keeping on course. It was only when she realized it was now quite dark that Karen dragged herself away and splashed up the beach to fetch her robe and shoes.

  Shivering and breathless but exhilarated, she padded back to her flat and went straight into a warm shower. Standing there, the water pouring over her head, face, down between her breasts and across her stomach in a glistening stream that pooled at her feet, she began to cry. The tears surprised Karen, she wasn’t aware of feeling distressed, and it seemed as if there was no one identifiable cause, just a terrible, overwhelming sense of emptiness. When she finally got her breath back and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a large white towel, she felt almost too exhausted to put one foot in front of the other.

  Worn out by the swimming and by the tears, she flopped down on the sofa in her towel and clicked the music app on her phone, selecting her current favorite, “Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain”—a duet between Shania Twain and Willie Nelson. Harry, along with plenty of others over the years, had relentlessly mocked her love of country music, saying it was “sentimental twaddle.” But she wasn’t ashamed of her devotion to Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton, Waylon Jennings and the like. It was a relief to be able to indulge her habit without censure.

  She must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing she knew she was waking up in exactly the same position on the sofa, still wrapped in her damp bath towel, cold and disorientated. Looking at the clock on the wall, she saw it was twelve fifteen. She had been asleep for at least two hours. What had woken her had been the ping of an incoming text, she realized, as the phone pinged again. Her limbs were stiff as she got up to retrieve the mobile from the dining table. “Vicar” was the name she saw on the display.

  She read, her heart thumping.

  Hi Karen, hope all is well with you. We have a couple of questions about insurance for the fête. I’d be grateful if you could give me a call. Thanks, William.

  She sat on one of the mustard-yellow chairs and stared at the text, poking at the words to find anything behind the formal request on the screen that spoke of something more personal, confirmed his continued interest in her. Is he using this as an excuse to talk to me? she wondered, knowing it would be madness for him to send a loving text when someone—specifically Janey or Rachel—might read it by mistake. And then she told herself it would be a worse madness for her to talk to him—whatever his feelings might be—and spark off another bout of longing. OK, she hadn’t made much progress in moving on from him, but talking to him would be less than no help in that department.

  For what seemed like an age, her finger hovered above the phone keypad, itching to tell him that she would call tomorrow. But in the end, sense triumphed.

  Hi William, best if you contact solicitor Barry Rivers, mob 07970 655421, about insurance. Harry got him to deal with it in the past. Karen

  She sent it with a sense of having done the right thing. Anyone could read that text, there was nothing compromising. And it saved her from the agony of hearing his voice again. But ten minutes later, she fell right off the wagon, her fingers working in absolute opposition to her common sense.

  Missing you x

  She tapped out the words, pushing “send” with a strange sense of relief. A relief, however, that was short-lived when William did not reply.

  As the minutes ticked by without an answer, and realizing she was freezing in the skimpy towel, she pulled on her cotton pajamas, brushed her teeth and snuggled under the duvet, still in the state of pleasurable agitation that contact with Will always engendered. Lying there, waiting for his response, however, was not pleasurable. She held her phone by her side on top of the duvet, bringing her hand up to check the screen every few minutes as if it were an oil derrick, even though any text would be announced by the usual ping.

  But there was nothing, not a peep.

  Maybe he’s gone to sleep, she told herself, but she still waited, her heart unable to be quiet, making her own sleep impossible.

  And so she lay until long past a reasonable time to expect a response from anyone, feeling angry and really stupid for having put her feelings out there, only to be rejected.

  It was after three when she finally slept.

  *

  The crowd around the counter in Mike’s café was already large when Karen, having slept late, arrived for her coffee. A family, which seemed to consist of three generations—five children, one in a buggy—plus another group of six older women and a single cyclist, with his helmet in his hand, were milling about waiting to be served. Mike was frantic, doin
g his best to take the orders, make the coffee and serve the cakes and sandwiches. But it clearly wasn’t working. The queue, Karen could sense, was getting restive.

  Without sitting down, she immediately went behind the counter.

  “I’ll help,” she said.

  Mike hesitated for only a second, then let out a long sigh as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. “If you wouldn’t mind, just until this lot’s been cleared.” He pointed at the hook on the door leading to the small storeroom. “Apron’s there.”

  Karen took down the black apron Gina sometimes wore and wrapped it around her body, tying it at the front.

  “If you could take the orders, do the sandwiches. It’s the coffees that take the time.”

  He gave her a cursory demonstration of the till and turned back to the machine. The man first in the queue looked relieved and gave her a broad smile as he began his order.

  It was hours later when Karen and Mike came up for air. Coffee time melted into lunchtime, melted into teatime. A warm, breezy summer Saturday without a cloud in the sky had enticed everyone to a day out at the beach, it seemed, and each time Karen thought there might be a lull, another punter stepped through the glass doors. Apart from Mike’s instructions, and her requests for another latte or cappuccino etc., they barely had time to speak. When five thirty came and the last couple had paid the bill and wended their way, they both grabbed a cup of tea and took it outside, sitting down heavily at a table and groaning with tiredness.

  “Thanks for your help. No way I could have coped without you,” Mike said.

  “It was a pleasure.” She saw his skeptical glance, but she meant every word. “It’s the first proper day’s work I’ve done in years.”

  “Yeah?” He grinned. “Lucky you.”

  “Not really . . . I used to work with my husband until he retired and sold the company. I loved it.”

  “So . . . you and your hubby are . . .?”

  “He died. In January.”

  “Sorry ’bout that. My wife died February last year.”

  “Really? I’m sorry too.”

  He shook his head, a bewildered expression on his face. “Just came home from the supermarket one day and dropped down dead on the kitchen floor. Massive heart attack.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Only fifty-two. No age. Ran every day, didn’t smoke, wasn’t fat or anything. Doctors couldn’t explain it. Worst thing is, if I’d been there and called the ambulance she probably wouldn’t have died.”

  “Don’t go there,” Karen said brusquely. “You weren’t and she did.”

  Mike looked taken aback.

  “Sorry, that was rude. But I’m the same. If I’d gone to my husband when he called, he’d be alive today. I’ve spent the last six months feeling guilty and it hasn’t changed a thing.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face, but his expression was distant—obviously he’d retreated, as she so often did, to the day his wife died. “Hard to live with, though.”

  For a while they sat in silence with their own thoughts.

  “So this man, the bad boy who isn’t bad enough, he’s recent, is he?”

  Karen looked away. “Just a stupid crush.”

  “Losing your other half does weird things to your brain,” he said.

  “You think?” Karen felt she was clutching at straws. If she were temporarily unhinged, then the William thing wouldn’t be real and she would recover, stop spending sleepless nights waiting for a non-existent text.

  “Yeah, listen to this. I kept seeing Margie for months . . . or thought I did. In the street, walking past the café, going upstairs in the house. Sure as I’m looking at you, she was there.” He shook his head. “Although she wasn’t, of course.”

  Karen didn’t know what to say as Mike, tapping his finger against his temple, went on. “Mind playing tricks. Part of my brain refusing to accept she’d gone. Did Kim’s head in.”

  “You must have loved her a lot.”

  Mike laughed. “Yeah, well, I suppose. Fought like cat and dog half the time. But you kinda get used to someone being around.” He looked at her, frowned. “Same for you, must be.”

  She nodded, for a moment just allowing herself to miss Harry. No relationship is perfect, but you learn to depend on each other, even if the dependency is detrimental to you both. That had been true of her and Harry. Was it also true of William and Janey? she wondered. She had no idea.

  Realizing she hadn’t had time to check her phone—locked in the store cupboard in her bag while she worked—since the morning, she was suddenly desperate to find out if William had been in touch. Surely by now he would have replied.

  “I’ll help you tidy up,” she said.

  “Nah, you get off, you’ve done enough. Thanks, I owe you.”

  *

  The text contained one single, upper case X. Nothing more. But for Karen, nothing less.

  She sat on her sofa hugging her phone to her chest with delight, before plunging into her usual despair at the hopelessness of the situation. Bloody man, bloody man, bloody, bloody man, she ended up chanting silently to herself, renewing her vow for the umpteenth time to move on.

  Working with Mike over the following days certainly helped to root her in a different, vicar-less reality. Any day during the week when they were particularly busy, or Gina’s relatives were struck down by yet another improbable virus, Karen was happy to step in.

  “You like classical music, do you?” Mike asked one Saturday morning.

  “I do, but I’m not very knowledgeable about it.”

  “See, Kim was given tickets for a concert tonight, but it’s Beethoven or some such. Not my thing. So if you’re interested . . .”

  “To go with Kim?”

  “No, she’s off out with the thug,” as Mike termed his daughter’s partner, “but the tickets were going spare at work, so she took them and now she can’t offload them. Shame to let them go to waste.”

  “You might enjoy it.”

  He laughed. “Sounds like paint drying to me.” He pointed at one of the photographs on the café wall. “Now if you’re talking Bob Seger . . .”

  *

  The theater foyer was packed when Karen arrived, even though she was early. She’d taken the tickets because she fancied a change from sitting in the flat on her own all evening, and she was glad she had come. It felt good to be out and she was looking forward to the concert. She and Russell, her boyfriend before Harry, had often gone to concerts together, usually rock or country, occasionally classical, but whatever the music, Karen always reveled in the live aspect of any performance, the fact that it was a one-off, the only time it would ever be exactly this way.

  She bought a program and decided to find her seat before the rush. But just as she was giving her ticket to the girl, she heard her name being called, the voice coming from behind her. She knew the voice instantly, turned to search for the face. He was standing in the foyer, clutching a program and a plastic glass of water, no dog collar, just a dark-blue, open-necked shirt and black chinos. He looked well, his dark hair a bit longer, his pale skin freckled, almost tanned from the hot summer.

  Karen took her ticket back and moved out of the way of the couple behind. Her heart beating like a bass drum, she walked slowly toward William Haskell.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  His smile was amused. “Same as you, probably.”

  Flustered, she said, “No, I know . . . but . . . well, I mean it’s a coincidence.” She looked around. “Is Janey here?”

  “We’ve got a new puppy . . . Labrador like Largo, only black, and she didn’t want to leave him.”

  “Oh, OK.” She stopped, the strange feeling that she shouldn’t even be speaking to him stemming her ability to make conversation.

  He seemed equally hamstrung. So they stood in silence for a moment.

  “This should be good,” he said.

  “Yes? I know nothing about it, I was given the tickets by a friend.”<
br />
  “The Fine Arts Quartet is world famous. The Haydn should be a treat.”

  She nodded, not wanting to show her ignorance.

  “You could sit in Janey’s seat if you like. Unless you’re with someone?”

  “Umm . . .”

  They looked at each other.

  “OK,” she said softly and they walked together toward the door to the stalls, not speaking.

  Sitting side by side in the large, modern and currently packed auditorium, Karen took slow, surreptitious breaths in an attempt to slow her heart rate. But his nearness was like a drug hit, catapulting her into an altogether altered state. For all she was aware, there was no one else in the theater besides her and Will.

  And the music colluded with her state of heightened awareness, gently carrying her up in a vortex of sound that seemed to soothe her chaotic emotions, forcing her to stop analyzing, stop thinking and let go. Just be. When it came to an end, she felt as if she were coming round from a trance.

  “Like it?” William was saying.

  “Love it.”

  They got up and followed the crowd out to the foyer, the evening sun pouring through the plate glass that fronted the theater.

  “Shall we go outside?” he asked, and she nodded.

  They each picked up another plastic glass of water from the end of the bar and went to stand in the dying light, which bathed the adjacent park in dusty gold, the breeze delightfully cool on their cheeks after the stuffy theater.

  “You didn’t say you were going away,” he said, all barriers between them washed away by Haydn’s notes.

  “I thought it was best for us both.”

  They both knew the truth of this and he didn’t speak.

  “I’ve been trying to forget you,” she said, which brought a rueful smile to his face.

  “Successfully?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ve stopped trying. Sometimes it’s better to just accept what is.”

  “Because we can’t change things,” Karen said flatly, not wanting to engage in a conversation that would end the way the others had.

  He bit his lip, the muscles of his jaw suddenly tensing angrily as he drained the water in his glass, crushing the plastic in his right hand.