Meet Me on the Beach

by Hilary Boyd

  “William or Fisher?”

  “Both.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’m getting some fish and chips to boost my strength for another bit of Philip Marlowe re-enactment.”

  “Ha, hope you don’t get into the sort of trouble he did. See you later, then.”

  The fish was not the freshest, the batter greasy and soggy inside, but the huge mound of chips were hot and sharp with salt and vinegar. With the café so warm and steamy, the mug of tea strong enough to stand her spoon up in, she wanted to stay there forever and forget her mission.

  It was weeks now since she’d seen William. Was she fantasizing about how much she had loved him? It had been a moment for them both, but now it had passed. If she saw him again, would her heart beat faster or would she just wonder what all the fuss had been about?

  That’s what I’ve got to find out, she told herself, suddenly full of motivation again.

  *

  On her way into the next center, Karen, on impulse, spoke to a dark-haired girl in her early twenties, dressed in jeans and a black Puffa jacket, who was leaning against the railings by the entrance, smoking. She shook her head, uninterested, when Karen asked about Fisher.

  “He used to be a priest,” Karen said. “He’s in his sixties, thin, balding, works with homeless people.”

  “Oh, him. Yeah, he’s the guy helps out at the soup kitchen. Is that his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The girl looked puzzled.

  “I mean, I don’t know if it’s the same person.”

  “He’s OK, like,” the girl said, “if it’s him.”

  “Could you tell me where the soup kitchen is?”

  The girl pulled herself up off the railings, stubbed out her cigarette with the toe of her tan faux-sheepskin boot and pointed east along the road. “It’s in the church on the square. Go down the corner and turn left, up the lane, can’t miss it. But it won’t be open yet.” She paused. “What’s the day . . . Thursday? Yeah, I think they do today and Saturdays.”

  “What sort of time?”

  She shrugged. “S’pose about six?”

  “Thanks. Have you met Fisher, then?”

  “Nah, but my boyfriend has. He works here,” she indicated the drop-in center behind her with a flick of her head, “that’s who I’m waiting for. He’s told me about your friend . . . if it’s him. The dossers listen to him, Rob says.” She grinned suddenly, the smile lighting up her pale, pinched face. “Rob even listens to him, which is a fuckin’ miracle, I’ll tell you.”

  It was now after three thirty and beginning to get dark, but Karen thought she’d go and find the church, see if there was anyone about she could talk to. If they were opening the soup kitchen in the evening, as the girl suggested, they’d need to be getting on with making the soup.

  *

  Karen twisted the cold iron ring in the church door, but it was firmly locked. The lights were on in the prefab annex adjoining the building, however, and she heard the sound of voices and a radio playing a Cliff Richard song. The door was slightly ajar, but she knocked anyway and waited. No one came, even after a second knock, so she pushed the door open, calling “Hello?” as she went in.

  The annex was little more than a large box of a room with seven mostly bare plywood trestle tables. Only the one at the far end, presumably the serving table, had a red and yellow striped oilcloth covering it. The chairs were molded blue plastic, the lino speckled beige. The only other ornament was a noticeboard with various flyers and cards pinned up. The kitchen led off at the back, from whence all the noise was coming.

  “Hello?” Karen called again.

  The chat stopped at the sound of her voice.

  “Oh, hi there.” A middle-aged woman, her gray hair in a bun and wearing a large butcher’s apron, appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Can I help?” She had a chopping knife in her right hand, and with her left she pushed her rimless glasses back up her nose.

  “Sorry to interrupt. I’m looking for someone. A man called Alistair Fisher. I was told he sometimes works here.”

  The woman’s face broke into a warm smile. “Alistair, yes. He doesn’t work here exactly but I expect he’ll be in later.” Then her face clouded. “What’s it about?”

  “Umm . . .” Karen hesitated, unsure how she would explain herself. “He’s a friend of a friend, and I’m trying to track down this other friend. I thought Mr. Fisher might be able to help.”

  It sounded garbled, but the woman just nodded.

  “Do you want to leave a message, then?”

  “Would it be alright if I come back later and talk to him?”

  The woman shrugged. “Up to you. He’s normally in about six thirty.”

  “I think I’ll do that, then. Thank you.”

  “Can I tell him a name?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t know me. But my name is Karen Stewart.”

  “Karen Stewart. Righty-ho, I’ll let him know.”

  As she left the building and walked across the square in the direction of the sea she was aware of her raised heartbeat.

  What would she say to this man?

  *

  Alistair Fisher in the flesh was nothing like his photograph on the Pavement website. It was clearly the same man, but he was no longer as thin, nor as stern-looking as the photo had managed to imply. This person was tall, medium build, with a residual seaside tan, dressed in an over-large navy pullover—the collar of a denim shirt poking out at the neck—brown cords and old, much-polished brogues. He was sitting at the end of one of the tables when Karen arrived, deep in conversation with a jittery youth opposite, both of them nursing a cup of tea.

  All the tables were now covered in oilcloths but were otherwise bare, with the exception of a small plastic salt and pepper pot on each. No one else was inside, just these two—apart from the woman Karen had spoken to earlier, who was organizing the serving table by the kitchen, still swathed in her apron. The visitors, all men, were hovering about outside, talking in groups, inevitably smoking. They had looked self-conscious, slightly shifty as Karen passed, as if they were embarrassed to be there, which perhaps they were.

  She noticed the soup had not yet been brought out of the kitchen, although the sliced white bread was piled high on the serving table, beside a giant-sized tub of margarine, open and pierced by a knife sticking upright. There were also three towers of unmatched bowls, a metal cutlery tray full of plastic spoons and knives, a stack of white napkins and one of small paper plates, clear plastic beakers lying in a snake along the back.

  The woman who had spoken to Karen before saw her at once and waved her over. Fisher did not appear to notice her as she walked behind him.

  “Hello again.” She pulled Karen toward the kitchen. “I told Alistair about you and he’s quite happy to chat, but he’s having a session with someone at the moment. Would you mind waiting till he’s finished? Shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m Sue, by the way. There’s a brew just made if you fancy a cuppa while you wait.” She indicated a battered white teapot and mugs on the table.

  But Karen was awash with tea and she declined the offer, perching anxiously on a stool beside the sink as Sue went on with her task of heating up the contents of two vast stainless-steel pans, stirring the soup continuously—first one pan, then the other—with a wooden paddle.

  “Trouble with parsnips and potatoes is the starch,” the woman said. “It catches so easily and this gas hob doesn’t go low enough.”

  Karen nodded, smiled.

  “But the boys like a bit of substance in their soup,” she went on, “can’t just feed them carrots and the like.”

  “Must be hard to ring the changes.”

  Sue shrugged. “Veggies arrive on the table and I just have to cook ’em up.”

  Karen was just about to ask where they came from, when Fisher appeared in the doorway. His eyes went directly to her, his gaze questioning.

  Ka
ren jumped up from the stool. “Alistair Fisher?”

  He nodded. Karen saw Sue glance round curiously from her task, then look swiftly away.

  “Could I have a quick word, please?”

  He nodded again. “We can sit at one of the tables, there’s no one in yet.” He turned without waiting for her to agree.

  She followed him, both of them sitting where he had recently talked to the man he was counseling. He folded his hands together on the table and waited for her to speak.

  “Umm . . . this is an odd request.”

  A faint smile lit up his brown eyes, which seemed to imply that he found nothing that odd anymore.

  “I’m a friend of William Haskell.” She took a long breath. “And I’m looking for him and thought maybe you would know where he is.”

  Fisher’s face gave nothing away, but he nodded. “I see. Why did you think I might know?”

  Karen was embarrassed enough at being there, without having to explain all the trouble she’d gone to in order to track him down. But his expression seemed to brook no evasions, and she plunged in.

  “Gossip. I was talking to someone who’d spoken to William’s wife, and she said he’d run off to an old mentor, someone working with down and outs on the coast.”

  He didn’t say anything, so she plowed on.

  “Will had mentioned you to me. I remembered he’d said your church had burned down, so I looked you up—” She stopped, knowing she was gabbling unnecessary information, wishing she had kept her mouth shut, hoping this would be enough, wanting to avoid telling him that Janey had said he was a bad lot, that she and Sophie had thought he was an arsonist or a thief, or worse.

  But he was ahead of her. “And found out I was a convicted rapist.”

  Shocked, Karen just stared at him. She thought she might have misheard.

  “Oh, I see you didn’t find that bit out.” Alistair shook his head, gave a rueful smile. “Sorry . . . so you’ve come to ask about William.” He made no attempt to address the issue of the conviction.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . I’m very fond of him.” The words, spoken softly, brought tears to her eyes.

  Alistair’s gaze was steady. “Ah, yes.”

  “So is he here?” She was suddenly hopeful, desperate to see Will again.

  For a moment the man looked down at his hands.

  “I can’t tell you where he is, Karen. He has asked me not to.”

  “Not to tell me?”

  “No, not you specifically. Anyone.”

  She nodded dumbly. “Is he alright? I’m so worried about him.” She swallowed hard, but couldn’t help the tear that trickled down her cheek.

  Alistair got up and took a napkin from the pile on the serving table and handed it to her.

  “I’m in a difficult position because he’s spoken to me in confidence. I’m sure you’ll understand, I can’t talk about him or how he is, it wouldn’t be fair.”

  They sat in silence, neither looking at the other. Sue was hauling one of the large soup pans out from the kitchen to put on the serving table.

  Hearing the consideration this man was affording Will, something cracked inside Karen.

  Cheeks blazing, her voice raised and harsh with distress, she said, “Fair? What’s that got to do with anything? It isn’t fair that William just walked out on us all without a single, sodding word. It isn’t fair that he hasn’t been in touch with me when he said he loved me. It isn’t even fair that he loved me in the first place. Nothing’s bloody fair. Never is, never has been. And you, of all people, should know that.”

  She wasn’t sure why she added the last sentence, as if she knew somehow that Alistair Fisher had been the victim of unfairness at some juncture. Or maybe just hoped.

  Fisher did not seem surprised by her outburst, but his focused expression told her he was really listening, completely involved with what she was saying. It was as if he were mentally holding her until she was finished. It was a technique William must have learned from him.

  “I think we all need a safe place to talk.”

  Karen wasn’t about to debate the point. “Yes, well . . . I don’t even know why I’m bothering to try and find the bloody man.” She pushed out her chair, which squealed wildly on the linoleum floor. “He’s made his position crystal clear.”

  “It’s never that simple . . . but I’m really sorry I can’t help.”

  She eyed him. “Are you? Seems to me you’re colluding with him, letting him off the hook. He’s hiding behind you instead of facing up to his responsibilities. I mean, how pathetic is this secret squirrel rubbish? Does he think that if we find out where he is, the village will grab their pitchforks and descend on him en masse?”

  Fisher didn’t reply.

  “At the very least, William owes me an explanation.”

  Karen watched him take a deep breath, and waited, hoping he was on the brink of deciding to come clean.

  But the silence lengthened.

  “Will you tell him you’ve seen me?”

  “Yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Not that it matters.”

  “It does matter.”

  She stood up, not bothering to respond to his comment, picking up her coat from the chair adjacent to her own and slinging it over her arm.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” she said, holding out her hand, which he took as he got to his feet. Shaking it briefly and muttering a curt goodbye, she turned to go, pushing past the throng of shabby men filing into the hall for supper.

  Alistair Fisher’s smug silence infuriated her. How dare he shield William like this. Nobody had the right to do that.

  She marched off down the pavement, across the lighted town, back to the car park, holding herself together until she was safely in the car, when she burst into tears again. She was a fool. Fisher probably felt sorry for her, no doubt saw her as some middle-aged, lovesick parishioner who’d got the wrong end of the stick with his friend. While he’d seemed to know about her, he hadn’t said in what context.

  It’s quite conceivable that Will hasn’t told Fisher the whole truth about our relationship, she thought. He’s probably left out the part where he said he loved me, just represented it as a mad fling he wants to forget.

  Then her mental gymnastics were stopped in their tracks as she realized William had never actually said he loved her. She had said she loved him, but he had never said the words back.

  OK, he didn’t say it, she told herself, but she couldn’t help remembering William’s face as he made love to her. He did love me, he really did, she told herself. So why is he being such a coward? Why doesn’t he just ring me and tell me it’s over, let me off the hook?

  Then another voice interrupted her thoughts. He had told her it was over. Wasn’t a month of silence enough? How much clearer did he need to make it?

  *

  Sophie had made Karen supper, although it was after nine when she got home. She sat down at the kitchen table with relief.

  “You’re a star, thanks so much,” she said, as Sophie spooned macaroni cheese on to her plate, pushed an earthenware dish of tomato salad toward her, filled her glass with red wine.

  “So? Spill,” the girl said as they began to eat.

  When Karen had finished telling her about her meeting with Alistair Fisher, Sophie shook her head.

  “A rapist? Wow.”

  “He seemed OK . . . although I know that’s a stupid thing to say. But I suppose we shouldn’t judge until we know the circumstances. He was annoying, but I didn’t get the vibe that he was violent or cruel.”

  “Whatever he’s done, it’s a result. If Fisher tells William about you visiting, William is bound to get in touch with you.”

  “Frankly I don’t care if he does or not.”

  “You don’t believe Fisher’ll tell William?”

  Karen thought about this. “No, I think he’ll tell him. It’s William’s reaction I doubt.”

  “OK. So you’re saying y
ou don’t give a toss about speaking to William?” It was clear from Sophie’s expression that she didn’t buy this.

  “Exactly that. Seeing Fisher was good, not because he might lead me to William—which he wasn’t going to do, anyway—but because it’s finally opened my eyes to how much I’m humiliating myself, chasing after him.”

  Sophie chewed her bottom lip, said nothing.

  “Blindingly obvious, I know.”

  “If he’s ill, though, perhaps had a breakdown . . .”

  “I just made that up to make myself feel better. There’s no evidence for it. And Fisher certainly didn’t imply he was ill.”

  “No, but you said he didn’t imply anything because it wasn’t fair. So you don’t know.”

  Karen took a large gulp of wine. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  Sophie laughed. “Oh, always the side of true love.”

  “Well, in that case you should be trying to persuade me that William has two heads.”

  The girl was silent for a moment, holding the stem of her glass and turning it slowly in the candlelight, eyes fixed on the reflection. “I thought he was a good guy,” she said, not looking up. “You thought he was a good guy too, Karen. We all did. He was one in lots of ways.”

  “I know . . .” Karen sighed.

  “I’m not saying you should bother with him any more if you don’t want to, I’m just saying it’s not like Reverend Haskell to deliberately cause so much grief.”

  And Karen had to agree.

  Sophie’s mobile rang.

  She glanced at the screen and pulled a face. “Mum. Better get it, she never rings this late.” She answered the call as she got up, speaking in the strange mixture of Greek and English they always used as she walked slowly out of the kitchen.

  Karen’s thoughts returned to Will. Finding Fisher had been a sort of diversion, she realized, a way to put off facing the truth. William wasn’t ill and in despair, and even if he were, it was still possible to send a text telling her so. She must stop pretending otherwise, or go stark raving mad. Maybe she really was just a sad, middle-aged obsessive who had got the whole thing totally wrong.

  Her stepdaughter came back into the kitchen, her face fallen. “Nanu died this evening.”