Summer at 23 the Strand

by Linda Mitchelmore

  ‘Hmm,’ Jack said, as though he didn’t quite believe it was just tiredness and overwork. ‘You would tell me if…?’ It was Jack’s turn for his voice to trail away, as though he couldn’t remember what it was he was going to say, or didn’t want to say what should be coming next. ‘If anything was wrong? Whatever sort of wrong it might be?’

  Cally pressed her lips together and nodded. She couldn’t tell Jack what was bothering her, not yet. Not on the first day. They had to have some good and happy days first. She had to make memories on this holiday for Jack as well as the boys. And she and Jack needed to get back to their close and loving relationship, and it was her fault cracks had begun to appear – not because she’d found the lump but the way she was dealing with it. She’d lost count of the times Jack had come up behind her when she’d been online searching for information, and she’d closed down the site with a stab of the exit icon.

  ‘Cally?’ Jack had said the first time he’d walked into the spare bedroom they’d set up as an office and eventual homework space for the boys. ‘What’s that you don’t want me to see, eh? Shopping channel? Hmm?’

  And Cally had lied and said, ‘Something like that,’ because wasn’t she shopping around for information?

  But Jack was less jokey about it after the fourth time – the time she’d had an email from someone she’d contacted on a cancer support chat site; someone who was in the same position she was right now. A man. Tony. Up until then it hadn’t really crossed Cally’s mind that men could get breast cancer too. Cally and Tony had exchanged a few emails and she’d been reading the latest from him where he’d said he wished he hadn’t told as many people his fears in the beginning because they’d immediately begun to treat him as though he were made of eggshells and would shatter at any moment. He’d urged Cally to think about when, and who, she told.

  ‘You’re getting a lot of emails these days,’ Jack had said, coming up behind her. He sounded more concerned than accusatory – as though he suspected something was up but didn’t know what.

  But Cally had been more alert by then. She’d heard him coming and exited Tony’s email, and it was one from an old school friend, Ruthie, that filled the screen as he came to stand behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Won’t be a moment. Ruthie’s having another crisis. Someone called Mark wants to take her to meet his mother. Well, you know Ruthie, she’s never going to commit!’

  ‘Spare me!’ Jack had laughed. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Hot chocolate,’ Cally said. She needed the comfort of that at the moment. She’d reply to Ruthie’s email tomorrow. And Tony’s. And then, maybe, she’d share her fears with Jack. Maybe.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ Cally said, struggling to make her voice sound bright and enthusiastic. She’d missed an opportunity to tell Jack before coming away and now she was beginning to regret that. She could have been starting treatment, if treatment was what was needed, couldn’t she? But Jack had sprung the surprise of the holiday and it would have been like throwing his kind gesture back in his face to have told him then. He needed a holiday as much as she did. ‘Last one on the beach gets chucked in the water!’

  Cally found she couldn’t tell Jack about the lump on the second or third day either. Every morning when she showered, Cally felt tentatively for the lump, praying it had gone or at the very least reduced in size. It hadn’t. The first few days after she’d discovered it, she’d felt it at least twenty times a day – every time she went to the loo so she’d know, with the door locked, she couldn’t be interrupted, and each night in bed when she was sure Jack had fallen asleep beside her. But now, on holiday, she only felt for it once a day. It was reducing the horror a little not to be constantly touching it.

  Each day Cally and her family spent most of their time on the beach, coming back up to the chalet to eat their lunch and tea, squashed together on the tiny deck if it was warm enough, or inside when it wasn’t. Noah and Riley loved being barefoot, sand between their toes, in their hair – loved the freedom of being able to run on the sand without their parents urging them to be careful of the kerb, or other hazards, as they did in everyday life.

  ‘I want to swim!’ Noah announced on the fourth day.

  ‘Me too,’ Cally said, ‘but it’s too cold. Even to paddle. Your feet will go blue if you paddle.’

  ‘Blue feet are silly,’ Noah said.

  ‘They are,’ Cally agreed.

  ‘I swim!’ Riley yelled, racing away from them. Jack leapt up and went after him, tucking the small boy under his arm, legs and arms flying like windmill sails in the storybook Cally often read to the boys at bedtime.

  ‘Is it really too cold?’ Jack said, sotto voce, when he came back with Noah.

  ‘It’s May, Jack,’ Cally said.

  ‘I know. But the tide’s coming in over sand that’s had the sun on it for a while. I used to go in the sea with the Cubs when I was six or seven.’

  ‘Riley’s only three. I don’t want him to get a chill.’

  ‘No, but they’ve got to learn to take risks. Live a little dangerously now and then. It’s not as though I’m going to stand here and watch him drown, now is it?’

  Cally didn’t answer that because, really, it needed no answer. Jack was as committed to their boys as she was. And so they left it at that – the issue unresolved, but only showing up their differences; Jack prepared to have a go and sort out any problems as they arose, and Cally seeing dangers and problems everywhere. She shivered then, despite the sun’s still being warm on her cardiganed-shoulders, to think that, should she have to face the worst-case scenario of all and no longer be around, Jack would more than likely let the boys paddle in May.

  ‘Time to get back?’ Jack asked. ‘You shivered then.’

  ‘Did I?’ Cally said, touched he’d noticed and yet alarmed too, as though he were constantly monitoring her mood. ‘I was thinking of something.’

  ‘Well, I hope it involves what we might eat later. All this fresh air is making me ravenous.’

  And I seem to have lost my appetite.

  ‘It does. Pancetta, olive and tomato pasta,’ she said. A little white lie because she hadn’t been thinking about supper at all, and at home Jack often cooked, starting to prepare meals from whatever he found in the fridge and cupboards while she was fetching the boys from their grandparents’ house.

  At least he’ll be able to feed them.

  ‘Sounds good to me. You go on. I’ll pack up and bring the boys back with me via the supermarket. I’ll get something for us for later.’

  ‘I’m getting quite used to this little kitchen,’ Cally said as she put away the crockery and red-handled cutlery Jack had washed and dried. ‘Galley kitchen, I suppose. But everything we need is here and within an arm’s length.’

  ‘Bijou it said in the brochure,’ Jack said. ‘I didn’t have a clue what that meant, apart from it being the name of the jeweller where I bought our wedding rings, so I thought maybe it meant jewel or something.’

  ‘It was Bijoux, with an “x”, where you bought our rings,’ Cally said. ‘It does mean jewels, translated from the French, but it also means small and compact, I suppose.’

  ‘Like you,’ Jack said.

  ‘Oh, Jack, you say the nicest things. I’m taking it as a compliment anyway.’

  ‘As it was meant. Now come and sit down. Wine time now the boys are asleep, although we won’t be able to get up to any noisy athletics or we’ll wake them!’ Jack, seated in the small leather bucket chair, a throw draped over one arm of it, patted the other one, inviting Cally to come and sit beside him.

  She went. She sat. It would have been churlish not to. Jack had nipped up to the small supermarket in the middle of town to fetch wine while she’d been cooking the pasta sauce. She didn’t know how she was going to turn down his offer of ‘noisy athletics’, as he put it, should their kisses and cuddles move from the sitting room to the bedroom and on to other things, as they usually
did at home.

  ‘It’s quite lovely in here with the lamps on low,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Do you think sometimes, Jack, that we’ve got too much stuff? Our first flat was small and we filled that up, and now we have a much bigger home, we’ve filled that up too.’

  ‘Everybody does,’ Jack laughed. ‘I daresay even the Queen looks around her sometimes and wonders if she’s got too much stuff in her palaces.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Cally laughed. ‘But I like the pared-back look of this place. I mean, we only need a knife, fork and spoon each for everyday use, and a plate and mug each, and yet when I open drawers and cupboards at home they’re stuffed with the things.’

  ‘Eh?’ Jack said. ‘You’re coming over all deep here! Time to relax a bit. Jack filled a glass to the brim with chilled Sancerre and handed it to her.

  ‘It gives me space to think,’ Cally said, accepting the glass and taking a large gulp of it, ‘with less stuff about, I suppose.’

  She yawned. Jack gave her rather a sharp look.

  ‘Sorry. You’re not boring me. Honest,’ she laughed. ‘It must be all the sea air.’

  ‘Phew! I thought it might have been something I said.’

  No, it’s something I haven’t said.

  But now? Could she? Should she? Wouldn’t she want to know if there was something bothering Jack? If he’d found a lump somewhere and hadn’t told her, she’d be furious with him for shouldering the worry on his own, she knew she would. And yet…

  ‘Nothing you said,’ Cally told him. ‘Only it’s been a long day and I think I’ll go to bed when I’ve finished this.’

  ‘It’s only nine o’clock, Cally! The boys have only been asleep an hour.’

  ‘I know. But we might wake them if we chat.’

  ‘Then we won’t chat,’ Jack said.

  ‘And do what instead?’

  ‘Kiss. Cuddle. Progress to other things. The rug here looks nice and thick. Comfy. Not for nothing do they call that fabric “shag pile”.’

  ‘Jack!’ Cally said, although just a few short weeks ago she’d have gone for that suggestion hook, line and sinker. Jack was a tender and considerate lover. It was rare for her not to climax.

  ‘Or, like I said, we could go in for some noisy athletics. In the bedroom with the door shut. It’s what couples do on holiday,’ Jack said. ‘And we haven’t yet, have we? Since we’ve been here, I mean.’

  ‘No, Cally,’ said, ‘we haven’t. It’s not that I don’t want to but—’

  Again Cally couldn’t finish her sentence and she was beginning to hate herself for her weakness.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Jack asked, sitting up straighter. He reached for Cally’s free hand, and held it between both of his.

  ‘It isn’t about anything, Jack,’ Cally lied, looking into his mud-brown eyes. She saw all the worry frowns on his forehead and knew she was putting them there. ‘I really am tired. I was overdoing things at the salon. And I know the boys are safe with both of us there but the ocean is just so big and vast and everyone knows there are things like riptides…’

  ‘Not here there aren’t,’ Jack interrupted her. ‘I checked it out. It’s why I chose this place – for the boys’ safety.’

  ‘But I can’t help worrying.’

  ‘Well, do you think you could try not to? It wouldn’t be good if your anxiety got transferred to the boys somehow and stopped their adventurous spirit. Now would it?’

  ‘No. You’re right. I’ll try harder.’

  Cally pulled herself off the edge of the chair, careful to do it so as not to disturb the boys, and stood up. She had to end this conversation. She had to go to bed. She had to try and get some sleep. She had to pray that in the morning the lump would be gone and she and Jack would be as before, making delicious love on the rug.

  They woke to rain and high winds and a crashing sea the next morning.

  ‘We can still go out,’ Noah said. ‘We can splash in puddles and splash in the sea.’ He clapped his hands together excitedly, hopping up and down on one foot. How scrumptious he looked in the early morning, fresh from sleep, his hair tousled, his cheeks still pink from warm slumbers. Cally would have to cut off his blond curls soon – already they were reaching his shoulders and more than one person had thought he was a girl, much to Noah’s indignation.

  ‘We can’t,’ Cally told him, ‘because I haven’t brought wellies.’

  Noah stopped hopping, thumped his feet down hard on the wooden floor of the chalet and folded his arms across his chest and went into a sulk. Riley followed suit. And Cally made a mental note to add ‘be prepared for every weather situation when you take the boys out’ to her list for Jack, should the worst happen to her.

  ‘We could bake instead,’ Cally said, trying to save the situation. She’d packed the bare essentials of flour and sugar and butter. And raisins, because the boys loved to snack on raisins. ‘Welsh cakes. You love those.’

  Cally’s Aunt Frances had made Welsh cakes regularly, even on holiday. Cally breathed in deeply and it was as though the scent of cinnamon was in the air – that and the acrid aroma of slightly charred mixture where the cakes had been left a bit too long on the griddle. Cally had loved those burnt bits. Everyone knew burnt anything – toast, barbecue food, Welsh cakes – could be cancer-producing, didn’t they?

  ‘Yeah!’ Noah said, punching the air. Riley followed suit.

  ‘Then, that’s what we’ll do. Until the rain stops and then we’ll think again. You can watch CBeebies until we’re ready to bake.’ She reached for the remote and switched on the tiny TV that sat on a small shelf just above the mock fireplace. ‘There you go,’ she said, finding the right channel. Both boys sat, thumbs in mouths, ready to watch.

  Cally could make Welsh cakes without having to read a recipe because she could judge the quantities fairly accurately as her aunt had done before her. Cally felt a pang that her aunt had died – at fifty-two, which was far too young to die. Cancer. Did it run in families? Cally had a feeling it did. She shivered just thinking about it.

  ‘She would have adored them,’ Cally said as she wiped off the countertop ready for baking.

  ‘Who would? What?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Aunt Frances. Our boys. Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d spoken out loud. She used to make Welsh cakes. My brain was making the connection.’ There were tears in her eyes and she turned away from Jack in the hope he wouldn’t see them.

  But Jack had obviously seen because he said, ‘You okay?’

  Cally bit the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears from falling. She’d read somewhere in a magazine that that was what celebrities did, what royalty did, so they didn’t cry in public. It worked for Cally now anyway. She turned round to face Jack, a smile on her face.

  ‘Fine. There’s only a little ceramic frying pan to make the Welsh cakes in but it should do. We’ll only be able to make a few at a time though.’

  She bustled about collecting the ingredients, finding the pan.

  Jack came and stood behind her, put his arms around her waist and pulled her gently back towards him.

  ‘Did you sleep better last night? You were dead to the world when I looked in on you at half past nine.’

  Dead to the world? Why did you choose that expression, Jack? Why?

  ‘Heaps better, thanks,’ Cally said, forcing her shoulders to go down from somewhere up around her ears. She leaned in to him, jiggling her shoulders to get a better fit.

  ‘You talk in your sleep, you know?’ Jack said, kissing the side of her neck.

  Cally, startled, felt herself stiffen in his embrace. Do I? What might I have said?

  ‘Do I?’ she asked, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘That was a very concerned “Do I?” Jack remarked. He kissed the side of Cally’s neck again, letting his lips linger, making a little sucking movement.

  ‘Jack, I’m sorry but I just don’t have time for this,’ Cally said. ‘Th
e Welsh cakes. You know. The boys will get bored of the TV in a minute and…’

  She reached for Jack’s hands and pulled them apart where they rested on her waist.

  ‘There you go, not finishing your sentence again. I don’t believe for a second you’re fine,’ Jack whispered in her ear. ‘There’s something. I know there is. And I’m scared. Scared it’s something to do with you and me.’

  ‘No, not that,’ Cally said, turning to face him.

  ‘But there is something,’ Jack said. ‘You’ve all but gone and admitted it with that response.’ He cupped her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Your reluctance to make love, your…’

  ‘What are you two arguing about?’ Noah asked. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Cally disentangled herself from Jack and rushed to Noah, folding him in her arms.

  ‘We’re not arguing, darling. We’re just talking about something. Come on. Welsh cake-making time.’

  And the moment passed. The boys loved watching the bubbles rise in the cakes as they cooked. Cally even let Noah flip one over and helped Riley do the same. When they’d cooled a bit she dusted them with sugar and they ate them warm and fragrant and full of memories for Cally of when she’d done the same with her Aunt Frances and her cousins.

  ‘Oh, I have to get a photo of that,’ Cally said, pointing at the boys, both with sugar all over their lips. Riley even had some in his hair – it looked like snow crystals. She reached for her phone. Either Cally or Jack had taken photos of the boys at every stage of the Welsh cake making. More memories for Noah and Riley. Even though Jack didn’t know – yet – that was why Cally was taking so many.

  ‘Can we go out when we’ve eaten these?’ Noah asked. ‘I can eat lots and lots!’

  He reached for a second Welsh cake and began to cram it into his mouth.

  ‘Not too many,’ Cally said, wagging a finger at him, mock stern. ‘And we’ll go out if the rain eases off a bit.’

  But the rain did not ease off. Cally began to feel suffocated in the small space of the chalet.

  ‘Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got to get out.’