Sunny Days and Sea Breezes

by Carole Matthews

  As I pass by, the statue says, ‘Morning!’ and makes me jump out of my skin.

  ‘God, you scared me half to death,’ I say up at him.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Mr Steampunk raises his hat. ‘You looked a bit fed up, so I thought I’d cheer you up.’

  My mind might be elsewhere and he’s higher than me on a raised plinth, but he makes quite a convincing statue. His skin is completely covered in bronze makeup and he’s dressed from head-to-toe in clothing also painted bronze – a frock coat, top hat, retro rivet spectacles, and he’s sporting a cane with a fancy handle. Now I look more closely, his plinth is a box covered with material and there’s a small collection box at his feet. ‘I thought you were actually a statue.’

  ‘Well, my work here is done,’ he says with a laugh and bows as he holds out his hat.

  I look in my bag, fishing for change.

  ‘Oh, I don’t want any money.’

  ‘Isn’t that the point?’

  ‘Well, yes. But have this one on me. I needed to move. It’s freezing out here. You look like you need a big coat and scarf on.’

  ‘So I’ve been told.’ Everyone’s an expert on my welfare – even statues.

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ He holds out a gloved hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, I shake it. ‘I’m George.’

  ‘Jodie,’ I reciprocate.

  He stretches and jogs on the spot a bit. ‘It’s been slow here this morning and I’m not

  very good at standing still.’

  That would seem to be a bit of a drawback for a living statue. I look up and down the seafront. There’s no one else about but me. ‘I’m sure you know your job better than me, but there doesn’t seem to be much passing trade. It seems like a quiet spot.’

  ‘That’s why I like it. I used to be a living statue in Covent Garden,’ he tells me. ‘It was a nightmare. People kept pinching my bum.’

  That makes me laugh and he looks hurt. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘The abuse that living statues have to suffer isn’t widely appreciated. It’s different here. Everyone’s nice.’ He nods towards the sea. ‘The working conditions are better too. How many people can go to their office and enjoy that? You’d go a long way to beat this view.’

  I follow his gaze. ‘No. I suppose not. You can’t earn much, though.’

  He shrugs. ‘Life’s not all about money, is it?’

  ‘No.’ I can’t really argue with that. I go to walk on, but he’s not done with me yet.

  ‘A bit early for a holiday,’ he notes.

  For goodness sake, even the statues are chatty here. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘Well, better get back to statueing in case anyone catches me relaxing. It would blow my cover. I might see you again?’

  ‘You might,’ I agree.

  George strikes another pose and I can’t help but smile as I walk away even though some of his bronze paint has rubbed off on my fingers.

  I drop down the steps into the cove which is a small, perfect curve with a pleasingly sandy beach and a delightfully Mediterranean feel – even though it’s clearly not quite at its best at this time of year. There are more holiday homes and a few beach huts advertising deckchairs and kayaks to rent by the hour, but they’re all closed up for the winter. There’s a small jetty with fishing boats tied up next to it and lobster pots stacked alongside the sea wall.

  There aren’t many people brave enough to be here today either, just a few ardent dog-walkers with their windswept pooches. A black and white cocker spaniel running about with its ears flapping wildly looks especially joyful. The wind is whipping up impressive waves and the cotton-wool clouds are scudding merrily across the sky. The sun is out in full force, but is not making one jot of difference to the temperature. Yet, it’s nice. I surrender myself to the elements, letting the wind fling my hair around. Chris and I used to head straight to the Caribbean for holidays, so I haven’t been on a beach in the UK in a very long time and I enjoy the forgotten feel of damp sand beneath my feet. Thankfully, I’d thought to throw some trainers into my bag, so at least I have suitable footwear if nothing else.

  As I reach the other end of the beach, only a few minutes’ walk, there’s a couple ahead of me. They’re walking at the edge of the surf, the water lapping over the toes of their wellington boots. On the man’s shoulders is a child of about two years old. A little girl with blonde hair and cheeks rosy from the cold. The perfect family. I watch them even though I don’t want to. The couple look so happy, so in love. I feel a sucker punch to my stomach all over again and a rush of unwanted emotion threatens to overwhelm me. Will this ever pass, I wonder?

  Thankfully, as I’m getting ready to turn on my heels and beat a hasty retreat back to the sanctuary of Sunny Days, I see the Beach Hut Café come into view at the end of the cove. This must be the place that Marilyn recommended. It’s a welcome beacon with its stripy blue and white paint and strings of bunting which are flapping wildly like the cocker spaniel’s ears in the stiff breeze. I make my way towards it, brushing the hot tears from my eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  The Beach Hut Café does what it says on the tin. It’s a large and brightly painted beach hut at the very end of the cove, right on the sea front. Outside, there are a few tables and chairs in pastel shades, some of them sheltered from the prevailing wind by a low white-washed wall. The only covered area is a plastic awning on the side and there are more tables and chairs in there plus a couple of patio heaters – currently not switched on. At the back of the awning there’s a bookcase with a good stock of well-thumbed paperbacks. There’s plenty of bunting in evidence here too and lots of chalkboard signs dotted about with cheery sayings such as ‘May your coffee be strong and your Monday short’, ‘Cake is always a good idea’, and ‘Congratulations! You made it out of bed’.

  In the summer this place is probably rammed but, for now, it seems as if only the local die-hards are out and about. There are only a few other customers. Huddled at the back near the paperbacks is a man with a super-sized mug in his hands. At the front, two women in down jackets and bobble hats are deep in giggly conversation. I think of Della with a pang of guilt and how I should let her know where I am as soon as possible. I’m putting it off as I know she’ll be furious when she finds out what I’ve done. She’s been a big support to me recently and will see it as a personal failure that I’ve caved in.

  I’m the only one brave or stupid enough to sit outside by the sea wall, but as I’m so foolhardy I can, at least, choose a table sheltered from the breeze. I peruse the menu and try not to let my eyes seek out the loved-up couple on the beach.

  I’d had a few happy but ultimately failed relationships over the years. But none of them broke my heart and I knew that I’d never want to settle down permanently with any of them. I always went for high-maintenance men who weren’t the marrying kind. When I met Chris, it was totally different. In a chance twist of fate, we happened upon each other when we took the last two seats in a crowded coffee shop. We laughed as we dashed to the seats and sat down at the same moment. Ice broken, we started chatting, hardly able to hear each other above the noise. So, when we reached the bottom of our respective cups and the café was closing, we exchanged numbers. The next night, we went for dinner. Instantly, I knew he was The One. I fell quickly and hard. I literally trembled when he called me. He was funny and confident – in hindsight, perhaps a touch too much. It’s fair to say that Chris has never had a moment of self-doubt. His sense of self-belief is admirable. Unless, of course, you happen to disagree with him.

  He’s a handsome man, too – tall, broad. If you saw him, you’d know why the attraction was instant. He spends more time than I do in the gym, looking after his body – which he then usually ruins with too many business dinners and a liking for good red wine. He has a strong face with an abundance of freckles that I used to love to trace with my fingers and his horn-rim glasses give him a slightly geeky, intellectual look. Now, ten years later, his auburn hair is beginning to fl
eck with grey. But it suits him and gives him an air of maturity that I like.

  From the beginning, we fitted so together so well. We were both career-driven, so neither of us minded the hours that we put into our work. Chris was grinding away, steadily climbing the corporate ladder. I’d joined Bill in his company and was helping him to build it. Grabbing a few minutes with each other on a daily basis seemed to suit us both. Our weekends were spent playing hard with days out with friends, chic bars, boutique hotels, the best tickets at concerts. We were both happy. We laughed at our friends whose social lives ended when they started to have families and had sleepless nights to contend with, issues with babysitters, or the onslaught of unexpected fevers, tummy upsets, coughs and colds. We were smugness incarnate.

  How I now hate Past Us.

  Out of habit, I check my phone. A dozen more messages from Chris that all say exactly the same thing in increasingly desperate language.

  As I was always so busy, he had a colleague, Meg, who he called his ‘work wife’. How we laughed about that too. She’d be the one to accompany him to all the dinners and events that I couldn’t make because I was at important ones of my own. I was really grateful that he liked her so much and that it let me off the hook. I don’t think I find that so funny now either.

  Meg’s much younger than me – than Chris too. He’s forty-two, like me. Meg is only twenty-eight. She has flowing blonde curls and legs like a colt. Even then, I didn’t even see a threat in her. There was no doubt that she hero-worshipped my husband, but what would she see in him as potential boyfriend material? He was an older, married man. Perhaps I was naive, but I suspected nothing. Chris and I were solid, happy. We had the same life goals. It was work that kept him late at the office, work that took him on regular overnight trips, work that took him to the theatre entertaining clients. It’s no good looking at me like that, I believed him. He was my husband, he told me he loved me on a regular basis, nothing he did made me doubt that. I loved him in return. I was a fool.

  ‘What can I get for you?’ The woman who comes to take my order is all smiles and wacky clothes. She’s wearing a denim jacket lined with sheepskin, a Nepalese knitted hat with ear flaps and pom-poms, multi-coloured patchwork, hippy trousers and Doc Martens hand-painted with red roses. She’s strikingly pretty, with olive skin and long, dark hair threaded with multicoloured ribbons sticking out from beneath her hat. Another splash of colour. Again, I feel so drab in my grey, designer coat as if I’m blending into the background, a shadow. Which is fine. ‘The soup of the day is roasted red pepper and tomato. Free refills on tea if you ask nicely.’

  ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll have a cappuccino and a bacon roll, please.’

  ‘A very wise choice,’ she says. ‘Coming up in five.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The family on the beach seem to have gone now, so I stare out at the sea until my bacon roll is delivered within the promised five minutes. Despite the vague feeling of nausea that seems to be my constant companion, I enjoy it much more than I’d anticipated. The bacon is crispy, smoky and on bread that’s obviously freshly baked. The coffee is strong and creamy and that hits the spot too.

  As I’m finishing, licking the last taste of bacon from my fingertips, the owner comes out again to wipe down the tables.

  ‘It’s certainly blowy today. Everything’s covered in a film of sand,’ she says as she stops at the table next to me. ‘There are few downsides to having a café by the beach, but this is one of them. That and the gulls pinching customers’ sandwiches.’

  It’s clear that she’s not in a hurry to move on and I’m reluctant to be rude.

  ‘Here on holiday?’ she tries. ‘It’s a bit early in the season. I usual only see the locals at this time of year.’

  ‘Not exactly holiday,’ I admit. ‘More of an extended escape from the rat race.’

  ‘I empathise,’ she says. ‘That’s kind of what brought me here too. I could have gone to art college in London, but I came over here instead and never left. Lucky me.’ There’s a certain amount of irony in her voice. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At a houseboat in the next harbour.’ I point towards it, unnecessarily. ‘Sunny Days.’

  ‘Ah. That’s been an on-going project for some time. Finally finished?’

  ‘It’s my brother’s boat, not mine. But, yes, he’s finished it now.’

  ‘And you’re trying it out for size?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beautiful. He’s done a very good job.’

  ‘Your next-door-neighbour is a good mate of mine. Ned Haddon. I haven’t seen him for a few days, but I think he’s around at the mo. He’s an artist, flaky as hell, obvs, but I love him to bits.’

  ‘There were lights on last night, so it looks as if someone is there.’ Just what I need, a flaky artist as a neighbour. Still, it explains the eclectic decor of the houseboat he lives on. It does look very arty. Hopefully, he won’t be around much while I’m in residence.

  ‘I’m Ida Ray. Maybe I’ll see some more of you if you’re here for a while.’

  ‘I should think so. Marilyn said hi, by the way.’

  She laughs. ‘Is Marilyn cleaning for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She can talk the hind leg off a donkey, but I love her to bits,’ Ida says. ‘She’ll make sure you’re OK.’ She reaches into the pocket of her denim jacket. ‘Here, I’ll give you a loyalty card. I don’t give these out lightly, you know. Only to people that I want to see again.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  ‘See you then.’ Ida flashes me a broad smile as she moves on to the next table.

  The sun hides behind a cloud for a bit and it gets really quite chilly. The appeal of stoking up Bill’s wood burner is calling. I wonder whether Marilyn will have finished yet and if it’s safe to me to go back to the boat.

  Chapter Nine

  Instead of heading straight back to Sunny Days, I decide to explore the rest of Cockleshell Bay. I don’t think it will take all that long. There’s only one main street by the look of it and that rises up with a gentle incline away from the harbour. It’s lined with a row of neat terraced houses and a handful of pastel-painted bed and breakfast places, most of which have their no vacancy signs out. That says to me that they’re shut up for the winter and their owners have buggered off for a well-earned break in Gran Canaria. It seems unlikely that they’re actually full as there seem to be very few people around.

  Further up the street, there are a couple of interesting-looking cafés that must be serious competition for the Beach Hut in season. It looks to have a decent butchers and greengrocers too. There’s a hairdressers and, of course, it has its share of estate agents. The rest of the shops are mostly filled with touristy fare – stuff that seems like a good idea until you get it home. I travelled a bit when I was younger, fresh out of uni, and eventually, stopped buying souvenirs altogether. What looks good in Peru should stay in Peru. Islington is no place for a replica terracotta soldier either. Cockleshell Bay is a pretty place though and I don’t know why it should, but that surprises me. In a time when British seaside resorts are generally seen to be suffering, this town looks fresh, upmarket and as if it’s more than holding its own.

  I don’t need any more food thanks to Marilyn but, after browsing what’s on offer, I do pop into one of the two clothes shops to buy a wool hat with a ridiculously large pom-pom and matching scarf. If I’m going to be doing some walking on the beach while I’m here then I at least need to be warm.

  Clearly seeing Marilyn and Ida with their cheerful style has influenced me as I go for bright red instead of my usual grey or black. I pick up some scarlet felted wool gloves to match. The backs are embroidered with butterflies and I’m not sure they’re really me, but I’m prepared to give it a go. I’d like to think that I’m still erring on the side of tasteful. I can’t see me wearing them in London though. If I ever go back.

  What will Chris be thinking now, I wonder. Will he have turned to Meg in his distress? Prob
ably.

  I don’t want you to think our relationship was all doom and gloom. We rarely argued and, when we managed to grab holidays together, we always got along well. That’s probably why I’m so thrown by what has happened between us.

  When I’ve exhausted window shopping, I turn and head back to Sandy Cove beach. I drop by the café again and ask for a coffee to go.

  ‘In need of a caffeine fix so soon?’ Ida quips.

  ‘Not for me. There’s a living statue just down the road, on the sea front. I thought I’d take one for him. He said he’s cold.’

  ‘Ah, George. He’s a regular here. A proud bearer of the loyalty card. He likes a cappuccino, two sugars.’ Ida kicks her coffee machine into life and duly makes one out for me to take away.

  The wind is still blowing strong and heading back is as much of a struggle as I’d feared, so I’m doubly glad that I splashed out on my woollies. They have helped to plug some of the draughty gaps in my clothing. It’s not long before I climb the steps from the beach onto the esplanade feeling slightly breathless.

  George is sitting chatting on his phone. When he sees me, he hangs up and jumps onto his box, striking a pose.

  ‘Caught you slacking,’ I tell him. ‘I brought you coffee.’

  He relaxes his pose and jumps down to take it from me. ‘That’s lovely,’ he says. ‘I’m not feeling the statue love today. Might give up and go back to my day job.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s not exactly a job,’ he admits a bit sheepishly. ‘I’m writing a novel. Or trying to.’

  ‘Oh. An author.’