Sunny Days and Sea Breezes

by Carole Matthews

  Then I stand and try to hug George, but I can’t really get near to him because of his costume and we both end up a bit embarrassed. We shake hands instead.

  ‘I’ll see you around,’ I say.

  He gets back onto his plinth. ‘I hope so.’

  So I walk away, back towards Cockleshell Bay for the last time. When I turn round George is looking after me, hand held up in a frozen wave. I wave back and walk faster, the wind making my eyes sting.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  When I get back to Sunny Days, Marilyn is swishing round the mop. Her favourite thing.

  ‘Hi, Marilyn.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ she says, clutching her chest. ‘Your man was standing here in nothing but his pants when I turned up this morning. Nearly gave me a heart attack!’

  ‘Sorry, I should have texted you to let you know.’ Though I should imagine that Chris was equally surprised to find a buxom Marilyn Monroe looky-likey dressed in a gold lamé jumpsuit letting herself into the houseboat at the crack of dawn along with a cloud of Joie de Vivre perfume mixed with eau de Cif.

  ‘I thought you’d brought one of those Chippendales home from the festival. I can tell you, I didn’t know where to look.’

  ‘But you did have a good look?’

  ‘You bet I did!’ she laughs.

  ‘I gather Chris introduced himself.’

  ‘Once we’d both got over the shock.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He seems very nice.’

  I don’t remind Marilyn that looks can be deceptive. ‘He turned up unexpectedly last night.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘I bet that was a lovely surprise.’

  It was a surprise, that’s for sure. I’m still trying to judge whether I find it ‘lovely’.

  ‘He must have been pining for you. You know what they say about absence making the legs grow fonder.’

  ‘I do.’ No point arguing with that. Absence might as well make any part of the body fonder.

  ‘But where have you been, sweetheart?’ she continues. ‘We were both worried. I sent a text.’

  It bounces in as she speaks and I hold up my phone, so that she can see I’ve only just received it. They never fail to make me smile. This one has a pig, a balloon, a bottle of champagne and a poodle emoji attached to it.

  ‘I went down to the café to see Ida. She had a break-in over the weekend and had to leave the festival early. There’s quite a bit of damage so I went to see if I could do anything.’

  ‘Poor lamb! She wasn’t hurt?’

  ‘No, she was with us at the festival when it happened. It’s just the mess really and the coffee machine’s been nicked.’

  ‘I’ll pop by later and see if I can do anything to help.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll appreciate it. She’s feeling very unhappy today. I hated her having to rush away like that.’

  Marilyn raises her eyebrows. ‘So she left you and Ned there? All by yourselves?’

  I feel myself flush and nod in lieu of a reply. Marilyn glances downstairs to make sure that Chris isn’t within earshot.

  ‘You’ve been getting on very well with Ned,’ she observes. ‘A bit too well?’

  Thankfully, Marilyn has lowered her usual volume and is using her inside voice and I do the same. ‘Yes.’

  I’m sure that she knows we’ve slept together and, if I’m so transparent to Marilyn, then Chris must be pretty certain too. Perhaps he’s prepared to forgive and forget and I’ll need to do the same thing if we have a chance of rescuing our relationship.

  ‘Does Ned know about . . . ?’ She gives a theatrical nod towards where Chris might be.

  ‘He does now. He’s really angry with me. It’s all getting a bit too complicated. A very good reason as to why I should go home.’

  She looks at me, shocked. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I have to. Much as I’ve enjoyed it, I can’t hide here indefinitely. As you’ve said, life goes on. I have people who rely on me. I’ve got work to do and I need to face my difficulties head-on.’

  ‘Not head-on,’ Marilyn advises. ‘Walk beside them for a while and see how that feels. Don’t let them overtake you. That’s the key.’

  ‘Very sound advice.’ I look at her and smile sadly. ‘I’ll miss you, oh wise woman.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too, sweetheart. Who’ll look after you when you get home?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I promise her. ‘I’ll make sure my cupboard runneth over with bread.’

  ‘I’ll text you every day to check,’ she says. Then, ‘You’ve seen Ned today?’

  ‘On the beach.’ It twists my inside when I add, ‘I said my goodbye to him.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not much.’ What could he say? I’m married. I have another life.

  She whispers now. ‘Do you love him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Marilyn. I don’t know what I feel about anything.’

  ‘Then don’t make any hasty decisions. You might fix things with your young man. A camel can change their spots.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that it’s a leopard who can’t.’

  ‘Whatevs,’ Marilyn says. ‘You know what I mean.’

  And that’s the lovely thing, I do. Despite her always getting her words tortured and tangled, I know exactly what she means. I’ve warmed so much to this kind-hearted lady since I arrived feeling bleak, lonely and on the edge of despair. I still might not be sorted out emotionally, but she’s done wonders for me during my stay and I’m going to miss her terribly.

  ‘You’ve helped me so much,’ I say. ‘Even when I thought I didn’t want your help.’

  ‘Go on.’ Marilyn wipes a tear from her eye. ‘You’ll make me blub and I’ve not got my waterproof mascara on.’

  ‘You’ve been a good friend to me.’ I go and hug her tightly. I would have liked to have been a mother like Marilyn – perhaps with less exuberant taste in clothes. ‘Say you’ll come and see me in London.’

  ‘No, no,’ she says. ‘I hate the mainland, especially London. It’s not my cup of coffee at all. You’ll just have to promise to come back here.’

  Chris appears at the top of the stairs. Marilyn’s face falls. I do believe she’s quite disappointed to see him fully clothed.

  ‘Come back?’ he asks, after hearing the tail-end of our conversation.

  I break my embrace with Marilyn and turn to him. ‘We should go home.’

  He looks surprised. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah. Let’s strike while the Hoover’s hot.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marilyn wink at me. She’s taught me well.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  I pack while Marilyn cleans Sunny Days from top to bottom. She goes about it in a very determined manner and the odd sniffle or strangled sob comes from her direction when her back is turned.

  I’ve not got much, but it seems to take me an inordinate amount of time to fold it and put it back in my bags. It doesn’t seem to be two minutes since I arrived here and, despite my earlier bravado, I don’t feel that I’m ready to leave. Chris, it seems, is in a different frame of mind.

  ‘Come on, Jodie,’ he urges. ‘If you hurry, we can catch a lunchtime ferry. We’ll miss rush hour on the other side then. Otherwise, it’ll be hell getting into London.’

  Out of heaven and into hell, I think.

  I look out of the window at the harbour ahead of me. Cockleshell Bay looks particularly inviting today. The sea sparkles, the clouds are gloriously white and fluffy, the black-headed gulls wheel and call on the breeze. I’ve never wanted less to be heading to a city. Chris, it seems, can’t wait. Should we linger just a little longer and I could maybe show him some of the island or explore parts that I haven’t seen? I’ve barely scratched the surface myself. But he doesn’t seem interested. He simply wants to spirit me away as soon as possible. It’s probably for the best. I don’t think I could face bumping into Ned again.

  Downstairs, I take some deep breaths before I start to dissemble my life here. I throw my
clothes into the case, even the glittery leggings from Marilyn. The only things I leave behind are the sand ornament that Ned made for me and the garish, pink teddy bear he won on our day out at the Needles. I’d love to take them, but I can’t. How would I explain my desire to hold onto them to Chris? So, with a last fond look, I hide them both in the depths of the wardrobe and close the door.

  When my case is packed and I can delay no longer, I hug Marilyn once more and we both shed a tear or two. While we hold on to each other, Chris takes the bags and goes to get the car which is parked further down the road.

  ‘I hope it works out for you, sweetheart,’ Marilyn says with a tearful sniff.

  ‘Thanks, Marilyn. You’ve been brilliant. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better.’

  ‘Go on with you. It’s been my pleasure. You need taking care of, Jodie. Be kind to yourself too.’

  ‘I will.’ I give her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m going to go now, before I find it too hard to leave.’

  We go to the door together and, when I step outside, I see that, propped up against one of the bay trees, is the mother and baby carving that I’d asked Ned if I could have. It’s such a beautiful sculpture that I’m teary all over again. When I pick it up and cradle it in my arms, it fits just perfectly. The weight and the warmth of the wood is comforting against my body. Ned has sanded it until it’s wonderfully smooth. I can’t tell you what the wood is, but I think that Ned has probably oiled it too as the colours are rich and deep.

  ‘What’s that?’ Marilyn asks.

  ‘It’s from Ned.’ I glance over at Sea Breezes, but there’s no one there and his car has gone. ‘He started working on it at the festival and I said that I’d like it.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, stroking the baby’s head. ‘A lovely memory for you.’

  I can’t speak I’m so overwhelmed, so I just nod and hold the carving closer to me.

  Chris pulls up in the car and I turn to Marilyn, unable to disguise my sorrow at parting.

  ‘Goodbye, sweetheart,’ she says and cries again.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ I say with a sob. ‘I can’t bear this.’

  Chris honks the horn.

  ‘I’d better be going.’ So, sculpture still in my arms, I climb into the passenger seat.

  Chris stares at it. ‘What on earth’s that?’

  ‘The guy next door is a wood sculptor. He made it for me.’

  His face tightens. ‘Did you tell him about the baby?’

  ‘No. I saw him working on it and asked if I could buy it him from him.’ I don’t say that Ned seems to have left it as a gift for me. ‘I love it. You don’t?’

  My husband shrugs. ‘If it makes you happy, then that’s all that matters.’ He doesn’t look as if that’s what he feels. ‘Ready to head off?’

  ‘Yes.’ I look back at Sunny Days which I’ve enjoyed so much as a temporary home and the beautiful view of the harbour as we drive away. Marilyn is waving furiously and I wave back.

  Chris and I don’t speak as we hit the road and turn inland, but he rests his hand on my knee. It’s heavy, oppressive and I can feel the sweaty heat of his palm through my jeans, but I don’t feel able to move it. Then we wind our way through the green and pleasant scenery of the Isle of Wight back towards the ferry terminal.

  ‘It’s OK here,’ is Chris’s verdict. ‘A bit twee.’

  ‘You’ve hardly seen anything of it. That’s a harsh judgement.’

  ‘Did you get out and about much?’

  ‘A bit,’ I admit. I think of the day that Ned took me out to his hideaway in the forest and to the Needles and what fun we had. It’s a shame that I didn’t see more of the island too. ‘But I would like to see more one day.’

  ‘I’d rather go to Bali,’ is Chris’s opinion.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  We undertake the rest of the journey in silence and, thankfully, it’s not too long before we’re at the port of Cowes. Chris joins the lines of cars waiting to be directed on board our ferry back to the mainland. My heart is in my boots. I don’t want to stay and I don’t want to go. Tell me how I’m going to start to sort that one out in my head?

  While we wait, Chris and I try to make conversation, but each attempt falls flat. We give up and both turn to our phones for solace. I check some work emails from Bill and Chris busies himself with texting. Thankfully, we’re soon waved on board.

  ‘You’re going to put that thing down?’ he says.

  My sculpture has been nestled on my lap, giving me a degree of comfort. Reluctantly, I leave it on the passenger seat. Chris and I get out of the car.

  Chris stretches as if we’ve been on some mammoth journey. ‘Some lunch?’

  ‘Not for me.’ I’ve been beguiled by their sandwiches before, which offer much and deliver little. ‘I’d rather stand outside as we leave, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘OK. It’s a nice day for it. You go outside and I’ll get us some coffee.’

  So I head to the back of the ferry and, with a feeling of déjà vu, I stand on deck. As the ferry sets sail, I watch the Isle of Wight disappear into the distance. The little boats, the chic apartments, the fancy restaurants grow smaller, become more indistinct, as we leave the harbour and head out into the Solent. I feel numb when I suppose I should feel happy.

  I’m going to miss Marilyn, Ned, George and even Ida. But especially Ned. I can’t bear to think of him, yet can’t stop the images of his body above mine. I take out my phone and look at the photo of us by the princess’s sandcastle we built on the beach. We’re both grinning at the camera – me a little drunkenly. I should delete it, no good will come of keeping it. It will only serve to remind me, when I should be doing my best to forget. Yet, I can’t make my finger press the button.

  The weather has taken a sudden turn for the worst. As we cross the open water, the clouds are heavy and low. The sparkling sea turns from turquoise into a writhing mass of slate grey, choppy and unsettled. Big splots of rain fall, exploding on the water like tears falling from the sky. The ferry ploughs on regardless. I stare unseeing at the waves, not caring that I’m getting wet. We pass the other Red Funnel heading back to the island and every fibre of my being is telling me not to leave. The boat is close, so close, that I feel I could jump from here right onto it and go straight back. I hold my breath for a long moment, wondering if I could make it. But, of course, I stay where I am.

  A while later, as the houses and boats of Cowes are tiny dots on the horizon, Chris joins me at the rail.

  ‘My God, the queue,’ he complains as he hands me a coffee.

  ‘Thanks.’ The coffee is lukewarm and bitter. I try a smile but fail.

  ‘You’re soaked. Did it rain?’

  ‘Yes.’ I hadn’t realised that it had stopped as suddenly as it started.

  Chris slips his arm round my waist and pulls me to him. I try not to tense in his arms.

  ‘Cheer up,’ he says. ‘Everything will be better once I’ve got you home again.’

  But will it? I wouldn’t like to say. I can only hope that Chris is right.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The traffic is hell on the way back into London and everything looks so crowded and grimy. We are both frazzled by the time we park in the next street to our apartment – and it takes us ten minutes to find a space.

  ‘I don’t know why we live in London,’ I say.

  ‘We love it,’ Chris declares. ‘We wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’

  I’m not so sure. I’ve got used to waking up to the sound of the sea birds and the still, sparkling water of the harbour, the gentle pastel sunrises, the magnificently technicolour sunsets. This all seems so bland, so monochrome in comparison.

  ‘Let’s go to our favourite restaurant tonight,’ Chris suggests. ‘You’ll enjoy that.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea.’ I have to make an effort otherwise I’ll be sinking again.

  We lug our bags round the corner to our place. I have Ned’s sculpture tucked carefully un
der my arm. Chris unlocks the main door and then pushes it open with his foot. Our apartment is in a beautiful Edwardian house that’s been split into four flats. We’re on the top floor and have a view over the houses and chimney pots behind us. There’s a small garden with a high wall that we have access to, but rarely go in it as we don’t know our neighbours and it would be awkward if we bumped into them. Even though it’s ours, it feels like an intrusion to go in there if someone else is using it. We all chip in to pay for a gardener who maintains it for us and, when I do venture into it, seems a good enough job.

  We climb the stairs to our front door and Chris lets us in. ‘Home sweet home,’ he says.

  I follow him inside. The first thing I notice is the absence of scent. My home smells of nothing in particular. There’s not the freshness of sea air nor the bitter tang of seaweed exposed by the receding tide. I must get some reed diffusers or something. Seaside fragrance.

  ‘Tea?’ Chris says as he throws the bags on the floor. He’s already at the Quooker tap.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Our living room is large, open plan and with high ceilings. While the outside of the house is still pretty, the interior is another matter altogether. All indication that it ever was Edwardian inside has been obliterated by a succession of unsympathetic builders and most of the period features are long gone. We have shiny new oak floors, white walls and, in here, there’s an enormous L-shaped grey sofa. Our artworks are minimal, abstract and mostly leaned up against the walls, so that I can move them around as the whim takes me. The windows are covered by white slatted blinds and I go over to the bay to put Ned’s beautifully carved statue in prime position. The blinds hide the view of the street and the skip that’s permanently parked across the road from renovations that have been going on for as long as we’ve lived here. Our opposite neighbour seems to be extending up, down and sideways.

  I gaze out and watch the traffic negotiating its way through double-parked cars. A man in a white van shakes his fist at a vehicle he decides is too slow. It seems strange to be back in my sleek, stylish home with the shushing sound of the waves and the plaintive cries of seabirds replaced by shrill police sirens and the constant thrum of traffic.