Summer at the Highland Coral Beach (The Port Willow Bay series Port Willow Bay)

by Kiley Dunbar

  On Friday hadn’t she been stuck at home, guzzling wine in her pyjamas? She’d planned a solo trip and actually undertaken it, not bottling it at the train station, but really, actually making her way to another country. And here she was about to ask for her money back from a teacher she’d never even met. Money she’d rather put to better use doing something else, but what exactly that might be, she didn’t know. Yes, this was really something. A sneaking sense of pride warmed her. Even if she was doing her damnedest to get away from this peculiar place, she had at least started out on an adventure, and she’d let herself think about some really difficult things, and she’d interacted with a bunch of strangers, and she’d laughed too. Yes, that was something.

  ‘You’ll be fine, Bea,’ she said aloud, checking with a glance behind her that nobody was in earshot.

  Somehow, out here under the morning sun and thinning watery clouds she believed it a little better than she had at home in Warwick.

  Walking on along the street, wiping her tears with a tissue and blowing her nose, she passed the few closed-up shops and the shuttered ice-cream kiosk. The church bells rang behind her but she didn’t turn around.

  ‘Keep climbing the hill ’til you’re out of breath,’ Gene Fergusson had said. And so she faced the steep pavement ahead, took one long stride, then another, and another, her eyes fixed dead ahead and the sun on her face.

  Chapter Seven

  The Coral Beach

  The path was indeed muddy, but she had come this far in the increasingly close morning air and her black pumps were now horribly mucky. Beatrice hadn’t bargained on the midges that clustered above the mud as she walked, crablike, along the thin grassy verge that lined the path. They stuck to her lip balm and made her head itch, but after a few moments of sideways walking she came to the top of the hill and reached the rocks Gene had mentioned and suddenly the midges cleared.

  Down below her over the rocky outcrop gleamed the slightest hint of sunlight on turquoise blue sea. How on earth could a craft school exist down at the bottom of this boulder-strewn route? It was barely a path at all, just a slight clearing through the gorse, grass and jutting lichen-speckled rock that led down towards the sound of gentle waves.

  Gene was right, she had to use her hands and knees, as well as her bottom and feet, to lower herself down some of the steeper rock steps. Butterflies and moths rose up from the long grass at the sides of the trail. Eventually, after she felt she’d climbed downhill at least ten metres, she found the view opening out before her, and the sight made her pause. She might well be running late for class but this view asked to be stared at from the very conveniently placed rocky platform, flat like a table top. She sat for a moment.

  A deserted beach of pure white, scattered with golden seaweed and shaped like a crescent moon lay inside a bay of sun-bleached rocks down below her. The water that lapped the shore was shallow and a wonderful tropical blue. She had never seen such an enticing bay and she’d swum in the Mediterranean umpteen times with Rich. On the low headland up above the little white beach were steeply sloping meadows with, at one corner, a wild-looking garden with colourful flowers. Inside the garden’s low stone walls stood a little whitewashed cottage with a silvery thatched roof. She knew it must be the But and Ben. There were no other buildings nearby to confuse it with. There were no signs of life though, and the cottage’s low door was closed.

  Beatrice was loathe to leave her spot on the rock with its gentle sea breeze, and she was hot after the long scramble, so she stretched her legs out in front of her, staring at the bay and the grey mountains enclosing it in a broken circle. The gap between the band of mountains far in the distance opened up into an endless stretch of calm blue sea. The impression that the whole vista gave her was of being held in the palm of a hand.

  In and out went the waves and in and out flowed Beatrice’s breath.

  ‘I’ve got time for a paddle,’ she told herself, deciding to clamber over the last few feet of rocks and down onto the beach, where she kicked her shoes off and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Oww!’

  The white coral shards that made up the beach were razor-like in their sharpness. She picked her way gingerly to the water’s edge, letting the cool water soothe her skin. ‘In for a penny,’ she told herself as she rolled her trouser legs up into shorts so she could have a proper dip.

  The quiet exhilaration of the cold water on her skin was broken by the buzz from her phone. ‘No way? A signal!’

  Warmth flooded her chest. It would be Angela checking on her. She could snap pictures of the beautiful bay and of her feet under clear, cool water and maybe her sister would be convinced that she was doing all right at last. It wouldn’t be totally accurate, but it would, at least, be comforting for her. She peered at the screen, but the message wasn’t from Angela at all. It was from Rich.

  The house is sold, exchanging in a fortnight so you’ll get your half soon. You’ll need to clear your things, sorry. Hope you’re OK. You’re not answering your phone. I’m sending a van to collect my gym stuff on Tuesday. I gave them my key in case you’re busy. Hope it’s not too upsetting for you, love Richard x

  She’d known this was coming; the house had been on the market since soon after Rich left, his idea, wanting to help her ‘move on’ quickly, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of it happening so suddenly.

  The tingling cold started at her scalp and spread its strange grip down over her face and shoulders. Was she going to faint? She wasn’t holding her phone any longer but couldn’t say for sure where it was. Looking around, she tried to stay upright as she staggered out the water, the coral cutting into her feet with each unsteady step.

  The drumming of her heartbeat in her ears and the awful spinning seemed suddenly to pause when she found herself faced with a pair of round, frightened eyes fixed upon her.

  There on the shoreline stood a tiny calf, frozen to its spot, red in colour and as beautiful and doe-eyed as a cartoon animal. The calf shook its tagged ears but stood stock still.

  Shaking her head to clear it, Beatrice focused on the pretty creature. ‘How on earth did you get down here?’

  She scanned the hills above the But and Ben, spotting what looked like a feeding trough in the corner of a hoof-trodden meadow and no one around to help her fix this. How was she going to return this baby to its enclosure? She looked the calf over. Even if it was only small, it was still an actual real life cow, stocky and probably weighing as much as she did herself. Looking around for a stick she wondered if she could drive it back up onto the hill behind the cottages. How hard could it be?

  Her eye settled upon a long stalk of sea kelp. ‘Ouch, ouch, Oww.’ The coral cut at her soles as she made her way towards it. Once it was in her hand, she pulled her shoes back onto her wet and aching feet and realised the kelp was floppy and probably not up to the job of steering the beast away from the dangerous water.

  When would the tide come in? She had no idea, but judging from the pattern of seaweed on the highest reaches of the coral beach the water would come in right up to the rocks.

  ‘Can cows even swim?’ she asked the calf.

  It blinked.

  ‘All right then. Come on.’ She motioned using her flopping kelp for the calf to turn back along the beach towards a path that seemed to lead up to the But and Ben. But the baby wouldn’t budge. So she tucked the kelp under her arm and clapped her hands, softly at first, and then, getting no reaction, more loudly.

  ‘Yah!’ she called, feeling every inch the cow wrangler, when suddenly the movement began. The baby startled and dashed past her in the direction Beatrice had clambered down the rocks.

  ‘No, no, wrong way, little one!’

  Beatrice watched in horrified confusion as the calf bounded and slipped its way up through the rocks. What the hell was she supposed to do now? Call the RSPCA and report a rock-climbing cow? There was nothing for it but to follow the animal, all thoughts of Rich’s message, her lost phone, and of t
he teacher waiting for her in the cottage school forgotten.

  That’s when she heard the great howling cry behind her, accompanied by snorting and the crunching clip-clop of kicked and scuffed coral and pebbles under hooves.

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  A great horned bull was making its way towards her in pursuit of the calf, and following behind him, crossing the beach at an alarming pace, were at least twenty heifers of different sizes and colours and even more calves behind them, all heading directly for her.

  ‘A stampede! I’ve caused a bloody cattle stampede!’

  The runaway calf that started this whole thing was nowhere to be seen, but only as she glanced around looking for it did she notice for the first time that between the boulders on the path that she herself had scrambled down moments ago there were hoof prints squashed into the mud and grass. The animals must pass this way often.

  The bull keened a deep sound, calling the others on. Beatrice was trapped between the panicked herd, the rocks and the sea, and her heart was beginning to pound wildly.

  Another ridiculous situation to get herself into. How did she do it?

  The cows at the back of the group had split away and were trying to overtake the rest by splashing through the water to get to the front, cutting off Beatrice’s escape route into the deeper water. There was one thing for it: she’d have to climb and she knew she had only a fraction of a second to get onto the steep rocks and out of the way of the heavy bodies which were now bumping into one another, jostling and shoving as they funnelled through the narrow gap that the calf had gone through.

  Hauling herself from the knee-deep water onto a rock as though she were pulling herself from a swimming pool she managed to avoid the heavy clatter of the bull’s feet, and as she flattened herself against the sheer rock face, he passed by, his wide haunch bumping her stomach as it squeezed through the gap in the rocks, knocking her breathless for a moment during which she watched the heifers stumble past two at a time, knowing that if one should slip it would push her from her perch on the rock.

  The sound of their snorted breathing and distressed calling was startlingly loud. The calves at the back of the group struggled up the incline, and their wild-eyed mothers listened for their returning calls.

  Beatrice’s hand shook as she held the ridiculously limp sea kelp stalk above her head, ready to slap the behind of any cow that attempted to turn, stamp on her feet, or invade her little safe space. But something else had joined the fray, something sleek and black. It was moving between the herd, coming between her and the animals.

  ‘Echo,’ she whispered, afraid of startling the animals more, and the dog bounded up onto the rock and sat upright by her feet facing the cattle, his presence making them swerve a little away from her rocky perch, giving her room to breathe.

  The reassurance that flooded her body as she slowly reached her free hand down to touch his warm head was like a shot of anaesthetic calming the stress cortisone and adrenalin coursing through her. ‘Good boy, Echo,’ she whispered again. The dog quickly licked her wrist before turning back to his task of keeping the crazy English lady safe.

  Out of the cacophony of her heart’s pounding and the herd’s hollering, a man’s voice rose commandingly loud, ‘Geet up! Go oan!’

  As the last of the animals passed by her shaking body, she saw him standing on the coral. Atholl Fergusson.

  Steeling herself not to cry with relief that the moment was over even though her shredded nerves willed her to sob, she wouldn’t let him see her weakness. Anyway, he was shouting, red-faced and angry.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘What am I doing? How was I supposed to know there’d be a herd of mad cows roaming the beach? They don’t put that in the bloody brochures! Come to the beautiful west Highland coast, get eaten by midges and crushed to death by free roaming cattle!’

  ‘This is their route between pastures on the hills. It’s more their beach than any human’s.’

  ‘Well that’s ridiculous!’ Beatrice was stuck for words now, regretting having shouted yet again. She wasn’t accustomed to angry exchanges and confrontation, in fact she’d do anything she could to avoid them usually, but this situation was very unusual indeed.

  Her chest heaved as she became aware he was surveying her.

  ‘Good God, would you look at the state of ye.’

  Only then did she realise her trouser legs were still unevenly rolled up from paddling and her knees were grazed and bleeding from her hasty scramble onto the rocks, and she was becoming aware of the salt water sting searing through her wounds. It occurred to her that she was still holding the flaccid sea kelp, her only defence against twenty wild cattle on a seaside rampage. She threw it to her feet in disgust and embarrassment, her cheeks burning.

  ‘I’ll have tae lift ye down. May I?’ He raised his arms, hands outstretched the way her mother had reached for her as a child when she needed rescuing from the top of the climbing frame in the park having been over ambitious and ended up stuck at the top and panic-stricken.

  ‘I can manage, thank you.’ Her reply came out louder and shakier than she would have wished, and she lowered herself onto her bottom and shuffled down over the edge of the rock, coming to stand in front of Atholl, ignoring the sea water filling her shoes again, a feeling of defiance flooding her.

  ‘Come up to the cottage, you’ll need tae be cleaned and bandaged.’

  ‘I’m fine. You can go on your way,’ she said, unconvincingly, as a trickle of blood made its way down her shin.

  Atholl raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘It’ll take one minute. Besides, it’s time for yur lesson anyway.’

  She eyed the cottage wearily, and heaved a ragged sigh. There would most likely be a kettle in there and she could do with a cup of strong tea after what she’d just experienced. Her hands and her balance, she realised, were still unsteady. ‘All right then.’

  Atholl led the way over the coral, walking a few paces in front but occasionally turning his head back. Echo ran off along the beach and disappeared into the gorse. Atholl didn’t seem to mind so she concluded he was a Littlest Hobo kind of dog, off having adventures and saving damsels in distress all day long with little supervision from his master.

  The path leading up from the beach to the But and Ben was lined with sea holly, frothy camomile and a cloud of buzzing bees and hornets. The grasshoppers halted their clicking as Beatrice followed Atholl through the garden gate and in the low door of the cottage, surprised to see him walk straight inside without knocking.

  ‘Is this the classroom?’ she asked, casting her eye around the squat room, taking in the thatch and rafters only a foot or so above her head. There were a few rustic-looking cabinets, an unlit fireplace under a wide chimney, a long table with benches on either side, and very little else. ‘Where’s the teacher?’

  Atholl stopped rummaging in the first aid kit to deliver a look that asked whether she was concussed as well as grazed. ‘I am the teacher. Surely you figured that out?’

  The memory of Atholl scolding Beatrice this morning, telling her to hurry to class burned in her brain. He’d enjoyed withholding that little bit of information, payback for her criticising the inn and not wanting to take his willow-weaving classes or eat his brother’s haggis, she supposed. Her anger would have burned all the harder had she not been exhausted from the stampede. She could have been killed, and all for his own sick satisfaction. She glowered at him in silence.

  ‘May I?’ Atholl came to kneel on the bare earth floor at her feet, raising his hand to her knee but not making contact.

  ‘I can do it myself.’

  ‘No, you drink this, to stop the shaking.’ He pressed a small glass into her hand and the vapours coming off the peaty spirits told her this was whisky. She hated whisky but was surprised to find herself sipping as she watched Atholl wiping away the blood with clean hospital gauze.

  ‘You haven’t dipped that in whisky too, have you?’

 
‘And waste my fifteen-year-old Dalmore?’

  Her flesh stung as he did his work, as did her pride, and she found she was glad she’d made the effort to shave her legs and that Atholl was so absorbed in fixing plasters he didn’t see her wincing and shuddering as the alcohol burned her throat.

  ‘There, you’ll live,’ he said with a note of finality and a backwards step that made her dimly aware of how much she’d liked him so close to her, working in his quiet, capable, economical manner, his fingertips skimming over her skin every now and then. Close up, she’d noticed the dark freckles over his cheekbones and the deep red brown of his lashes, and she’d become aware for the first time of how well the dark green jumper and brown checks he wore complemented the ruddy chestnut of his hair.

  ‘I’d better be going now then,’ she said, collecting herself, trying to remember that she was angry with him.

  ‘If ye wish. Start again tomorrow morning?’

  Exasperated, she let her mouth gape and her eyes widen. ‘Tomorrow? I’ll be on my way back to Warwick tomorrow. In fact, that’s what I came down to talk to the teacher about,’ she said, pointedly. ‘I wanted to ask about getting my money back. I don’t want to fiddle about with sticks and twigs in this place, especially if I have to risk life and limb just to get to the classroom!’

  She reached for the table top to steady herself under his unreadable gaze. Was he really angry with her after what had just happened? He looked paler than he did before and seemed to be biting hard upon the inside of his cheek, making his jaw work and flex and his lips bloom into an unconscious pout.

  She reached her fingertips to her temples and rubbed away the headache that was coming. Was it the whisky bringing on the drowsiness, or was she going into shock, or was it the scent of warm lavender drifting in through the opened window, strong and dry?