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

by Kiley Dunbar

  ‘Hmm. I’ve learned a bit about willow-weaving if that’s what you mean?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘That’s no’ exactly what I meant, no.’

  Beatrice was throwing inflated balloons onto the bar room floor and they bounced and floated around her. For a second, she considered working away silently at the canister and hoping Kitty would drop the subject but she knew she’d have to tell her the whole story, and so she did. It didn’t take long at all, her whole sad story compressed into a few minutes’ telling, and it all culminated in kissing Atholl then getting caught in the tide.

  ‘And so I almost drowned. And Atholl got us out of the current. If he hadn’t known what to do we’d both have been dragged out to sea. You can’t swim against tides like that, apparently. You have to go with it. That sounds a lot like my life recently. One minute I’m a wife and a mummy to be, next I’m alone in the Highlands, and then I’m kissing a man I only met, what, just over a week ago? The next thing, he’s saving my life! When I woke up after my long sleep, I thought to myself, that’s it, that’s the answer, you just have to learn to go with it. And yesterday I went up to the But and Ben to tell him all this, and how I was ready to see how things might go here with him – offer to stay a while longer maybe, and I don’t know, I kind of just wanted him to kiss me again and see how it felt this time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he told me to go home to Rich.’

  ‘But you like Atholl, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘And the kiss in the water? What was it like?’

  ‘What was it like? That kiss! I needed that kiss. I definitely deserved it. But there was a little niggling of something not quite right, even though it was so right. And Atholl’s absolutely correct; that thing was Rich. Up until now, hiding my head in the sand about the separation and the house sale seemed to be all I could do to get through. But I know now, after telling Atholl about him and saying his name out loud and recounting all our failings there’s still so much unfinished business there and so much left unsaid. Rich was, after all, the father of my baby and we had all those years together, and you can’t just throw all that away without once looking back.’

  ‘You miss him.’

  ‘Sometimes. Maybe not the heart-broken kind of missing him, but a simpler kind of missing. I loved him enough to marry him and I miss telling him daft things about my day, and I miss having someone who just knew me. We could talk in shorthand. We had something between us that deserved to be salvaged, at least some of it did. And it’s as if the universe knows that too, because – talk about timing! – Atholl had given me a parcel and I didn’t get round to opening it until last night, and it was a phone.’

  ‘A phone? To replace the one you dropped in the sea?’ Kitty said.

  ‘And he’d charged it and swapped in my old SIM card and everything, which is so like him, I’m realising. Anyway, there were messages, lots of messages from Rich, going all the way back to last Sunday. They were pretty tough to read. The first ones were all about the paperwork of selling the house and dividing up our joint bank account and the life insurance, and all that stuff, and then I could tell he was getting worried, wondering where I might be and why I wasn’t answering, and the last one was all concern too, but with something extra. He said he misses me, he’d “really love to talk if I can face it”, and then there was a message saying he was going to ring Angela to ask her where I am. Oh God!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t think he’s trying to reach me because he wants me to sign divorce papers? I know he’s been in a rush to move on but he can’t be so callous as to chase a divorce already, can he? Ugh, my head’s spinning just thinking about it all. Clarity’s all well and good but, ouch, it’s dizzying too. I feel like I’m stepping off a bumper car ride that’s lasted two years and I have the bruises to prove it.’

  ‘So what do you want to do?’ said Kitty, gently.

  ‘I need to do all the things I’ve learned to do while I’ve been here. I need to calm the heck down and stop fighting against life’s riptides. Instead of getting carried away trying to right every wrong, I have to let life carry me along for a while. I can’t fix everything, so I’m going to go home on Monday and see where life takes me after that.’

  ‘Will you come back to the inn? See Atholl again? Port Willow’s awfy bonny at Christmastime, you know?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll be doing after tomorrow… literally, let alone what I’ll be doing in the winter.’ Beatrice’s heart sank at the thought of the dark, short days to come, and remembered with a sigh which she couldn’t suppress, the mortified call she’d made to her sister that morning, asking if, what with the sale of her house and everything, she could move onto their sofa for a few weeks until she could find a little place of her own.

  The call had set her thinking that with the money from the sale she could afford a small place, and with a little cash in the bank and no job to tie her down she was free to look for work anywhere in the country now. She’d be at the mercy of the job markets.

  Angela had read her some job ads she’d cut out of the Guardian for her. The pickings were slim but there was a charity fundraising job going in Barnstaple in Devon, and a community campaign manager for a hospice a bit closer to home in Coventry. Funny how she hadn’t missed trawling the job pages one bit while she’d been here. Whatever was in store for her, she wasn’t going to fight against it. She’d find out soon enough where she was supposed to be.

  But for tonight, there was a white dress with a muted blue tartan sash hanging on the door of her wardrobe, thanks to Mrs Mair’s daughter Louisa, who had long since emigrated to Cape Town, and tonight Beatrice was going to twirl in that dress under the bonny decorations at The Princess and the Pea Inn and try not to upset anyone else. And tomorrow… well, she’d think about that on her way back to England while Port Willow slept off its hangover.

  ‘There! All done.’ Kitty brushed her hands together and folded the stepladder up.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Beatrice replied, scanning the bar, now a bright confection of coloured crepe, bunting and balloons. ‘That’s five o’clock. The band should be here soon. Atholl’s been gone for ages collecting the piper from Fort William, hasn’t he? Wasn’t he meant to be here an hour or two ago?’

  ‘He’ll be here soon enough. He had to collect the whisky too, remember? Have you not spoken to him today?’

  ‘I saw him briefly at breakfast, but he had the barrels to change in the cellar and then he was busy with Gene prepping the buffet, so just a quick chat, really. I’m pretty sure he’s avoiding me.’

  ‘Be sure you speak to him before you go. Some things can only be said face to face. Just tell him everything you wanted to say to him yesterday.’

  Before Beatrice could come up with a reply about how she wasn’t planning on antagonising him any longer and she was going to keep her mouth firmly shut, Gene appeared from the back kitchen, taking off his apron.

  Seemingly mirroring his brother’s awkwardness that morning, Gene appeared to have forgotten how to act in front of Kitty too. Today was his wedding anniversary and he knew he was being observed by everyone who knew him. They were all wondering if he was going to bolt this year too.

  He ran a nervous hand over the shorn hair above his right ear, barely making eye contact with the woman he’d spent almost every second of the last week with.

  ‘I’m, uh… I’m away to walk Echo. And then, uh…’

  His skin paled at the look Kitty gave him and he turned away. She wasn’t going to plead with him to stay and dance with her at the ceilidh, but her face flushed and her eyes burned with hurt. The women watched him skulk out the bar and onto the seafront leaving the door swinging behind him.

  ‘He’s not coming back tonight,’ Kitty said. ‘He did the same thing last year, and the year before that, Atholl told me. God knows where he gets to, but he doesn’t have it in him to face the ceilidh. Once he told Atholl he couldn’t stand the
music; it brings back images of him and Lana dancing at their wedding reception.’

  Kitty sighed as Beatrice crossed the floor to put an arm around her friend and lead her to the booth to sit down.

  ‘I was at the wedding, you know,’ Kitty continued. ‘And he was so happy. And Lana was so beautiful, but maybe just a wee bit less happy than Gene. She was young. Too young to be marrying a man she barely knew and changing her citizenship and leaving her family behind in Canada. But Gene wooed her, poured his heart and soul into their relationship, and he was so ecstatic. A dancing fool, Seth called him. Seth could see it wouldn’t last, maybe we all could. I stopped coming to the village after that, so I didn’t see it all breaking down, but I can see the impact it’s had. I just hoped that he’d be able to face the ceilidh if I was there with him. Looks like he can’t.’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, I’m sorry. This is all my fault.’ A flash of optimism lit Beatrice’s face. ‘But he seemed so happy when we had our planning meeting, remember?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but he’s gone now, hasn’t he?’

  Beatrice watched the door he’d left through moments ago. ‘You never know. Maybe he really is just walking Echo.’

  At the sound of his name being spoken, the dog strolled into the bar, the slow sweeping of his tail sending balloons scattering across the carpet. The two women’s eyes met in a knowing, defeated glance.

  ‘I’ll pour us a drink,’ Beatrice said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Ceilidh

  The gulls squawk from their lookout on the sweet damp thatch of the But and Ben roof high above the coral beach where once in a harvest moon the tides swirl in treacherous currents beneath a calm surface.

  The stubbly fields to the east are dotted with newly wrapped bales, the combines and tractors all now returned to their sheds.

  The cows and their calves have been rounded up from Rother Path and are now safely enclosed for the evening in their meadow, the great red bull lowing to them over the hedge from the next field.

  Every farm worker from the cottages dotted over the hills behind the village has downed tools after their long summer’s work and is now taking to the country lanes in their smartest clothes, all scrubbed knees and swishing tartan.

  The noisy gulls lift effortlessly onto the cool, late-August breeze which is scented with the workers’ cologne, lavender, willow sap and sea salt, and they glide high in the air, their serene glassy eyes fixed on Port Willow and the last of the afternoon’s tourist fishing boats now returning to the harbour with their small catch.

  In the village, the streets are cleared of cars for the purposes of dancing and criss-crossed with cheerful bunting strung between every window and street lamp, and the white lightbulbs along the jetty gleam out in the dying light.

  A boat, newly arrived from Skye and filled with red-haired children is mooring up at the jetty, and the older children help a white-haired, elderly woman step ashore in her ancient Highland mink and pearls.

  All the villagers are leaving their houses and slowly strolling, remarking to their neighbours about how quickly the summer has passed and how the dark nights will soon be drawing in. Their chatter mingles with the drone of the piper’s chanter as he works his lungs and the rest of the ceilidh band try their instruments ahead of a long night’s dancing at The Princess and the Pea Inn.

  This is the best and brightest night in Port Willow’s ritual year. This is Harvest Home.

  No one sees the woman sitting in the inn garden on the promenade, shielded from the bustling street by bushes radiant with drooping red rosehips. A tartan blanket protects her white dress from the damp bench as she clasps her steaming mug of tea and waits patiently.

  * * *

  ‘There you are. I’ve been walking the prom looking for you.’

  Throwing the blanket off her shoulders, Beatrice stood and faced Atholl, smoothing down her white, full skirted dress and adjusting the tartan sash with its large bow at her shoulder. Mrs Mair had fixed it to the bodice only an hour earlier using a gleaming brown agate brooch with a small posy of white heather shoved behind its clasp, and the older woman’s eyes had misted and her voice wavered as she spoke about her daughter far away who had once upon a time been the bonniest girl at the Harvest Home celebrations.

  Beatrice hadn’t felt so sure she could pull off Louisa Mair’s Highland look this evening, thinking it old-fashioned and just far too Scottish, but Atholl’s expression told a different story.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he uttered. Instantly abashed, the colour rose in his pale cheeks. Beatrice wondered if he’d meant to say it, but her thoughts were stolen away as she looked at Atholl.

  Six foot of Scottish redhead stared back, his curls dampened and swept behind his ears showing his squared jawline and fine, high cheekbones. The muscles in his jaw worked and his blue eyes shone as he let her look him over in his Highland shirt, open at the throat and with the smallest touch of creamy lace at his cuffs. One shoulder was draped over with a heavy tartan sash which hung behind him in neat folds. The silver buckle on his thick leather belt glinted in the early evening light and the mossy green kilt hung in thick pleats to his knees. She scanned his taut muscled calves, the thick Highland wool socks and gleaming brown leather boots. Distractedly, she lifted a hand to her hair which was pinned up in a bundle of curls – Cheryl and Jillian’s handiwork – and tucked a soft strand behind her ear.

  ‘What are ye doing sitting out here?’ he asked.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I was going in.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I am now. I wasn’t going to fight against a tide that wanted me to stay away.’

  Atholl’s brow crumpled in confusion.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quickly, dismissing her words with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t you scrub up very nicely – once you’ve got the lavender twigs and the earth and salt out of your hair.’ She smiled unrestrainedly, so glad he’d appeared before her and in far better fettle than he’d been the night before at the But and Ben.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve been away all day, and left you alone with setting up. I had a lot of things to attend to—’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she cut him off, not wanting to hear him explaining again how he wanted to put more distance between them. He’d come to find her, hadn’t he? He wanted her at the ceilidh. That was enough. ‘It doesn’t matter; you’re here now.’

  ‘The band’s ready to start up,’ said Atholl. And as if to confirm this, a slow lament drifted out through the open inn windows.

  ‘Is Gene back?’ she asked, her brows tilting and showing all her hope.

  Atholl only shook his head.

  ‘What about Kitty, is she all right?’

  ‘She’s helping to serve the Highland punch at the bar.’

  Beatrice sighed. ‘We messed up there, Atholl. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise to me. I was the one setting up the lavender oil still and racing to finish the planting while you slept. I was the one who didn’t tell Gene where I was for near on fifteen hours as I worked. I should have guessed he’d come looking for one of us. But I was consumed with wanting to work. After we got out of the rip current, after you’d opened your heart about Richard and your marriage and how you didn’t know where you stood with him, I was struck with terrible guilt at having monopolised your time here when you should have been recovering, and all the while I was wantin’ to see more and more of you. Selfish, I ken. So, I tried to leave you in peace and keep myself occupied. But when you woke up and ye came to me in the field in your sundress and your hair all loose, and… I knew I couldn’t help myself when it came to you, Beattie. I wanted to kiss you again. It felt like a great wave washing over me, and I wanted to drown in you.’

  Beatrice stepped towards him, placing a hand on his shirt sleeve. ‘But you told me to talk to Rich, to see if he wanted me back. Is that what you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to follow your heart.’

 
‘And it’s taken you all day to think it through? Where have you been?’

  ‘Ah, well… this morning I—’

  ‘Evenin’ young yins,’ Seth called from the street. ‘You’ll be missing your own ceilidh at this rate, Atholl. You’re needed to introduce the band.’

  Atholl spun round to face Seth. Beatrice didn’t see the effort it took for him to break away from her and greet his old friend. She did see the polite, if terse, nod of his head before he turned back to her to offer his crooked arm with a resigned sigh. ‘Shall we go in? This is your last night in Port Willow, after all. You should dance, and taste the whiskies and be happy.’

  As she passed through the little gate from the inn’s garden, gripping his arm, Beatrice resolved to do as Atholl had said. He was telling her to not complicate things, and that tonight was all they had left and he wanted her to enjoy it, so she would.

  They weaved through the rows of chairs lining the street. The inhabitants of Port Willow had all done as they were asked and brought out their own chairs and tables and the whole scene resembled a royal jubilee street party.

  Seth, dressed in an ancient-looking kilt and tweedy jacket and still wearing his faithful green woollen beany, held the inn door open for her to pass through and Atholl released her arm as she walked in.

  ‘Save a Gay Gordons for me, Beatrice,’ Seth said with a twinkle. ‘There may be more lassies here than ever before, thanks to Atholl’s crafty women, but there’s still too many laddies and no’ enough lassies. It was ever the way at Port Willow,’ he added dramatically.

  ‘You cannae call them my crafty women, Seth,’ Atholl warned with a droll smile. ‘They’re our crafting holiday patrons.’

  ‘Well, whatever we’re calling these bonny English lassies, I hope they’re ready for a night’s birling on the dance floor.’ Seth waggled his eyebrows and headed for the bar where Kitty was ladling a bright red drink from a large cut glass bowl into cups and handing them out to a gathering crowd.