The Beach Cabin

by Fern Britton

  It was by now late afternoon and the sun was starting to sink towards the horizon. As Ed set off with his family in tow, heading past the church and down a path that led to the sea, they could hear the sound of the waves getting closer, and the unmistakable smell of the sea filled their senses.

  As they rounded the headland, Ed heard Charlotte gasp as she took in the view.

  ‘Oh, Ed, it’s beautiful!’

  ‘It’s called Shellsand Bay.’

  Below them a gentle path led down the side of the cliffs to the most beautiful beach. The late sun cast its rays on the clear blue water set against a cloudless azure Cornish sky. Ed had been desperate for the weather to be perfect for their arrival; he wanted everything to be just right. Knowing how much Charlotte loved the sea, he turned to see whether Shellsand had had the desired effect. Even after fifteen years together, the sight of her took his breath away. Her green eyes looked bluer with the sky reflected in them, and the gentle breeze ruffled her fair hair.

  ‘I love it,’ she said simply, drinking in the colours and the rolling cliffs as they tumbled towards the golden sands.

  ‘I thought you would.’ He smiled as he took her hand. ‘But there’s more to come. Follow me.’

  At the bottom of the path, as the beach opened up in front of them, Ed pointed towards a small row of beach huts. ‘Look.’

  There were about half a dozen of them, all painted in primary colours. One or two looked as though they could use some love and attention, with faded paint and rusty hinges, but Ed led them to a bright-red hut that had obviously been well cared for. A Cornish flag fluttered from the roof. There was a step up to a small veranda outside the padlocked entrance. Ed took the step, brandishing the key. ‘It’s ours!’

  Alex shrieked, her teenage ‘whatever’ face momentarily forgotten. ‘Seriously, Dad, this is awesome!’

  ‘Come on, Dad, let’s have a look inside,’ Sam urged, leaping onto the veranda.

  Ed put the key the padlock and had to wriggle it around for a moment before it turned.

  ‘Hurry up!’ urged Sam, jumping up and down with impatience.

  ‘Keep your hair on!’ Ed turned the handle and at last the door creaked open.

  The interior of the cabin was more spacious than it looked from the outside.

  ‘Cool. It’s like the TARDIS in here,’ observed Sam.

  There was an old fifties kitchen dresser in the corner. Charlotte opened the doors: it was full of mismatched crockery. There was a tin tea caddy filled with teabags and little pots containing sugar, instant coffee and lots of other useful things. A kettle sat on one of the shelves and there was a sixties Formica-topped table with two chairs. In the corner, propped up against the wall, were deckchairs, a windbreak, a barbecue and all sorts of other beach paraphernalia. Sam was beside himself when he found a surfboard and a trunk containing wetsuits and snorkels.

  ‘Dad, we’ve got to try these!’

  Ed wasn’t so sure. ‘They look a tad snug,’ he said cautiously. ‘They might not fit…’

  ‘Dad, they’re made of rubber – they’ll stretch. Besides, you’re thin as a stick insect.’ Sam made a stretchy-rubber face.

  ‘Well, let’s think about it, shall we?’ Ed had never been surfing and didn’t consider himself to be very athletic. Hopefully, Sam would be distracted by something else before he was called upon to deliver on that front.

  ‘What do you think of it, Charlotte?’

  Charlotte, who was lovingly fingering the bleached wood on the veranda and gazing out at the rolling surf, turned to him, her eyes shining joyfully. ‘I don’t know what to say. I never expected anything like this.’

  Ed stood beside her and put his arm around her shoulder, gently pulling her towards him. She didn’t resist, and a moment later her arm found its way around his waist. He’d forgotten how good she felt.

  ‘It’s an amazing place, Ed. I can’t believe you’ve never brought us here before.’

  ‘This is the first time we’ve ever had a break in the schedule. Usually I’m so busy the whole time I’m down here, I don’t venture far off the set. I never really thought of it as a holiday place.’

  Ed felt Charlotte’s hand drop away from him. He looked down at her face. She gazed out steadily towards the horizon, but said nothing.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  She was silent for a moment and he held his breath, waiting. ‘Nothing.’ She turned to him and smiled, her smile reaching her eyes for the first time since she’d arrived. ‘Nothing. I’m so happy to be here, Ed. It’s perfect.’

  And Ed found himself hoping that this would turn out to be true.

  3

  Ed was so disorientated when he awoke that it took him a moment to remember where he was. He fumbled for his glasses at the side of the bed, then set about looking for his watch. His mother had given it to him after his father died; despite a few scratches and knocks, it had served him well. It wasn’t a particularly expensive watch – just a stainless-steel Accurist with a mesh strap – but Ed thought it was quite cool in a seventies sort of way. It kept his dad close, though he’d been dead now for over twenty years; cut down in his prime by cancer.

  He was stunned to see it was 9.30. How had he managed to sleep in so late? Even when he was at home, he was normally an early riser, so attuned to the hours of a filming schedule that he didn’t need an alarm clock. He must have been more tired than he realised.

  It took a moment for it to sink in that the bed beside him was empty.

  The previous evening, they’d driven to the nearest town, Trevay. It was a typical Cornish seaside resort and the queue outside the Fairy Codmother fish-and-chip shop snaked down the seafront. They sat on the harbour wall with their food on their laps, the children happily chucking chips to the aggressively hovering seagulls while Molly looked on incredulously as she was denied even one – Charlotte was always pretty strict about not rewarding dogs who begged. Ed waited until she wasn’t looking before giving Molly his leftovers, then they returned to the cottage and he opened a bottle of wine. He’d sipped from a glass while trying unsuccessfully to light the wood burner, while behind him Alex and Sam argued about what movie to watch on Netflix.

  ‘You decide, Charlotte,’ Ed suggested. ‘The Wedding Singer or Ghostbusters?’

  ‘Ghostbusters, obviously.’

  ‘Mum!’ Alex protested. ‘We’ve seen it a million times already.’

  ‘Don’t drag me into it, then. I’m going to hit the hay anyway.’

  ‘You’re not going to stay and watch?’ Ed was disappointed, he was hoping that they could have a cuddle on the sofa – get closer again – but Charlotte insisted she was too exhausted after the long drive.

  ‘I can hardly keep my eyes open. Don’t let the kids stay up too late. Night, you two.’

  Ed watched her as she kissed the tops of the children’s heads, then made her way up the stairs. Just before the bedroom door closed, her voice drifted down: ‘Don’t drink all of that bottle to yourself or you won’t be able to sleep.’

  The kids drifted off to their rooms before the end of the film and, by the time he had tidied up and made it to bed himself, Charlotte was in a deep slumber, curled up in a foetus position on the far side of the bed. She might as well be on the far side of the world, he thought glumly as he climbed under the covers, wishing the gulf between them would disappear.

  Now, he swung his legs over the bed and padded across to the en-suite bathroom. On the way he caught sight of his naked torso in the large mirror that hung over the dresser. He stopped for moment to study his reflection; he’d never had to worry about putting weight on. He seemed to have hollow legs – ‘nervous energy’, Charlotte called it – but he thought he could see a creeping tyre around his middle. He jabbed at it, trying to remember when he’d last exercised. A few years ago he’d taken up running as a way of getting rid of some of that excess energy so that he could get a good night’s sleep, but over recent months he’d felt so drained and lacking in
motivation that he’d abandoned his daily run. Perhaps that was why he was sleeping so badly.

  He slipped on his jogging bottoms and yesterday’s T-shirt and headed downstairs. The staircase was narrow and the wooden steps felt cold beneath his feet.

  He was surprised to see Sam already awake and engrossed in his iPad. ‘Morning, Sam. Where is everyone?’ He plonked himself down on the sofa next to his son.

  ‘Mum’s taken Molly for a walk and Alex’s still in bed.’

  ‘What you looking at?’

  ‘Spike Turner.’

  ‘Who’s Spike Turner?’

  Sam rolled his eyes and tutted. ‘Dad! He’s the world number-one skate pro and, like, the most awesome dude, like, ever.’

  ‘Right. I see.’ Though he didn’t. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Honestly, Dad, do I have to explain everything?’ Sam pointed to the screen. ‘Watch this!’

  Ed watched as a man of about thirty-five in a baseball cap, baggy jeans and a SuperDry T-shirt skated towards a flight of steps, launched himself on his skateboard and coasted down the handrail, before flipping his board 360 degrees, executing a perfect backflip and then landing on his board.

  ‘Wow!’ Ed had to admit it was pretty impressive. ‘But isn’t it about time he got a proper job – at his age?’

  ‘Skateboarding is a proper job, Dad. He’s a multimillionaire!’ Sam looked at him with wide eyes. ‘That’s what I’m going to do when I grow up.’

  ‘How many skateboard millionaires are there?’

  ‘Loads!’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Dad, Pendruggan looks too lame to have a board park, but I saw some dudes with boards when we were driving back from that fish-and-chip shop. Can we go and find it? Please, Dad?’

  ‘Maybe later. You hungry?’

  ‘Do bears shit in the woods?’

  ‘Sam, mind your language, mate.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘The full works?’

  ‘Yes!’ Sam and his dad fist-bumped and Ed headed over to the open-plan kitchen. He hoped that Charlotte had picked up some supplies yesterday, though he hadn’t noticed what was in the large selection of bags and holdalls when he’d unpacked her ancient Volvo. He opened the fridge door – it was a huge American-style one – and was pleased to see breakfast ingredients: eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, plus a few peppers and onions, some milk, cheese and a loaf of bread. There was even fresh coffee in the cupboard. He smiled, relieved that he wouldn’t have to tramp into the village before his caffeine fix.

  He set about clattering around the kitchen, pulling out saucepans, frying pans and chopping boards. Breakfast was well on the way by the time Alex came downstairs. Her hair was scraped back in her trademark ponytail and she was rubbing sleep from her eyes.

  ‘God, Dad, are you trying to wake the dead?’

  ‘Good morning, my treasure!’ He kissed her on the top of her head. ‘I like your jimjams.’ He pointed with his wooden spoon at her Hello Kitty pyjamas.

  She threw him a sarcastic look. ‘They’re ironic.’

  ‘Of course they are, my little princess.’

  Alex playfully gave him a push and then sat down next to her brother.

  ‘Oh, no, not Spike Turner again.’

  ‘Feck off.’

  ‘Sam, enough with the potty mouth,’ Ed warned.

  ‘Feck isn’t a swearword, Dad.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck.’

  The first proper bicker of the day was nipped in the bud by Molly’s arrival as she bounded joyfully through the front door followed by Charlotte.

  ‘It’s a glorious day out there. Oh, good – breakfast. What are we having?’

  ‘Don’t interfere – you know this is my speciality.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She leaned in and gave Ed a peck on the cheek. ‘Though you do seem to have used every single pot, pan and utensil in the entire kitchen.’

  ‘It’s a man thing. We need our man tools.’

  ‘It’s an organisation thing – or lack of it – if you ask me.’

  ‘I didn’t. Sam, Alex, I’m dishing up. Can you lay the table?’

  There was then a chaotic scrum as the small kitchen was filled with three bodies all rummaging around in drawers and cupboards that they weren’t familiar with, while Charlotte sat down at the table with the paper.

  ‘That village shop’s quite something. There’s a funny woman in there, some ancient Cockney.’

  ‘Ah, that’s Queenie, what she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing. Right – here it comes.’ He set loaded plates in front of Charlotte and Sam, who fell on them eagerly. Then he went back for a pile of buttered toast. ‘Yours is coming, don’t worry,’ he told Alex.

  A moment later he was back with a plate for himself and one for his daughter. He was halfway through a Waitrose Cumberland sausage when he realised that Alex was still staring at her untouched plate.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  Charlotte looked up from her paper. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Oh, what?’

  Everyone was looking from their plate to Ed. ‘What?’

  ‘Dad, Alex is a vegetarian,’ Sam said through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

  ‘Since when?’ Ed was flabbergasted. ‘The last time we ate out, you had that giant burger, remember? With two burgers, bacon and blue cheese – it was fifteen quid,’ he added, still aghast at the bill.

  Alex pursed her lips and put her head to one side, speaking to him in a patronising voice: ‘I’ve been meat-free for over a year now, Dad.’

  ‘Yes, that was probably the last time we went out for a meal,’ Charlotte said matter-of-factly. ‘And I can’t remember the last time you sat down to a meal at home without jumping up to take a phone call or check your email every five minutes. You probably didn’t notice.’

  ‘But you used to love my fry-ups.’ Ed was aware that a whine had entered his voice.

  ‘I still do, Dad, but not with any of this.’ And she used her fork to push one of the sausages towards her father.

  Ed was struck speechless. How had he managed to miss something so obvious?

  Charlotte reached out for her daughter’s plate. ‘Want me to make you something else, darling?’

  Determined to retrieve the situation, Ed leapt from his chair. ‘Hang on – give me a chance – what do you want instead? Poached eggs on toast? Welsh rarebit – have we got any cheese?’

  ‘An omelette – a nice one and not too runny.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ed. ‘The perfect omelette on its way.’

  ‘Can I have Alex’s bacon and sausage, then?’ Sam was already moving his fork towards Alex’s abandoned plate.

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Here – go nuts. I’ll put your dad’s breakfast in the oven to keep warm.’

  A few minutes of banging and clattering ensued as Ed cleaned the frying pan and prepared the ingredients. The delicious smell of sautéed mushrooms and onions wafted over, until eventually Ed presented his daughter with a golden omelette, butter still bubbling away on the surface. ‘Well?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Is it perfect?’

  Alex put a forkful into her mouth and gave it a delicate chew. ‘Pretty much.’

  Ed breathed out. ‘That’ll do.’

  Charlotte waved for him to sit down, then retrieved his half-full plate from the warm oven before rolling her sleeves up to tackle the huge pile of washing-up.

  When he’d finished eating, Ed joined his wife at the sink, whispering, ‘So did I pull victory from the jaws of defeat?’

  ‘Just about,’ she answered, not looking up from her task. ‘This time. But there’s no such thing as perfection. Not in families and not in omelettes, either. It takes practice to even be half good, let alone perfect.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ed could tell there was a subtext to what she was saying, but he couldn’t get a handle on it.

  ‘I mean…’ She put down the pan she was scouring and looked up at him. ‘You might be able to manufacture perfection on a
three-day holiday, but it’s much harder for me to do it every day at home in Worthing. On my own.’ She turned away to dry her hands on a tea towel, then tossed him a scouring pad. ‘Seeing as you’re demonstrating how to be the perfect husband and father this weekend, how about doing the rest of the washing-up?’

  Deciding that the best policy was to say nothing, Ed took the scouring pad and finished washing the dishes.

  After breakfast, keen to make the most of the late-summer sunshine, they set off for the beach cabin. As they made their way down the path, they could see that, while the beach wasn’t as busy as some of the sandy beaches in the area, Shellsand Bay had its own unique charm. With no direct road leading to the beach, it could be reached only from the path, which made access difficult for buggies and wheelchairs, and limited the number of casual visitors. But the Atlantic swell guaranteed excellent waves, making it a surfer’s paradise, and it also had a devoted following among those who appreciated its natural beauty and sheltered position in the lee of the cliffs.

  Charlotte had packed everything they needed for the day into their cooler bag and an assortment of beach bags. Although the sun was shining, there was a chill in the air, so she hadn’t taken any chances, bringing along blankets, towels and cardigans in case the weather took a turn for the worse.

  Once in the cabin, Ed pulled out the deckchairs and the windbreaker, fashioning a little area in front of the veranda. The clapboard doors of the other beach huts were all padlocked, so they had that part of the beach to themselves.

  Charlotte stuck the kettle on, pulling out some green teabags from one of the carriers. ‘Fancy a brew?’ she asked Ed.

  ‘Got any coffee?’

  ‘There might be some in the dresser.’ She had a rummage in the cupboard and found a jar of Mellow Bird’s. It was lumpy, but it would do.

  Sam made straight for the surfboard and wetsuits.

  ‘Come on, Dad – let’s have a go.’

  Ed was reluctant but aware that he’d dragged them all down there and this might be the price he’d have to pay. Tall, at six foot four inches, he’d always felt like he was all clumsy legs, especially when dancing or roller-skating. Now in his forties, he was rarely required to do either, though he suspected that surfing might expose the same sort of awkward gangliness and lack of coordination.