My Summer of Magic Moments

by Caroline Roberts

  Halfway down the second bottle of red now, Sal having had the bulk of it, they were sat out on the balcony wrapped in duvets they’d brought out from their bedrooms. ‘I know it’s hurt like hell, Clairebo, but I think that prick of a husband of yours leaving isn’t such a bad thing. Not in the long run.’

  Well that was pretty blunt. Claire stared at her. Sal had never warmed to her husband Paul from the start (correction: ex-husband, as of eight weeks) – there had always been a frostiness between them. Not that they’d ever had an argument, or that anything in particular had happened; it was just that they were almost too polite when they had to meet – there was a coolness that hadn’t changed over time.

  ‘You are better off without him, you know,’ she continued.

  It was still a little raw, even though Claire knew that it was probably the truth. ‘The less said about him the better,’ she muttered. How did you just forget six years of marriage? All those good times as well as the bad. She went quiet for a while.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ she conceded after a pause.

  She remembered how it had happened. She’d been given the good news from the oncologist after a follow-up scan, that there was no further evidence of cancer, and was so relieved. It was the week afterwards, that was all, when she was back at home looking forward to the future, their future. He’d just come out with it. Told her that he’d been seeing someone else, that it had started before her diagnosis. He couldn’t have left her like that. So all the while, all through the op, the chemo, the radiotherapy, the first months of recovery, they’d been living a lie. His staunch, loving support had been merely duty, a cover for his guilt. She’d found the energy, from sheer rage probably, to throw a suitcase at him and told him to get out. He had, swiftly, with a couple of overnight bags and his ticket to a new life and new lover.

  Claire stayed quiet.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, Claire … but I just want you to be happy. You can be happy again.’

  ‘I know. I’m not rushing into anything, though. I mean man-wise. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of happiness.’ Claire laughed, a little too loudly. ‘It’s okay, Sal. It’s probably best out in the open. And thanks for coming up, sis. It’s nice that you’re here.’

  ‘Hey, no worries. It’s great to see you, and in fact it’s been lovely just to have a night away from the madhouse of my family. A bit of head space, you know. I love ’em to bits, don’t get me wrong, but every now and then you just need a bit of time out from the demands of “Mummy, I need a poo, Mummy, I’m hungry, Mummy, I’m thirsty, Mummy, where’s my football kit?”’ She took a sip of her wine. ‘And the best? “Sal, if you’re tired, can I at least have a hand job?”’ The red wine was obviously loosening her reserve.

  Claire laughed. ‘I wonder how he’s coping?’

  ‘What, Mark? He’ll be fine. He’s got hands of his own, you know.’ Sally giggled.

  ‘I mean with the boys.’

  ‘Ah, he’ll be okay. He’s pretty good with them, and it’ll do him good to spend some more time with them. And he’ll appreciate me even more when I come back, hopefully. They were heading off to the cinema this evening, latest Disney movie and a pizza supper. I’ll give them a call in the morning. It’s a bit late now.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky to get any signal anyhow.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  Claire had never had that – a family of her own. Even with all the stresses of family life, Sally was happy – her children were her everything. You could see it written all over her face. Paul had never wanted children. That had seemed okay at first, when she was young and idolized him – they were fine as a couple. He had his engineering business, his busy life, the foreign holidays together; children would just get in the way. But she’d always wondered in a little hide-and-seek corner of her thoughts whether he might change his mind one day. A part of her had hoped he would.

  ‘Hey, do you realize it’s nearly midnight, Bo? Time for bed, methinks. Oh Jeez, have I really got to get into that fleapit now?’

  ‘It’s either that or a lumpy sofa.’

  ‘Christ, the things I do for you, sis. If I’m itching in the morning, you’re in for it, I can tell you.’ She half grinned, half shrugged, resigned to her fate. ‘If I ever need a getaway break, I won’t be coming here, that’s for sure. It’s going to be five stars in the Maldives.’

  ‘Great. If you need some company …’ Claire grinned.

  ‘Come on, then, let’s do this thing.’ Sal stood up.

  The pair of them waddled in from the balcony in their duvets, looking an odd sight. They brushed their teeth, sharing the little floorboard-creaking bathroom. Then Sal headed off to her room. ‘Here goes.’

  ‘Night, Sal. Thanks again for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure, hun.’ There was a slight pause. ‘Except for the grotty bed.’

  Claire heard a creaking as her sister ventured in. Heard the click of the light switch, the blink into darkness. She lay down in her own bed, settling onto her pillow with a sigh and a warm feeling of love for her sibling. Then, unable to resist pulling out an old saying of their gran’s, she perched up on one elbow and shouted across the landing, ‘Night, night, sleep tight. Hope the bed bugs don’t bite.’

  ‘Bitch,’ was launched back. But she knew Sal was grinning too.

  It was the best night’s sleep she’d had in ages. Claire squinted her eyes to try and gauge the time. Gone ten o’clock! She could hear someone shuffling about downstairs, the sound of a kettle bubbling to a boil. Ah, a cup of tea, that would be good. She tried to sit up and felt like she’d been hammered all over during the night. Hammered was certainly something to do with it, she winced, trying to pull a leg out of bed. Oh, good God, she hadn’t had a hangover in years. Through all the cancer treatment she’d steered clear of alcohol, thinking her body had enough to deal with. Obviously her tolerance levels had plummeted – she hadn’t had much more than two glasses. Okay, so maybe they were large glasses. Now she realized she’d probably been a bit stupid, but she’d been enjoying herself, had lost track.

  She summoned the energy to creep downstairs, to find Sal in the kitchen popping teabags into mugs.

  ‘Hey, you – I was going to bring one up to you.’ Her sister looked amazingly bright-eyed and breezy.

  Claire slumped onto a kitchen chair, leant her arms on the table and placed her head in her hands.

  ‘Paracetamol, hun?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘No worries, always keep some in my handbag.’

  Thank God her sister was so organized. ‘Ta.’ She raised her head a little, trying to avoid any sudden movements as things seemed to be slamming around in her brain.

  Sally passed her a large glass of water and placed two painkillers in her palm. Her tongue seemed to seize up as she popped them in and tried to swallow, her throat constricting around them. She gulped down a couple of glugs of water to shift them. Now she remembered why she didn’t normally drink much.

  ‘Been up long?’ she rallied, trying to make conversation. She didn’t want to waste the limited time she had with her sister.

  ‘Since about three a.m., itching.’

  ‘Nooo!’

  ‘Just kidding, Clairebo! Had you there, though. No, I’ve only been up about half an hour myself. Been sitting looking at the view. Not a bad spot you’ve got here. I can just picture it all done up, a nice white-and-blue beach theme going on. All distressed furniture and shabby chic instead of just shabby.’ Sal passed her a steaming mug of tea.

  ‘Hmm.’ Yes, she could picture that too, like something out of Homes & Gardens, all beachside chic. Her sister had always had an eye for design – her own house was gorgeously furnished and decorated.

  Claire then wondered what, or more precisely who her sister had been watching out on the beach. It would hopefully have been too late for Grumpy-Gorgeous’s early-morning swim. That was a little gem she liked to think she could keep to herself.

  ‘That gu
y next door was out jogging with his dog.’

  Was she some kind of mind-reader?

  ‘Oh, right.’ She tried to sound cool. ‘What kind of dog has he got?’

  ‘Labrador. Black one.’ Pause. ‘He’s quite dishy, isn’t he?’

  ‘What, the dog?’

  ‘Hah, very funny. Your neighbour.’

  ‘Hmm, not bad. I told you he’s a right grumpy thing, though.’

  ‘He certainly is. I had to nip and get something from the car as he was coming back in. He wasn’t very chatty, I must say. He’s called Ed, apparently. That’s about all I found out. The dog’s cute, though. She was far more friendly.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a dog myself one day.’ Claire was glad to move the conversation on.

  ‘Me too – a spaniel or something. Though our house is mad enough at the best of times. Can’t quite imagine a dog in the mix at the moment. Maybe when the boys are older, then they could help walk it.’

  Claire sipped her tea, hoping the painkillers would kick in soon, but it was kind of soothing letting her sister chatter on. She just nodded now and then, with an occasional ‘Ah-huh’, until finally her head began to clear, though it was still fragile. ‘Think I might head up for a shower.’

  She felt somewhat revived by the splashing of warm water and zingy blast of shower gel.

  Half an hour later they were strolling down the beach, heading towards Bamburgh, where they spent a very pleasant hour in the courtyard garden of the Copper Kettle tearooms with a pot of Earl Grey and some very scrummy slices of lemon drizzle cake.

  ‘So what are your plans for the rest of your break?’

  ‘Well, not too much, to be honest. It’s been so nice just to have time on my side, a book to hand and a gorgeous sea view.’

  ‘Hmn, that does sound rather lovely. But isn’t it a bit too quiet? A bit lonely?’

  ‘Not really. That was the whole idea behind coming away – to have some space, some time out for a bit. I’ll manage, I’m sure. My own company’s not that bad. Anyway, I’ll have to start thinking about the next feature for my column soon, so that’ll keep me busy. Em’s filling in for me for two weeks, but I need to send something in to the newspaper for the next week. I can’t be out of the loop too long, especially now I’m finding my feet again back at the Herald after all that time off sick. I’m just waiting for inspiration to strike.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll come up with something, Claire. Your blogs were brilliant all through the cancer stuff. Really honest and inspiring. You didn’t get voted the North-East Columnist of the Year for nothing.’

  ‘No, I suppose not … Thanks. I was doing it more for me, though, to be honest. It just happened to be popular.’

  ‘Well, you’re very talented. And at least something good came out of it all. I’m sure you helped a lot of other people going through something similar, and their families too.’

  ‘Yeah, writing it down definitely helped. Verbal therapy, I think.’

  ‘You see. A true journalist at heart.’

  Later that afternoon, Sal was popping her overnight case into the boot of her car. They’d spent the day chatting, taking a long leisurely walk on the beach, and had a picnic lunch of bread, cheese and fruit in the garden.

  ‘Right, I suppose I’d better be setting off,’ she announced cheerily. ‘Back to reality and all that.’

  Reality? Normality? Claire didn’t know what that was any more. Her life had taken so many unexpected turns of late. She waved her sister off, watched the rear of her car swing out onto the main road, and felt her heart sink a little. As she turned back in through the door of the cottage, she recognized a niggling feeling of loneliness creeping over her. Her sister was right. Her cottage escape, her haven – okay, more hovel than haven – suddenly seemed a little too quiet and remote. Perhaps it was just that they’d had such a lovely time reconnecting over the last two days.

  She’d thought she didn’t need anyone. She was wrong.

  6

  Laughing in the rain

  Claire rattled around the cottage the next morning, then decided she might as well bake some bread. It would keep her busy and provide her with something tasty for lunch. Lynda from the deli had lent her one of her baking books for inspiration, and she perused it over a cup of tea on the balcony, deciding on a sea-salt-and-rosemary-topped sourdough.

  She was soon in the kitchen measuring and mixing, then pounding and kneading the dough. As she worked away, she thought what a lovely couple of days it had been with Sally. Magic moments spent with her sister, she smiled to herself, picturing how daft they must have looked huddled like teenagers in their nightclothes and duvets on the balcony at midnight. The rush and pull of the waves sounded even louder in the dark when you couldn’t really see them. You just caught glimpses of the odd crested sparkle in the moonlight. The pair of them sat there drinking mellow red wine, and chatting.

  As she pushed the heel of her hand into the dough once more, a light-bulb thought pinged in her mind. Magic moments. She’d been looking for inspiration for something to write about for her column. Her job as a journalist wasn’t going to go far if she sat doing nothing for weeks on a beach. She’d brought her laptop, and had been waiting for the right article to form in her mind. With the recent split from her husband, her soul had felt battered and bruised; she’d been struggling to find any creativity in there at all lately. But yes, magic moments – we all needed those. What made life good, special? Not winning the lottery or being given a heap of cash – there were many miserable millionaires around, and money didn’t keep anyone healthy. But the simple things … things everyone could have or do: be with family, friends, a smile from a stranger, watch a gorgeous male swim naked – hey, stop it; that image just wouldn’t shift from her brain – laugh until your sides ache, eat warm, soft bread straight from the oven, preferably with a big blob of melting butter.

  Her dough was probably kneaded enough, she realized, so she set it on a dish and popped it into the hot-water-tank cupboard to rise, that being the only truly warm place in the house. She tidied up, washed her breakfast things and the mixing bowl, wiped down the floured surfaces and cleared the kitchen. She put the oven on to warm, read for a little while, then went back to check on the dough, which had doubled in size. She then shaped it and scored the top with three slashes as the recipe instructed, which apparently allowed it to rise and cook without splitting. Then she put it in to bake. It wasn’t long before the smell of freshly baked bread filled the cottage, making her mouth water. She peeked in the oven: the loaf looked golden brown, well risen with a crusty top. She set it on the side to cool.

  Outside, the clouds were breaking into cauliflower-shaped cushions. She decided to take a stroll. The forecast on the radio had said heavy showers, but if she managed to get out between them, it might just clear her head and shake off that lingering, empty feeling that had crept up on her. Sal would be home again, back with her brood, catching cuddles from her two boys, a hug with her husband. She’d be sleeping with somebody’s arms around her tonight. Claire could only be happy for her, but the small tear in her own heart had begun to gape.

  She walked about a mile at a leisurely pace, going the opposite way from Bamburgh and nearing the rocks at the far end of the long sandy beach that marked the start of the harbour town of Seahouses.

  At the far end of the beach, she turned to head back to the cottage again. Oh. The sky this way was a very different story. She hadn’t noticed the dark, heavy clouds brewing behind her. She’d better get a move on. Rain was definitely on its way, and by the look of the gunmetal-coloured shaft sheeting from the sky out to sea, it wouldn’t be too long in coming. The sky was menacingly beautiful. The skies here were so different from the cityscapes of home. So big. It sounded silly, but they were. Panoramic. You felt the power of the elements, saw the weather as it formed.

  She began a marching pace, striding across damp golden sand, leaving firm footprints. The beach was quieter today; the forecast had no
doubt put the tourists off. There was a lone dog walker further up the bay with a couple of terriers scooting about beside her. And then another figure, moving quite fast, jogging towards her. It seemed familiar. Tall, male, broad shoulders, long athletic legs. Mr Grumpy-Gorgeous – clothed and jogging now: he certainly liked to keep fit. Well, he was certainly fit, in all meanings of the word. She laughed to herself. Felt a little glow of anticipation as he approached, though she wasn’t even sure if he would raise a smile, let alone speak to her. Would he even recognize her?

  Closer now, she could see the taut muscles pumping in his legs, the sweat on his brow, his hair curling damply with sweat. As he neared she could hear his heavy breathing. He was pushing quite a pace. She realized she must have been staring – oops. He managed a small stiff wave of acknowledgement as he passed. Claire gave a brief neighbourly wave back.

  She walked on. Big flat plops of rain started. She’d better hurry up. She couldn’t even see the cottages from here – there was still another headland before their bay. The plops were getting heavier, starting to soak her top.

  Footsteps pounded up behind her. ‘Fancy a jog? I think we’re about to get a soaking.’

  My God, he’d spoken. And that might even be a glimmer of a smile across his lips.

  ‘Okay.’ She was stunned, by both him and the turn in the weather. Why was she saying okay? She hated running. But it was bloody bucketing it down now. It was as if someone had just turned the volume up on the rain – you could almost hear the gear change, and then thud, thud, thud, droplets all over. It was even pitting the sand.