My Summer of Magic Moments

by Caroline Roberts

  She felt crushed, confused, yes. But she was here. Others hadn’t made it. Was it selfish to be thinking this way? The faces of those friends on the chemotherapy ward who hadn’t got through appeared in her mind. A lump lodged in her throat. This was her battle scar. And she was alive to see it. She must hold on to that. She was a survivor. She couldn’t waste her life worrying about a missing nipple, a ridge of scarred flesh.

  This was her now. This was Claire Maxwell. She had to accept it. And she could. Her fear was how someone else, a man, a lover, might feel about it. She felt such a deep yearning to be held, to be loved again. Not just by her mum, her sister, her friends, precious though that support was, but by a man. She longed to get lost in someone else’s touch, have wonderful, gasp-out-loud, satisfying sex. It had been such a long time. Having Ed so near today had shaken up her world.

  They were so close, so close to having sex – just about naked, for fuck’s sake. And he had run away. Her shoulders starting shaking as she pictured the pair of them. She began giggling at the bizarreness of the situation, and her bare breasts began jiggling. Life was bloody bonkers, whichever way you looked at it. But then the tears flowed. For her scars, her fears, for her lost friends, for the patients she hadn’t known, the ones facing their nightmare journey right now, and the ones that cancer had stolen from their families.

  She wrapped herself up in her cosy dressing gown, went to the bedroom window and stood looking out at the half moon. Dusk was closing in around it now. There were glints of silver on the sea.

  A ping of light arced across her garden. An upstairs room lit up next door. She thought she could hear the echoes of music, something classical, lyrical. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he looking out at the sea too?

  The world was as big as a moonlit sky, as small as a grain of sand; it was crazy, it could hurt, it was beautiful. You could get lost in it.

  Two lonely lights, side by side.

  7

  The smell of freshly baked bread

  After the mortifying events of the previous day, Claire just wanted a quiet, normal kind of Tuesday. She pottered around the cottage as the weather was still unsettled, but managed a short stroll on the beach between showers, dipping her toes in the sea, sharing the shoreline with a couple of gulls, quite happy to watch the world go by.

  On Wednesday, she spent time in the sea-view garden. The sun had decided to make a comeback and prove it was summer after all. She really must crack on with the editorial piece for next week’s Herald, she mused. She was features editor; she had a good following. The stories of her battle with cancer had inspired others, but she didn’t want to dwell on that any more. Her writing needed a new direction, something to cheer people up.

  She sat thinking for a while, and then the thoughts flowed. She realized that what she wanted to write about was those simple things in life that make you happy; the conversation she’d had with her sister had stayed in her mind. She opened a Word document on her laptop and found herself planning her first ‘Magic Moments’ article.

  She paused, considering what moments should be on her own list, then began typing:

  1.A sea view and sunshine on your face.

  2.Time spent with family. (She remembered how lovely the weekend had been with her sister.)

  3.Tea and cake with friends. (Yes, she’d arrange that with Andrea and the girls when she got back.)

  4.Hearing the sound of children’s laughter. (Visit to her nephews asap.)

  5.A hot, deep, bubbly bath. (Another one tonight!)

  6.Losing yourself in a great book. (This afternoon!)

  7.A hug. (In her darkest moments during the cancer treatment when words were no longer enough, a hug had said it all, made her feel safe, comforted. And hugs could be happy too. Aw – she’d need to find someone … She’d definitely be getting one from her mum on her return home … did that count? What she’d really imagined was a strong man’s arms around her. Thought removed – that was veering way too near to Ed territory, and look where that had ended up.) Hmm … what next?

  8.A chilled glass of wine on a summer’s day. (Ready to pour at your leisure, madam.)

  9.The smell of freshly baked bread, closely followed by its taste, just out of the oven.

  10.Doing something to help someone else.

  She’d keep an eye on how she could help others. It always made you feel better. More connected, somehow. She might do something for a cancer charity, or offer to get the old lady next door’s shopping for her. Or take her a nice freshly baked loaf – why not? She could continue her baking back home, for sure.

  She decided to leave out her aspirations for sex on the beach and the naked-swimmer viewing sessions – for now. It might trigger all manner of weird and wonderful suggestions in her mailbag and cause uproar at the family-styled newspaper.

  She wrote a short intro about how she was inspired to write the article, and briefly mentioned her break away to provide some background. At the bottom of the column she’d ask her readers to send in their own magic moments. It would be lovely to see what made other people happy, if there were things that united everyone or special, funny or unusual moments.

  Claire felt pretty sure this would make a lovely column. And it would be nice to have something positive to say – a change from all that sad and scary news. She just hoped her boss, David, would feel the same once he’d read her proposal. He always insisted that bad news sold more papers – how often did you see a cheery headline?

  She finished the article and reread it, tweaking a few words here and there; an hour passed quickly. She’d take another look later; it was always better to take a break from a piece of writing and go back to it with a fresh mind. There was always some daft typo or clumsy phrase lurking in there, ready to catch you out.

  The next morning, she decided to walk into the village, thinking that the fresh air and exercise would do her good. From the puffy white clouds above, it looked as though the weather had settled again, though it was still rather cool for June. She’d had another flick through Lynda’s cookbook last night, and fancied trying out some flatbreads. She could buy a fresh chicken to cook and some salad to go with them.

  The walk along the beach was calming – the sounds of the sea, soft sand between her bare toes. She strolled, carrying her plimsolls in one hand. On the second bay, an elderly silver-haired chap was striding towards her. She’d seen him several times this holiday. He walked with an old-fashioned wooden stick, but at a good pace; it seemed like he did this stretch of beach often.

  ‘Morning, lass.’

  ‘Morning.’ Claire smiled back.

  ‘I’ve seen you lots of times now, haven’t I? You staying here?’ He paused.

  ‘Yes, at the cottage there in the next bay, Farne View.’

  ‘Ah yes. Having a nice time?’

  ‘I am, yes. It’s lovely here.’

  ‘Grand, isn’t it? You won’t get a better beach than this one in the whole world, I reckon. The name’s Peter, by the way.’ He held out a slightly wizened welcoming hand.

  Claire took it and gave it a firm shake. ‘Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Claire.’

  ‘Well, enjoy your walk, Claire, lass. Maybe see you again.’

  ‘Possibly, but I’m away home at the end of next week. Back to reality.’

  ‘Ah well. I’m the lucky one that lives here. You’ll have to come back sometime, mind.’

  ‘Yes, that would be nice.’ Would she ever come back? Or would life just take over? She’d be busy at work and getting on with life; would Bamburgh and her cranky cottage just drift away to a special place in her heart, never to be seen again?

  ‘Nice to meet you, lassie. Well then, I’ll be on my way.’ And off he jauntily strode, leaving steady footprints in the sand.

  Claire set off once more. It was good to feel her energy levels returning. She could walk much faster than at the start of her stay, and didn’t need to take a break or sit on the rocks for a breather. Th
ough it was still nice to pause, to take in the stunning view – today an azure sky with puffs of white cloud, circling gulls, the metallic shifting-grey of the sea breaking into white foam at the shore and transformed into crystal droplets as a dog shook its fur. She watched a father and toddler son digging a big sandcastle, heads bent down, intent on their task. Beach life.

  When she reached Lynda’s deli she was feeling altogether more relaxed. Ready to put the mini crisis with Ed behind her and make sure she enjoyed the last week of her stay.

  ‘Hello, petal. How’s life in your cottage by the beach going?’ Lynda smiled from behind the counter.

  ‘Fine. No, it’s good. I’m feeling so much more relaxed than when I got here. Stronger.’

  ‘That’s great. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but have you been ill, pet?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have. Some months ago now. I’ve just got through breast cancer treatment.’ She didn’t mind opening up with Lynda, who seemed genuinely friendly, such a warm person.

  ‘I see. I’m sorry if I sound nosy, but my cousin’s just been through it – last year. There was something about you that made me wonder. So you’re all clear now?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness.’

  ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘And your cousin?’

  ‘Yes, good news for her too. Thank heavens. She has two teenage daughters. It was a tough time for her. I’m sure for you too. Those treatments take it right out of you, don’t they?’

  ‘Yep, they can do, Lynda … But like I say, I’m feeling so much better now.’

  ‘That’s the main thing.’ She smiled. ‘So, how can I help you today, or did you just fancy a chat?’

  As well as some provisions to put in the fridge, Claire ordered some strong white bread flour and yeast, and some sesame seeds, dried thyme and marjoram for the top of her next bread creation.

  ‘Mmm, that sounds interesting. What kind of bread are you planning on making today, then?’

  ‘Maneesh.’

  Lynda looked blank. ‘And what’s that when it’s at home then?’

  ‘Hah, it was in that book you lent me. A Middle Eastern-style flatbread.’

  ‘Very fancy – sounds delicious. When will it be ready? What time shall I pop in?’ She grinned cheekily.

  ‘Actually, you’re very welcome to pop in.’ Some company might be really nice. ‘If you have a few spare minutes on your way home, or something, call in for some coffee if you like.’

  ‘Hmm, sounds like a good idea … And I get to sample these baking delights?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She felt comfortable with Lynda, even though she must be a good twenty years older than her.

  ‘You’re on, pet. That would be lovely. I’ll call in after closing time for a quick cuppa. I have to pass the end of your driveway, anyway. I live just on the edge of Seahouses. It’s old Hedley’s cottage, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep, that’s the one.’

  As Lynda was measuring out the ingredients, Claire spotted a familiar black vehicle parked just across the road. Guess who? Her insides gave a weird flip. Bugger. Oh well, she’d hang around in here for a little while longer; there were no other customers in yet.

  ‘Has it been busy here?’ she asked.

  ‘Not too bad. Whit week was pretty hectic because of the school holidays, but now the children are all back, it’s settled down a bit.’

  ‘How long have you been here in the deli?’

  ‘Oh, about ten years now, pet. It was always my dream. I used to be a receptionist at a funeral directors, believe it or not. It was fine, I liked the job, met some nice people. The relatives, I mean.’

  Claire smiled, picturing Lynda chatting away to the corpses. She could imagine her being pleasant and friendly on reception – she had a lovely manner for dealing with the bereaved.

  ‘I just wanted to run my own business,’ she continued, ‘and it had to be a deli. All that lovely food, and the chance to bake my own bread. I’d been baking away at home for years, trying out all sorts of recipes, and bread was what I loved creating the most. When I saw this place up for rent, that was it – I knew it was my ideal shop. The deli in the cottage on the corner. And Bamburgh is such a beautiful village, with plenty of tourists to keep a little business like this going. It’s perfect for me. I’ve never looked back.’

  ‘That’s great. It must be wonderful to achieve your dream like that. It’s a gorgeous shop.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The car was still there across the way, but there was no sign of Ed. A family came in for ice creams, oohing and ahhing over the delicious flavours. It was getting a little crowded, and Lynda was now busy scooping and serving. Claire should slip away, go to the butcher and get the chicken to roast for her dinner. That was all she had left to do, and then she could get off back down to the beach.

  ‘See you later, Lynda. And remember to pop in if you have time on the way home. You’ll be very welcome.’

  ‘Will do. See you later.’

  Claire walked up the pavement beside the row of stone cottages, and was just heading into the butcher’s shop when boomph, she bumped into someone coming out. Shit! Ed.

  Her cheeks blasted pink with embarrassment. Thanks, Fate.

  ‘Ah … sorry,’ he started, as she was saying, ‘Oops, sorry.’

  He looked as mortified as she imagined she did.

  They took two steps away from the door together, then one forward together in a sort of get-me-out-of-here dance. Then he stopped and looked right at her. ‘Look … I’m really sorry about the other day.’

  ‘Ah,’ was all she could muster. This was excruciating.

  ‘I mean … It shouldn’t …’

  ‘Have happened?’ she blurted out. She might as well help him out.

  ‘Well … maybe … yes. No.’ He paused, looking down for a second.

  Ground, swallow me whole right now.

  ‘Not like that … I just … I mean, I shouldn’t have dragged you into anything.’

  As far as she was concerned, there hadn’t been much dragging going on. But it was obvious he needed a get-out clause. ‘It’s okay. I get it. It should never have happened. So shall we try our best to forget it ever did?’

  He looked relieved.

  Could she forget the image of him in his black boxers with his erection tightly packed, ready for action, by the roaring log fire? Ah brain, stop it for God’s sake. He was right in front of her on the pavement. She felt the burn of embarrassment flush up her neck, right to her cheeks.

  ‘Right, well,’ she coughed.

  ‘Right,’ he echoed.

  She had to get out of here – this was so awkward. ‘Okay, well then, I’d better be off.’ All bright and breezy. She realized she sounded very jolly-hockey-sticks.

  ‘Yeah, okay. No hard feelings, I hope.’

  Gulp! Why did he have to mention the word hard?

  ‘No, of course not.’ Her voice came out a little squeaky.

  ‘Good.’

  Thank God she only had another week to go. Then that would be it. No longer having to live next door to grumpy-gorgeous Ed. No chance of bumping into him in the locality. No more embarrassing scenes like this.

  Ed walked away, back to his jeep. Okay, so she really felt the need for cream cakes or something now. She’d go and get some chocolate chips for brioche. Back to Lynda’s deli, then. She stood for a second, unable to help herself as she watched Ed duck into his vehicle and drive off.

  Then she headed back into the shop.

  ‘Back already?’ Lynda said, smiling. ‘Keeps himself to himself, that one.’ She’d obviously caught the focus of Claire’s gaze. ‘Nice-looking, mind. Your neighbour down at the cottage, isn’t he?’

  Of course everybody would know everybody in a place like this.

  ‘Hmm. We don’t have a lot to do with each other.’

  Well she was never going to tell her the truth, was she.

  It was easier said than done, the forgetting all
about it part. For some weird reason, despite his grumpiness and his running out on her semi-naked at the crucial moment, she still couldn’t help thinking about him.

  The oven was on, set to gas mark 8, one mark above the recipe. Claire had got the measure of the cooker now. The thermostat must be a bit out, but she’d finally sussed it.

  She put the flour in a large bowl, added the salt and sugar to one side and the yeast to the other, then started adding olive oil and some water. She began mixing as the recipe stated, using the fingers of one hand, which was a bit tricky, not to mention messy. But gradually it started forming a dough. As it became soft and stretchy, she was able to shape it into a smooth ball. She had to leave it to rise, apparently, for an hour until it doubled in size, so she headed out into the beachside garden to sit with a glass of Pinot Grigio and her book.

  The hour soon passed and she was back in the kitchen following the next stage of the recipe, trying to ‘fold back the dough on itself’, as the recipe said, ‘until all the air was knocked out’ – how on earth did you tell? She cut the mix into three clumps and rolled each of them into a large flat circle. Her baking trays were ready, lined with parchment, and she’d already got the topping mix made up in a bowl – a gorgeous combination of sesame seeds and herbs with olive oil – which she spread over the surface of each disc.

  The oven seemed to be hot enough and ready to go, so in they went. She checked her watch. They needed fifteen minutes, that was all. Ten minutes later the smell was delicious. She couldn’t wait to open the oven door and see what they looked like, but she held off for a few more minutes, not wanting to spoil them with her curiosity and a cool draught of air. Of course the old oven didn’t have a glass window, so it was a matter of guesswork as to whether they were the right colour yet.