My Summer of Magic Moments

by Caroline Roberts

  Time was up. She put on her oven gloves to open the door and reach for them, and was delighted to find them a beautiful golden colour with a touch of toasty-brown at the edges. Perfect. She hoped they’d taste as good as they looked. She’d bought some humus to dip the bread into, plus some garlic-stuffed olives at Lynda’s earlier (one advantage of being on your own, meant you didn’t have to worry about garlic breath!) and she’d have them with a salad for supper later. She left the flatbreads to cool on the side on the wire rack from the grill.

  A while later, there was a knock on the door. Luckily Claire happened to be inside the house, or she might have missed it. For one mad moment she thought it might be Ed coming back to explain … or to carry on where he left off, gulp. But then she remembered having invited Lynda and glanced at her watch. It was five fifteen. That fitted. It was surely Lynda. She felt a slight stab of disappointment.

  But there on the step was her new friend, bearing a wide smile and a scrummy-looking packet of biscuits with a wrapped-up chunk of something.

  ‘Hello, lovely. Darling Blue, the cheese you like. It’s near its best-before date – you may as well have it.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Lynda, but you really didn’t have to bring anything. Those biscuits look delightful, though.’ She read the label – strawberries and clotted cream shortbread. Yum.

  ‘The house smells gorgeous. What have you been baking? Did you have a go at that bread? The Manic or whatever it was.’

  ‘Maneesh.’

  ‘I knew it was something like that.’

  ‘It looks good. Let’s hope it tastes good too.’

  ‘I’m sure it will.’

  They walked through the hallway into the kitchen. Lynda eyed the decor. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned in here, isn’t it?’ She was obviously trying to be polite.

  Claire laughed. ‘You could say that. Rack and ruin also comes to mind. Don’t worry, I’m getting used to it.’

  ‘Well, the bread looks wonderful, anyhow.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ve finally got the measure of that oven. It’s been a nightmare, but I’ve sussed its wicked ways, and its thermostat to be precise.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Do you happen to know much about the cottage, Lynda? Its background?’ Claire was curious. ‘Has Mr Hedley ever lived here himself?’

  ‘No, no. He has a place on a farm about three miles away. He inherited Farne View from an elderly aunt. It had been empty for years.’

  That figured.

  ‘She had to go into a care home, bless her. She was a lovely old lady. She’d just got too frail to look after herself, and Hedley never used to help her much. She didn’t have any children of her own, so the place stood empty. When she died, he got the cottage in the will. Never did anything with it, mind.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Then he decided to make it into a holiday cottage. We all had a chuckle down at the village at that. Yes, it’s a nice spot, but really?’

  ‘Hah, and then I got to stay in it!’

  ‘To be honest, I was surprised when I heard that’s where you were. Ah, she was a lovely old lady, though – Evelyn was her name. Must have lived here forty years, at least. She struggled to keep the place up when she was here on her own. Her husband had died a long time back. She tried her best. Used to walk into the village most days, then get the bus back with her shopping, even into her eighties. Until it all got too much.’

  Claire could picture her tootling about in here. All the cookbooks and utensils in the kitchen had been left as they were. It was probably even her salt pot lurking in the cupboard. It all made sense now. The old-fashioned quilt and crocheted blanket upstairs. It had no doubt been very much the same when she was here.

  The old house must miss her.

  ‘We have no idea, down in the village, why he hasn’t sold it off. Especially if he’s not going to bother to look after it. We think he’s holding out for a property developer or mogul to come along and offer him a million for it. Just because it’s got a nice sea view. He’ll be waiting a while.’

  Claire gave a wry smile. In a weird way, she was glad that Mr Hedley hadn’t sold it off, glad that she’d had the chance to stay here. She’d grown fond of the old cottage and its foibles. And in fact, as they walked out to her beach-garden, in her heart she knew this really was a million-pound view – perhaps more when it had a certain naked swimmer in it.

  ‘Well, what can I get for you, Lynda? Cup of tea? Coffee? Or shall we try some of my just-made Maneesh bread with a bowl of your olives and a glass of wine? We can sit outside if you’re happy with that.’ The sun was glinting gold over the sea. It would be nice to be out in the garden.

  ‘Option three, definitely. Just a small glass for me, though, as I need to drive home.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll just pop back in and fetch it. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable.’

  They settled themselves onto the wooden chairs on the back patch of lawn, with some slices of the flatbread, a small bowl of olives and the hummus dip spread out on the table. In the late-afternoon sun it felt very Mediterranean and slightly decadent.

  ‘Mmm, this bread is definitely as good as it looks,’ said Lynda as she broke into it. ‘So you are a natural at it, after all. I might have to start making some of this Manic stuff for the shop. It’s a lovely summer bread. I bet it would go down well with the holiday makers.’

  ‘Yes, I bet it would.’

  ‘Wow. What a view there is from here.’

  ‘Absolutely. I can be on the beach in seconds for a walk if I want, or I can just sit and watch the world go by. It’s lovely.’

  ‘Yes, I can see the charm in it. I didn’t realize it was such a pretty spot – you can’t tell from the road.’

  ‘It has its plus points.’ Claire smiled.

  ‘As long as the weather stays fair, I suppose. Maybe not so much fun here on a wet day.’

  Hah, Ed sprang to mind again. The last wet day was certainly full of fun and games. ‘No,’ was all she said.

  They chatted about the deli and about Claire’s plans for the last week of her stay, and she mentioned her job as a journalist, outlining her idea for her latest column.

  ‘By the way, Lynda, what’s your magic moment? As in, what special thing would make your day, however big or small?’

  ‘Oh, now let me think … Well, then, I get a lovely feeling when someone comes back into the shop to tell me how wonderful something they’ve bought there has been, especially when it’s something I’ve made myself, like the breads. That’s special. You get a real sense of pride.’

  Claire was nodding.

  ‘Oh, and of course when I get my daughter back home for a while, or if we meet up for tea and cake or something. We can natter on for ages. She’s doing well, our Evie. She’s a teacher down in Gateshead. Lives down that way now, so I only get to see her every few weeks. It’s lovely to see your children grown-up and happy, making their own way. But it’s nice to have them back home for a while as well. You give them wings, but you hope they’ll fly back home sometimes too.’ She gave a warm smile.

  Claire wondered if she would ever have that experience: having a child, watching them grow, helping them make their way in the world. Her heart gave a small squeeze. It might be a bit of a miracle after all her body had been through. That and the fact that she didn’t have a man on the scene.

  ‘That’s nice, Lynda. It sounds like a lovely relationship you have with your daughter.’

  ‘Yeah, we get on well. I’m very lucky.’

  They chatted some more. Claire told her about her family back in Newcastle and Lynda mentioned her husband Steve, who worked on a farm just inland from Seahouses.

  An hour soon passed.

  ‘Right, well, petal, I’d better set myself away. Our Steve will be waiting for me by now, and no doubt wondering what’s happening with his supper. Thanks for the glass of wine, and that bread of yours was delicious. It’s been so lovely to chat.’

  ‘Y
ou’re very welcome. I’ve enjoyed chatting too.’

  ‘Well, have a good last week, and be sure to pop into the shop before you head off away again.’

  Claire walked Lynda back through the cottage to the front step, where the middle-aged lady gave her a warm hug.

  ‘Bye, petal.’

  ‘Bye.’

  The house felt rather empty after she’d gone.

  Later that night Claire found she wasn’t angry with Ed any more. She just remembered his smile, how nice it was to see it, the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes, the way his grey-green irises lit up. She pictured his mouth. He had good teeth, white, just one slightly crooked one – the second tooth along at the top and even that was kind of cute. Nice lips too. And his kiss – that was pretty damn lovely. She sighed. Her head was full of him, and her body missed the promise of his touch. Damn it.

  8

  Magical … sea, sand, towers, knights and castles

  Anonymous, about Bamburgh

  The next morning, Claire stood crumbling butter onto a dough mix, then gently pushing the dough and butter together with the heel of her hand as she followed the recipe for chocolate brioche. Something sweet and comforting – that was what she needed. In less than a week she would be going home. Home. That word felt hollow. Back to her old life, anyhow, or elements of it. It would be lovely to see her friends and family, of course, but not so easy to be back in the marital house, the red-brick semi-detached one she’d been so excited to move into six years ago. The one with the ‘For Sale’ sign outside. The one she couldn’t wait to leave.

  With a line-up of brioche buns in the oven, she went out and sat in the seaside garden. She looked across a calm, sparkling sea to a summer-blue sky, the sun warmer today, prickling her bare arms with heat. You really could get all seasons here in one day. For all the ups and downs of her stay, she loved this quirky cottage and its amazing sea views, the storms and the sunshine. Where you could sit and watch the world go by, or join in with the children paddling and go dip your feet in the rushing waves.

  Sitting there with the warmth of the sun on her skin and the salt-tang of a pleasant breeze, watching the sea glint and roll and hearing its rush and pull was pretty magical. She thought back to how much she’d enjoyed last weekend with Sally, how they’d got closer again, reconnected. Laughing and chatting over a glass of chilled wine with someone you loved, be it a sister, friend or lover … that was magical too.

  A lover, hah … she wasn’t doing so well in those stakes. But the touch of a lover could be so very special when it was right. She sighed, remembering how it had felt all those years ago with Paul right back at the very beginning. And then Ed. Well, to start with, that day in the rain, anyhow. She could still feel the intense burn of his kiss. The warmth of his strong arms around her. It had been rather wonderful while it lasted. And, it had left her wanting more, which wasn’t a great scenario considering the circumstances. Best to leave that one well alone.

  Oh well, she might one day find a lover who wouldn’t run away from the scene, or wouldn’t marry her and then run off with another woman six years later, just as she was given the all-clear from cancer. She could still believe in the magic of love, couldn’t she? Life was going to be good again, wasn’t it? She was just finding her feet at the moment.

  She checked her watch – fifteen minutes had flown by. She ran back to the kitchen to retrieve the brioches just in time. They’d reached a deep-golden colour, the dark chocolate beginning to ooze from the sides. She left the batch on the side to cool, but couldn’t resist taking one to eat straight away. She popped the kettle on for a fresh cup of tea.

  Settling back into her wobbly chair, mug of tea on the little table beside her, she dunked a chunk of still-warm brioche into it and took a buttery, chocolatey bite. Delicious! Suddenly she felt truly alive, every sense tingling. She could smell, taste, touch, hear, see … She could breathe, and walk, and run, and swim – if she wanted to. She had made it through, and she was determined not to take life for granted ever again.

  She decided to check over her ‘Magic Moments’ article that she had written yesterday, and send it off to the paper asap. She felt encouraged that her boss had replied to her email asking her to send him the finished article so he could take a look and consider it. They’d already had two weeks with the guest journalist hosting her column. Next week she’d be back (just like good old Arnold Schwarzenegger) and she needed to return with a bang. She had no intention of losing her features slot, or her job. She loved writing, and she sure as hell needed the money right now. Once the mortgage was taken out of the house sale, what was left – and then halved – would be eaten up as a deposit on a new flat, and then after that all the bills would be hers alone. It was a daunting thought, but she’d manage somehow. She felt ready. And ‘a place of her own’ had rather a nice ring to it. She licked the chocolate off her fingers and went inside to get her laptop.

  Claire was determined not to waste the last two days of her holiday. Yes, she’d come with the aim of getting lots of rest and recuperation, and she’d had plenty of that; but she felt she wanted to discover a little more about this amazing place with its traditional Northumberland stone-cottage village and the most stunning castle dominating the dunes. In fact, that would be the perfect place to start this morning – a tour of the castle. She’d seen it was open to the public. It would be great to see it from the inside, as well as the out.

  She went up for a quick shower – another cool one, water on the blink again – then got dressed in pale-pink cropped chinos and a T-shirt and packed a hoodie into her rucksack along with a bottle of water, an apple and a book.

  She walked along the beach. The sands were damp and flat today – the tide was still out. After half an hour, she took the path through the dunes and headed for the road that wound its way up the side of the mount the imposing castle was based on. It appeared to be the only way in.

  An ancient stone entrance tower with a horseshoe-shaped arch greeted her, but it had a heavy wooden gate across it. Claire checked the sign: she’d set off so sharp, the castle hadn’t yet opened. She had twenty minutes to wait until ten a.m., so she wandered back down and found a spot in the dunes where she could look out to sea, watch the waves and the world go by and read her book. It was pleasant there. An azure-blue day, with only the odd puff of cloud out on the horizon. She kicked her shoes off, used her sweatshirt as a rug to sit on, and made herself comfortable.

  The time soon passed, and after half an hour she set off once more. A straggle of tourists were now at the gatehouse, and she queued up to pay her entrance fee and buy a guidebook, to discover some of the historic background to this amazing place.

  As she walked through the cool shade of the arch, it felt like stepping back in time. It was far bigger within the high stone walls than she’d imagined. Roads and grassy areas as well as many impressive stone buildings, all intact, spread before her. This was no ruined castle. On the way to the tallest of the buildings, she paused to climb some intriguing stone steps and peered over the protective wall and out across the sweep of dunes and golden bay. The view almost took her breath away: the Holy Island of Lindisfarne away to the north, the panorama of sea and sands leading out to a gently rolling North Sea, and away to the south she could just about make out her cottage nestled in the distance, and, further down the coastline, at the far end of the bay, the roofs of the harbour town of Seahouses, where she had sat eating fish and chips with Sally.

  The guidebook said the grand stone tower, which was central to the castle site, was the Keep, the oldest remaining part of the castle, built way back in 1164. It was a massive square structure with an interesting bottle-shaped door that apparently let horsemen ride in at a gallop whilst still mounted. Her mind’s eye conjured up a knight in his spurs, clad in a gleaming suit of armour. Inside the tower, she found that as well as many armaments, there were impressive but bulky shiny metal suits on display. How on earth the soldiers walked, let alone did battl
e in them, was a mystery.

  The whole castle captivated her. The King’s Hall was a fabulous, spacious wood-panelled room where ceremonies and grand parties had taken place. The display of porcelain dinnerware was impressive enough to vouch for a host of royal celebrations. Kings had owned the castle and stayed here for over twelve hundred years, until it was sold into private ownership in the 1600s – the current owners being the Armstrongs. Parts of the castle were now let as private apartments, she read. Wow, imagine this being your family home! It was a far cry from her semi in Gosforth.

  Claire spent over two hours touring the site, losing herself in the past, in awe of the dramatic, beautiful fortress and its historic residents. She realized she felt hungry and spotted a welcome sign for the Clock Tower Tea Rooms.

  Sitting at a table by the tall leaded windows with a cup of Earl Grey tea and a deliciously moist slice of Victoria sponge, she dipped into the guidebook once more. The castle hadn’t been built on the sandy dunes at all, but on an outcrop of volcanic whinstone. The Anglo-Saxons, the Vikings, William the Conqueror and many more had all experienced this place. There must have been so many battles, so much bloodshed, and centuries of love and loss within these walls.

  After a happy and interesting three hours, Claire headed out of the castle grounds, with a last glimpse at the glorious panoramic coastal view, trying to soak it all into her memory, then headed back to the dunes to sit once more in a sunny, sheltered spot with her book.

  She must have relaxed so much that she dozed off, wakening to the sound of a gull and a warm glow of sun that made her skin feel a little tight on her cheeks. She was thirsty. Taking a sip of water from her bottle, which had warmed in her bag, she thought she’d pop to the village.