Summer in a Cornish Cove

by Kate Ryder

  He and Tas go way back to drama school days. Simon Buckley – nicknamed ‘Tas’ because he originates from Tasmania – enrolled on the directors’ course at the same time as Oliver studied acting. They met on the first day and struck up an immediate friendship. When Deanna joined the college the following year, the three of them hung out together and it was only natural that Tas was best man at their wedding.

  ‘I tried you last week and spoke to Charlie,’ says Tas. ‘He said you were somewhere off the west coast of Scotland.’

  ‘Yes, at the retreat.’ Oliver blinks away an unwanted vision of a naked Sylvie bending over to pick up her clothes.

  ‘How are things? Still got that damned albatross hanging round your neck?’ Being a good friend, Tas is one of a handful of people who know about Oliver’s mental imbalance.

  I was on the point of releasing it when that crazy woman made sure it was still firmly in place…

  ‘Yeah, ’fraid so.’ Oliver turns as his family appears in the hallway. ‘It’s Tas,’ he says to his wife.

  Deanna takes the phone from her husband. ‘Hi, darling, how are you?’

  ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

  She smiles. ‘Any sign of a Mrs Tas on the horizon?’

  ‘You know me, Deanna. Just waiting for the day you finally realise that old Fox ain’t no good for you!’ Deanna laughs at the in-joke. ‘No one compares to you,’ Tas continues, ‘although Ollie tells me Samantha is the splitting image of you at her age.’

  Not recognising the compliment her husband has paid her, Deanna ignores Tas’s comment about her daughter. ‘At forty-four, Tas, you should be thinking of settling down,’ she scolds, but there’s a smile on her face.

  ‘Forty-three, Mrs Fox! Give me a break!’ he exclaims. She laughs again, and Oliver hears the lightness in it. ‘Anyway, there are so many lovelies coming through the ranks why would I want to be tied down?’

  Deanna shakes her head. ‘You are shocking, Tas, but it’s lovely to hear from you. Don’t be a stranger. Come over for supper one evening. Now I must dash. I’m taxi driver to the kids today.’

  ‘Will do, Deanna.’

  ‘Bye, darling,’ she says, making a kissing noise into the mouthpiece. She hands the phone back to Oliver and gives him an odd look. ‘I’ll be back, don’t know when. I’m here, there and everywhere this morning. Tim’s mum is dropping Jamie home from swimming later so help yourselves to lunch. There’s plenty in the fridge.’

  Oliver watches his family make their way out of the house towards the Range Rover parked on the driveway, Sebastian high-fiving him as he passes by.

  ‘So what’s new with you, Tas?’ Oliver asks, contemplating the odd look Deanna has just given him.

  ‘Been busy with the company. That’s what I want to discuss with you. How’s your schedule?’

  ‘I’ve been sent a script, a box office hit for sure, but I just don’t know… Can’t muster up much enthusiasm.’ Oliver drags a hand through his hair. ‘Basically I’m procrastinating but my agent’s on my back.’

  ‘Well, listen up. I’m taking the company on tour to Cornwall this summer, visiting rural communities and performing in any building that will have us. Sports halls, chapels, village halls, pubs, that kind of thing. Then finishing off with a week-long stint at the Minack in September. It’s a brilliant play by a talented, new writer.’

  ‘Sounds good so far,’ says Oliver. Having studied the painting of the Minack on his study wall many times, wondering what it would be like to perform on its stage, his interest is piqued.

  ‘This is where you come in, Mr Fox. It will mean singing but I know that doesn’t bother you. It needs someone with sensitivity, depth and a complex range of emotions and, well, as soon as I read the play I knew there was only one person I wanted as the lead. If I email you the script will you read it and let me know by Monday?’

  ‘When does the tour kick off?’

  ‘Easter. It’s not strenuous, three shows a week at most. You could return home between performances. But think about it, Ollie, summer in Cornwall. All those cream teas and pasties! And if you fancy something a little more sophisticated, Rick Stein, Jamie Oliver, Nathan Outlaw... need I say more?’

  Oliver laughs. This could be his reason to decline the movie.

  ‘Email it over, Tas. I’ll take a look and let you know by the end of the weekend.’

  ‘I’ll do it now. Hope you agree to do the play. It would be just like old times and a great break in a fabulous part of dear old Blighty!’

  Replacing the phone in its cradle, Oliver walks to his study. While waiting for the computer to power up, he glances up at the canvas displayed above the mantelpiece, which is crammed with various awards, including one for the film that first put him in the A-list category. As he gazes at the painting, Oliver wonders about the artist who has so magically brought the Minack to life and created an atmosphere that fills his soul. It’s as if he’s actually there, looking out over the stage under a star-lit sky towards the Logan Rock. He studies the dark shapes of the cormorants perched on the rocky promontory jutting out into the calm, inky blue sea below the stage. A yellow glow from one of the beaches below Porthcurno suggests someone has discreetly set up camp for the night, and in the distance a bright white light shines from a tanker making its way across the horizon. The night sky is tinged with a streak of aquamarine, but the artist has mainly used dark colours: midnight blue, petrol blue, indigo, navy and grey, deepening to black. A colour palette that should be sombre, but the painting is peaceful and serene with the Milky Way hanging in all its glory in a vast sky above the spectacularly set amphitheatre.

  The computer screen flickers into life and Oliver logs into his account. True to his word, Tas has emailed him.

  Good to speak earlier. Attached is the play. Hope you see its merits. Subject matter starts off fairly heavy but stay with it – ultimately uplifting. Speak tomorrow. Tas.

  Oliver opens the attachment. Sorrows in the Sand by Emily Miller.

  Hmmm… Pretty gloomy title.

  Settling into his leather captain’s chair, Oliver starts reading. It’s only when he hears the front door slam and Jamie call for his parents that he realises two hours have passed. The play is good – really good – original and dealing with tragedy in a sensitive, thought-provoking and intelligent way.

  ‘Hi, Dad. Where’s everybody?’ His youngest son stands at the study door.

  ‘Your mum’s dropping them all off somewhere.’ With a sudden shock Oliver realises he has no idea what his family are doing.

  How can I be so disconnected from it all?

  ‘What are you looking at?’ Jamie asks, his hair still damp from swimming.

  ‘It’s a play Uncle Tas has sent me.’

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Yes, Jamie. It is.’

  The play has excited him. The part Tas wants him to undertake is a complex one and it will be a challenge. At last, something he can get his teeth into. There and then, Oliver decides to decline the film.

  ‘I’m starving. What’s for lunch?’ Jamie asks.

  ‘Not sure. Let’s go and find out.’

  Jamie turns away. Shutting down the computer, Oliver follows his son from the room but pauses at the door to look back at the painting. Again, he marvels at how the artist has captured the atmosphere of the theatre under the stars. Feeling inextricably drawn to it, he knows he needs to go there and experience performing on its stage.

  *

  ‘Oh, come on, it’s not even six months.’ Oliver looks across the remnants of the evening meal at his wife nursing a glass of red wine. ‘You’re used to much longer stints. Anyway, it’s not a gruelling schedule. I’ll be home between performances.’ He rakes a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

  Silently, Deanna looks back at him across the table, her face set and her eyes ice-cold steel. Not for the first time he wonders at his wife’s self-control. Her strength still shocks him at times, reducing him to the
‘little boy lost’ he once was. But why is she being so stubborn about this?

  ‘I would have liked to discuss this with you, Deanna. I really want to do this play.’

  Deanna’s lips compress as she swirls the ruby liquid around her glass, but still she does not speak.

  Anger flares in him.

  I don’t need your approval, like one of the kids asking to go on a school trip!

  ‘As you’re obviously not going to discuss this with me I will tell you now that I am going to do this play, Deanna, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘How bloody selfish! What sort of marriage is this?’ Deanna explodes, her voice rising with emotion. Oliver flinches. ‘I might as well be a single parent dealing with all the problems while you’re away, God knows where! I support you through your illness and bite my tongue when you decide to take off at a moment’s notice to that retreat of yours.’ Deanna glares at him. She drains her glass. ‘And what was all that about last night? Call that lovemaking?’ Her eyes narrow. ‘What happened in Scotland? And don’t you dare tell me I’m imagining it. You haven’t been the same since you got back.’

  ‘Depression isn’t a choice, Deanna,’ Oliver says softly, lifting his gaze to hers. ‘I accept you don’t understand it.’

  ‘You’re right. I don’t.’ She spits out the words. ‘One of us has to be strong for the children and apparently that’s my role.’

  Entering the kitchen, Samantha hesitates, immediately aware of tension in the air. She glances at her parents. ‘Err, just getting a drink and then I’m off to bed.’

  ‘OK, darling,’ says Deanna, a little too brightly.

  Avoiding eye contact, Samantha approaches the fridge and pours herself a drink. ‘Night, Mum, Dad,’ she says, walking swiftly from the room.

  ‘Sleep well,’ Oliver says.

  A heavy silence descends.

  The next minute Charlie appears in the doorway. ‘You guys OK?’

  ‘Fine thanks,’ Deanna responds sharply, inviting no further comment.

  Oliver raises an eyebrow, thinking that by tackling the problem head-on his fifteen-year-old son is showing more maturity than they are.

  ‘By the way, I’m at Nathan’s tomorrow so don’t do lunch for me,’ Charlie announces. ‘I’ll be back around seven.’

  ‘OK, darling,’ Deanna says.

  ‘Goodnight, then.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Deanna and Oliver say in unison.

  They hear whispering the other side of the door, but it soon fades away.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of this,’ Oliver says, rising from his chair. He starts to clear away the empty plates, stacking them in the dishwasher, and doesn’t hear his wife leave the kitchen.

  Wandering through to the TV room, Oliver flicks through the channels and watches a bland and meaningless film into the small hours. He is deeply saddened by the brick wall in their marriage. Although it was Deanna’s inner strength and independent spirit that first attracted him, sometimes it feels like a mountain to climb. Eventually, he switches off the TV and makes his way up to their room. Deanna appears to be asleep and Oliver undresses quietly before climbing into bed. Not wanting to sleep with an argument hanging over them, he makes a move towards her.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ she says in a cold, level voice.

  Oliver turns away. There’s no point in further discussions when Deanna is in this mood.

  With their backs to each other, careful not to touch, eventually husband and wife fall asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Brisk February winds whip across the beach as ice-white waves hurl themselves onto the pristine sands. Waiting for her children, Cara stands in the shelter of the porch looking out over the cove.

  I will never tire of this view. Even on the chilliest days it’s spectacularly beautiful.

  ‘Mum, can Bobkin come with us?’ Bethany asks excitedly.

  ‘No. Grandma won’t want a rabbit under her feet. Barnaby is enough.’

  Her daughter purses her lips and turns on her heels.

  ‘I can’t find my trainer!’ wails Sky.

  ‘Look under your bed,’ Cara suggests, without taking her eyes off the beach.

  ‘It’s not there!’

  She sighs. ‘I don’t know how you manage to lose so many things!’

  Sky frowns.

  Turning back into the bungalow, Cara follows her son to his room. ‘Oh, Sky, what a mess!’ she exclaims. ‘No wonder you can’t find anything.’

  Ten minutes later the search moves to the living room and the Labrador’s basket.

  ‘Oh, Barnaby, these are virtually new!’ Cara cries, as she extracts a damp trainer with tell-tale teeth marks. She hands it to her son.

  ‘Mum, have you seen my beret?’ Bethany asks, appearing in the hall doorway.

  Cara groans. ‘No. When did you last see it?’

  ‘Yesterday. It was hanging on my bed post.’

  Cara starts towards her daughter’s bedroom but then notices Barnaby lying on the sofa looking decidedly shifty. Pointing at the dog, she says, ‘Try over there.’

  Sitting on the floor, Sky inserts his foot into the damp trainer and squeals.

  Cara sighs. ‘Wear your brown leather shoes.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ says Sky, overdoing the happy voice.

  ‘No, Sky. Go and change.’

  ‘I like these.’

  She can’t even control the dog so what makes her think she can control her children?

  Rummaging amongst the cushions, Bethany finds her beret. ‘Oh, Barnaby!’ The dog wags its tail uncertainly. Studiously, the young girl checks the beret over. ‘Phew! No damage.’

  ‘Come on, kids. Ready now?’ Grabbing the car keys, Cara ushers her children from the room. ‘Come on, Barns. We won’t leave you behind, even though you have been a little thief.’

  The Labrador is off the sofa in an instant, following his mistress to the car. Suddenly Cara’s mobile rings. Without checking, she answers.

  ‘Hi Cara.’

  ‘Hi, Ben,’ she says, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling a face in the rear-view mirror at her children sitting in the back. Bethany giggles.

  ‘Haven’t heard from you for a while. Thought I’d give you a ring.’

  ‘I’ve been frantically busy.’

  ‘Wondered if you’d like to go for a drink?’ Ben asks tentatively.

  ‘I’m on my way out and haven’t got my diary with me,’ she says, cringing at how pathetically lame that must sound.

  ‘No problem, babe. I’ll phone tomorrow. We could do something with the kids at the weekend.’

  She’s about to put the car into gear but leaves it in neutral. Do something with the kids? They are not his to do something with! They are hers and Christo’s. He has no right to think he can muscle in. Consumed by an irrational anger rapidly turning to despair, Cara grips the steering wheel and wills herself not to cry.

  ‘Cara, are you still there?’ She swallows deeply. ‘Cara…?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ she says in a small voice, her eyes tightly shut and trying to block out the world.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Ben, we’re late. Phone me tomorrow afternoon and we can talk about it then.’

  ‘OK, babe. Bye, Ca…’

  Oops! She didn’t mean to cut him off.

  Cara puts the car into gear. Twenty minutes later, she turns into her parents’ driveway and parks behind Sheila and Barry’s car. It’s a happy afternoon and evening and Cara relaxes as her parents and their friends take over the children, allowing her a brief respite from her role as mother.

  Later, as Carol and Cara stack the supper plates in the dishwasher, Carol turns to her daughter. ‘Darling, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara answers a little too quickly. ‘Just tired, Mum. I’m not sleeping well.’

  Carol frowns. ‘If you ever want a break we’d be happy to have the children for a few days.’ Seeing t
he look of shock on her daughter’s face, she swiftly adds, ‘You know, if you want a weekend to yourself, or to go out with friends. Just to be a young, thirty something again. What about that young man you saw the other week? Perhaps you’d like to spend some time with him?’

  Cara groans quietly to herself. The last thing she wants is to be left alone with Ben. She’d never be able to fend him off!

  ‘Mum, that’s really sweet but I’m OK.’ She forces a smile.

  ‘I just want you to be happy, Cara. We all do.’

  Happy? She doubts she will ever be truly happy again.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Who was that young man, by the way?’ Carol asks.

  ‘No one. Just a friend.’ Her mother knows Ben, but she’s not about to give him importance by naming him.

  ‘Sometimes friends can turn into lovers, Cara, and often they’re the best lovers to have.’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Cara laughs, suddenly transported back to her early teens when her mother felt it was time they had that talk.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll be telling me to take precautions next!’

  Carol bursts out laughing. ‘Well, just remember we’re here if you ever want to relinquish your responsibilities for a while.’ She watches the sadness return to her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Anyone fancy a bit of glitz and glamour?’ Sheila asks from the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Always up for that!’ says Carol, eager to lighten the mood.

  ‘It’s the Television and Film Awards,’ Sheila says.

  ‘Oh good. All those ridiculous, over-the-top speeches thanking everyone from the cleaner to the Pope and not forgetting darling babies and supportive other halves,’ says Carol, leading the way into the living room.

  ‘What’s occurring?’ calls Ken from the conservatory, as the women re-enter the living room.

  ‘Hot-totty ogling for the next two hours!’ remarks Sheila.

  Lying on the floor with his dog, Sky quietly repeats, ‘Hot-totty ogling.’