“I like the sound of your dad,” Luke smiles.
“Yep, he’s pretty cool. How is your mum?” I ask, looking him in the eye.
“She’s not good, not great. She’s on so much pain relief, she’s not quite herself anymore; not quite there, even when she’s awake.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I remember her very well, she was so good to us when we were here.”
“Yeah, that was Mum. Is Mum,” he corrects himself. “Me and Marie – remember my little sister? - always had friends round, and Mum and Dad have loads of friends, too. It was always busy in our house, full of people, and laughter. It’s so fucking quiet now.”
I don’t know what to say so I put my hand on his and give it a squeeze. I’d wanted to ask him more about Sam but this is clearly not the time.
Julie soon returns, and with her the energy and vitality of the evening. Luke orders a bottle of wine and, as he’s driving, leaves almost all of it for me and Julie to drink. “It’s on me,” he says, and goes red. “I’m not trying to be flash. It’s just – it’s great to see you two again. Really, really great.”
He smiles at both of us but his eyes meet Julie’s for just a moment longer. It may be the wine but I am filled with a warmth, for this lovely man; this old friend, who is so kind and generous, and open. I think that even if I never see Sam again, I will be happy that we have met up with Luke. I just hope that Julie knows what she is doing but I know, I know, I must leave it to them to work out whatever is between them.
“To old friends,” I raise my glass and they bring theirs to join it.
“What God has joined together, let no man put asunder,” says Julie, and we all collapse into giggles.
We work our way through a table full of tapas dishes, and another bottle of wine. As darkness creeps up outside, the seabirds disappear from view, to the safety of the sand dunes and their nests in the rocks nearby. Hundreds of tiny lights come to life on the decking and wooden rails outside and the breeze whispers across my skin. I feel drunk, and full, and happy – but also very aware that Luke’s and Julie’s chairs seem to have edged closer together during the evening.
I excuse myself to go to “the Ladies”, as I say pointedly, grinning at Julie, and when I come back out, I see my friends talking quietly, heads together. Luke leans forward and kisses Julie and I suddenly don’t know where to put myself. I can’t just walk over to the table and squeeze my chair in between them. Instead, I think I will give them a few more minutes, and I’ll take some time for myself, have a look outside. I love the sound of the sea at night, and some fresh air might clear my head a little. I make my way slightly unsteadily between the other tables of diners and out through the wide doors, onto the decking, where I lean against the banister, looking out over the vast, black sea, which is darker than night. The lighthouse across the bay sends sporadic messages my way. I soak it in; the warmth of the night, the calm of this place. And I know it can be wild, and angry, when a storm blows in, but I love that, too. There is nothing we can do to control it, and that appeals to me.
There was a night, that golden summer, when Sam and I were up on the headland looking back at the town; we’d walked along the rocky path for a while, with a picnic, and a bottle of cheap wine, and we’d sat on a rock, just over from the path, with a view to the sea below, where a seal was hanging out, pointing its nose above the water so that it looked like a dark glass bottle bobbing on the waves, then dipping back under and appearing somewhere completely different.
It had been a humid day, the sunshine hazy and the air cloying. At least from our vantage point, the air was a little cooler, the freshness coming from over the sea. However, as we sat and ate, and drank, and kissed, the sky was taken over by a bank of dark, forbidding clouds, and with them came forceful gusts of wind.
“Uh-oh,” said Sam, “storm’s on the way.”
“Wow,” I said, marvelling at the speed of the change. I shivered and Sam offered me his jumper; silly eighteen-year-old that I was, I’d come out in shorts and a vest top. I pulled it on, as he rapidly packed our things away and pulled me to my feet. “Come on, can’t sit here. They said there might be a storm tonight but I didn’t think it’d be this early. Don’t want to be sitting here if there’s lightning.”
Instead of heading back to town, however, Sam headed the other way along the path and I carefully picked my way after him, trying to keep up.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
As he spoke, a low rumbling came from the skies and then, as they say, the heavens opened. I started to worry, after what Sam had said about the lightning. Surely it was safer to be back in town? He pulled me along, though, and up through some of the scratchy gorse. I remember complaining, like a little kid, and him laughing. “It’ll be worth it, I promise!”
Then I saw it; a run-down, ramshackle old building, with gaping, glassless windows and a door half hanging off its hinges. “We’re not going in there?!”
“That’s exactly where we’re going!” Sam laughed again.
He held the door back for me to go through and I could see a little fireplace built into the walls.
“Isn’t this even more dangerous? What if it falls down?” I asked him.
“Well, it’s been here about three hundred years, I reckon, and it hasn’t fallen yet.” He pulled me to him and our rain-sodden clothes stuck together. “Here,” he kissed me, and pulled his jumper off me. “Let’s hang this up to dry. I don’t reckon we’re going anywhere for a while.” He hung the jumper off an iron hook in the wall by the fireplace and pulled a towel out of his rucksack, wrapping it round my shoulders. Then he turned me round, to look out of the small windows. As he did so, a crackle of lightning split the sky. “Isn’t that view worth the risk?” he whispered. He put his arms around me and briefly rested his head on my shoulder, kissed my neck. The rain was pounding on the roof, dripping through in more than one place. I shivered again as I felt Sam’s hands slide under my top.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is.”
Chapter Nine
When I go back into the restaurant, Luke and Julie are doing their best to play the innocent, just-good-friends game. Who do they think they’re fooling? Well, me, actually – as I don’t let on that I’ve seen them kissing.
“Where did you get to? You OK?” Julie asks, looking slightly concerned.
“Oh yeah, fine thanks… I just went out for a bit of fresh air but it’s so lovely out there, I was probably gone a bit longer than planned, sorry. Did I miss anything?” I can’t resist this and the sharp, quick look between them doesn’t escape my attention.
“Not really… though the waiter did bring these over.” Julie pushes a dessert menu in my direction.
“Great!” I say. “Are we all doing this?”
“I’m in,” says Luke.
“I’m not sure, I’m trying to be good…” says Julie.
“Trying to be boring, more like!” I say. “Come on, live a little. This is a celebration, of seeing our friend Luke again!”
“She’s right,” says Luke, “and please don’t tell me you’re ‘trying to be good’ or ‘watching your figure’. Life is too short.” As he says this, his brow creases slightly, and I know he must be thinking of his mum.
“I agree,” I say. “It’s much too hot for sticky toffee pudding, even though that sounds lush, so I think I’m going to go for the ice cream sundae. And a coffee. But Luke, I really, really don’t expect you to pay for everything.”
“We’ve been through this already,” says Luke, “and arguing over the bill is almost as boring as calorie-counting. Now, what are you having, Julie?”
She caves in and orders the chocolate brownie, with cream and ice cream. I’m proud of her. Luke goes for the same as me, and he orders us all a Sambuca.
“Now this takes me back,” I say, as he lights the coffee beans on top of the drinks and I watch the blue flames dance across the liquid. We used to drink these in the Beach Ba
r, the three of us and Sam; we’d buy one or two then sneak a bottle from one of our bags for refills. The strong, aniseed taste is a vivid reminder of those long-ago nights.
Luke only takes a sip of his, then splits the rest between us. “I can’t, I’m driving. I just wanted to have a taste, to remember. You two enjoy it, though. Those were happy days, Alice.” He smiles.
“They were.” I think if it were only Luke and me now, I’d ask about Sam, but I can’t with Julie here. Even though she’s my best mate. She knows me too well. I want to ask innocently but she knows exactly how loaded any questions are. As much as I know that she’s really into Luke.
We are the last diners in the restaurant but I am starting to yawn and Luke says, “We’d best get off. Doctor’s coming to see Mum in the morning so I want a good night’s sleep, and these lot probably want to get away anyway.”
The young waiters and waitresses are busily tidying everywhere except our table. Probably willing us to leave. I feel their pain.
“Yes, let’s go,” I say.
Luke helps Julie and I into our cardigans. He really is a gentleman. “Now you two go out to the car, I’ll settle up and be right out.”
We do as we’re told and I slip my arm through Julie’s. “Happy?” I ask.
She turns to me, her eyes shining in the light from the restaurant windows. “Very!”
“Good.” I say no more.
When we get back to the flat, I invite Luke in but then I make my excuses and say I hadn’t realised how late it is. I go to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and listening to Luke and Julie laughing together. Then I bid them goodnight and go to bed, switch off my light and lie in the velvety darkness, my mind a whirl of thoughts and memories.
In the morning, I hear an alarm go off in Julie’s room but I check my clock and it’s only about 4.30. I can squeeze in just a little more sleep. I hear the click of Julie’s door and some murmuring, then very gentle footsteps moving slowly down the stairs. I can’t help but smile. It may be against what I think is my better judgement, but it was nice seeing Julie so happy last night.
I hear the sound of the kettle. I try to ignore it, but it’s so light outside and my flimsy curtains do a poor job of keeping that light out of my room. I close my eyes, turning my head away from the window, but after a moment there’s a little knock on my door. “Can I come in?” Julie whispers.
“Yes…” I may as well just accept I’m awake. She opens the door slowly, a cup of tea in each hand, and she squeezes into my bed with me.
“And who was that tiptoeing down our staircase?” I raise my eyebrows.
She grins. “Don’t be angry… you’re not, are you?”
“No, I’m not angry. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
“But what you said, about him being vulnerable, and me only just splitting up with Gabe…”
“Yes, well that’s all true, but what do I know about these things? I’m hardly an expert at relationships, am I?”
“Oh Alice, you bloody should be. You should have dozens of boyfriends.”
“Ah, thanks,” I smile but I don’t want dozens of boyfriends. Just the one will do.
Chapter Ten
Since that night, when Julie isn’t working and Luke isn’t with his parents, the two of them have been together. I am not surprised. This is Julie. She has always leapt from one relationship to another. Even though she swore that this time was different; that she wanted a real break from all of it, and to just have fun this summer, she has discovered an opportunity she can’t resist. And I don’t mean to sound cynical. This really might be ‘it’. Luke is, after all, lovely. But Gabe is lovely, too. I worry that she’s too quick to get over him, but I know it’s none of my business. I can just observe, support her, and be there if things go wrong. That’s what friends do.
And I don’t really mind that she’s so tied up so much of the time. It’s not like I don’t ever see her, and sometimes the three of us hang out together, but to be honest I’m quite happy having some time to myself, too. And I can’t deny I’m relieved that our stint of partying every night has been so short-lived.
Still, sometimes I find myself at a bit of a loose end. This afternoon, for example, Luke and Julie have gone over to Sennen Cove. They did ask if I wanted to go, too, but ever since the night at the restaurant, I’ve had a strong urge to walk the coastal path, find that little shepherd’s hut, or whatever it was. Today, the sky is blue, and I have a picnic prepared. A spicy vegetable pasty, a bag of Seabrooks ready salted crisps, an apple, a large bottle of water, and a flask of coffee. Julie bought me a flask of my very own: ‘It’s not National Trust, you’re not quite there yet, but I think it’s time’, read the note on the bag I found on my bed. It made me smile.
The flask is tartan, and Julie is threatening to buy me a matching blanket for my birthday, so that I can sit on one of the harbourside benches sipping tea from my flask, keeping my legs nice and warm. “Watching the world go by,” Julie said in a croaky, old-lady voice. “You’re twenty-nine. That’s nearly thirty. Time to start slowing down. If you can actually get any slower.”
“I’m not twenty-nine yet, you cheeky cow! Anyway, you’re only two weeks younger than me!”
We’d been some of the youngest in our year at school and had bonded over this. We also had summer-holiday birthdays, which was great as we never had to go to school on our birthdays but also meant people were often away and our parties were sparsely populated. We’d made a pact early on to always be there for each other’s parties, even if it meant having to have them a week before or after our birthdays, if our parents had inconsiderately arranged a family holiday at the wrong time.
She’s only teasing about me slowing down but she’s right in a way; I’ve been realising more and more that I’ve let life become too comfortable. Back home, I would often find I’d be eating the same meal on the same night of the week. Watching boxsets on TV and having lots of early nights. All very comfortable, and comforting, but – despite what my new tartan flask may say about me – I know I am still young. “Life’s too short,” Luke had said. He may have been talking about missing puddings for the sake of saving a few calories, but it goes much deeper than that. Do I really want to be lying on my deathbed (why do people insist on using this analogy? Is there really any such thing as a deathbed?) and thinking, ‘I wish I’d had time to see season seven of The Good Wife?’
Actually, I’ve already seen season seven of The Good Wife, but you know what I mean. Coming down to Cornwall is, I hope, the first stage of me shaking things up a bit.
I set off through the town, dodging families looking in fudge shop windows; panting dogs pulling on their leads, desperate for shade or a dip in the sea on the dog-friendly beach; the ever-present dropped ice creams, broken cones sitting sadly atop the melted messes like misplaced party hats.
I push on through the crowds, and along the back of the beach road, until I’m at the gap in the hedge, the unofficial route to the coastal path which saves a few hundred yards of walking up a steep road. This way is a bit scratchier, and involves a steep scramble through the undergrowth, but I’m rewarded at the top with a dramatic view: the town to my right, windows glowing in the sun; the coastal path twisting off to my left, and, straight ahead, the sea. The beautiful body of water stretching on to the horizon and beyond. Calm today, with just the odd white-top breaking here and there. The odd shadow of a cloud skimming lazily across the top. Seabirds swooping and plummeting into the cold depths, sending plumes of bubbles to the surface.
Mixed with the sea air is the aroma of wild garlic and something sweeter; Sam could probably have told me what it was. That was something I loved about him; his unashamed love of nature and wildlife. His eyes would light up when he talked about something he’d found on the beach; he still loved rockpooling, even at the age of eighteen. And his enthusiasm when a pod of dolphins came through the bay was catching, to me at least. Very probably, I was your average love-struck teenager. Whatever Sam had be
en into, I’d have followed. But I’ve never quite forgotten his knowledge of, and passion for, the natural world and whenever I watch Springwatch, or Coast, I think of him. I’ve even let my imagination wander to the point where I think he might pop up as one of those guest presenters, talking us through some aspect of the world which most people would never even notice. Imagining him in an office somewhere, in a shirt and tie, doesn’t ring true, but I guess most of us have to compromise. We’ve all got to earn a living, somehow. I feel sad for him that he didn’t get to fulfil his dream, though.
After catching my breath for a while, I start to walk. I’ve got sturdy sandals on, which are great for getting over the rockier parts of the path, and I feel confident taking the more challenging routes. I pass other walkers and say hello to them, but I don’t stop to chat. I get into my stride and there’s a spring in my step; an energy building up in me. This is all so familiar, this path; unlike the town, with its spruced-up bars and restaurants, this has not changed a bit. Year on year, the plants and flowers are renewed, and the families of tiny birds spring new fledglings, ready to learn and grow, eventually nesting in the wind-ravaged trees and deep, thorny bushes, creating families of their own.
I can hear crickets from within the undergrowth. Butterflies and bees travel busily between the flowers, gathering nectar in the heat of the day. The sun is beating down on my back and I stop to put some sun cream on. Luckily, I’d thought to ask Julie to do my back before she went off to Sennen. I’ve been left with a clearly distinguishable hand mark on my skin before, when I’ve tried to do the job myself.
It’s not far now, to the little cottage, or shack, or whatever you want to call it. It’s silly, but my heart is beginning to thud. I don’t know why I feel nervous. Except I do know why. This place is where I fell in love.
A Second Chance Summer Page 6
