Summer at Blue Sands Cove

by Chris Ward

  ‘Except the guys laughing at me from the boat.’

  ‘Ah, they’re harmless. Developed a bit of a pride thing since you’ve been away, it looks like.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Try sitting in one of these things for a while. You’ll give it up pretty quick.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Joan smiled. ‘I’m only joking. You go for it. If I had my chance over … well, never mind. Oh, here he comes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Over there, see that white transit van? The Masked Surfer.’

  Grace coughed, spitting bits of chip across the sand. A herring gull darted for a larger piece, claimed it with a muffled squawk, and retreated out of stone’s throw range.

  At the far southern end of the beach, where a stony road gave access to the foreshore and the surf club, an unmarked van had pulled up. A man, already wearing a wetsuit mask and sunglasses climbed out and walked further down the road until the rollers hitting Sharker’s Rock came into view. He folded his arms and stood for a few minutes, watching.

  ‘The Masked Surfer,’ Joan said with an air of excitement. ‘No one knows who he is, but he’s a total badass.’

  With a barely perceptible nod, the Masked Surfer returned to his van, opened the back doors and took out an old, battered surfboard. He stripped off his clothes to reveal a wetsuit underneath, then locked up the van and headed down the beach, surfboard under his arm.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘No one knows. He started showing up in the spring, parking up there—where you’re not supposed to park—and hitting the surf. He comes down every few days, whenever the surf’s up. I remember back in March we had a storm roll through, and he was the only one who went out. The sea was brutal, and he took it to pieces. Just aced it. Word got around, and by the time he came out there were thirty locals standing on the promenade in the pouring rain, just watching. Everyone reckons he’s some professional trying to practice without getting attention, but you know, this is Cornwall. If he was a real pro he’d be off in Portugal or Hawaii or somewhere, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s a local. Has anyone bothered to check the van’s plates? That would tell you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, someone did. It’s a rental from a firm in Truro. It changes from time to time too, and no one could get a real name.’

  ‘Couldn’t someone hire a private investigator?’

  Joan laughed. ‘Look at you, motivated city girl. This is Cornwall. We do things “dreckly” down here, as in when we get around to it. No rush, is there? And plus, if we hassle him too much he might go somewhere else. Look.’

  Joan pointed up at the promenade. Several people had appeared, pints of beer, ice-creams, or bags of chips in hand, all watching the Masked Surfer as he paddled out towards Sharker’s Rock, where a large swell was forming into majestic, clean rollers.

  ‘He usually shows up just as the tide starts to turn,’ Joan said. ‘The swell out there isn’t as powerful but the waves hold their shape better. There are a few shops which stay open late on high tide days just in case he shows, but the couple of times we tried it he didn’t turn up. Mum likes to get back for Eastenders.’

  Grace laughed, but she was only half listening. The Masked Surfer had reached the break now and was sitting in deep water, the swell lifting him up as it passed underneath. When a set began to form, he turned his board, waited for the biggest wave at the back, and paddled on to it.

  Gasps and claps came from the promenade above. Grace stared as the Masked Surfer dropped into a big roller, disappeared for a moment, then reappeared again, riding the wave across the face. As it started to fade, he hacked the board upwards and executed a neat reverse jump, dropping back into the wave as it broke and riding it out, before dropping back onto his board and paddling back out.

  ‘Woah.’

  Joan laughed. ‘Quite something, isn’t he?’

  ‘Takes some practice to do a move like that.’

  They watched for a while as the Masked Surfer pulled off a series of epic turns and jumps. After about half an hour, with a wind beginning to blow in off the sea and the swells to flatten out, he rode one final wave before paddling back towards the beach.

  Over by the van, a handful of people had gathered. A pair of local surfers patted him on the back as he opened up the van and loaded his gear, while a couple of girls appeared to offer their numbers, which the Masked Surfer waved away. Without removing his wetsuit or mask, he climbed into his van and backed off the top of the beach, turned, and headed away up Melrose Hill.

  ‘Fantastic,’ Grace said. ‘He comes down here a lot?’

  ‘Once a week or so,’ Joan said.

  ‘I wonder why he doesn’t reveal his identity?’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘If those guys were offering me their numbers, I probably would.’

  ‘Unless you had a special reason,’ Joan said. ‘Perhaps he likes it. Perhaps the mystery excites him. It certainly excites the locals. Why ruin it by revealing that you’re some nerd who works in a pasty factory or the dad of one of the local kids? Everyone loves a mystery, but the reveal is never as much fun as the thrill of wondering.’

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  With a sudden urgency, Joan began to shuffle back towards the chair. ‘Time to go,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘You need the toilet?’

  ‘Shut up, nothing like that. It’s just—’

  Too late, Grace had seen him. Walking across the sand, holding a dog on a leash, was Daniel Woakes.

  ‘Graceful, come on….’

  ‘Wait.’

  Joan had begun to sweat. Grace watched Daniel from a safe distance, warm memories coming back. He hadn’t changed much. Filled out a little, wore his hair a little shorter, but he was still the same Daniel she had almost—

  ‘Dad! Wait!’

  Joan was looking at the sand, but Grace couldn’t take her eyes off Daniel as a little girl, no older than five or six, came running up behind him, grabbed him around the legs and leaned into a hug.

  Grace looked at Joan. ‘He has kids?’ she said, throat dry.

  Joan winced. ‘Yeah, I meant to tell you about that.’

  12

  Teenage summer

  ‘Graceful, you probably want to ease back a little bit.’

  Grace finished what was left of her wine and immediately reached for the bottle to top herself up. ‘It’s a celebration, isn’t it?’ she said, aware her words were slurring. ‘Our reunion. My return to Blue Sands. And … and … Daniel’s happy marriage.’

  As Joan’s wavering face watched her with what Grace guessed were motherly eyes, she took a swig of her freshly filled glass and immediately coughed, getting a hand up just in time to stop the wine from spraying across the chalet’s beige carpet.

  ‘I bet she’s a looker, isn’t she? Like a fashion model. Or is she rich?’

  Grace reached for the wine bottle, but Joan was quicker, pulling it out of Grace’s reach, then lifting it and taking a swallow straight from the bottle itself.

  ‘God, this stuff’s rank,’ she said, grimacing as she set the bottle back down. ‘I know you’re on a budget, but did you have to buy the cheapest one? I’d rather drink sea water.’

  ‘I’m a failure,’ Grace slurred.

  ‘Daniel moved on, that’s all. And yes, for what it’s worth, she’s very nice. Her name is Isabella. I think she’s Spanish, but I’ve never asked.’

  Grace slumped back in the armchair, sloshing a little wine over her blouse. She tried to wipe it up with a finger, but gave up, letting it soak in.

  ‘I’m not disappointed, or sad, or desperate, or anything else. I’m happy for him. He’s a good guy. He deserves to be happy. I just wish … I could be happy too.’

  Joan rolled her eyes. ‘Says you with the legs.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’

  ‘It’s all right. The chair gives m
e a different perspective, that’s all. You have to be in it, to see it, as you could say. Do you know what I see when I look at you?’

  ‘A drunk?’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone who’s not quite sure where they’re going in life. With Mum and Dad owning the café, I always had a safety net, and I realised I didn’t mind it all that much, working there in the summer, even if we didn’t make all that much money, because it was a nice life, getting to meet people, be around the beach, seeing kids smile when we overloaded the ice-creams or deliberately undercharged them for a bag of sweets. Winters have always kind of sucked, but it’s not the end of the world. I found a place, and I’m happy. You were looking for more, but you haven’t found it yet.’

  ‘I thought I had, then it started to unravel.’

  ‘Ah, Gavin was a tosspot. You’re better off without him. And café jobs are ten a penny. You won’t have to deal with any pretentious types working for me. Not many, anyway. They tend to go to Padstow.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  Joan leaned forward. Grace appreciated the gesture because for the last hour or more she’d been talking to a blur. Seeing her friend’s face clearly again, she was able to appreciate the sincerity in Joan’s words.

  ‘I tell you what. We’ll do it together. We’re going to go old school, and have another teenage summer. Me and you, like we used to. Sure, I’m in the chair, and you’re no longer able to hold your drink, but screw the fine print. We’re going to live it up, have an awesome time, and when September rolls around and it starts to piss down every day, and all the tourists go home, we’ll sit down together again, drink another bottle of wine, and figure out what you’re going to do with your life. Until then, though, we’re not going to worry about a thing. Deal?’

  Grace felt a knot growing in her stomach. She felt like crying with love for Joan, but at the same time, she was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable.

  ‘What is it, Grace?’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Grace sat up. ‘Yeah. Oh, god. The toilet’s upstairs. Quick, open the screen door.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m a bloody invalid.’

  Grace put her hands over her stomach. She managed to get up out of the chair and then was half running, half falling across the chalet’s little living room. The screen door was closed, the lock one of those weird ones you had to twist two or three times and wait for the click. Grace was currently seeing three of them, which wouldn’t help, so she looked around in desperation.

  ‘The kitchen?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘No time—’

  Her hands closed over the only thing in range, a ceramic fruit bowl on a sideboard beside the screen doors. She held it close to her face, using her hair to block any backsplash.

  ‘Wow, brutal.’

  The eruption seemed to last an age. When finally her stomach stopped contracting, Grace opened her eyes to see a bowl of gunky red liquid. Holding it carefully, she carried it to the kitchen and poured it down the sink.

  It took her a couple of minutes to wipe herself down to an acceptable standard. A glass of water helped to ease the ache in her stomach and the raw sensation at the back of her throat, and half a roll of kitchen towel got most of the bits out of her hair. When she returned to the living room, Joan gave a soft clap.

  ‘That was magnificent. I can’t believe you saved that.’

  Grace groaned. ‘Uh, thanks.’

  ‘Perhaps best to leave off the wine for the rest of the night, or at least let me finish it. I can handle it a bit better than you by the look of things.’

  Grace still felt queasy as she nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘So, do we have a deal, then? Are we going to live this summer like there’s no tomorrow, with no worries, no regrets, and no silly baggage holding us back? Deal or no deal?’

  Grace smiled. ‘Deal.’

  13

  The Mourning Lady

  Stage one of Joan’s summer of excitement plan was a picnic out by Blue Point. As they headed up the cliff path, Grace straining as she pushed Joan’s wheelchair, Joan gave her an ongoing pep talk.

  ‘Look, I know it’s more about taking part, but there’s no harm in trying to win, is there? And if you can’t even push me up this path you’ve got no chance of winning the bike race up Melrose Hill.’

  ‘As long as I beat Jason King, I don’t really care,’ Grace said.

  ‘At the moment you couldn’t even beat me,’ Joan answered. ‘Come on, put your back into it. A little to the right here. There’s a rut that’ll catch the wheel if you stray too far to the left. They haven’t quite cracked disabled access on the coast path yet.’

  Even though Joan’s wheelchair was one specially designed for outdoors with thick tires and an adjustable suspension, it was Joan herself who was more of a problem, having gained a fair amount of weight since becoming chair-bound. After lots of straining and groaning, they finally made it up to the flat part on top of the headland and Grace was happy to give her aching shoulders a rest as the headland sloped gently down towards Blue Point, on a promontory jutting out into the sea.

  A little lighthouse stood at the end of the main headland, a quaint red cone, sadly now fully automated, operating only during select times of the year or in particularly bad weather. A gravel access road led away up the hill, passing through a farm gate and disappearing into the valley. Clustered around the lighthouse were a handful of picnic tables giving fine views of the coast to both north and south.

  Past the lighthouse, the path led down from the headland’s peak into a tiny, crescent-shaped cove. Cut off from the headland except for half an hour at low tide when a narrow, rocky channel became crossable by foot, Blue Point was a small rock stack which had somehow managed to escape the sea’s onslaught. As teenagers, Grace and Joan had often climbed across to Blue Point despite their parents’ warnings to be careful of the tide, which when high left only a metre of rock jutting above the water to be harassed endlessly by the waves. Now, though, they settled for the gravelly flat area just above the water line, on which someone had conveniently positioned a bench. Bleached by sea spray and half collapsed, it looked across the bay towards Sharker’s Rock. From here, the beach and the village were hidden around the edge of the headland. In midsummer the spot was almost always occupied by groups of tourists, but today, in mid-June, they were alone.

  ‘She hasn’t changed,’ Grace said, helping Joan down from the chair onto a blanket spread across the coarse couch grass behind the bench.

  Joan looked up at the rock stack, which from this angle held a vague resemblance to a woman looking away from them at the sea, arms pulled tightly around her.

  ‘She’ll outlast all of us,’ Joan said. ‘She’ll be waiting there for her lover to return for a thousand years after we’re dead.’

  The tale of the Mourning Lady of Blue Sands had captivated tourists for generations, since it had no doubt been invented by some local business owner for merchandising purposes, resulting in all manner of tacky goods which could be bought in the local shops. Even Joan’s parents had given in to the sales revenue opportunity, stocking t-shirts, postcards, tea towels, history books, and even dramatic novelisations of the story, which had evolved over time.

  The official story—in its current form at least—told of a woman called Lucy Pearce, the daughter of a local landowner. She had fallen in love with the son of a blacksmith, Peter Trevellian. Lucy had been betrothed to another, and her relationship with Peter kept secret. By night they had met here in this hidden spot, until the day Peter had been recruited to join the Napoleonic Wars. He had promised to return and marry Lucy, but according to the convoluted legend, he had died at sea, on the very day a larger sea stack had collapsed, leaving behind the shape of the Mourning Lady. Faced with marrying a man she didn’t love, Lucy fled to the rock, and was d
rowned when the tide came in, and a particularly vicious storm struck the coast.

  ‘An absolute load of rubbish,’ Joan said, talking around a mouthful of tuna sandwich. No more truth in it than all that stuff about King Arthur further up the coast.’

  Grace smiled. ‘How many Mourning Lady postcards did you sell last week?’

  Joan rolled her eyes. ‘Mum wants to start stocking the CD.’

  ‘The CD?’

  ‘Oh man, you’ve been away too long. You must have missed that. A local pub band called We Are Cornish Folk brought out a song called The Ballad of Lucy Pearce. It was a massive hit on Radio Cornwall, and apparently on Spotify—for a week at least—it outranked BTS in the Southwest.’

  ‘Like when Rootjoose took on the Spice Girls?’

  ‘Yeah, Mum always goes on about that.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to them?’

  Joan shrugged. ‘One of them came in for an ice-cream last week. Not sure which one. Can’t recognise them with short hair, and he’s filled out a bit.’

  ‘Better to be famous for five minutes than never at all.’

  ‘And you’re going to be famous for winning the Melrose Hill Bicycle Race. And you’re going to do it faster than walking pace.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’ Grace smiled. ‘You know, I know it’s kind of ridiculous, but I was thinking about what you said about reliving our youth and all that, and I’ve decided to do it on the BMX.’

  Joan coughed out a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Please tell me you’re not serious. I just kept that bike for a laugh. I didn’t expect you to actually ride it. And certainly not up Melrose Hill.’

  ‘It only has three gears, and I haven’t grown much since I was fourteen.’

  ‘You’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘I think that’s inevitable. Don’t worry, it’ll be fun.’

  Joan’s smile dropped, and her voice took on a somber tone. ‘Grace. Spotlight will be there. It’ll be televised.’