Sea Breezes at Brightwater Bay

by Holly Hepburn

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  Orkney Literary Society presents

  A Writing Workshop with Writer in Residence:

  Merina Wilde

  Is there a story you’re longing to tell but don’t know where to start?

  Maybe you’ve made a start but don’t know what happens next?

  Or perhaps you’ve reached ‘The End’ and need help to make your story shine?

  If any of this sounds like you, why not get inspired by internationally bestselling author

  Merina Wilde as she shares the tips that catapulted her to the top of the Sunday Times

  bestseller list!

  Saturday 4th April

  10am–4pm at Orkney Library

  Booking essential.

  Email: Niall.Gunn@Orkneylib.gov.uk

  Chapter One

  There was snow at Brightwater Bay.

  Merry didn’t realize immediately; the thick curtains in the bedroom of the croft were drawn for protection against the winter chill, rather than the sun, which, in February on Orkney, didn’t rise until long after eight o’clock. A quick glance at her phone told her it was just after seven, so she closed her eyes, burrowing beneath the thick bedcovers once more. It took a moment or two longer for the curious silence to register, and when it did, it caused Merry to frown. Brightwater Bay was hardly King’s Cross, but there was a pattern to the sounds she normally woke up to: the distant crash of the waves as they pounded the cliffs and the faint cries of the birds freewheeling over the bay. But today everything seemed muffled, as though she’d spent the night at a loud gig in a tiny club. Merry hadn’t been to a club in months, so what was causing this weirdly stifled sense of sound? It was almost as though . . .

  A fizzle of excitement ran through Merry as she sat up in bed. There was only one rational explanation, although she’d hardly dared to hope it might happen during her stay. Scotland had more than its fair share of snow, but the Gulf Stream that flowed past the islands meant Orkney escaped the kind of freezing conditions that affected the Scottish mainland. And on a practical level, Merry had been relieved to learn that heavy snowfall was unlikely – the last thing she needed was to be snowbound in a remote clifftop cottage. But the part of her that was a writer, the part of her that was still eight years old, couldn’t prevent the thrill of anticipation that coursed through her at the thought of a winter wonderland waiting right outside her front door. Swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress, Merry reached for her dressing gown. There was no point in hiding under the duvet, wondering. The only way to be sure was to investigate.

  The blast of cold air that hit her as she opened the front door of the croft confirmed her suspicions: several centimetres of white powder covered the ground between the front door and the edge of the cliff some fifteen metres away. Beyond the meagre puddle of light from the hallway, the skies over the bay were still dark, but Merry knew dawn would soon break over the roof of the croft. And when the sun rose high enough, she’d have a clearer picture of just how much snow had fallen.

  The sea was loud now that she was no longer insulated by the snow-laden cottage; in fact, it seemed more furious than ever amid the other-worldly silence. A gust of freezing wind hit her, bringing with it a flurry of sharp flakes laced with a familiar salty tang, and Merry shivered in her dressing gown. As tempting as it was to reach down and brush the snow with her fingers, the sensible thing to do right now was close the door and dress in the warmest clothes she had.

  An hour later, full of tea and toast and wrapped up against the cold, Merry ventured over the threshold of the croft. Weak sunlight now sparkled on the freshly decorated landscape; the clouds were leaden, but patches of blue still peeked through. Snowflakes no longer tumbled from the sky, but the wind had thrown those that had fallen into drifts against the cottage wall. Wellies crunching, she picked her way across the expanse of white that led to the fence marking the cliff top. The bench where she usually sat to contemplate the spectacular view was buried, and the cliff walls themselves glistened as though speckled with diamonds. It was almost like being in Narnia, Merry thought, if Lucy Pevensie had emerged from the wardrobe beside the sea instead of into a forest.

  She stood for a while, listening to the roar of the Atlantic and allowing her senses to take in the newness of her environment. If her best friend Jess had been there, they might have made a snowman, or at least exchanged a volley of snowballs. Originally from New Zealand, Jess was no stranger to snow and often complained that even in the depths of winter London rarely managed enough to make an ice cube, let alone a snowball – although it was usually enough to bring the transport system to a halt.

  She’d be in her element now, Merry thought fondly

  She gazed around until her nose started to run and her toes felt numb, then reluctantly went back inside. Her phone was flashing on the coffee table as she knelt to light the fire, and when she checked the screen she saw there was a message from Niall, the librarian who was her main point of contact as Orkney’s Writer in Residence.

  Everything OK? We don’t have much snow in Kirkwall but it might be different in the wilds!

  Merry smiled as she tapped out her reply – it was so thoughtful of him to check on her.

  That’s because it’s all here. It’s a good job I planned to spend the day writing because I don’t think I’m going anywhere! Thanks for checking on me, though.

  Niall’s reply was instant:

  Happy writing! Let me know if you need anything.

  She watched the flames as they began to lick the logs, then padded to the kitchen to make a scalding cup of coffee. When she returned, the fire had started to warm the small living room and her toes had almost defrosted. Settling on the sofa, she reached for her laptop and focused on the words she’d written the day before.

  The throaty rumble of an engine outside interrupted her train of thought. She frowned; the croft wasn’t exactly on the beaten track – who on earth could it be? And then there was a hearty knock on the door. Pushing her laptop aside, she went to find out.

  The man on the doorstep was tall, his features partially obscured by a thick tartan scarf and a black woollen hat. He tugged the scarf down to smile at Merry.

  ‘Good morning. We’ve been sent by Niall to make sure you’re not snowed in. I’m Hugh Watson.’ He waved a gloved hand in the direction of the Land Rover that was parked beside the croft. ‘And getting out of the car is my wife, Clare. We’re responsible for the menace that is Gordon, among other things.’

  Gordon was the goat Merry had found eating the grass roof of the croft the day after she’d first arrived, and he’d been a sporadic visitor since, generally contemplating her with a mildly judgemental expression every time he saw her.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said, as Clare slammed the car door and trudged through the snow to join them. ‘I’m Merry.’

  ‘Can you believe this weather?’ Clare said in an accent that hinted at Essex roots. The pom-pom on her bobble hat wobbling as she glanced around. ‘I haven’t seen this much snow for years.’

  Merry shook their hands. ‘It’s very kind of you to take the trouble to come.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Hugh said. ‘We’ve been meaning to drop by and say hello since you arrived, but the farm has kept us busy.’

  Clare flashed a smile Merry’s way. ‘The
weather just gave us an excuse.’ She bent down to lift a wooden basket from the ground at Hugh’s feet. ‘And we brought some emergency supplies. I’ve got bread, milk, eggs and cake.’

  The kindness of the gesture touched Merry. ‘Thank you. Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘We’d love to,’ Clare said promptly, but Hugh was gazing at the snow piled up against the doors of the shed housing the car that was part of the Writer in Residence package.

  ‘It’s a Mini, isn’t it?’ he asked her.

  She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Hugh squared his shoulders. ‘Not ideal for this kind of weather, but better than a push bike. The temperature is set to stay low for the next few days so I’ll clear you a path to the road, just in case you need to get out and about.’

  ‘Oh, you really don’t need to—’ Merry started to object.

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Hugh said again. ‘It’ll take less than twenty minutes – just long enough for you to make the tea. I’ll have two sugars, please.’

  He was already heading back to the Land Rover so Merry decided to give in gracefully. She stepped back to let Clare inside. ‘How about you – tea or coffee?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ Clare said. She pulled the hat from her head, revealing silky blonde hair, and gazed around inquisitively. ‘You know, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been in here.’

  Merry took her coat and hung it by the front door, then led her through to the kitchen. ‘Oh? You’ve never visited any of the other writers who have stayed here?’

  Clare lowered the basket to the small square table and began to unpack the contents. ‘No.’ She pulled a conspiratorial face. ‘Between you and me, they’ve tended to be a bit stuffy, and I’ve never been a fan of their writing anyway. You, on the other hand . . .’

  She trailed off and offered Merry a look that was a mixture of embarrassment and admiration. ‘Well, let’s just say I’ve read all your books. Maybe more than once.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Merry said, a pleasing glow washing over her. ‘It’s always lovely when someone says that. Makes up for all the times I’ve wanted to throw my laptop out of the window.’

  The other woman laughed. ‘I’ve never thought of it like that. Being a writer sounds like a dream job, but I suppose it’s still hard work.’ She gave Merry an openly curious look. ‘Is your next book going to be set on Orkney?’

  Merry hesitated. Her next book – the one she’d agreed on with her editor, which everyone was expecting her to deliver in two months’ time – was currently gathering metaphorical dust in a file on her computer, and she hadn’t so much as looked at it since arriving on Orkney. The book she was actually writing, the story that kept her awake at night long after she should have been asleep and had her fingers itching for her keyboard almost from the moment she woke up, was most definitely not agreed on with her editor. It wasn’t the kind of book Merina Wilde was famous for. It was uncharted territory; a story she really didn’t have time to tell. And no one knew she was writing it, not even Jess.

  ‘I’m certainly finding the island inspirational,’ Merry said carefully, after a few seconds of thought. ‘How could anyone fail to fall in love with such a beautiful place?’

  If Clare noticed that Merry had dodged her question, she didn’t show it. ‘There’s plenty of inspiration here, especially for a romance writer.’ Her eyes danced. ‘And speaking of romance, I hear you’ve been out and about with Orkney’s very own answer to Thor.’

  Merry couldn’t stop the tide of crimson that flooded her cheeks. ‘Do you mean Magnús Ólafsson?’ she asked, as much to buy herself time as anything, because there wasn’t anyone else Clare could mean – at least not that Merry had met.

  ‘I do,’ Clare said. ‘Now there’s a romantic hero just waiting to be written about.’

  Merry focused on filling the teapot, but a mental image of Magnús still flashed up in her head: tall, rugged, with shoulder-length golden hair and a magnificent beard that would probably have inspired drinking songs in the kingdoms of his Viking ancestors.

  Magnús had stopped to rescue her when the Mini had got a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere, and he’d convinced her to go for a drink with him by way of a thank you. He’d taken her to the Fisherman’s Friend pub in Stromness and they’d spent the evening bathed in the glow of the wide stone fireplace. Magnús had been funny and charming and attentive, and the hours had flown by in a blur of laughter – helped by several whisky cocktails on Merry’s part. He’d given her a lift back to the croft afterwards and there had been a moment as he’d walked her to the front door that she’d imagined climbing up on tiptoes to kiss him. But he’d stepped back and the moment had passed, leaving Merry both grateful and a tiny bit regretful that she’d made it impossible for things between them to be anything other than platonic. All of which meant she had to agree with Clare’s analysis – Magnús Ólafsson did have all the hallmarks of the perfect romantic hero. But that wasn’t a conversation she was ready to have with someone she’d only just met, no matter how lovely she seemed.

  ‘No romance there – we’re just friends,’ she told Clare, striving to keep her tone light. ‘I think he felt sorry for me, not knowing anyone here, and took me under his wing.’

  Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘Lucky you. I know several women who have been trying to get under that wing for years.’

  Determined not to blush, Merry summoned an awkward smile. Now was the time to mention Alex, her childhood sweetheart, whose existence gave Merry a ready-made excuse to avoid romantic temptations during her six months on Orkney, with Magnús or anyone else. The fact that she and Alex had split up the previous November was another of Merry’s secrets, along with her inability to write the book she was meant to be writing. ‘Well, I don’t suppose Magnús is short of admirers but, as I say, he’s a friend. I’m . . . I’ve got a boyfriend. Back in London.’

  Perhaps it was the way she stumbled over the words or something in her tone, but Merry suspected the look Clare sent her way was knowing. ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t write Magnús into a book, does it?’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Merry had to concede, although it wouldn’t do much for her over-active imagination to think of him that way.

  Clearing her throat, she loaded a tray with the teapot and mugs, before reaching for the cake. ‘This smells wonderful,’ she said, unwrapping the waxed cloth to release the sweet scent of citrus mingled with sugar.

  ‘Lemon Madeira,’ Clare replied. ‘I wish I could say I slaved over a hot oven to make it myself, but I’m the world’s worst baker. It came from the Italian bakery in Kirkwall – have you visited yet?’

  Merry’s ears pricked up. She’d seen the bakery from a distance but hadn’t found the time to visit. And of course it made sense that it would be Italian – many prisoners of war had been kept on Orkney during the Second World War and not all of them had returned home once the fighting had stopped. She knew of at least one love affair that had bloomed as a result.

  Could there be a connection? she wondered.

  ‘Italian bakery?’ she repeated. ‘No, I haven’t been there yet, but it sounds like my kind of place.’

  ‘Rossi’s is everyone’s kind of place,’ Clare said. ‘It’s a family-run business, which is often the way on Orkney, with three generations working there now. And the result is cakes and desserts to die for. Morag insists on Sicilian lemons for this Madeira, which means it’s like a little slice of sunshine on a plate.’

  It sounded heavenly to Merry and she made a mental note to visit as soon as the snow had melted. ‘Thanks for sharing it with me.’

  ‘You’re doing me a favour,’ Clare said ruefully. She patted her stomach. ‘If it’s in the house I’ll only eat it, and you know what they say – a moment on the lips . . .’

  Merry lifted the tray and carried it through to the living room. ‘I’m amazed Sheila hasn’t recruited you to keep her company on her clifftop runs,’ she told Clare, conjuring up a mental image of h
er wonderful but slightly terrifying 79-year-old neighbour, who liked nothing better than a kamikaze run along the coast. ‘I’m still not sure how she convinced me to join her, but it’s definitely helping with my writer’s backside.’

  ‘Sheila knows me too well to even think of asking me,’ Clare said cheerfully. ‘But you’re fresh meat. And too polite to say no.’

  There was some truth in that, Merry thought, remembering the way Sheila had bulldozed her into that first early morning run. And the unaccustomed exercise had been hard – she’d thought her lungs might burst as she’d tried to keep up with the formidable older woman pounding the path ahead of her. But the next run had been easier, and the one after that had almost been enjoyable, and now, just three weeks later, Merry found herself looking forward to the peculiar exhilaration she’d come to associate with pushing her body into keeping up with her neighbour. ‘I might have caught the bug,’ she admitted to Clare.

  ‘Don’t tell Sheila that,’ Clare advised in mock horror. ‘She’ll sign you up to the Orkney half-marathon in a heartbeat.’

  ‘Not a chance,’ Merry said firmly.

  They sat on the sofa and Merry steered the conversation round to Clare’s life on the farm. It wasn’t that Merry didn’t like talking about herself, more that she found other people fascinating and she never knew when she’d hear something that might spark an idea for a story. And she liked Clare already – she was funny and self-deprecating and it was no hardship to listen to her talk, especially when she mentioned the llamas she and Hugh kept for their wool.

  ‘If you think Gordon is a handful, you should meet Rosie,’ she told Merry with a wry shake of her head. ‘We only got her to help protect the livestock from predators, and somehow she’s now the matriarch of a whole herd.’

  ‘So that’s your business now? Llama wool?’ Merry asked.

  Clare nodded. ‘We still keep the sheep and cows, but farmers have to move with the times and there’s a huge market for llama and alpaca fibre. We get it spun into wool and ship it all over the world.’