New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  Emma

  ‘Quick, otherwise you’ll lose this one,’ I joke to Benni as Ruth rushes towards the barbecue to claim her second burger.

  ‘Oi, wait your turn!’ calls Benni, nudging her aside. ‘This one is mine!’

  ‘You said you couldn’t eat any more,’ retorts Ruth feistily, grasping her plate and returning to settle at the small table positioned on the patio. ‘You said—’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, I’m allowed,’ says Benni, squeezing ketchup on to a burger bun. ‘In fact, if the truth be known, I’m changing my mind about a few things.’

  I flip Ruth’s next burger over to brown on the other side. The evening has unfolded in an impromptu way, after we all drifted from our rooms slightly uncertain of the others’ plans but without any of our own. A warm summer evening spent in the courtyard became even more appealing once the first bottle of wine was uncorked. The delightful scent from the rambling rose decorating the trellis and the potted lavender provides a pleasant ambience.

  ‘I bought new trainers today – I haven’t owned a pair of trainers since my school days, and those were hardly worn,’ continues Benni. ‘Every week I used to produce a note from my mum excusing me for the PE session.’

  Neither Ruth nor I interrupt, I continue to turn the meat on the barbecue not wishing to offend or make a social faux pas.

  Benni glances between us before continuing. ‘Anyway, I was impressed that I only stopped three times while climbing the hill today.’

  I can hear the pride in her voice; now is the moment to speak.

  ‘Good for you! And tomorrow . . . more of the same?’ I ask, unsure if Ruth can hear what I can decipher in the young woman’s voice.

  ‘I think so. If I can walk every day and enjoy the experience, then maybe I could develop better habits before I return home. I rarely walk anywhere there – a trek to the bus stop and back at the most.’

  ‘I felt exactly the same today,’ Ruth says. ‘I bought a set of graphite pencils for sketching, but I’m tempted to go back for some watercolours, a canvas and a couple of brushes. I loved painting when I was younger. I’ve promised myself I’ll do as much as I can in the next two weeks. Who knows how many drawings or paintings I can manage before returning home. I also bought a few pairs of holiday trousers, which I desperately needed.’

  I turn from the coals, tongs in hand, to view my housemates.

  ‘Well, I actually got excited at the prospect of a chocolate and chilli ice cream. My mouth watered uncontrollably and I had a sudden urge to create a new flavour. It’s been ages since I truly felt passionate about food.’

  On the tiny patio, we all nod in acknowledgement of the others’ achievements, so different and yet so alike.

  ‘I say we make these our holiday goals. I’ll paint or sketch every day, you might rediscover your food passion and Benni will . . .’ Ruth hesitates before blushing profusely.

  ‘Attempt to wear out her new trainers!’ I say diplomatically, removing the browned burger from the barbecue.

  ‘Deal!’ Benni and Ruth chorus.

  ‘You can mention the dreaded exercise word, Ruth,’ Benni says. ‘I won’t take offence – or blag a note from my mum.’

  ‘Sorry, I always do that. I faff about choosing my words rather than saying what I actually mean. It annoys me as much as others,’ says Ruth meekly.

  ‘You don’t have to tread on eggshells; just say what you mean,’ Benni tells her. ‘I’m a big girl, in more ways than one.’

  There’s a moment’s silence before Ruth begins to laugh, and I join her.

  ‘Thank you for being so open, Benni. It’s really refreshing,’ she says.

  ‘I don’t kid myself,’ Benni says. ‘I know exactly what I see in the mirror and I don’t like it. I need to do something about it, and today’s highlighted that for me.’

  ‘Good going for one day,’ I say, flipping Ruth’s burger on to a bun and adding cheese.

  ‘I figure if I can make a few small changes during this holi­day, I can continue once I’m home in Burntwood, and then who knows . . . I might enjoy life at last, join a group activity and start socialising, possibly even . . . dating.’

  My heart melts for her; she seems nervous even mentioning the word.

  ‘Focus on yourself first and what makes you happy – the rest will follow in good time,’ I say as Ruth collects her second burger. ‘Don’t you agree, Ruth?’

  ‘Phuh! Don’t ask me . . . I haven’t been on a date since way before the millennium.’

  Benni and I exchange a brief glance.

  ‘And you?’ asks Ruth sheepishly. ‘When were you last in love, Emma?’

  I pretend to calculate in my head, buying time. I’m not ready to explain myself, so play-acting seems the natural way to go. I can admit to myself it’s been a while since I was in love, and I’m unsure when I fell out of it. But I’ve definitely known love since the millennium.

  ‘Mmm . . .’ I glance between them. ‘Bloody hell, who am I kidding! It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten. There, let’s settle for that,’ I say, relieved that a feasible answer came to mind.

  ‘Sounds like we’re each stuck in our ways,’ says Ruth, settling herself at the table.

  ‘Each in search of new beginnings at Rose Cottage,’ says Benni, holding aloft her wine glass.

  ‘In whatever form we choose,’ I add with a giggle. ‘It’s never too late for a fresh start!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ says Ruth, raising her burger.

  Our toast is interrupted by the sound of chiming bells. We all fall silent and listen, cocking our heads as if it will help us to hear more clearly.

  ‘I’ll name that tune in three,’ says Ruth, taking a huge bite of her burger.

  ‘I’ve heard it several times today. It’s familiar, but I couldn’t name it,’ adds Benni.

  ‘You’re showing your age now, Ruth,’ I joke, knowing her TV reference flew straight over Benni’s ponytailed head.

  ‘Exactly, and sadly it feels like yesterday . . . which is why I need to focus and not waste a moment of this holiday.’

  Chapter Three

  Monday 20 August

  Benjamina

  What am I doing?

  Having tiptoed down the creaky stairs from the top landing, I swiftly pass Ruth’s room and descend to the ground floor. I’m literally up with the lark again, pulling on my new trainers and checking that the key is safely in the safe before clicking the front door shut.

  This is not me.

  And yet here I stand, observing the dusky hue that surrounds Rose Cottage and the neighbouring homes; even the sun hasn’t shown willing at this unearthly hour. I can almost hear faint chuckles resounding in my mind. If my family could see me now, they’d be laughing their socks off.

  I walk quickly down the hill towards the harbour front and its fish market, an internal monologue justifying my actions.

  I’m doing this for me. I need to establish a routine. I need to exercise. I need to be comfortable exercising while other people aren’t around so they can’t discourage me with their negative comments about my appearance and efforts.

  I stop.

  Am I kidding myself?

  Is that really the motivation for my early rising, or has Ziggy’s offer of a tour of the fish market altered my sluggish behaviour?

  I answer my own question: absolutely me and my desire for change.

  I resume my walk. Ziggy may have provided an end reward for this early-morning excursion, but ultimately I want to be more active, out and about before other holidaymakers or even the locals are awake. I’m free to do as I please without judgement.

  And that is liberating. I’ve spent my entire youth waiting on the sidelines of life, wanting to join in with the crowd. A crowd who have ignored me, failed to offer me friendship and then stood back to criticise me without gettin
g to know me. Thankfully Ruth and Emma are different.

  Although I’m alone, I blush.

  I’m not about to announce it to the world, but Ziggy’s invitation to the fish market is a first for me. Most women my age have been invited to prom nights, dinner dates or outings to the cinema, but not me. Nothing. I’ve never been asked to dance, never been asked to make up a social group or be a plus-one at a party. It probably won’t be the most exciting event, but to me it’s a big deal: someone wants to spend time in my company.

  Within twenty minutes, I’m approaching the concrete area dedicated to the fish market. Along the quayside, trawlers of all sizes are moored, and a row of men snake from each, as plastic boxes are flung along by hand from one to the other and finally arrive stacked upon the concrete dock. The herring gulls call noisily from above in an excited state, darting and dipping, attempting to bag free fish from the distracted fishermen. None are successful.

  I’m out of breath; I didn’t stop once on my descent from Rose Cottage. A metronome count set the pace in my head and I stuck with it. Now I’m positively glowing but deliriously happy with myself for making the effort.

  ‘Benni!’ calls a voice to my left.

  I turn to view Ziggy waving energetically from his father’s trawler. His beanie hat is pulled low, and he’s wearing a bulky jacket and waders – gone is the skater-guy look. I raise a hesi­tant hand as other fishermen glance in my direction before returning to their unloading.

  I settle myself on a bench nearby to wait. I pull my mobile from my pocket and take a couple of snaps of the choppy sea, the amber horizon in the backdrop and the noisy herring gulls dive-bombing for food.

  This is pure heaven. See what happens when you are active and say yes to an invite.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Ziggy bounds over energetically to where I’m sitting. ‘You’re OK with the smell of fish, I take it?’

  ‘Er, yep, my brother’s feet smell like gorgonzola, so if I can stomach those, I can stomach anything!’

  Ziggy leads the way through a large open doorway hung with a curtain of thick plastic strips into a vast space occupied by piles of white boxes stacked upon each other. Around each pile stand fishermen and men in white overalls clutching clipboards. The space is filled with noisy banter, deep-throated laughter and the sound of forklift trucks whizzing back and forth.

  ‘This way,’ says Ziggy, pointing to a nearby mobile coffee bar around which a scattering of white plastic chairs are placed.

  ‘Are they haggling?’ I ask as we stride through.

  ‘Yeah, the fishermen need to get the best price for this morning’s catch – we did pretty well today, so Dad’s hoping for a lucrative deal. Fingers crossed he’ll be happy with the outcome. Woe betide them if it’s low like last week’s takings were. Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Coffee please, white with one sugar,’ I say to the serving guy.

  I can’t believe this process happens every morning in order to get fresh fish into shops and restaurants the width and breadth of the country. It’s a hive of activity. The nearest I normally get to fresh fish is visiting Morrison’s in Burntwood.

  Ziggy pays and we wander towards the seating area.

  ‘Is it what you expected?’ he asks, sipping his coffee.

  I shake my head. ‘It’s a new world to me. I had no idea this went on.’

  He nods knowingly.

  ‘Most people have forgotten that fishing is still an industry in this country. The fish simply arrive in a supermarket and they don’t question how.’

  ‘Have you always done this?’

  ‘Since I was a teenager. I used to finish school on a Friday and then sleep during the early evening before my dad and his crew took me out and showed me the ropes on Friday and Saturday nights – and sometimes Sundays as well.’

  ‘What about school on Monday?’

  Ziggy raises his eyebrows. ‘I was never academic, so Dad didn’t worry. I could have achieved more if I’d applied myself, but like he used to say, if you’re going out to sea, what’s the point of GCSEs. And you?’

  I hesitate, wishing we could continue to focus on his life choices.

  ‘I’m contracted, so the agency organise my hours and tell me what shifts I’m on. It’s a bit of a no-brainer really, doing the same repetitive thing each day, but needs must.’

  ‘And you enjoy that?’

  ‘No, but it’s all that was going at the time. The factory folk are quite nice, and the work is OK too. I dislike the agency part – it means I’m never quite sure when I’ll be needed next. It’s always wait and see, but if I get lumbered with loads of shifts I have to take them in case I’m not needed next week.’

  ‘Unpredictable then?’

  ‘Yep. I always say to my mum, I’m sure they must know . . . that they play games with us half the time pretending they aren’t sure. I’ve learnt to take each week as it comes.’

  ‘And you’re happy staying there?’

  I pull a face. ‘Not really. I’ll need some security at some point in my life.’ I realise that I should add job-hunting to my to-do list for when I return home. ‘And you . . . will it always be fishing?’

  ‘Pretty much, unless the government lets the industry die a death. It’s getting harder and harder to make a living from the sea.’ He sounds genuinely saddened at the prospect.

  ‘And your dad?’

  Ziggy laughs. ‘He’ll probably plop off the edge of the trawler one day and be lost to the sea . . . much like his old man was.’

  ‘No!’ I’m horrified that he should joke about it.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’d love that – it’d be a fitting end to a lifetime working at sea. Feed the fishes, so to speak.’

  I start to giggle, which soon develops into a joyous laugh. He’s funny in such a natural way.

  ‘Come on, let’s show you the kind of produce we haul in. Have you ever eaten oysters?’

  ‘No,’ I say, grimacing at the thought.

  ‘Fresh cockles, mussels or whelks?’ continues Ziggy.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Bloody hell, what have you been living off all these years?’ he asks, leading the way through the groups of haggling traders to a guy stacking his produce. ‘Here, Smithy, have you got a handful of cockles going begging? This one has never eaten fresh shellfish by the sounds of it.’

  Smithy looks up, pushes his woollen hat back from his brow and peers at me.

  ‘Yer pulling my leg, man!’

  ‘Seriously, works with vinegar but has never eaten anything that can be pickled in the stuff,’ says Ziggy.

  I stare as Smithy opens a plastic box, plunges his callused hand amongst the ice chips and lifts out a handful of glimmering blue shells.

  ‘Here, will fresh mussels do?’

  ‘I owe you,’ says Ziggy, putting his coffee on the floor and pulling a small penknife from his pocket.

  I watch as he works at the edge of one shell before pulling out the creamy orange flesh; he discards the empty shell and pulls a tufted bit from one end.

  ‘Here, try one.’

  This is a first for me.

  He holds the mussel to my lips. I open wide and he pops it in.

  I chew, and swallow. The taste of the sea floods my senses.

  ‘Good?’ he asks, opening one for himself.

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’ve been missing, girl!’ He laughs heartily, popping the mussel’s flesh into his mouth.

  My heart rate quickens as his gaze meets mine and lingers.

  He quickly works at the edge of another blue shell, removes the mussel and puts it to my lips. As I take his offering, his thumb gently strokes my lower lip.

  I blush profusely.

  He winks.

  Things like this don’t happen to me.

  Emma


  I loiter outside the Co-op trying to look inconspicuous to passers-by whilst blatantly eager to enter the moment the shop opens at seven o’clock. I have literally run down the hill as my taste buds prepare to greet the culinary masterpiece I’ve dreamt up overnight. I’ve read the store’s opening notice five times and glance at my watch continuously – if they haven’t got ripe figs in stock when I enter, I will be flummoxed for sure.

  I’m inches from the glass as the assistant unlocks the door with various keys. Finally, I’m in. I grab a plastic basket, though I don’t need one, and stride to the fruit section as if I’m doing a sponsored trolley dash.

  Found: twelve ripe figs. A quick turn sends me in search of double cream, vanilla pods and a few other essentials. I’m at the till before the assistant has even got there. In, out and gone in under a minute, that’s me when I’m on a mission.

  Ruth

  I scurry from the cottage straight after breakfast. I don’t want to be rude, but I can’t waste time with pleasantries. I have less than a fortnight to do as I wish. And today, I want to draw.

  As I leave, Emma and Benni are sitting on the patio enjoying another round of breakfast tea amongst the roses and the potted lavender plants, Benni eagerly recounting her morning’s jaunt to the fish market. I’m surprised she had the nerve to walk about on her own in such a bustling environment. I thought her too shy for that, but maybe she’s coming out of her shell.

  I had wanted to leave probably an hour ago, if I’m honest. They both compliment my new clothes, saying they suit me, which is nice to hear – but still I should have been on my way.

  I have no idea where I’m heading, but having spied the marina yesterday whilst shopping, I’ve made it my priority.

  On the wooden walkway, I find a plastic crate to sit on, and plonk my sketchpad on my knee. Ahead of me is a sea of bobbing masts and complicated rigging on the main wooden gangway of the marina. I’m not causing an obstruction on the walkway for those accessing their beautiful boats, but I have an attractive view to draw. I’m at eye level with my subjects, which will focus my attention on the boats and their idyllic backdrop.