It wasn’t the big things. It was the tiny ones. The ones that reminded you that you mattered.
He picked up his phone again and flicked through to the app. Seaside Singles – for people who lived on or loved the coast. It was a little bit niche, but he felt more comfortable with parameters than having the entire universe at his disposal.
Writing his profile had been agony. How did you describe yourself without coming across as either boring or big-headed? You had to strike the right tone. And have a sense of humour about it; not take yourself too seriously. He had spent night after night re-writing.
A little bit Hemingway with a splash of Anthony Bourdain and a hint of Guy Ritchie. My perfect Saturday would be an early morning surf, good coffee and the newspapers, down to the harbour to get some fish, chuck it on the barbecue, watch the sunset and listen to some Sufjan Stevens or play my guitar (badly!). I’m a builder by trade but I’m looking to wind down over the next few years and maybe have some adventures. Costa Rica? Comporta? I love the sea but I come from London, so quite at home in the big smoke – but only for a short while. Looking for a chilled-out companion with a sense of fun who will push me out of my comfort zone. Oh, and I have a Hungarian Vizsla called Lara so it’s probably best if you’re a dog lover.
That was as much as he wanted to say. It made him cringe every time he read it, but he had to take the plunge.
He’d received a lot of likes, but he knew he probably would: he was a good-looking man, with his thick salt and pepper hair cut close and his denim-coloured eyes. He’d chosen a picture of him sitting on the steps of the Shedquarters in his jeans and a roll-neck jumper, his feet bare. A little bit Paul Newman; a little bit James Dean, but not showy-offy like some of the gym bodies displayed online. He looked after himself but of course there was a touch of softness about his belly now, a slackening of the arm muscles. He was over fifty, so he thought that was allowed.
Eventually, he had struck up a dialogue with a woman who described herself as a ‘successful entrepreneur/wannabe mermaid’. He wasn’t too sure about the whimsical description, and she looked a bit twee in her picture: there was a lot of long hair, and she was lying in a hammock, wearing silky harem pants and an off-the-shoulder sweater. He supposed she was going for a hint of sexy, though thankfully not pornographic and pouty like so many of the profiles he saw and instantly rejected.
I work hard and play hard (don’t we all!). I’m a physiotherapist with a successful practice but I live for the sea – stand-up paddle-boarding, kayaking, swimming. I have a healthy lifestyle but like to let my hair down at the weekends. Looking for a playmate to discover everything this beautiful coastline has to offer.
Rocky wasn’t convinced she had the potential to be his soulmate, but perhaps she was a good person to test the water with. It was so hard to read between the lines, even harder to tell if the photographs on display were recent or touched up.
After a few evenings of polite online chat, they had agreed to meet for a drink. And you just never knew. Maybe she would turn out to be the love of his life? Maybe they would grow old together in utter bliss?
Oh God, he was getting carried away and romanticising. But the fact that he was made him realise that he did want someone to be with. And what was the worst that could happen?
Lara bounded up to him and nudged his calf, looking for attention.
‘Hey, girl.’ He fondled her smooth, tawny head and felt a surge of gratitude towards her. A dog went a long way to filling any hole in your life, he thought. They brimmed over with unconditional love and kept the other side of the bed warm. And gave you a reason to get up in the morning if you didn’t feel too chipper. Many a time he had been tempted to stay under the duvet but had forced himself up and out with her.
He hadn’t been out on a proper date since he’d asked Tina out in 1986. Though actually, she’d asked him. She’d been a Saturday girl at the salon where he was having Paul Weller spikes and pointy sideboards, and she’d swept up the remnants of his hair and caught his eye in the mirror. He’d winked at her and she’d come and leaned on the counter while he paid.
‘You a Paul Weller fan, then?’ she’d asked. ‘Only my brother can get tickets to the Style Council, if you want to go.’
He’d been blown away by her boldness and her peroxide bouffant hair and her red pout. She had sass and style. He was already working as a hoddie, carrying bricks on a building site, and had a pocketful of pound notes. They were golden. They were young and beautiful and ambitious—
He couldn’t look backwards. Regret got you nowhere. It was his time now. His second time, maybe. There was no reason he couldn’t find someone who dazzled him, challenged him, drove him, like Tina had.
He looked back at the picture on his phone. Chances were that the first person he met wouldn’t tick all those boxes, but he had to start somewhere.
‘Hey, Dad!’
He turned to see his younger son bounding down the dunes, cradling a box of beer in his arms. Ethan was Everdene’s poster boy – six foot of toned golden flesh topped with tousled sun-streaked curls and a dazzling smile. Jake had never seen Ethan unhappy. He’d got life worked out. Work and chill. He spent the summers teaching surfing, taking people coasteering and swimming with seals, fulfilling their outward-bound fantasies. In the winter he helped Rocky with whatever building project he had on the go. He was a good labourer and took the pressure off Rocky in the inclement months when the work felt more intense.
Ethan wasn’t interested in money, and Rocky couldn’t ever see him on the housing ladder without a hefty contribution from the bank of mum and dad – or probably the bank of just dad. Rocky hadn’t given Jake any money towards the Linhay per se, but he was helping him out with the build, and of course he would do the same for Ethan – come the day.
‘Hey!’ Rocky said. The two men embraced, clapping each other on the back. ‘Has one of those beers got my name on?’
Ethan opened the box and flipped open two bottles, handing one to his dad as he hovered over the food.
‘Wow, this looks good enough to eat.’
Rocky was filling the tray of the barbecue with coals, spreading them evenly.
‘Just about ready to fire her up.’
He took a slug of his beer, looking out at the sea gleaming in the later afternoon sun. This was when he was happiest. The prospect of his family and friends around him, fresh air, sunshine, good food. Maybe life didn’t get better than this and he shouldn’t try to change things by dipping his toe in the murky water of dating?
He hadn’t told either of his sons yet about his upcoming date but he suddenly felt the need for reassurance. He knew there were rules these days. And dating could be brutal. If you could even call it that. He didn’t like the term ‘hooking up’. It seemed so bloodless and unromantic.
‘OK, so – I need your advice,’ he said to Ethan as casually as he could. Ethan was play-fighting with Lara, ruffling her ears and pretending to pounce on her. He looked up.
‘That’s a first.’
‘I’ve got a date. Later on tonight.’
For some reason, Rocky found himself blushing. He was a fifty-something-year-old man, not a teenager. What was the matter with him? But Ethan didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘That’s cool, Dad. It’s about time. And you don’t need my advice.’ Ethan sat back on his heels and took a sip of beer. ‘You know all my female friends fancy you more than they fancy me.’ This was true. They always went a bit giggly when they met Rocky. ‘I’m sure that’s why everyone always wanted to come back to ours.’
‘Ha ha.’ Rocky squirmed. He didn’t like being the centre of attention.
His little cottage had always been where everyone headed after hours. And Rocky missed the energy and vibrancy it had brought to the house now Jake and Ethan had both gone, even if it had been noisy and messy at times. Stepping over bodies on his way to the kitch
en on a Sunday morning had once been the norm. Now it was like the grave. Spick and span and silent. He longed for the throb of dubstep and a sticky floor.
‘So who is she? Can I have a look?’
Rocky hesitated. He suddenly felt protective of his upcoming date. He didn’t think it was fair for her to be under scrutiny. But it was only Ethan, and he trusted his son’s opinion, so he took out his phone and showed him.
Ethan nodded his approval. ‘Looks fit. But you never know until you meet her. You’ll know in the first five minutes.’
‘What if she’s a bunny boiler?’ Rocky made a face.
‘Pre-write me an emergency text. If it all goes wrong, ping it to me. Then I’ll call you and pretend to have broken down and you make a sharp exit.’
Rocky laughed. ‘That’s horrible.’
‘That’s dating, mate.’
Rocky thought about the logic. It made sense. No doubt his date would have a similar arrangement with a friend.
‘OK. I’ll send you a bunny emoji if I want to do a runner.’
Rocky smiled and turned back to his barbecue. Now he had a fool-proof exit strategy, he could relax and enjoy the evening ahead.
Ethan gave him the double thumbs-up, just as Mick and Sheila, Robyn’s parents, hove into view carrying a big hamper between them. Clover trailed along behind them in minuscule shorts, a cropped leopard-skin fleece and chunky neon trainers, looking like an Ibiza holiday rep. She always brought a party vibe with her.
‘Hello!’ called Sheila. ‘We come bearing gifts. Coleslaw and potato salad. Not very exciting.’
‘Your coleslaw is legendary,’ said Rocky. ‘And no barbecue is complete without potato salad.’
‘I’ve made mojitos,’ said Clover. ‘Ginger ones.’
‘And there’s a load of sausages from the freezer – they should have thawed by now.’ Mick put them down next to the barbecue. ‘Lovely evening for it.’
‘It is,’ agreed Rocky, shifting a few coals about, then striking a match and holding it against a firelighter. The two men watched in satisfaction as it caught light, the flames beginning to flicker and spread.
Rocky looked up and saw Jake and Robyn appear at the top of the dunes. Everyone was nearly here. A perfect Friday evening was about to begin.
5
Half an hour later, everyone had arrived and clustered around the front of the Shedquarters, laying out blankets and unfolding deckchairs and wind breaks. The beach was still quiet at this time of year: there were a few people taking advantage of a sunny April evening to fly a kite or stroll along the water’s edge and some intrepid surfers bobbed around further out to sea. A light breeze flipped up the edges of the waves into a gentle froth, the air smelt brackish and bracing with a hint of smoke from the barbecue, and while there was still a hint of gentle warmth in the air, the temperature would soon drop as the sun went down.
Clover was sloshing out glasses of ginger mojito and passing them round.
‘Not for me,’ said Robyn. ‘I’m driving.’
‘You can have one,’ protested Clover. ‘It’s got fresh ginger in it. And mint from the garden.’
Robyn took one without further demur. She knew her sister wouldn’t take no for an answer and didn’t want to arouse suspicion yet. She caught Jake’s eye and he gave her a Secret Squirrel grin.
She wandered over to greet her parents. Sheila was laying out bowls of coleslaw and potato salad and garlic bread wrapped in foil that could be reheated on the barbecue at the last minute. Her food offering didn’t have the zing of Rocky’s but she was used to catering for large numbers. Good plain farm cooking was her expertise.
‘I didn’t think I’d get away,’ said Sheila as Robyn appeared at her shoulder. ‘I had a nightmare client who won’t listen or do any of the exercises I set her and thinks her precious pooch is beyond reproach. Which it is, because it’s all her fault!’
‘Mum. If people knew how to discipline their dogs you’d be out of a job.’
Robyn tried to soothe her. Sheila had no patience with her clients when they didn’t cooperate. She was known to be strict and no-nonsense, but it got results.
‘Yes, but it’s a bad advert for me when they don’t get them under control.’
‘You’ll get there. You know you will. You always do.’
Sheila harrumphed. ‘I didn’t even have time to get changed or put on a face.’
‘Mum. It’s Friday night at the beach. You don’t need to put on a face.’
‘Yes, but sometimes I like to make an effort. I spend my whole life looking an absolute heap.’ She pulled at her unkempt hair, disgruntled.
Robyn put her arm around her. ‘No, you don’t.’
Mick rolled his eyes at Robyn.
‘She’s got herself all aerated,’ he said. ‘I told her, it’s Friday. Relaaax.’
He put his fingers up in a double peace sign to imitate a hippy. Robyn laughed because this was so not her dad, who was a typical Devon farmer. She was surprised he wasn’t on the beach in his wellies. Sheila raised her eyebrows but she was smiling.
‘Yeah. TGIF. Give me one of those mojitos, Clo.’
‘This will make you forget all your woes,’ grinned Clover, filling a glass for her mother. ‘Anyone coming for a swim first?’
She looked hopefully over at Ethan, who was sprawled in a deckchair with his shades on.
‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in the sea all day teaching. I’ve practically got gills.’
‘Spoilsport.’
Ethan and Clover were partners-in-crime a lot of the time, although it was no secret that Clover had a crush on him. She flirted with him outrageously, but he was aware of their considerable age gap and treated her like a little sister. Much to her annoyance.
She poured herself a large mojito instead.
‘Steady,’ warned her mother, who knew what Clover was like after a few drinks.
‘I’ve been revising all day! This is my reward.’
She raised her glass and did an Instagram pose, pouting with one hand on her hip. No one would have guessed she had a place to study law at King’s College London. The pressure was on, though, as she needed straight As in her upcoming exams. Clover veered between breathtaking overconfidence and utter despair. And studying never seemed to come before partying. Sheila fretted she would burn herself out.
Mick, conversely, had no doubt that his daughter would achieve her goals. She was whip-smart with a photographic memory. She was too clever to jeopardise her future, and had enough energy to burn the candle at both ends. He was proud of her. Proud of both his daughters and what they had achieved. Although their achievements put a fresh perspective on his own predicament.
Mick went back over to the barbecue where Rocky was turning over the grilling basket he’d put the mackerel in.
‘Those look handsome,’ said Mick.
‘Just another couple of minutes. You only need to show them the flames. All good with you?’
Mick shrugged. ‘Just done the farm accounts. Pretty bleak reading.’
‘It’s that time of year, isn’t it?’
Mick nodded. ‘Something’s got to happen. Sheila’s working all hours. It was all I could do to get her out tonight. I feel like a spare part, but what can I do? I’ve got no cash to invest in anything.’
Rocky was about the only person Mick ever confided in about his situation. He’d opened up to him one night when Jake and Robyn had approached him about buying the Linhay. Rocky had helped him put everything into perspective and made a lot of helpful suggestions about the best way to make it tax efficient. Admittedly over a half bottle of rum, but most of the best conversations come about after a few glasses.
Mick admired Rocky, too. He’d brought up Ethan and Jake with no help and turned his business around. That took some doing. Mick knew he’d never be able to cope
on his own. Sheila was his wingman. What she had done to keep Hawksworthy afloat was beyond the call of duty. He would never be able to repay her.
The horror of it still stayed with him as if it was yesterday, but it was over ten years now. If he shut his eyes, he could remember every awful moment. The cattle being herded into their pens. The vet pinching the skin on each neck and jabbing them with a needle. The agonising week’s wait until the vet returned with his assistant and examined the site of the injection. If it was raised or swollen, the cow’s ear would be tagged and they would be put into isolation. A victim of bovine tuberculosis, to be quarantined until slaughter.
He would never know what had brought the infection to Hawksworthy, but it was most likely badgers. There had been signs of them on the edge of the wood. And 80 per cent of his herd had been infected. The vet had barely been able to look him in the eye as he put a hand on his shoulder and told him the news.
That was the moment he had died inside. He’d had to walk away. He didn’t want anyone seeing him cry, even though he thought he had caught a tear in the vet’s own eye. It was the moment vets dreaded, giving the death sentence.
The infected cows had all been carted away to be slaughtered, some of them descendants of the herd his own father had tended. They were more than just cattle. They were history. They were his legacy. They were gone, except for a lucky few, but they were no use to him in such a small number. He’d sent the rest to market.
He knew of men who’d shot themselves in similar circumstances. And he couldn’t say his mind hadn’t strayed once or twice to the gun cabinet when the anger had bubbled up, though it was the badgers he wanted to turn on, not himself. And those men who’d buckled under the strain hadn’t had a wife like Sheila. A wife who wasn’t going to let a case of bovine TB bring them down.
Sheila had been magnificent. Hawksworthy Boarding Kennels and Training School was up and running within six months. An old tractor and trailer had been done up to take tourists across the fields and along the coast path to see the seals in the summer months, along with picnics prepared by Sheila. And they did equestrian bed and breakfast for people wanting to bring their horses on holiday, to ride across the moors and along the beaches. It was all frantic work in the summer months, and quieter in the winter, but that was the way of life down here. It was all about making hay.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 3
