Bel was woken by the early morning light – there were no blinds or curtains at the bedroom window – and a cascade of birdsong. For a moment she was completely disoriented. Her sleep, when she’d finally managed to settle on the firm new mattress, with the unfamiliar smells and the country silence, had been short, but incredibly deep. She lay on her back, blinking in the bright coastal dawn. I’m really here, she thought, with a smile. Then she remembered where ‘here’ was. The seaside. She sat bolt upright, tossed away the duvet and set her feet on the chilly wood floor.
Minutes later, teeth brushed and face sluiced with cold water, she was in her red swimsuit, her shorts and sweatshirt pulled over it, rubber flip-flops on her feet. She grabbed the beach towel Patsy had lent her, gulped a glass of water and walked out into the stunning spring morning. Glancing up at her neighbour’s house, she saw that the curtains were still closed, so she shut her front door softly, then turned down the narrow lane towards the beach.
She walked for five minutes, past other silent cottages and their spring-flowering front gardens, the small, now empty car park, the closed wooden beach café, the lifeguard’s hut, and went down the gritty hard onto the sand, where she stood and sucked in the sea air, filling her lungs with the salty freshness until it almost made her dizzy.
The sea was glistening and calm in the sunshine, the sky a pale azure, dotted here and there with fluffy children’s clouds. A couple of dog-walkers were already pacing the sands, but otherwise she had the small bay to herself. She clicked off a few photos to send to Tally later, then quickly shed her outer garments before she lost her nerve.
Running to the water’s edge, she felt the cold, stinging rush between her toes, the sand falling away around her feet as the wave retreated. Shivering in pleasant anticipation, her arms clasped around her body, she stepped in deeper. The soft early-morning breeze caressed her, lifting her hair off her face. When the waves reached her thighs, she held her breath and splashed icy salt water up over her body, gasping as the cold hit the warm flesh of her arms and chest. After another second of hesitation, she held her breath and dived head first into the sea.
It was heavenly. Bel was a good swimmer, courtesy of stringent lessons in the Kensington baths, which her father had insisted upon, and all those Mediterranean villas with sparkling aquamarine pools where she’d spent so many hours as a lonely only child that her skin had turned soft and pruny. Now, she powered through the water, feeling her tired city muscles – so unused to any exercise beyond stamping the concrete pavements – resisting initially, then slowly locating the muscle-memory that allowed her freestyle stroke to flow. By the time she reached the end of the bay she was breathless and wheezing, but wanting to shout for joy. Every bit of the strife about her trip was temporarily washed away in those short minutes. It’s all been worth it, she thought, as she ran her palms across her face and hair to clear the salt drips.
Climbing the hill back to the village later, legs shaky from the unaccustomed exercise, flip-flops rubbing between her toes – she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn them – she realized she was starving. The dreaded stove was still not lit and she had no supplies, so she continued on past her cottage and up the lane, where she’d noticed a café the previous day, picnic tables dotting the sloping grass outside. It was open early, unlike the beach café, and already a couple of men, one with a grey hoody pulled over his face, were sitting hunched in sleepy silence, nursing coffees in reusable takeaway cups, open cardboard boxes containing what looked like breakfast rolls on the slatted table between them.
Bel went inside.
‘Hiya,’ said the heavily tanned, auburn-ponytailed woman behind the counter, giving Bel a cheery smile. ‘Patsy’s neighbour, right?’
Taken aback, Bel nodded.
The woman laughed. ‘Saw you arrive yesterday. Not much escapes us round here, I’m afraid. Martine,’ she added, by way of introduction, reaching a hand across the high top of the counter display, which contained the likes of brownies and millionaire’s shortbread, cheese scones and muffins in various flavours.
‘Bel.’ She shook the proffered hand.
They had a very British chat about the sunshine, the calmness of the sea, the coldness of Bel’s swim, the beauty of the place, before Martine, fingers moving like lightning on the till computer, took her order.
The two guys were still slumped at their table when Bel went outside with her black coffee and a bacon sandwich. But the one with the hoody perked up when he saw her, pushing his hood off his face. He stared at her for a second, then smiled as she walked past. ‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ she said, disarmed by his arresting grin.
His friend also looked up. Are these Patsy’s ‘boys’? She’d told Bel they lived in two mobile homes parked in the corner of the field on the headland, next to the beach café. She hovered for a moment, clutching her breakfast. In London she would never have dreamed of striking up a conversation so impulsively with two men in a café. But the warm sunshine, her exhilarating swim, the sheer fact of having jumped all the hurdles to be there – even surviving a night in the grungy cottage – made her bold.
‘Are you, umm …’ She searched her brain for the names Patsy had mentioned and drew a blank – she’d been so tired last night. So she started her sentence again. ‘Are you Patsy’s surfer friends?’
Both men laughed. ‘That’d be us,’ said the blond one. His hair was bleached almost white, a riot of curls framing his face, like a Raphael angel. He was slim, with round, girlish blue eyes, his bleached lashes giving him an almost startled expression.
‘I’m Bel, her neighbour.’
‘Saw you swimming,’ he said. ‘Micky, by the way.’ He tapped his chest. ‘And JJ,’ he added, indicating his handsome, broad-shouldered friend.
‘Join us,’ JJ said, shuffling his bottom along the bench which he sat astride, his tanned legs muscled beneath his faded orange Bermudas.
Bel didn’t hesitate. ‘I can’t thank you enough for sorting the bedroom out,’ she said, when she’d settled at the table and opened her sandwich box. Her stomach was rumbling and she took a large bite of the seeded brown bread, filled with buttery streaky bacon, crisp around the edges.
‘Good, huh?’ Micky asked, smiling as he watched her eat. ‘Martine’s famous for them.’
JJ was watching her too, his gaze steady from dark brown eyes, lightened with small flecks of gold. His hair shone blue-black in the sunshine and straight to just below his ears, his tawny skin a marked contrast to Micky’s ruddy, freckled fairness. ‘You actually slept there?’ he asked, slightly incredulous. His accent was from the south-east, not quite Estuary, but a refined version of it – the accent she often heard among younger Londoners. Micky spoke with the flatter vowels of a Midlander.
Bel swallowed her mouthful. ‘I did clean up a bit.’
JJ tipped his head back and drained the last drops of coffee into his mouth but didn’t comment.
‘You staying long?’ Micky asked.
‘A couple of weeks, maybe.’ In her mind her trip, in the planning stages, had started as just a few days, then become a week, then ten days – which was what she’d told Flo. Now it seemed to have stretched again.
Micky’s blue eyes widened. ‘Bit grim in there, no? Get rid of that gross chair, if I were you. And the carpet. You’ll not want to take fleas back home.’ He cast a quick glance at his friend. ‘We’ll help, if you like.’
Fleas? Bel blanched. ‘Could you?’
‘Sure. Stick it all in Dora and take it to the dump.’
‘You won’t have anything to sit on,’ JJ pointed out seriously. He was obviously the quieter, more thoughtful of the two, Micky bouncing them both along with his easy charm.
‘I know I’m bonkers. I just needed to get out of London.’
They nodded emphatically.
‘We came for a couple of weeks two years ago,’ JJ said, with a satisfied grin.
‘Didn’t you have jobs and stuff?’
‘We quit,’ Micky said simply. She waited for him to go on, but he seemed intent on finishing his roll instead.
For a moment there was silence at the table.
‘Was it hard adjusting?’ Bel asked. She knew it was mad to think she could live here in that tumbledown place with a dwindling float of cash and no job. But they seemed to have done it.
‘It was like breathing properly for the first time in years,’ JJ said softly.
Bel thought she knew exactly what he meant.
‘We’re sort of self-confessed surfer dudes now,’ Micky declared. ‘And handymen. No job too small, that’s us. Although we like a challenge.’
‘And the sea. We like that too,’ JJ added whimsically.
When she’d finished her breakfast, Bel strolled back to the cottage. She met Jaz in the lane, on her way to school, with what looked like a cripplingly heavy daypack hoisted on one shoulder, her long hair neatly plaited down her back.
‘Hey, Jaz,’ Bel said, as she passed. ‘Have a good day.’
Jaz gave her a shy smile in return. ‘Doubt it,’ she muttered, rolling her eyes melodramatically.
Bel wondered what the story was. The girl – Patsy had said she was nearly sixteen and in the middle of GCSEs – seemed very settled with her grandmother.
Entering the cottage, she was assailed by acrid fustiness again and wrinkled her nose. It isn’t just the chair, she thought, eyeing the vast accumulation of junk lining the room. Leaning against the counter, she sent a couple of the photos she’d taken on the beach to Tally with a message that read, This should make you jealous! All good. Love you xxx
Then, knowing it was stupid to put it off any longer, she laid her phone down and stared hard at the Rayburn. She felt like such a useless townie, never having lit a wood-burner in her life. But there wasn’t much call for the skill in a London flat. Now she was worried she’d do something daft and set the whole place alight.
The cast-iron grate was cold and dusty, ashes swirling into the air and spilling everywhere as she yanked off the front. But Patsy had said to leave a layer of ash, so she set balled-up newspaper from one of the piles and kindling on it. There were no firelighters, but she reckoned they couldn’t be essential – people had been lighting fires without them for centuries, hadn’t they?
The fire smoked alarmingly and seemed reluctant to catch. She’d opened the chimney vent and the spin wheel on the front, but had to put more matches to the paper as she watched anxiously for a proper flame. Finally the paper and kindling flared, flames leaping up inside the stove. She threw in a couple of split logs, closed the door and breathed a cautious sigh of relief. Fingers crossed, she thought. Her skin felt tight, hair stiff from the sun and salt water – not unpleasantly so, but it would be good if the Rayburn actually worked and the water was warm enough for a shower later.
Turning from the now-crackling stove, she wondered what she should do next. She was at a bit of a loss, unable to settle. It felt so strange, being in this place: technically it was hers but it still felt like Lenny’s, with nowhere to sit. She had no plan for the day, other than making a start on sorting out the cottage. Despite her beach swim this morning, she didn’t feel exactly in holiday mode.
I should get a house clearance team to empty the place, she thought. That was the logical thing to do, although she knew it would cost money she didn’t have. And what was she clearing it for? To sell, was the obvious answer. I could certainly do with the money – to pay her father back for a start, even if he wasn’t shouting for it. But her whole being balked at the idea of saying goodbye to her mother’s beloved cottage.
As Bel stood there, quite still in the silent room, she was aware of a powerful longing pressing around her heart to make these stone walls her home. Get rid of the junk and the smell, warm the rooms and fill them with her own cosy stuff. She had always yearned to fashion her space to her own taste – not be constrained by the men in her life, as had always been the case in the past. I could do that here, she thought wistfully. I could make it into a lovely spot to live. But her ageing father intruded into her thoughts. Reaching for her phone with a deep sigh, she pressed on Flo’s number.
‘He’s not too bad, physically,’ Flo replied, to Bel’s query. ‘The physio came this morning and his back’s really improving. I’ve done the washing and stuff, made him a big pot of curry he can heat up.’ She paused. ‘But he seems a bit low. Complains he’s lonely. I’m only here for a few hours so I can’t do much to cheer him up.’
Flo’s words pierced Bel to the heart.
‘He keeps asking when you’re coming home, even though you’ve only just left.’
Bel sighed. ‘Thanks, Flo. I’m so grateful to you for stepping in.’
‘God, listen, darlin’, this job’s a doddle compared to picking up used condoms off the bedroom floor and wiping dog shit from the furniture.’
Bel groaned. ‘You shouldn’t be doing that.’
‘Not like the 83 days, that’s for sure. I think I’m over this cleaning lark. I’ll find a decent job over the summer, even if it means working evenings again.’
‘Let me know if you need a reference.’
They said goodbye to each other, Bel struggling with renewed guilt. She was sure her father was lonely. But it upset her that he was articulating it to Flo – knowing, perhaps, it would get back to her. Is he being manipulative? she wondered, then felt ashamed that she was dismissing his probably genuine complaint because it was too uncomfortable to acknowledge.
A knock at the door made her jump. JJ was outside, dark head bent to accommodate the low porch.
‘Micky’ll be along in a minute,’ he said, as he stepped into the cottage, where he immediately began fanning his hand in front of his face. Bel realized the air was thick with smoke pouring from the stove. Smiling, he said, ‘No point fighting with a wood-burner. It’ll always win.’
Bel laughed. ‘I thought I’d got the bloody thing going.’ She lifted the cracked Bakelite door catch and pulled open the firebox, whence issued even more choking smoke, making them both rear back.
‘Shall I fix it?’
‘Just show me, can you? I want to do it myself.’
Raising an eyebrow, JJ looked amused. Once again she was struck by his looks. He’s beautiful, she thought, his tawny skin smooth from the sun and sea, the expression in his flecked eyes one of confidence and calm.
Kneeling beside her on the stone floor, he picked up a forked cast-iron tool from a wooden box hanging on the wall – which also contained a shovel, a soft brush and a stiff wire brush – and raked the charred remains of logs, kindling and half-burned paper, into the metal bucket Bel had used to carry wood from the store by the porch. ‘OK,’ he said, turning to her when the grate was clear. ‘I think there was too much old ash in it.’
His large hands rested on the Rayburn’s metal rail. ‘You have to start again.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Twirlies are the way forward.’
‘But Patsy said to leave a layer of ash,’ Bel protested, having no idea what a twirly was.
‘Normally, that’s true. But ol’ Ray here is obviously in need of a fresh start.’
‘Him and me both,’ Bel found herself saying, catching the hint of bitterness in her voice and regretting it.
JJ gave her a steady look. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ she said quickly, feeling the heat creep up her cheeks. But, under his gaze, she found herself beginning to speak anyway. ‘I’m just … I’m not in a great place at the moment. Our restaurant … My father …’ She stopped, embarrassed, unable to untangle the mess that was her life in one easy sentence.
JJ, meanwhile, had grabbed a handful of newspapers off a pile near the door and was busy opening a single sheet on the worktop, folding one corner into the middle, then rolling up the page till it was a long tube, which he then twisted into a loose knot. ‘Ta-dah!’ He handed it to her. ‘It’s way better than scrunched-up paper. Bury a couple of fire-lighters under a few of them, kindling on top, and Bob’s your uncle.’
Head bent as he began on another, he asked, ‘Has something happened to your dad, then?’
Bel sighed. ‘No. He’s fine. It’s just I’m living with him at the moment … long story … and I needed a break, if I’m honest.’ She took a sheet of newspaper and, standing side by side at the counter with JJ, attempted her own twirly.
‘Tricky, is he?’
She laughed. ‘You could say that.’
‘Why are you living with him?’ His question was gentle and she found she wasn’t offended by his curiosity.
‘Because my partner ran off and our restaurant went bust.’
‘You’re a chef?’
‘No, he is.’
JJ thought about this for a moment. ‘OK. That sounds a bit rubbish.’
His ability to sum up her situation with such phlegmatic understatement made her laugh.
‘It certainly is. It’s as if I never left home and I’m a child again.’ As she said it, tears pricked behind her eyes. She bit her lip, trying not to cry. But her efforts were useless, the last twenty-four hours finally taking their toll. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She felt his arm go round her shoulders. ‘Hey, cry if you like. I’m cool with it.’ He gave her a reassuring squeeze. ‘We all go through shit.’
Bel inhaled slowly, wanting so badly to get herself under control. Another deep breath, another bitten lip and she was almost there. She smiled wanly up at JJ. ‘Thanks, you’re very kind.’
‘One thing I’ve learned since I dropped out of my allotted future: life is about more than a fancy salary, a cool apartment and a pretty girlfriend.’
‘It is?’
‘Sure.’ He thought for a second. ‘It’s a wave with a clean break all the way to shore, salt drying on your lips, a waft of Martine’s bacon sarnie on the morning air, waking to the sound of the sea, a beer with friends round the firepit …’ He took his arm from her shoulders and went back to his folding task, apparently unembarrassed by his almost poetic description of what moved him.
Micky chose that moment to poke his head through the open casement window by the front door, his eyes crossed, an evil grin widening his mouth. ‘Albert Steptoe, at your service,’ he announced, imitating the sitcom rag-and-bone man to a T.
Bel felt a sort of wrench as she turned to greet Micky. Talking to JJ had felt surprisingly comforting.
Patsy appeared as Bel and the two men lugged out the festering armchair, the square of carpet, along with the antiquated television and video recorder and two bulging laundry baskets clanking with glass and flowerpots. She waved aloft a sandwich bag containing four firelighters in one hand, a light bulb in the other – the one in the bedroom had blown, they’d discovered, when they were making the bed.
‘You’re all invited for supper tonight,’ she said. ‘I’m making the pie.’
There was a whoop from Micky, as he staggered down the path with the television in his arms, a thumbs-up and a broad grin from JJ.
‘Jaz won’t touch it, of course,’ Patsy told Bel. ‘Those little fishy faces poking up to the sky freak her out. She can have pasta.’
Bel, mindful that she still hadn’t bought any food, lit the stove, or even found out where the nearest shop might be, gladly accepted the invitation, vowing to buy the best bottle of wine she could afford for her kind friend that afternoon. She had no idea what ‘the pie’ was – except that it involved fish – but if Patsy’s risotto was anything to go by, they were in for a treat.
By the time the two men had climbed into Dora and driven off, Bel was left in an almost empty room. The stone square exposed beneath the discarded carpet now shone darker and smoother than the rest of the floor – it had lain there for so long. Only the wooden kitchen chair, previously supporting the television, and the bordering mound of newspapers remained.
As she stared, a movement caught her eye. She spun round, feeling a spurt of alarm, thinking a rat might be emerging from the heaps. A large ginger cat was standing just inside the door, absolutely still and on the alert. Its right front leg was missing, the fur closed over the area as if it had always been that way. Bel smiled and held out her hand. ‘Hey, there,’ she said softly. She’d always wanted a cat, but Louis had said they jumped on surfaces and were unhygienic. The cat crept towards her warily – seemingly unaffected by the missing limb – and sniffed her, whiskers twitching. She wondered if it had been a visitor in Lenny’s time. Its coat was smooth and soft. Obviously well fed, she thought, as she stroked around its ears.
It wandered off, slinking round the paper – probably detecting all sorts of tempting scents of mice – and she turned back to the stove, a proud heap of twirlies now at her disposal. ‘Take two,’ she muttered to herself, as she unhitched the firebox door and began to follow JJ’s instructions. This time, though, the stove took it upon itself to behave and the fire, when she checked an hour later, was glowing in what looked like a satisfactory manner, the thermostat on the right-hand door creeping slowly round to where Patsy had said it should be. Bel patted one of the lids affectionately. Ray, it seemed, was now a vital part of her life and she wanted to keep him sweet.