Summer at Coastguard Cottages

He poured the bottle of white wine sauce over the chicken pieces, mushrooms and onions and placed the pot in the oven and set the timer. Briefly he thought about asking Karen to join him for supper.

‘What d’you think, Gabby?’ he said, glancing across at the photo. ‘Tonight or tomorrow? Tomorrow is better, I think. Don’t want to look desperate for company, do I? I expect she’s looking forward to a quiet night to settle in.’

Besides, he’d decided this evening he’d fetch the bag from the communal outhouse and sort out the flags, a job he and Gabby had always done together as they enjoyed a glass of wine, and something he’d been putting off doing. But people were arriving and would expect the flag to be flying. He couldn’t disappoint them.

The summer ritual of flying the flag that Gabby had started years ago would begin tomorrow and kick-start summer. You have to fly flags – you can’t leave the flagpole empty, she had always said.

*

Karen glanced at her watch and wondered about wandering along to say ‘Hi’ to Bruce. He’d have finished supper by now and might be glad of some company for an hour. The last time she’d seen him at the funeral, he’d looked heartbreakingly adrift, as if he didn’t quite remember who he was without Gabby at his side. He hadn’t come down at Easter, telling Karen in a phone call that he couldn’t face the cottage yet without Gabby.

This summer was going to be hard for him. At least she had the consolation that Francesca and Wills would at some point both put in an appearance.

Picking up the bottle of red wine she’d opened to accompany her own supper, she went out onto the front terrace and made her way along to The Bosun’s Locker, waving to Joy and Toby as she passed No. 5.

Bruce looked up as she opened the wooden gate that separated the small patio, with its flagpole belonging to The Bosun’s Locker, from the main terrace.

‘Karen. Lovely to see you. How are you?’

‘Thought you might like to share a glass with me?’ she said, holding the bottle aloft. ‘Drink to summer. Unless you’re busy?’ she said, looking at the pile of material she recognised as his flag collection.

‘Almost sorted,’ Bruce said. ‘You know where the glasses are. I’ll just finish tidying up this lot.’

In the kitchen, as Karen reached for two glasses, she saw the picture of Gabby and Bruce. The memory of the perfect summer evening it had been taken on just a year ago flitted into her mind. Whoever could have guessed tragedy was so close?

She glanced out at Bruce carefully folding the last flag, remembering with affection the day he and Gabby had arrived in their lives, twenty-seven years ago. In those days the cottages and grounds had still been rustic, the amenities basic, and her parents had voiced trepidation about the young couple who were the new owners, the changes they would want to initiate.

At first sight, Bruce and Gabby had been a most unlikely couple. Her, extrovert and people-gathering. Him, friendly but reserved in the beginning. The realisation that they too genuinely loved the old-fashioned cottages, which had survived over one hundred years of buffeting by the storms that thrashed the coast every winter, had come as a welcome relief.

Joining Bruce out on the terrace, Karen poured the wine and handed him a glass. The flag bag was full again, the green, black and white Devon flag remaining alone on the table.

‘First one up tomorrow as usual,’ Bruce said. ‘Normal summer routine. Cheers.’

‘Cheers. Here’s to...’ Karen hesitated. It would be insensitive to drink to a good summer when it was going to be such a difficult one for Bruce. ‘The next few weeks. And a sunny summer with not too much rain,’ she added.

Bruce gave her a diffident smile before taking a sip of his wine. ‘Long-term forecast is good, I think. Derek not with you?’

Karen shook her head. ‘No. Too busy at the moment. He’ll be down when the children come.’ Maybe. But there was little point in saying anything to Bruce just yet about the state of her marriage.

Bruce glanced along the terrace. ‘No news about No. 4 yet. Still going through probate, I suspect. Sad to see it empty.’

Karen nodded. ‘Hope someone in the family decides to keep it rather than sell it.’

‘Joy was telling me that No. 3 has been rented for most of the summer,’ Bruce said.

‘Has Charlie told her who it is? Someone we know already?’ Karen said, surprised.

Bruce shook his head. ‘Just a friend of Charlie who needs a place to stay for a while. No definite arrival date yet. Maybe next week.’

Karen sipped her wine thoughtfully. A long summer rental of any of the cottages was unusual. Charlie himself always came down for a week or two with a group of friends, and always around the time of the owners’ annual meeting when joint decisions regarding maintenance, etcetera, were taken.

Wills had once described Charlie’s friends as ‘totally fit’, so summer could be interesting – or not.

*

The next day, awake at 5.30 a.m., Bruce decided it was pointless to stay in bed in the hope of falling asleep again. Four hours sleep a night seemed to be the maximum he could hope for these days as he tossed and turned his way through the hours of darkness.

In town there were familiar noises accompanying the new day. Buses changing gear to climb the hill, car doors slamming, the rattling of the jeweller’s security shutter as he unlocked the shop across the road from the apartment. But here – nothing.

It always took him a couple of days at the cottage to adjust to the silence surrounding him. Seagulls were the only early risers here and the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks below was the only other noise he could hear. Even when all the cottages were occupied in August there was little movement or noise before half past eight. Something to do with everyone being on holiday, Bruce supposed. No need to rise early. He had to admit he liked the all-enveloping morning silence. He’d get up and have his first coffee of the day watching the breaking dawn from the terrace.

Sitting there, waiting for the sky to lighten completely, Bruce planned his day. Finish his coffee before raising the flag. A drive along the coast for supplies – including a visit to his favourite bookshop. After that he’d treat himself to lunch somewhere. At some point he’d need to talk to Karen and enlist her help in carrying out the promise he’d made years ago to Gabby. He hadn’t wanted to mention it on her first evening. Too soon.

He glanced along the terrace towards The Captain’s House. Karen had been rather quiet last night. Not her usual self at all. Apart from the brief ‘He’s too busy’ comment she hadn’t mentioned Derek. Gabby would have picked up on that and gently probed – something he hesitated to do. He’d hate Karen to think he was intruding. Overstepping boundaries between friends. On the other hand, he’d like her to feel free to talk to him if she wanted. He’d wait a couple of days and see if she talked to him, asked his advice, before asking her if she was all right.

Carefully, he clipped the Devon flag to its rope and pulled it to the top of the mast where it fluttered in the breeze. Always the first flag of the summer, the Devon flag would be raised every day until the annual communal barbecue on 4th July, which Gabby, proud of her American roots, had instigated, and for which the stars and stripes had specifically been bought.

It was very rare for anyone to join him for the morning flag-hoisting, but the lowering of the flag every evening was different. Nine o‘clock was sundowner time, when everyone migrated to The Bosun’s Locker if they were around, either with a drink in hand or a bottle to share.

Gabby had always had a plate or two of nibbles to pass around every evening. Nothing fancy: cheese and crackers; crisps; maybe some crab sandwiches if she’d been to town. Things it was well within his capabilities to provide. He just had to get organised.

Lady Luck was smiling on him, Bruce decided, as he manoeuvred into the last available place in the car park.

Taking Gabby’s wicker basket from the front seat he made for the embankment. A walk alongside the river was one of the pleasures of summer down here. They’d always made it a part of their shopping routine before facing the supermarket crowds when they made the effort and drove over to Dartmouth. That and lunch afterwards in the Royal Castle Hotel. For some reason, in recent years, Gabby had always preferred to shop in Kingsbridge, although she did like lunch in the Royal Castle.

This morning the tide was in and there was the usual activity out on the river. A teenage boy handed him a flyer as he passed the fishing-trips kiosk. Bruce smiled and said ‘Thanks’ before briefly glancing at the paper.

A day at sea fishing? Something he’d never done – never been tempted to do. His days here had always been spent with Gabby. Filled with ‘couple’ things. There had always been places to go, books to read, restaurants to try, films to see, friends to meet up with. Memories to be made together. Six months since she’d gone but the numbness was still there. No point making memories now there was no one to share them with.

Already, in this first week of being alone down here, he was struggling to fill his days. He’d never been one for hobbies as such. Not even when he was younger. He doubted sea fishing was for him, though. A short trip on the Dartmouth ferry was enough to have him reaching for the sea quells.

He sighed, inwardly acknowledging he was going to have to think seriously about what he was going to do with ‘the rest of his life’, however long that might be. Sea fishing might be out but there had to be something else.

He stopped as he saw a small girl skipping along the embankment towards him, not concentrating on where she was going and dangerously near the edge. Her parents were yards behind pushing a buggy, laughing and chatting happily together, seemingly unaware of the risk their daughter was taking.

Instinctively he moved nearer the edge himself, ready to put a restraining hand out should she need it. Which she did. She stumbled and would have fallen over the edge if he hadn’t grabbed her.

‘Whoops,’ he said. ‘Not time for a swim yet.’ Holding her hand he looked towards the parents.

‘Hey, you! Let go of her,’ the man shouted as he ran towards him.

Shocked, Bruce let go of the little girl’s hand and straightened up.

‘You, young man, can stop shouting at me. Your daughter very nearly went over the edge. I caught her just in time. Children are very precious. You should look after her better.’

‘He’s right,’ said a woman sitting on a nearby seat. ‘I saw what he did. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have gone over. He deserves your thanks.’

Bruce smiled at her gratefully as she got up and walked away.

‘Sorry. I guess I overreacted. But these days...’ The man shrugged.

‘Keep a closer eye on her if things like that worry you,’ Bruce said. He smiled down at the little girl. ‘And you, young lady, you stay away from the edge of the quay.’

Bruce turned and walked briskly away. How could anyone not realise how quickly children could get themselves into trouble and take more care of them? But it wasn’t just anger he was feeling. He was shaking from the rush of an emotion he hadn’t felt for years. The crippling sadness they’d both felt with the three miscarriages Gabby had suffered before they’d given up on their dream of a family.

Thankfully, by the time he reached his favourite coffee shop, he’d stopped shaking. The large ‘For Sale’ sign on the nearby three-storey townhouse caught his attention. Normally that would be just the kind of property he and Gabby would have been interested in renovating. Mentally he made a note of the estate agent’s name. He’d call in later and get the details. It would be good to have a project on the go again. He’d throw himself into work and try to fill the new gap in his life.

He stopped in the act of pushing open the café door, to the annoyance of the woman following him in. How could he even think of renovating a building without Gabby? Without her to oversee the interior details, he’d be lost.

‘Sorry’ he muttered, ushering the woman past.

Where had these sudden thoughts come from? Only last week he’d decided that, in September, he’d wind up the business. Find something else to do. The word ‘retire’ had flitted through his brain. He’d even been vaguely thinking about moving down here. Living in The Bosun’s Locker permanently. It was big enough for just him.

Sitting waiting for his coffee, he sighed inwardly. The business had always undertaken work up country, both he and Gabby wanting to keep Devon as the place they escaped to from the pressure of work.

But now, why not? Move here and maybe do just one local renovation a year to keep his hand in and stop him getting bored. He’d need to suss out the local builders, find an interior decorator. Were local architects any good? Bruce could feel the lethargy that had settled over him in recent months lifting as possibilities flitted through his brain.

He’d go to the estate agent’s and pick up the details of the townhouse, see if there was anything else that caught his eye, and then do some serious thinking about his future. He’d work his way back into some sort of life. Gabby would expect nothing less of him.

*

‘Right, that’s the spare ribs marinating and the spicy chicken legs rolled in their coating. What shall I do next? Cut up the veg for the kebabs?’ Hazel asked.

‘Please. I’ll get on with the macaroni salad once I’ve got the pumpkin pie in the oven,’ Karen said.

The two of them were in Karen’s kitchen preparing everything for the 4th July barbecue that evening. The first communal get-together of the season.

‘At least the weather is good. Remember the year of the thunderstorms and floods?’

‘Never forgotten it,’ Hazel said. ‘God, was it scary.’

‘How big a macaroni salad do we want?’ Karen held up the bag of pasta. ‘All of it?’

Hazel nodded and Karen poured the lot into the saucepan of boiling water on the Aga.

‘Simon and Bruce setting the barbecue up for later? Who’s in charge of the actual cooking this year?’

‘Who d’you think?’ Hazel laughed. ‘Simon’s bought himself a new set of posh tools and a King of the Barbeque apron. No way is he planning to stand aside.’

Karen piled all the meat for cooking – chicken drumsticks, steaks, beef burgers and sausages – onto dishes ready to be carried out to Simon and Toby. A table had been set up to one side of the barbecue for people to help themselves to the rest of the food. Green salad, macaroni salad, rolls, crisps, sweet-potato wedges, pumpkin pie.

Looking at the array of food, Karen said, ‘D’you think we might have gone over the top this year? There’s only Tia to represent the hordes of hungry teenagers we usually feed.’

Before Hazel could answer, Karen’s mobile rang. Glancing at the caller name her heart lifted. ‘Wills. Where are you?’

‘At the airport on the way home. Looking forward to seeing you and Devon.’

‘Wonderful. When exactly do you want me to collect you from Totnes?’

‘No worries. Dad’s offered to bring me down towards the end of next week.’

Karen pushed the guilty ‘But I don’t want him to’ thought away, saying instead, ‘Great. See you both then.’

What had happened to Derek’s ‘Not sure there’s any point in coming down’ excuse? Was he up to something? Fingers crossed it would just be an overnight visit and he’d then disappear back to town, leaving her to enjoy Wills’ company.

Karen smiled happily at Hazel. ‘Wills is on his way home. He’ll be here next week.’ She picked up the first couple of meat dishes. ‘Right, let’s get the chefs cooking.’

The first communal barbecue of the summer was always a noisy one. This year was no exception.

As the first steaks and burgers came off the grill, Bruce checked everyone had a drink before raising his glass of wine. ‘Nice to see everyone here again and hopefully we’re in for a good summer.’ He paused before adding quietly, ‘Here’s to absent friends.’ Silently, glasses were raised in acknowledgement.

Looking at Bruce, Karen realised how tense he was and knew how difficult this first communal get-together was for him. Gabby had always been such a powerhouse at these events. Organising everything and everyone. This first summer without her was sure to be full of reminders of the gentle woman who had been his life for so long.

‘You okay?’ Karen said, moving to stand by him.

Bruce nodded. ‘Yes. As Gabby would say, the show must go on.’ He glanced at her. ‘I need to talk to you. About something I promised Gabby I’d do. Can I buy you lunch one day next week? Wednesday? Friday?’

‘Wednesday’s good for me. Wills and Derek are probably arriving on Friday,’ Karen said.

‘Glad to hear that,’ Bruce said. He glanced along the terrace. ‘I was in the estate agent’s this afternoon. They’ve got No. 4 on their books, so we can expect a few nosey parkers looking around this summer. Mind you, at the price they’re asking, it’ll be well-heeled nosey parkers.’ He shook his head.

‘Oh, that’s a shame. You’d have thought one of the relatives would have wanted to keep it,’ Karen said. ‘What were you doing in the estate agent’s anyway? Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of selling up?’

‘Not The Bosun’s Locker, no.’ Bruce shook his head. ‘But I’ve got to find something to do. Some purpose to my life,’ he added quietly. ‘I’ll tell you more on Wednesday.’

By mid evening, Simon and Toby, fuelled by several cans of beer, were doing a duet of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, much to the disbelief of Tia, Hazel and Simon’s teenage daughter, who was watching them with a look of horror on her face.

‘Yankee doodle went to town, a-riding on a pony, stuck a feather in his cap, and called it macaroni.’

Hazel tried not to laugh as she poured Joy and Karen another glass of wine. ‘It only needs for us to start dancing and her embarrassment would be complete,’ she said. ‘If I had the energy it would be worth it.’

An hour later, as Bruce supervised the fireworks that always heralded the end of the evening, Hazel whispered to Karen, ‘You up for a chat and a skinny-dip tonight after this lot finishes?’

Karen nodded. ‘Good idea.’

*

‘Joy – lives in No. 5. She and her husband, Toby, act as unofficial caretakers for everybody. She’ll have bought food and stocked the fridge, made the bed up, etcetera, and will look after you. Do your shopping, a spot of cleaning if you want,’ Charlie said, looking at his old friend Guy Widdicombe.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Guy said, taking the key Charlie was holding out.

‘Stay as long as you want. I’ll be down at the end of the month.’

‘I really appreciate this,’ Guy said.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s what mates do. You can buy me a decent dinner when I get there. Now, d’you want a lift to the station?’

‘Booked a taxi. Should be here any minute. Thanks. I’ll go and wait downstairs. See you in a few weeks.’

Sitting lost in his own thoughts as the train thundered through the countryside, Guy tried to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

He knew going back was supposed to be a no-no. But he was only returning to where he’d once spent an idyllic holiday. It wasn’t as though it was his hometown and he was attempting to begin a new life there. He was just going to chill out for a few weeks while he got his life back on track. Forget the horrors he’d seen. Then he could move on.

He’d accepted Charlie’s offer of the use of his holiday cottage for the summer before he’d realised where it was, by which time it was too late to turn the offer down. He needed somewhere to live and he hated the thought of being holed up in London for the summer months.

But the memories had started to come back once he’d realised, and now, as the train negotiated the vulnerable track beside the sea near Dawlish, images of that holiday were picture-sharp in his head. At nineteen, he’d moaned about its location. Isolated and boring he’d called it then. Nothing to do. But then he’d met Chris and things had changed.

Instead of mooching about bored, his days had been filled with sailing, rock climbing, swimming in the small cove, illicit beer drinking and playing table tennis on a rickety old table under the big oak tree at the edge of the garden. In the end it had been a good holiday – one he looked back on now with affection and nostalgia for lost opportunities.

Today, thirty-odd years later, all he wanted was the isolated and boring part. No friends or holidaymakers intent on jollying everyone into joining in things. Charlie had said to expect the cottages to be occupied by the various owners, but they all wanted peace and quiet too. He wouldn’t have to socialise if he didn’t want to. And he definitely didn’t want to. He planned on lots of sleep, long walks and lots of reading. And drowning recent memories in copious amounts of whisky and wine.

The taxi he’d organised was waiting for him when he got off the train at Totnes. Half an hour later he was standing in the car park behind the cottages, looking at the stars and stripes flag fluttering in the evening breeze over the end cottage. Someone was singing ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ loudly, off-key, and there was a lot of laughter and conversation.

So much for Charlie’s promise of peace and quiet. Still, at least no one was around to notice his arrival and he pushed open the big heavy wooden door in the stone wall that surrounded the communal grounds and made his way along the path to Charlie’s cottage.

Inside, No. 3 was bright, modern and minimalistic. No feminine touches for Charlie. And nothing like whichever cottage in the row he’d stayed in all those years ago, with its chintz and old-fashioned furniture.

A sturdy cream loop carpet had been laid throughout No. 3, except for the kitchen with its traditional slate floor. Table and chairs were placed by the French doors leading to the terrace, two black-leather settees faced each other in front of the fireplace, a glass coffee table between them. Bookshelves and abstract paintings covered the whitewashed walls.

Upstairs in the front bedroom Guy slung his holdall onto the trunk at the foot of the king-sized bed and took out the bottle of whisky. He’d unpack later. Right now he needed a drink and something to eat. The tantalising smell of barbecue food was fanning his hunger.

As promised there was a box of food on the kitchen work surface and eggs, milk, cheese, butter and wine in the fridge. He poured himself a generous measure of whisky before making himself a cheese sandwich. Not wanting to alert anyone to his presence, he didn’t bother to switch on any lights, preferring to manage in the half-light.

Taking his sandwich and whisky upstairs, he ate and drained his glass before taking off his boots and stretching out on the bed. He lay listening to the sounds of laughter, wondering if it was going to be like this every evening. Half in, half out of sleep he speculated about who these people might be.

The bang of the first firework jolted him out of his semi-conscious state, setting his heart racing in fear and his hands clutching at the duvet in fistfuls as he wrapped himself in it protectively before realising what was happening. Bloody things.

As firework displays went it was a short one – barely ten minutes. The acrid smell in the air lasted longer.

Guy lay there listening for a while as people said their goodnights and the party broke up. Finally, all he could hear was the waves breaking against the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs. Good. Maybe he could get some proper sleep now. Another whisky would help and he swung himself off the bed.

A bright moon was illuminating the grounds and the sea in front of the cottages. Standing briefly in front of the window, looking out, Guy could see two people swimming in the pool. As he watched, one of them climbed out and stood on the pool ladder holding the rail for a couple of seconds. Perfectly silhouetted in the moonlight. He smiled – they’d been skinny-dipping. Was it a summer ritual? The woman, whoever she was, had a great figure.