Snowflakes Over Holly Cove: The most heartwarming festive romance of 2018 Page 6

  I take a couple of test screen shots and I’m sure it’s going to be possible to grab a few of these for the article.

  Having drained my coffee that chocolate bar is calling to me. I sit back once more, savouring the sugar rush and close my eyes. Suddenly I’m in that log cabin and I’m looking out of the window at the deep drifts of stark white snow. Sleigh bells start to tinkle, but for some reason they sound more like cow bells. But hey, this is my daydream and I’ll probably never experience either first-hand, so I go with the flow. I’m wearing a jumper covered in a blue and white snowflake design and grey, fluffy earmuffs, despite the roaring log fire. Suddenly I hear the opening lines of Chris Rea’s Driving Home for Christmas and it conjures up memories of the winter experiences of my childhood. Several Christmases had involved a sprinkling of snow and one in particular I remember with great clarity.

  Nose pressed against the window pane, I’d waited patiently for Dad to arrive home after his last working day before the holidays. Mum had promised we could take out the sledge I’d virtually forgotten existed, as it had been tucked out of sight behind the old shed for several years. It wasn’t quite on a par with a Lapland experience but to a small child it was incredibly exciting and magical.

  My eyes flick open. OK, I’m sold. I now have the content I need and this article is going to really jump off the page as the sort of lifestyle many people can only dream of – Clarissa is going to be delighted with it.

  It takes most of the afternoon to analyse the information and make a bullet list of the salient points I want to include in the article. By that time my back is beginning to feel a little stiff and I’m in need of some fresh air.

  I tidy everything away into the folders and five minutes later I’m heading down towards the beach.

  There’s a slight nip in the air as the sun sinks lower in the sky, although it’s probably at least a couple of hours until it slips below the horizon. I turn up the collar on my jacket and dig my hands into my pockets, as I saunter along just above the waterline on the beach. The thoughts churning in my head are summed up in one word: disappointment. This isn’t just about losing Mum, I realise. It’s about feeling that I’ve wandered onto the wrong path in life and looking ahead it seems to stretch out endlessly, without any options at all for getting back on track.

  I’m not naive and this isn’t about wanting to be one half of the perfect couple, really it isn’t; or letting loose the green-eyed monster, because wanting what someone else has isn’t a solution – it’s a complete and utter waste of time. But what really worries me is that I don’t know what I want, anyway.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  A distant voice seems to come out of nowhere and I realise that the fisherman guy has been watching me, but for how long exactly, I have no idea. I was so deep in thought I’ve been oblivious to his presence. I turn to walk closer to him; he seems to be preparing a brazier, layering small chunks of wood into the metal basket in front of the workshop.

  ‘I had a good catch today and you are welcome to join me if you like fish.’ He nods in the direction of a small bucket next to his seat.

  ‘There’s another chair just inside the workshop. Help yourself.’

  I figure what harm can it do and, besides, if I head back the thoughts in my head are going to keep nagging away and without any distractions they’ll run unchecked.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The chair is one of the old-style deckchairs you don’t often see these days. It’s a bit fiddly to erect, but comfortable once I lower myself into it.

  I watch him from the other side of the brazier, as the smoke begins to drift down the beach and tiny red embers start to glow.

  ‘I’m Tia, Tia Armstrong.’

  ‘Max Hartington.’

  That’s all he says. I lapse into silence as I watch him laying out the fish on a large stone to begin preparing them for the fire. He takes off the heads first, then trims the fins, and starts to clean them up. He has a bottle of water next to him and when he’s done he washes each one individually; then spreads them out on a tray. I’m not really sure what they are, but anything freshly caught is bound to taste good.

  He finishes off with a drizzle of olive oil and a little salt and pepper, placing the tray on his temporary stone table.

  ‘The fire’s not quite ready yet, it needs to burn down a little or the fish will cook too quickly.’

  Without saying anything else he disappears back inside one of the wooden cabins and returns with a wicker basket. When he places the basket on the sand next to his chair, there’s a little chink.

  ‘I have a bottle of good wine I’ve been saving; it was a present in return for some mackerel. Do you drink alcohol?’

  I nod, as Max pours a hefty slug into two whiskey glasses and hands one of them to me.

  ‘Well, this is lovely and a real treat.’

  It’s a little awkward, but I feel a toast is appropriate. I raise my glass and Max duly raises his. ‘You rescued me yesterday morning and now you are cooking me supper, so I think that calls for a heartfelt thank you, Max.’

  And now he’s saving me from a miserable evening of depressing thoughts.

  He nods, takes a large gulp of wine and sits back in his chair to watch the brazier.

  The silence is actually rather relaxing, as it dawns upon me that Max is used to his own company and isn’t expecting me to make idle conversation. Sitting here, instead of my mind dwelling on things I don’t want to think about, I can simply enjoy the surreal uniqueness of our setting. This deserted sandy cove, flanked by the limestone cliffs, feels like a secret place to hide away from the world at large.

  As the light begins to dim, Max fetches three lamps from his workshop and sets them down in a semi-circle. The soft glow against the fading light and the gentle lapping of the water on the beach is calming to the soul. This is a little piece of heaven and something so unexpected, that I feel privileged to be here.

  With the tall flames now reduced to little flickers here and there, Max places a metal grid over the top of the brazier and lifts the tray of fish on top. As the tray heats the air is filled with a tantalising smell that makes my stomach rumble. After a few minutes, he pulls two small clusters of tomatoes on the vine from the basket and adds them to the tray. The oil starts to sizzle beneath them and the sweetness as they cook adds another note to the orchestra of flavours assaulting my nose. This man knows how to cook, that’s for sure.

  Within minutes Max hands me a melamine picnic plate the size of a platter and a metal fork.

  ‘The bones shouldn’t be a problem, as the flesh will just fall away.’

  There is a large, flat fish and several smaller ones, a chunk of unbuttered baguette and a cluster of tomatoes. The smell is amazing.

  I wait until Max has prepared his own platter and we begin eating in silence. Well, I say silence but I can’t stop myself from making appreciative ‘mmm’ noises as I eat. It’s embarrassing but it’s involuntary. I don’t think fish has ever tasted this good to me, before.

  ‘Turbot and brill,’ Max throws the words out, breaking the silence.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ve eaten either before, but Max, this is amazing. You could be a chef.’

  He grunts.

  ‘I could be a lot of things, Tia. I have been a lot of things but I’ve not always been proud of myself. The simple life is where I’m at now and it suits me.’

  I look up, surprised at his honesty and feeling that he isn’t expecting a response. We continue to eat in silence until we’re done and my stomach is feeling very happy.

  Max stacks the platters onto the tray and ferries them back inside the cabin. Before lowering himself into his seat, he pours out a little more wine.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ I reflect.

  He looks directly at me, as if surprised by my comment.

  ‘Sometimes folk need a bit of company. And that includes me. I’m out of practice, is the truth of the matter.’

  He knows nothing at all ab
out me and yet he senses something isn’t right. Maybe he connects on some level with the turmoil that is still within me.

  ‘It’s a crazy world, isn’t it, Max? We find ourselves in situations we never anticipated and it can all become a little overwhelming at times. I like the peace and the solitude here: it’s cathartic.’

  We lapse back into silence for a good five minutes before Max starts speaking.

  ‘If you ask me, the whole world has become too darned materialistic. Money doesn’t necessarily bring happiness. I know that only too well.’

  I’m not sure how to acknowledge that and when it becomes obvious that he’s going to continue, I sit back, content to see where this goes.

  ‘When you have everything you think you want and wake up one morning realising it’s all window dressing and that inside you’re very unhappy, well, it opens your eyes.’

  I nod and he raises his glass, the soft light from the lamps sending little glistening shards of rainbow light, bouncing off the crystal-clear liquid inside.

  I give him a resigned smile and raise my glass back at him.

  ‘I’m not sure I could have understood that a year ago, but at this moment in time I know exactly where you are coming from.’

  He nods, sadly, as if he’s sorry for me and whatever situation I find myself in. For some inexplicable reason, that touches my heart.

  ‘Losing someone you love is life-changing. Realising you don’t actually have a life is shocking.’

  That weathered forehead with a lifetime of deep-set frown lines etched upon it, acknowledges my anguish.

  ‘Are you running away, or recharging your batteries?’

  ‘Both, I think. I’m usually office-based, but as long as I have a phone and the internet I have everything I need. I’m easing myself back in after a period away and London would be a bit much to face at the moment.’

  ‘Ah. Wise lady. Get yourself back onto an even keel and you’ll be ready to re-enter the war zone.’

  I laugh and he smiles.

  ‘War zone? Was it that bad?’

  He purses his lips, a hint of playfulness reflected on his face.

  ‘You really want to hear the sorry tale of a man who ends up living in a cabin on the beach?’

  ‘Try me.’

  In the twilight, I can see there’s a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Well, here’s the short version. Met someone, fell in love, ignored the warning signs and got married. What followed wasn’t hearts and flowers, let’s say. Messy divorce, family disowned me and eventually I took sanctuary in the only place I could connect with.’

  I study his face and there’s no sign of anger, or sadness; merely a wicked sparkle in those eyes of his.

  ‘And yet you’re happy?’

  ‘Happiest I’ve ever been. I don’t judge other people and there’s no one here, now, to judge me.’

  There’s a story here with hidden depths, but Max isn’t an interviewee.

  ‘Well, there are many who would envy your state of happiness, that’s for sure.’

  Max tips his head back and emits a raucous laugh, which seems to echo around the cove, but makes no comment. Maybe that’s something for another night.

  ‘Am I trespassing when I wander down here? I assumed the private beach belonged to the cottage.’

  I watch his reaction closely, but he seems chilled.

  ‘It did, once upon a time. I feel “ownership” is a rather misleading term. I’m a custodian of the land for my lifetime only, so who am I to stop anyone enjoying what nature has to offer? Besides, it’s rare to see anyone strolling along Holly Cove beach, whatever the season.’

  And yet I sort of feel he was half-prepared to share his meal tonight, maybe even hoping I’d take an early evening stroll.

  ‘Is today a special occasion?’ It’s a stab in the dark, but this man is so hard to read.

  He pauses momentarily, then nods.

  ‘It’s my sixty-fifth birthday today. Best party I ever had.’

  He winks at me and I begin laughing, acknowledging that sometimes things really do happen for a reason. I guess tonight it threw together two people from very different walks of life, but who both happened to be in need of a little company.

  8

  Stir Crazy

  I sleep so soundly that I wish I’d set the alarm, as I don’t wake up until just after eight a.m. this morning. Going to bed on a full stomach and with all the fresh air, I can barely recall my head hitting the pillow.

  As soon as I finish washing up the breakfast dishes, I settle myself down to work. Hayley hasn’t been in touch to confirm any more interview slots, so I have uninterrupted time to concentrate on fleshing out the first article.

  By lunch time I run out of steam, or maybe that’s the ability to continually enthuse about a couple who are high achievers and have the enviable quality of making it all seem so easy. Their ability to hold down lucrative careers, travel the world and have almost constant fun together, without making a wrong decision, seems too good to be true. Unless either one of them comes to feel, at some stage in the future, that something is missing. They will reach a time, no doubt, when they have to slow down and what then? Will a more normal, day to day existence be too mundane to keep their relationship alive and spontaneous?

  I find myself thinking about Max. Disowned by his family, he said. That’s harsh and yet he’s happy enough – or seems to be.

  I decide to forego a walk on the beach, not wanting Max to feel I’m always going to be turning up on his doorstep now I know it’s his domain. But without a vehicle I feel disadvantaged here. Then I remember the receipt for the taxi and I go in search of it. On the reverse side is a mobile number and the words ‘24-hour Taxi Service – no trip too small.’

  ‘Hi, I wondered if it was possible to book a taxi for about an hour’s time.’

  I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who dropped me off before.

  ‘Yeah, I can do that. Beach View?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ That’s a little unnerving.

  ‘It’s the accent. Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the area, but on the map there’s a place referred to as Mumbles. I want to look around the shops for an hour and then perhaps you could pick me up at some convenient point and bring me back?’

  ‘See you in an hour, then.’

  *

  It turns out that Mumbles is less than a couple of miles away and only a ten-minute drive. Five pounds covers the fare and a small tip. We don’t make any small talk and it’s a relief, as I want to concentrate on the scenery and try to get my bearings.

  An hour isn’t enough to do Mumbles village justice, as it’s larger than it looked when I Googled it. A lovely mix of coffee shops, high-end fashion, arts and crafts shops, and the usual takeaways and restaurants, is a delightful surprise.

  When I arrive back at the car park, I see the taxi is already waiting. The engine is ticking over and even from a distance I can hear the radio blaring out some music with an ominously thudding beat. The driver catches sight of me in his rear-view mirror and the noise disappears as I open the rear passenger door.

  ‘Do you do tours?’

  He spins in his seat. ‘What sort of tours?’

  This guy isn’t exactly easy to talk to, that’s for sure.

  ‘The route between Caswell Bay and Langland Bay looks like it has amazing views. Is it possible to take a detour and go back that way?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Whatever you like.’

  As he pulls away I settle back, looking forward to a leisurely drive along the scenic route. Except that I don’t even catch a glimpse of the sea until we are literally back at Caswell Bay. As we drive past the small promenade, then take the next turning on the left down to Beach View Cottage, I’m feeling cheated.

  ‘Is that it?’

  The taxi pulls up alongside the cottage and he kills the engine. We’ve been in the car for about fifteen minutes, tops.

  ‘Yep. The scenic route h
as to be done on foot. It’s a walk along the limestone cliffs. That will be eight pounds fifty.’

  Really? I mean, he couldn’t have explained to me that the road goes inland through housing estates, rather than hugging the coast?

  ‘Keep the change.’

  ‘Thanks, here’s your receipt.’

  I try not to snatch it out of his hand, although I’m sorely tempted to do so, as I feel annoyed and a little silly. Maybe I should have zoomed in on the map and traced the road. But he could just as easily have enlightened me.

  ‘How would I get to Caswell Bay if I was on foot?’

  ‘There is a path through the woods, but I wouldn’t recommend it for someone who doesn’t know the area.’

  Helpful. Not. Oh, well.

  He’s staring at me. What have I said, now?

  ‘I’m about to clock-off as the dog needs his walk. I could be back here with him in fifteen minutes and you’re welcome to tag along.’

  Oh, maybe I was a little too quick to judge him, after all. I’m a customer going from A to B and I can’t expect him to act as a tour guide; so this is a kind gesture.

  ‘Thanks. I gather there’s a café at the Langland Bay end, so the coffee and cake will be on me.’

  ‘No problem. See you shortly.’

  *

  I scan my emails and check my phone, but there’s nothing there that can’t wait. I still seem to be out of the loop a bit, and that suits me at the moment. I don’t feel I have to respond instantly, or that anyone expects me to do so.

  A quick brush of my hair and I tie it back, as no doubt there will be quite a breeze on the cliff tops. I change my jeans, dig out my walking boots and pull on a medium weight sweatshirt over my teeshirt. Grabbing a lightweight jacket on my way out, as I’m locking the front door the taxi is already back. The driver opens the rear door and a reddish-brown and black ball of fur dashes out of the car and disappears into some low shrubs.