A stiff westerly blew in across the shore, creating tiny ripples in the waves of the outgoing tide, the strength of the breeze sufficient to allow the gulls and crows foraging for morsels in the pebbly sand to get airborne simply by spreading their wings, and once in the air, to hover and swoop without discernible effort. The sun’s rays shone like spotlights through gaps in clouds that scudded across the blue November sky affording sporadic warmth to an otherwise crisp, chilly day.
Out in the Channel a mile or two distant, a scattering of freighters and tankers, seemingly becalmed, awaited their turn to unload and then load new cargo at Southampton. Close to the shore, a solitary heron stood motionless on a sandbank, trying its best to ignore an angry gull that swooped down repeatedly towards it emitting a loud screech, before swinging upwards again like a pendulum, ready to repeat the attack.
Jack Fleming watched the avian confrontation with fascination. He knew the average gull was notoriously aggressive, especially towards humans stupid enough to flaunt anything edible, but this dispute had either to be about territory or some perceived threat. The heron casually stood its ground despite the gull’s provocation, ducking periodically and letting out a squawk of irritation at one particularly close encounter. After a while, he spotted the reason for the aggressor’s anxiety. A baby gull swam in the shallows thirty feet from the heron, bobbing its head under the water from time to time, oblivious to any threat.
Jack was no stranger to herons, having had personal experience and a grudging respect for their ability to feast on a garden pond full of his goldfish, but he had never before seen a heron take another bird. Despite the gull’s tirade, the heron seemed disinterested. He knew it was all part of the act, a precursor to the strike, but it would be a remarkable heron indeed that could strike at its prey from a distance of thirty feet. He was amused by the gull’s antics, wondering how long it would be before it tired itself out or was eventually swatted by the larger bird running out of patience, when the baby launched itself into the air and flew off, pursued by its irate parent. The heron remained statuesque, apparently unperturbed.
Jack turned to the wind and resumed his walk, picking his way carefully across limpet strewn rock and back onto the soft sand. He was glad he had come. “It’ll do you good to get away for a bit,” Barry had suggested, more out of concern than any real expertise in the psychological benefits of ‘getting away’.
“By myself? What kind of break is that?” he’d protested.
“Why don’t you ask Charlie to go with you?” Barry had said helpfully, and Jack had let out a snort of derision, aimed squarely at himself.
“The last thing my darling daughter wants is to be stuck in a seaside cottage with her old man for a week, especially now she’s preoccupied with her git of a boyfriend.”
“Maybe it would be a chance to do a bit of bonding?” Jack had been unconvinced at the time and not just about the prospect of any ‘bonding’ but Barry had persisted. “Look, you’ll be amazed at how different things will look with a change of scenery. Clear your head. A new perspective will emerge, trust me.”
“So, you’re a psychoanalyst, now?” he’d retorted, truculent and dismissive.
“No, mate. It’s common sense. You know I’m right. Look,” Barry often started a sentence with ‘look’ to add gravitas and focus attention, “you’ve been through massive change and to be brutally honest,” he loved it when Barry was brutally honest, “you’ve not been yourself, shut away in that big house with nothing to do. It’s not the way you were built. You’re a pale shadow, mate. We’re worried about you. Anyway, you don’t have to go far.”
The Isle of Wight certainly wasn’t far, Jack thought. But he had to admit, the mere fact of packing a bag, driving to the south coast, getting on the ferry and leaving the mainland behind had turned out to be an adventure in itself. He didn’t crave foreign travel, near or far. He’d done more than enough of that during his working life and there was no longer any attraction. All that wasted time in hideous airports, crammed into a tin tube with the great unwashed, breathing second-hand air and eating terrible food, even in business class, and then checking into a ghastly hotel for a couple of days before doing the whole thing in reverse. They’d been working trips, not holidays and they’d put him off flying for life, at least, as a passenger. He’d flown over the Isle of Wight a hundred times but never set foot there so it seemed like a reasonable place of escape. And if he got bored, he could go home whenever he wanted.
He hadn’t been bored. The cottage was compact but clean and tidy, within walking distance of pubs, restaurants and shops and he’d spent most of the daylight hours walking the myriad footpaths on and around the coast ‘clearing his head’, before retiring to the cottage in the afternoon to read a trashy novel, something he’d never found time to do before. Then knocking up an easy supper or going to the pub for pie and chips. And paradoxically, time had flown, even though this week, he felt he’d lived life at a much slower pace.
He couldn’t be sure it had worked, gained him any new perspective or cleared his head. But he had no regrets about coming, despite the questionable November weather, and he found he’d had time to mull things over without the constant physical reminders of the past which, at home, would just carry on haunting him, holding him back.
Out in the shallows, a group of windsurfers were taking advantage of the robust wind, the riders leaning over at forty-five degrees as they scooted at high speed across the otherwise calm seas. It looked exhilarating, one of the many adrenalin-fuelled sports he’d never had time to try when he was working. He wondered what new activity he might take up when he got home. Golf? Cycling? Tennis? He could join a gym and rediscover the athletic physique he sported twenty-five years ago. Maybe he could get his license back? He hadn’t flown in years, but there was no greater escape than being up there, alone in the clouds, and now, he could easily afford it. He had so much choice and for the first time in his life, plenty of time, yet somehow having so many options didn’t make it any easier.
At forty-eight and with more money than he knew what to do with, he need never work again. He was financially secure for life, assuming Charlie didn’t ruin him with her spendthrift ways. He missed her and she was the only thing he had to worry about, but he was happier alone for now. Even if she had wanted to come with him, she’d have lasted twenty-four hours before she’d want to get back to Gavin. The git.
He breathed in the ozone rich air and sauntered on, scouring the sand for imaginary treasure washed up on the shore, periodically glancing out to sea in wonder at its scale and power and passing other walkers, many with excitable dogs, exchanging pleasantries like they were old friends. There was always something of interest on a beach and he pondered for the umpteenth time this week, whether he should move to the coast.
He needed caffeine. He’d read in the guidebook the Beachcomber Café was somewhere close by and boasted an extensive range of artisan coffees. He’d stop and refuel. He held up a hand in greeting to a couple who were trudging through the shingle with a golden retriever and his eye fell on a house perched on the cliff above the beach. It was set back fifty yards from the edge and from where he stood, he could see it had grey timber cladding, floor-to-ceiling glass on the ground floor and a balcony upstairs. He wondered how property prices compared to where he lived in Oxfordshire and although the house itself didn’t appear ostentatious or luxurious, the view would be priceless. He fantasised for a moment about buying it, but dismissed the idea as fanciful.
“Morning!” he called to the couple as they passed and was about to ask them if they knew the location of The Beachcomber when, without warning, he felt a blow to the back of the head and a threadbare yellow tennis ball landed in the sand at his feet. The couple laughed and he shook his head comically as if to exaggerate the injury, then bent to pick up the ball just as a brown and white springer spaniel overtook him, performed a dramatic four-legged slide in the sand followed by an abrupt U-turn, and stopped in front of him, barking loudly.
“Hello young man,” said Jack, uncertain of quite how to address a strange dog, never having had one himself. The spaniel barked repeatedly, jumping around on the spot, tongue and tail wagging in unison. Jack tossed the ball ahead of him as far as he could throw, and the dog chased after it without hesitation. He turned around and saw fifty yards behind him a woman standing still, ball launcher in her right hand, the left clasped over her mouth.
“Sorry!” he heard her shout. “I’m so sorry!” Jack laughed and waved.
“Good shot!”
She broke into an awkward run. She wore a dark green waterproof jacket over black walking trousers and designer wellington boots. Her hair was long and crinkly and red, and she swept it away from her face as she approached. He judged her to be late thirties and he was immediately struck by her freckled cheeks, pink from either windchill or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again but before he could reply the spaniel was back, dropping the tennis ball at his feet and barking vociferously. “I’m afraid you’re committed,” she said. “You’re his best friend now. You’ll have to throw it again.” She had a pronounced Irish accent. Jack had been there many times on business and recognised the Derry English. He turned and tossed the ball and the spaniel raced after it. “I’m really sorry,” she said for the third time. “Are you okay? I’m not safe with this thing,” she said, holding up the ball launcher.
Jack felt guilty. He was enjoying her embarrassment and she was very easy on the eye. He grinned at her. “It’s only a tennis ball. No harm done. What’s his name?”
“Jerry.”
“Jerry?”
“He’s a springer.”
Jack hesitated then nodded, pretending he understood the connection, which he didn’t. “Oh, yeah.” She laughed and her eyes lit up. They were emerald-green, and her teeth gleamed white in the sunshine. He forced himself to look away, but only for a second. Jerry was back again. He picked up the ball and turned to her. “May I?” She handed him the launcher. He loaded the cup and swung it from behind his head, propelling the ball a hundred yards down the beach. Jerry was back within twenty seconds. “Does he never get tired?”
“Nope. Not until he gets home and then he just crashes.”
“Sounds like my kind of dog.” Jerry barked and leapt around, demanding attention.
“C’mon you,” she said, picking up the ball and putting it in her pocket. “Walk’s over.” Jerry whined and barked and then whined again as she leaned over and attached the lead to his collar. “Nice to meet you and sorry again for assaultin’ you.”
“Really, it was nothing. I had fun and it was nice to meet you too. Both of you.” She turned away and his thoughts returned to caffeine. “Excuse me?” he called after her. She turned and tossed back her hair. “Is the Beachcomber Café far from here?”
“No, just about half a mile. But you’re out of luck. It’s only open April to October. Tourist season.”
“Okay, thanks. Never mind.”
“Is it coffee you’re after?”
He shrugged. “It’s that time of day,” he said, and she let the comment go for a second or two.
“I can do you a coffee. I live just here.” She pointed to the grey timber-clad house on the cliff. “I owe you that at least. C’mon and I’ll put the kettle on.”