Summer at Coastguard Cottages: a feel-good holiday read

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.

A memory of a skinny-dip down in the cove on that long-ago holiday flashed into his mind. Three or four teenage girls, splashing and giggling. He and Chris hidden in the bushes, enjoying the scene, afraid to move for fear of discovery. Not brave enough to join the girls.

Guiltily he pulled the curtains closed before turning away. Before leaving the room to go downstairs in search of his whisky, he switched the light on to warn them someone was awake. Didn’t want the neighbours for the next few weeks labelling him a Peeping Tom before he’d even met them.

*

‘Oh, I can’t tell you how good this feels,’ Karen murmured as she and Hazel floated lazily on their backs in the pool. ‘Good idea of yours.’

‘Bliss,’ Hazel said. ‘We should make a pact to do this at least once a week when everyone is in bed.’

‘Not sure about when Charlie and his mates are down in August,’ Karen said. ‘They’d probably get the binoculars trained on us. Otherwise, great idea.’

‘Not compulsory to skinny-dip. We could just come and swim at midnight – it’s so different down here then. Proper alone time.’

Karen turned over and began to do a leisurely breast stroke across the width of the pool. ‘You wait,’ she said. ‘Empty-nest-syndrome time is approaching. You’ll have plenty of alone time then. Probably more than you want.’ She reached the side of the pool and took a deep breath. ‘God, I hadn’t realised I was so unfit. Definitely need to swim every day.’

‘Having an empty nest sounds so appealing at the moment,’ Hazel said.

‘Tia being a teenage pain?’

Hazel spluttered. ‘She’s like seventeen going on twenty-seven these days – when she’s not throwing a tantrum like a seven-year-old.’

‘I remember Francesca behaving like that. Surely the twins too?’

‘Yes, but I swear Tia is worse than the two of them put together. Honestly, I can’t wait for her to go to uni.’

‘Wills arriving might help. Having someone near her own age around.’

Hazel nodded. ‘Hope so. Race you for a length?’

Karen shook her head. ‘Not fit enough to race but I’ll do a length behind you.’

Doing a fast front crawl, Hazel reached the far end first and trod water waiting for Karen. As Karen reached her they both heard an owl tooting from one of the tall pine trees that bordered the grounds, but otherwise the night was silent apart from the sound of the sea below them.

Karen grabbed hold of the steps’ rail to climb out of the pool, pausing for a moment on the second one to look up at the moonlight-illuminated terrace of houses. Beautiful.

‘I love this place. I don’t know how Derek can even think of asking me to sell it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s been a part of my life for so long.’

‘How is Derek?’ Hazel asked.

Karen shrugged. ‘Nothing changes,’ she said before swearing under her breath and climbing out of the pool, reaching for one of the towels they’d left on a chair and wrapping it around her body.

‘What’s the matter?’ Hazel said, joining her by the chair.

‘Quick, you’d better have this,’ Karen said, handing her the other towel. ‘There’s a light on in No. 3. I hope to hell whoever it is hasn’t been watching us for the last twenty minutes.’

*

‘Which way?’ Bruce said, stopping at the T-junction. ‘Restaurant in town or a walk on the beach and a pub lunch?’

‘Oh, a walk and then a pub lunch,’ Karen said without hesitation. ‘Another week and it’ll be impossible to get a table for the hordes of holidaymakers.’

‘Slapton Ley, here we come then,’ Bruce said, taking the left turn onto the narrow coast road.

Lots of traffic meant Bruce needed to concentrate on his driving rather than talking, and Karen was happy to stay quiet and look at the passing countryside.

Empty fields shorn of their crops were sporting a yellow stubble. In others, tractors were racing against time to gather the last of the hay before the threatened rain arrived. Holidaymakers, with their exuberant holiday shirts and shorts, wandered aimlessly along the coastal road, happy to be enjoying their freedom from workday routines.

It wasn’t until they’d parked the car and were striding out along Slapton Sands that Karen said, ‘Charlie’s friend in No. 3 is keeping a low profile. Haven’t had sight nor sound of him. Have you?’ She didn’t mention the light the night she and Hazel had been skinny-dipping.

Bruce shook his head. ‘No. I did wonder if he’d venture out to join us one evening – he must have heard us. Maybe I’ll knock on the door later, invite him for tonight’s sundowner. Let him know the natives are friendly. Although if he just wants to be left alone...’ Bruce shrugged.

‘He’ll have to show himself sometime,’ Karen said. ‘So, what is it you wanted to talk about?’

‘Gabby’s ashes,’ Bruce said. ‘Ages ago, long before either of us ever thought it would happen, we both promised to scatter the other’s ashes in a favourite place.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I still can’t believe I’m having to think about doing it.’

‘You want me to be with you when you do it?’ Karen asked gently. ‘Of course I will. Where did Gabby want to be scattered? By the coastguard cottages?’

Bruce shook his head. ‘That’s my choice, but she said she wanted them scattered in the sea by the American memorial along here. Said she’d feel close to both me and her American roots that way.’

Karen glanced at him. ‘I’d almost forgotten Gabby was American. Her accent was more Home Counties than New York City.’

Bruce laughed. ‘She worked really hard at it. She so wanted to fit in and not stand out. Yet she never really forgot her roots, despite never going back after her studies here finished.’

‘Did you bring her ashes today?’ Karen asked gently.

Bruce shook his head. ‘No. I was thinking I’d do it on her birthday and then in the evening invite everyone to have a drink and celebrate her life.’

‘That’s what we’ll do then,’ Karen said, threading her arm through Bruce’s. ‘I’ll do the food for you.’