Seven Days in Summer

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Busy mum of twins Liv is looking forward to a week at the Beach Hut in Devon, even if she feels that something’s not right between her and Matt. She’s sure he’s just too busy at work to join them on their summer holiday, not that he wants time alone …

  Baz loves having his family to stay by the sea, but when an unexpected guest arrives, he finds himself torn between the past and the future …

  Still reeling from a break-up, all Sofia wants is a quiet summer – until she meets Baz and her plans are turned upside down. She knows she’s rushing into things, but could this week at the Beach Hut be the start of something new?

  And back home, Matt might be missing Liv and the children, but when an old friend appears he finds himself distracted … What does she know about his family’s past that she’s not letting on?

  As tensions rise over seven days in summer, the lives of the holidaymakers begin to take an unexpected turn …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  Also by Marcia Willett

  Copyright

  SEVEN DAYS IN SUMMER

  MARCIA WILLETT

  To Tom Dunne

  CHAPTER ONE

  Friday

  SUMMER HOLIDAYS: ON the journey from Truro to the Beach Hut, the twins are either singing or talking.

  ‘Good grief, Charlie Brown,’ cries Baz, their grandfather, turning round from the front passenger seat to smile at them. ‘Do you two never stop?’

  ‘Good grief, Charlie Brown,’ they shout back at him in unison, and roar with laughter – and their mother, who is driving, laughs with them.

  Liv adores her father-in-law. He and Matt are so alike: both tall and elegant, though Baz is broader than his son, both comfortable in their skins, always ready for an impromptu party. The prospect of two weeks at Baz’s beach house on the South Devon coast near Kingsbridge fills Liv with delight. She feels slightly guilty at leaving Matt to cope with their bistro, The Place, tucked away in the shadow of the cathedral, but it’s barely two hours’ drive from Truro and Matt will be able to spend some time at the seaside with them.

  She glances in the driving mirror, stretching up to see her twins in their little chairs, butter-blond mops of hair, wide blue eyes, heads close together: Freddie and Flora. Her heart contracts with love and tenderness and fear: they are so precious to her.

  ‘It’s kind of weird,’ she says to Baz. ‘Mum showed me a photograph of Andy and me at that age and it’s uncanny how like us they are.’

  ‘Genetics,’ Baz says.

  ‘I know,’ she answers, as she turns on to the A38 at Liskeard and heads towards Saltash and the bridge that crosses the River Tamar. ‘I suppose it’s the twin thing that gets me. They’re really going to enjoy the Hut this year, Baz. Nearly five is just such a lovely age, isn’t it?’

  He laughs at her. ‘You think I can remember that far back? Do me a favour.’

  ‘I bet you loved the Beach Hut when you were four,’ she says.

  Baz stares ahead, frowning a little, as if casting his mind back more than sixty years.

  ‘My mother loved it,’ he says. ‘We spent whole holidays there while my old pa commuted from Bristol at the weekends.’

  ‘And you gave wonderful parties in the atrium,’ she prompts him.

  Baz chuckles reminiscently. ‘Oh, we did. I used to sit under the table when I was tiny and watch people’s feet. Very revealing, you know, foot-language.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. And your parties are still legendary. The neighbours will all be waiting for you to turn up. The word will have gone round that you’re on your way.’

  Baz sighs with satisfaction mixed with regret. ‘I don’t get down as often as I should. The road from Bristol seems to get longer and the traffic worse every time. This was a good plan of yours, Liv. For me to catch the train to Truro and for us all to go together.’

  ‘Totally selfish,’ answers Liv. ‘I need my seaside fix. I love Truro and The Place and everything, I love the buzz and the events we put on, but I still need to get up and go when the sun shines.’

  ‘But you’re a North Cornwall girl at heart,’ he teases. ‘Those towering black cliffs, and the Atlantic rollers, and “surf’s up” and all of that. You’re not really a South Devon, placid little sandy beaches and rock pools girl, are you?’

  ‘I do love all of that, but I’m a Beach Hut girl, too,’ she says. ‘I love it there on that secret sandy beach, and the twins love those little warm pools. It’s perfect.’ She slows the car slightly. ‘We’re nearly at the bridge. Look, twinnies. Look at the River Tamar and the boats.’

  They sit up straight, craning to peer upstream towards Bere Ferrers and then down-river to the shining water of the Hamoaze, where white and blue sails that look like tiny wings flitter to and fro.

  ‘You’ll be able to take them out in the boat this year,’ Liv says mischievously as they cross from Cornwall into Devon and begin the drive round Plymouth’s ring road and on to resume the A38. ‘Can’t wait to see that.’

  ‘Not both together,’ protests Baz at once. ‘Or, at least, not unaccompanied. It’s a very small boat.’

  ‘They’re very small people,’ says Liv. ‘And they can both swim now.’

  He laughs. ‘Spartan mother.’

  ‘It’s the way we were brought up,’ says Liv. ‘Dad used to quote that Swallows and Amazons thing. “Better drowned than duffers if not duffers won’t drown.”’

  ‘I’m not sure that would go down well in this politically correct age,’ murmurs Baz. ‘Your old dad is a law unto himself. How are he and Julia enjoying the US of A?’

  ‘They’re loving it, and loving seeing Zack and Caroline and the grandchildren. I think Dad’s got a new idea of chartering a yacht and sailing himself across next time.’

  Baz gives a snort of laughter. ‘Good old Pete! And what does Julia say to that?’

  ‘Mum would rather eat her own arm than get into any kind of boat with Dad. Not a water person at all, Mum. She just doesn’t get it. Not that Dad minds. He’d much rather go off with an oppo occasionally.’

  ‘It’s all those years in submarines,’ says Baz. ‘All that comradeship and runs ashore. Old habits die hard.’

  The twins begin to grizzle: they’re hot; they need a drink; they need it now.

  ‘OK,’ says Liv pacifically. ‘You’re doing well. Let’s stop and have a little something. And Jenks can have a walk.’

  A black and white collie cross retriever, curled down amongst the luggage, hauls himself upright and looks hopeful. The twins twist in their seats to talk to him, promising treats if he is good.

  Liv pulls off the A38 into smaller roads and then at last into narrow lanes. Immediately a sense of peace engulfs them. In the tall hedgerows sweet-scented honeysuckle loops and tangles amongst thorn and as
h, and slender foxgloves lean, heavy-headed, to brush the car’s sides. Liv backs into a field gateway. The crop has been harvested, the gate left open, and she climbs out, lifts up the tailgate and allows Jenks to jump out and run into the field of golden stubble. Baz opens the back doors and soon Flora and Freddie are racing around in the field whilst Liv makes coffee for Baz with hot water from a Thermos and hands him the mug.

  On journeys with the twins she’s always prepared for breaks, sudden snacks, and she prefers to be out in the open than in stuffy roadside cafés.

  ‘Look at Jenks,’ she says, taking a refreshing swallow from her bottle of water. ‘He’s loving it, isn’t he?’

  Jenks is running towards a small group of crows drilling for worms amongst the stubble; the twins are close behind him waving their arms and shouting. The crows swoop up with harsh discordant cries and a beating of black wings, and Jenks barks triumphantly as if he has scored a victory. Freddie tumbles and cries out. Flora pauses beside him, bending to look at him, he gets up and they both come running back.

  ‘My knee,’ shouts Freddie. ‘It’s bleeding, Mummy. The grass is all sharp.’

  He arrives beside her, panting for breath, stretching out his leg to show her his wounds, his eyes indignant, mouth turned ominously down.

  ‘This grass is too stiff,’ says Flora, rubbing her bare legs. ‘It hurts.’

  Liv is getting wet wipes and a small jar of cream from a bag and making sympathetic noises. She cleans the scratches and anoints them with cream.

  ‘There,’ she says. ‘All better now. Would you like a smoothie?’

  She smiles as Freddie hesitates, clearly wondering whether his injury has received the full sympathy and attention it deserves, but Flora is jumping up and down shouting ‘smoothies’, and he decides that this treat will be recompense enough. They go back into the field, drinking their smoothies and calling to Jenks. Liv watches them, relishing the beauty and the fragility of her children and this warm summer morning: so much happiness can be frightening.

  She perches on the tailgate, lifting her face to the sunshine, eyes closed. Her lips curve upwards at the prospect of the holiday ahead: two weeks at Baz’s Beach Hut set in its pretty secluded cove, with no school run, no dashes to the bistro, free of the usual routine. Of course it’s disappointing that poor Matt has to remain behind; awful for their bar manager, Joe, that he should snap his Achilles tendon diving into a swimming pool.

  ‘The timing is dire,’ Matt said, ‘but it would be crazy to cancel, with Dad here all ready to go. I’ll try to get something sorted out and meanwhile I can drive up to see you when I have some time off.’

  Despite her sense of guilt, the feeling that she’s made a dash for freedom, Liv allows herself to relax. The holidays have begun.

  Baz strolls along the hedgerow, drinking his coffee. A pheasant breaks cover, running stiff-legged in the ditch, and small brown butterflies flutter over the brambles where blackberries are ripening. Swallows dive and skim above his head, and beyond the far rim of the bleached field he can see the dazzling blue flash of water, a charcoal scrim of roof-scape at Outer Hope, and the stony black outcrop of Bolt Tail. He sighs with pleasure. These are the cliffs and beaches of his childhood: Bantham, Bigbury, Thurlestone. Staying at the Beach Hut, walking the cliff paths, sailing his dinghy round to Salcombe and up the estuary to Kingsbridge was a crucial part of every summer holiday. Though nothing would tempt him for very long from his elegant flat in Caledonia Place, or his art gallery in Clifton Village, he still loves his excursions to the Beach Hut. He’s always enjoyed inviting a friend to stay for the weekend, giving a little party for his local chums, sailing his small dinghy. And now he is able to share it with Matt and Liv and the twins so that the jaunt to the Beach Hut for a few weeks each summer has become an annual family event for them, too. It’s unfortunate that Matt will have to remain behind in Truro, though Baz has a slight suspicion that his son might welcome a little break from the exuberance of Flora and Freddie. Matt is probably looking forward to the quiet emptiness of the little town house when he gets home after busy, noisy evenings in The Place.

  Jenks runs towards Baz, drops a stone at his feet, and looks up hopefully at him and then down at the stone, willing Baz to throw it. The plumy tail waves with anticipation, his ears cocked; Jenks’ whole body is tense with excitement.

  ‘Daft animal,’ mutters Baz affectionately.

  He bends down to pick up the stone and spin it across the field. Jenks is after it, tail rotating, paws sending up the dry, dusty earth, and the twins laugh and cheer him on.

  Baz’s phone pings and he fishes it out of his jeans pocket and flips it open: a text message from his old friend Maurice.

  ‘Fancy one last canter for old times’ sake, mon vieux?’

  Baz stares thoughtfully at the message, snaps his phone shut, and wanders back to Liv, who has made herself a cup of camomile tea and is watching the twins. Jenks is back with the stone and Baz hurls it away again.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be missing your parents too much,’ he observes. ‘He’s a nice chap. Did you say he’s a rescue dog?’

  ‘Poor Jenks,’ says Liv. ‘He probably does miss them but he’s too much of a gent to show it. Yes. Mum got him from the Cinnamon Trust when his elderly owner died. He’d had him as a puppy. Apparently the old fellow was a Times reader and a great fan of Sir Simon Jenkins so he named the puppy after the Great Jenks. He’s such a gentle dog and he’s adapted so quickly to his new home. He and Mum bonded at once. Luckily he knows us pretty well so he’s coping with them being away. Thanks for letting him come to the Beach Hut, Baz. He won’t be a nuisance. He’s really the most obliging dog. He’ll love the swimming.’

  ‘The more the merrier,’ answers Baz – but he is just the least bit distracted. He finishes his coffee, thinking about Maurice’s message, the old excitement stirring. Would it be madness to have one last throw of the dice? He knows it would; of course it would. Yet this morning he is restless, aware of the passage of years, and just at this moment such recklessness is appealing.

  The twins arrive back with Jenks, and Liv prepares to get packed up and on their way.

  ‘Shall I drive?’ asks Baz. He suddenly feels the need to be active, in control, driving them down that familiar narrow lane and bringing them all to the Beach Hut.

  ‘If you like,’ says Liv, seeming to sense his mood. ‘I can get out and do the farm gates.’

  ‘Great,’ he says, easing himself into the driving seat, putting the seat back so as to accommodate his long legs. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go!’

  Liv fastens the twins into their seats, parts Jenks from his stone and shuts the tailgate. She climbs into the passenger seat and turns to smile at the twins.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks. ‘All set for the Beach Hut?’

  ‘The Beach Hut,’ they shout. ‘Hurrah!’

  And Jenks lets out one short bark as if he is joining in with the excitement.

  ‘Onward,’ says Baz, and turns out into the lane, heading towards the sea.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AS BAZ DRIVES them across the cliff-tops, through deep narrow lanes where the few hunched trees turn their backs to the sea, the high wide spaces of blue sky indicate that they are near the coast. The car swings off into a track and Liv gets out to open the first of the farm gates. Baz’s family used to own all this wind-scoured land but now only the Beach Hut, with its wild-flower meadow and the tiny secret cove, belongs to him.

  Liv climbs back into the car, they begin the descent to the beach, and the twins fall silent with expectation, craning to get their first glimpse of the pretty, faded blue, seaside house. Even in its earliest days the Beach Hut was no simple Victorian seaside structure. Baz’s great-grandfather had an eye to the housing of his large brood on their future visits to the farm and the Beach Hut was just the place for it. True, the solid stone dwelling was clad with painted clapboard, with a high pointed roof so that it looked the part, but a wing each side of this large cent
ral space made it possible to create bedrooms and a kitchen and, as the years passed and water and electricity became accessible, lavatories and shower-rooms. The ‘Beach Hut’ was the family name for it, a kind of affectionate joke, and visitors seeing it for the first time were taken aback.

  ‘Not quite what we imagined,’ they’d murmur, gazing around the atrium with its long French farmhouse table, comfortable sofas covered with striped ticking, and wood-burning stove. And Baz would enjoy their surprise, planning his first party of the holidays.

  ‘I suppose the faithful Meggie will have been busy,’ murmurs Liv as the car bumps gently down the track and the twins stare out at the grazing sheep.

  Baz beams at the prospect of his reception. ‘She texted me earlier. She’s been in this morning to open up and then gone home to do some cooking. We must keep up the annual tradition. Arrive on Friday. Party on Saturday. The invitations have gone out. She knows the form.’

  ‘You are so lucky to have Meggie,’ says Liv.

  But she knows that Meggie is lucky, too. Since her husband had an accident that makes it impossible for him to work, Meggie is glad to have the income that Baz puts her way: care-taking the Beach Hut, cooking and cleaning for his guests and for Baz when he can get down. Liv guesses that Baz is very generous to Meggie, and she smiles sideways at him. His ability to love, to share, is just one of the reasons that Liv is so fond of him: a quality Matt has inherited, which is why she fell in love with him. There is a humility to Baz’s giving, a true generosity of spirit that is never patronizing.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘But I approve of Meggie. She doesn’t whinge and whine. She grafts. Ever since poor old Phil fell off his ladder and crushed his leg and then had that ghastly C. diff she’s worked like a beaver to keep them going. And he’s a lovely bloke.’

  The twins begin to shout, and Jenks struggles up again to see what’s happening, and here they are at last. With its paint the colour of faded bluebells, the top half of the front door open to the sunshine, the Beach Hut has a kindly, welcoming appearance. The tide is on the turn, exposing small rock pools and shiny seaweed; the sand is washed clean and smooth.