Seven Days in Summer Page 2

  Liv climbs out of the car and hastens to release the twins and Jenks, to let them run free.

  ‘No paddling,’ she shouts. ‘Wait till we’ve got the car unpacked. Look, your spades are here and your buckets.’

  They run back to her to collect the brightly coloured plastic buckets and spades.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye,’ Baz says, opening the bottom half of the door and then heaving Liv’s cases inside. ‘Get yourself organized. We’ll have a “Find the Best Shell” competition and then you can watch them while I make us some lunch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I’d like to just get a bit organized,’ but she hesitates for a moment, looking around her. Remembering her childhood spent on Bodmin Moor, and the wild grandeur of the North Cornish coast, she finds this south-facing cove almost domestic by comparison; sheltered from the westerlies by a protective rocky arm, backed by cliffs and farmland, flanked by a small meadow richly painted with wild flowers.

  Liv smiles with pleasure – and suddenly is pierced with a pang of longing for Matt. He should be here, too, striding down the beach, shouting to the twins, laughing at Jenks’ antics as he bounds in and out of the withdrawing tide.

  ‘You aren’t going to believe this,’ Matt told her yesterday morning, phoning her from The Place, ‘but Joe’s snapped his Achilles tendon diving into the swimming pool. He’s in A and E.’

  She stood in the twins’ bedroom, clothes, toys and books piled on Flora’s bed, with their little cases and rucksacks ready to be packed, holding her phone and listening in dismay.

  ‘Oh God. Poor Joe. Will he be OK?’

  ‘Yes, but not mobile for a few days.’

  ‘But what does that mean?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I mean, shan’t we be able to go to the Beach Hut tomorrow?’

  Matt was silent for a moment.

  ‘You can’t disappoint Dad and the twins at this late date,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have to stay and sort something out and then join you in a few days’ time.’

  Liv still feels guilty when she thinks of how relieved she was that the holiday wasn’t to be cancelled. But a bar manager is not easy to replace and Liv isn’t too sanguine. Matt loves the Beach Hut – he loves to swim and sail Baz’s dinghy – however, she is not so naïve as to suspect that he won’t enjoy a brief separation from his little family. Perhaps, she tells herself, Matt will be refreshed by the break even if he will be kept busy at The Place. Though she still wishes that he could be with them this reflection makes her feel less guilty at her willing defection. She goes inside, picks up one of the bags, pauses to glance around her approvingly at the familiar atrium with fresh-picked wild flowers in a jug on the long polished table, and then goes upstairs to the twins’ bedroom.

  Baz strolls along the littoral on the soft shingly sand. The twins crouch over treasures left by the tide amongst the long brown tresses of rock weed: shells and pebbles, a starfish, a faded old beach shoe. The starfish is put tenderly into Freddie’s bucket and carried to a rock pool where the twins argue about exactly where it should be placed to its best advantage.

  Baz pauses, hands in his jeans pockets, listening to their voices mingling with the gulls’ cries and the endless sigh and suck of the retreating sea. Memory plays a little trick, the scene dislimns and re-forms, and it is Matt he is watching: a small Matt who is preoccupied by the mysterious life in the warm pool. His young mother, Lucy, stands smiling down at him, her hands placed with unconsciously protective tenderness across her swelling belly.

  Grief strikes Baz, sharp as a blade in the heart; remembrance of the grief and rage and the familiar sense of impotence that was only partly ameliorated by that crazy canter with Maurice. Locked into the pain of losing Lucy and the baby, leaving small Matt motherless, the gamble was a furious gesture of revenge, though against what or whom he was taking revenge would have been difficult to answer. Fate, perhaps?

  How long ago it was and yet the pain of loss is fresh; his sense of guilt, that he should have done more for Lucy, still keen.

  ‘It will pass,’ people told him, usually people who had never experienced anything so tragic. His friends were shocked. It coloured the relationship they shared with him so that he grew to dread their quickly adopted doleful expressions of sympathetic gloom, their hushed voices. Nothing was normal any more. It was as if he were a skeleton at their feasts and they could not quite enjoy themselves so much if he were present. Their watchful restraint indicated that their laughter and jokes seemed disrespectful to his grief so that he in turn felt guilty if he found joy or amusement in any situation. He began to avoid them and was glad to move to Bristol to begin a new life.

  Jenks bounds up, lays a stone at his feet and bows down on his front paws, his stern high in the air, his tail waving hopefully. Baz takes a deep breath, the pain recedes slightly, and he bends to pick up the stone. He flings it far down the beach with a violently dismissive action as if he is tossing away far more than the stone – but he smiles involuntarily at the sight of Jenks, the sand spurting beneath his paws, as he races after it.

  The twins call to him in high reedy voices carried on puffs of salty wind. They are digging in the cold wet sand, their spades slicing and turning, patting and shaping.

  ‘It’s a castle,’ they tell him, their small faces bright with excitement and exertion. ‘We need shells to decorate it, Baz. Lots and lots of shells.’

  ‘Well, don’t look at me,’ he says firmly. ‘I’m too ancient to go crawling round the beach looking for shells. Think of my poor old knees.’

  ‘But we need them, Baz,’ they cry. ‘Please, Baz,’ and they thrust a plastic bucket into his hand.

  ‘Tyrants,’ he says, taking the bucket, turning to his task but looking hopefully towards the Beach Hut for Liv.

  Jenks returns with his stone, triumphantly retrieved, and Baz groans and throws it again far towards the retreating tide. He walks slowly, head bent, looking for shells, pieces of sea-smoothed glass, pretty pebbles, which will win the twins’ approval. His pain has dissolved; his natural cheerful optimism restored. So engrossed is he in his task that he doesn’t see Liv emerge and wave.

  ‘Time for lunch,’ she calls.

  Baz straightens up with relief and takes the bucketful of shells to the twins.

  ‘Mummy’s calling,’ he says. ‘We’ll finish this afterwards. Come on. Lunchtime.’

  The twins complain and prevaricate but they are hungry and suddenly they abandon their spades and the sandcastle and run up the beach, shouting to each other and to Liv. Jenks reappears with his stone and they head back to the Beach Hut together.

  The table is set with pretty earthenware bowls of salad leaves, tiny red and yellow tomatoes, and a quiche.

  ‘This looks good, doesn’t it, twins?’ says Baz. ‘Thanks, Liv. I was going to do lunch.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a picnic, really,’ says Liv. ‘And I could see that you were enjoying yourself throwing stones for Jenks and collecting shells.’

  She grins at him mischievously as he helps Flora to scramble on to a chair, pushing it in close to the table, and he smiles back at her.

  ‘Just for that I shan’t take you out in the dinghy after lunch,’ he says, sitting down.

  The twins immediately set up a clamour: they want to go in the dinghy.

  ‘We shall all go in the dinghy,’ Liv says firmly, putting slices of quiche and some salad on to their plates, ‘but only if you promise to sit very still and do exactly as Baz tells you.’

  ‘No jumping about,’ he says sternly. ‘No leaning out over the side.’

  Freddie and Flora look at Baz and Liv knows that they are deciding whether or not to promise to behave. She can see that they are silently communing with each other as they eat, just as she and her own twin, Andy, used to do. How odd is that secret, inexplicable connection; how mysterious and important. She can tell the exact moment that they silently agree that to go sailing with Baz is worth being on their best behaviour – and they beam at him angelically with open, in
nocent faces.

  He looks back at them suspiciously and Liv chuckles.

  ‘They’ll be good,’ she promises, ‘and we’ll take some photographs to show Daddy.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Baz, unconvinced by this unexpected show of docility.

  ‘Do you think Jenks will like sailing?’ asks Freddie.

  ‘No way,’ Baz answers at once. ‘There is no way Jenks is coming in the dinghy. He is not a sea dog and anyway he might be sick.’

  The twins, who are on the point of vociferous protest, pause to look anxiously at Jenks lying outside the open door.

  ‘Would he be sick?’ asks Flora.

  ‘Yes,’ says Baz quickly, staring challengingly at Liv, daring her to contradict him. ‘Dogs like Jenks are always sick at sea. He’s a collie, he herds sheep and stuff like that. He’s a land dog.’

  The twins look for confirmation at Liv and she nods.

  ‘Poor Jenks is too old to learn to be a sea dog,’ she tells them. ‘And he’s worn out with all his exercise this morning. He can have a good sleep and then we’ll take him for a walk on the cliff after tea. Now if you’ve both eaten enough go upstairs and unpack your rucksacks while I clear up here and then we’ll get ready to go sailing.’

  The twins climb down but first they go out to Jenks and crouch beside him, stroking him and murmuring to him. He raises his head and thumps his tail upon the floor and stretches out again in the sunshine. Liv watches them: how cute they are in their pretty seaside clothes. Her heart brims with love. They come back inside and climb the stairs and she turns to the table and sees that Baz is watching her with an odd expression in his eyes.

  ‘Men love their women, women love their children, children love their animals,’ he says.

  She stares at him and for some reason she thinks almost guiltily about Matt. It is true that since the twins’ births she and Matt haven’t had quite so much quality time together. There is always so much to do, juggling The Place and the twins. Sometimes – more often than she likes to admit – Matt sleeps in the spare room when he gets back late from the bistro so as not to disturb her, and those precious intimate moments, pre-twins, have become far fewer. Perhaps, because she loves the twins so much and is so preoccupied with them, this worries her less than it should. But how does Matt feel about it? It’s just such bad luck that he isn’t here with them now to have some downtime. She’ll send him a text to say they’ve arrived and they’re missing him.

  Liv smiles quickly at Baz and goes to find her mobile phone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MATT IS SITTING in his small office, crouching in front of the accounts, when Liv’s text pings in. He pushes the papers aside and leans his elbows on the desk to read it.

  ‘Safely here. About to go sailing! Help! We miss you. How are you doing? xxxx’

  He smiles wryly. There are several subtexts here. The main message is simply to tell him of their safe arrival; another is sharing a joke about being in that small dinghy with the twins; the third is more complicated. He knows that Liv feels guilty about leaving him to manage without the capable Joe but he suspects, too, that absence is making the heart grow fonder, though he hadn’t expected it quite so quickly.

  Matt turns, swivelling away from the computer, staring at nothing in particular. The last few years have been busy, stressful and demanding. There have been times of great fun, of joy and laughter – they both love their twins to bits – but those old days of easy companionship, spontaneous sex, carefree intimacy are past. He and Liv were free spirits until their late thirties and this new kind of responsibility – the full-on, relentless task of parenting – has changed the dynamic of their relationship. It’s a little easier now that Freddie and Flora spend more time at nursery, but it doesn’t help during those evenings when special events – local author talks and book signings, poetry readings, quizzes, live music – on which The Place has built its reputation, require Liv’s front-of-house presence. She is quite brilliant on these occasions: hosting, chairing, simply being there talking to the punters, making them laugh.

  Matt folds his arms across his chest and stretches out his long legs. He and Liv built The Place together, moving it beyond being a bistro to a special venue for events, for parties, receptions. The first floor, The Place Upstairs, is always fully booked for all kinds of functions and has an individual charm: a mix of clean minimalist modern artworks alongside bookcases full of much-read books, straw-pale cane chairs amongst dark-brown rubbed-leather sofas. Somehow it works. Liv’s instinct is invariably spot-on and Matt has a great respect for it.

  It is difficult now to manage these events together if a baby-sitter cannot be found, and they both miss that sharing, the excitement and relief when all goes well, and the return home full of content to fall into bed together – not always to make love, they are often too tired, but to lie closely entwined, still high on the success of their hard work.

  Now, more often than not, these evenings have to be hosted by one of them whilst the other one stays with the twins. Now, thinks Matt resentfully, the subject with which Liv greets him on her return from The Place is no longer to do with the excitement of the event but much more prosaic: ‘Did you put the washing machine on? Did you remember to put the rubbish out?’

  Sometimes, when he hosts the event, he will find Liv in bed and already asleep when he gets home and then he goes into the spare room so as not to disturb her. But he misses those nights of intimacy, of shared physical release after the excitement of a successful evening, and it worries him that Liv seems not to mind as much as he does.

  ‘I’m so tired,’ she says – and so is he – and he knows that he is often grumpy and impatient, and they both understand why. He knows, too, that just lately Liv has been indicating that she’s ready for a change. He first met her when she’d been helping a university friend and his wife to establish a holiday home complex, Penharrow, over on the North Cornish coast at Port Isaac. One of Liv’s great strengths is an ability to envisage a project and then to make it work. She has such energy, such commitment, such vision – and a business head to go with these gifts. Yet once everything is up and running, she begins to lose interest and to look for pastures new. Hearing of her reputation, Matt found her at Penharrow at just this point, when she was ready for a new project, and took her down to Truro to see The Place; to discuss its possibilities. She saw the potential, accepted the challenge, moved into the little flat at the top of the building and started on the new venture.

  He fell in love with her very quickly. She was so original in her humour, her directness, and her absolute need to get up and go when the sun was shining and the soft west wind was sweeping across the peninsula. Yet she had a strong work ethic; she was reliable. He learned to adapt to those odd dashes for freedom, to respect the way she lived and worked, and could hardly believe his luck when she told him she loved him. Within eighteen months the business was becoming a great success, they married and two years later the twins arrived.

  But now Liv is becoming restless. She’s been very happy living in Truro but Matt knows that Liv is a country girl. She grew up on Bodmin Moor, not far from Tintagel, and she misses the moors, the beaches, the surfing – and she would like to try running a glamping site.

  Matt sighs. He can’t quite bring himself to contemplate this change and he is beginning to dread the subject of yurts and conversations that start: ‘I’ve seen a nice little camping site up for sale …’ It’s becoming increasingly difficult to prevaricate and it is slightly worrying that, whilst he is cross that he can’t be with his family at the Beach Hut, he’s actually looking forward to a rest from the ongoing round of marriage and fatherhood. Being a bachelor again for a week or so has its attractions.

  Matt uncrosses his arms and taps out a text.

  ‘Tell Dad not to drown you all. x’

  He can imagine them: out sailing, walking on the cliffs, planning the party Baz always gives when he arrives each summer. Meanwhile Matt has work to do. He puts his phone in h
is pocket and goes out into the bar. They don’t take lunchtime bookings but it’s already busy, the bar staff hurrying around, the room bright and noisy: the gleam of light on the bottles behind the bar, the hiss of the coffee machine, the clash of ice cubes being ladled into a glass. As he pauses to check with one of the girls that all is well he hears someone speak his name.

  ‘Hi, Matt.’

  She stands at his elbow: thin as a pin, chic in black linen. How oddly attractive that close-set slant-eyed look is, he thinks, and he feels a conflicting sensation of pleasure and apprehension.

  ‘Catriona,’ he answers lightly. ‘Down for a holiday?’

  She smiles. ‘I’m at the cottage at Rock, yes. I hear that Liv’s taken the twins and gone off with your old dad and you’ve been left here to mind the shop.’

  It’s typical that she invests the facts with less than flattering implications.

  ‘Something like that,’ he agrees, refusing to take the bait and explain the truth of the matter. ‘I hope someone is looking after you. Are you having lunch?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ she says at once, completely wrong-footing him. ‘Lovely. Shall we sit in the corner?’

  Matt begins to laugh; he can’t help himself. And after all, why not? He knows that Liv would be furious – ‘Cat is bad news,’ she always says after one of these impromptu visits, ‘she’s a troublemaker’ – but Liv isn’t here and suddenly he decides to go with the flow.

  ‘I don’t usually have time for lunch,’ he begins.

  ‘But today you’ll make an exception,’ she finishes, black eyes glinting. ‘Let me buy you a drink.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, no. I have to work. What about you?’

  ‘I’m driving,’ she says. ‘Tiresome, isn’t it? I’ll come one evening and find somewhere to stay the night. Then we can relax.’