‘You’re lucky, growing up eating like this.’ She took another bite and Magnús mirrored her with his own mouthful.
The café was warm in spite of the wind rattling the door and the thin lace curtains at the windows failing to seal out the dark, gusty afternoon.
‘Christmas food doesn’t taste the same since Amma died,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘This is not as good as hers.’ Yet, Alex observed, he was still taking big bites and reaching for the knife to cut a second slice.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she told him. ‘Oh, go on, then.’ She accepted another piece too.
Something about seeing him relax and the quietness in the café made her give way a little.
‘My mum had her own café, actually. Well, it was more of a diner,’ she said, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate as she licked a finger to dab up the crumbs. A few tiny details about herself couldn’t hurt, surely? He’d been so kind and welcoming. ‘By the harbour, in a village a bit like this really, except it’s all on the flat.’
She shook her head dreamily at the memory and imagined herself walking in through the familiar white door and up to the counter where her mum would stoop and lift her into her arms for a hug. ‘It had a sort of sixties vibe going on, all red-and-white checked tablecloths and those tomato-shaped squeezy bottles. Remember them?’ Magnús didn’t. ‘She made the best milkshakes in the whole of… the village.’
She remembered to be guarded. She couldn’t have word getting out about where she was from or they’d all encourage her to go back there, but her caution wasn’t enough to stop her reminiscing. She loved talking about her mum whenever she could. ‘Hands down, her strawberry shake would beat anybody’s. I’d eat there every night after school. Same thing every day; milkshake, Mum’s cheddar, ham and tomato toasties, a side of chips, and a big square of chocolate crispy cake for pudding. And mum would be grabbing sips of cold coffee and being worked off her feet.’
Alex didn’t mention that her dad also worked late into the evenings all summer long from his spot on the quayside just across the square from the diner. He’d wave in the window at them both every time he got back from ferrying the tourists in search of evening meals and sunset strolls across the river.
‘I loved it there,’ she sighed. ‘Songs on the radio and all the old ladies chatting. Mum would let me write the specials on the chalk board. It’s funny, the little things you remember.’ She took a gulp of coffee. ‘I don’t like to go back now, though. Somebody else bought it.’ The words slipped out as the grief bloomed fresh in her chest. It was amazing how the sadness could hit her all these years later and still knock her breathless.
Magnús only nodded. ‘You don’t have her any more, your mother. I am sorry.’ None of it was enquiring. He didn’t want details, only to say he felt for her.
He topped up their coffees from the cafetière, then added more frothed milk.
After a moment, the horrible realisation hit her. ‘Oh no!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘My photographs!’ She turned to face Magnús. ‘They’re still on the boat. Only a few, stuck inside the cabin. I need to get them back.’
‘Jæja, yeah, OK.’ He seemed to inhale while the sounds came out, as though he didn’t want to waste time exhaling before agreeing with her. He was nodding, too. ‘I’ll come with you. In the morning. But it’s too dark now. Too dangerous,’ he told her, and his straightforward rationality stilled her again.
Of course it was too dangerous. She’d almost risen and made for the harbour there and then. Stupid really, typical of her new impulsive streak. ‘Thank you. I’d appreciate that.’
She thought of theDagalienon the pebbles, the swell tide now submerging her, most likely, the wind and waves forcing the poor craft farther up the beach, her varnish scratched off and the stones tumbling inside her prow. What would be left of her by morning? Everything felt so hopeless.
She felt the tears stinging her tired eyes and without saying anything, Magnús stood and reached for the shop keys in his pocket. ‘Sleepy?’ he asked.
Yes, let’s pretend I’m sleepy, she thought, before polishing off the last bite of cake and draining her cup.Sleepy is easier than cheated on, stranded, lost and alone, and feeling utterly sorry for yourself.
‘I will walk you home.’ His accent was as soothing as his actions.
She didn’t remark on how much she liked his voice. She guessed he heard that a lot. Yet, his voicewaswonderful to her ear, with its lilting upward inflections – which for all the world sounded kind of Canadian – and the ‘w’ sound that mixed with every ‘v’ as it left his full lips, along with the deep elfin softness that took her back to box-set evenings in Middle Earth. If she wasn’t mortally afraid of spilling all her secrets or bawling her eyes out in front of this man, she’d like to listen to him talking all night long.
Once out on the cobbled slope, they found the wind had changed direction and was now hurling itself at their backs as they turned Down-along. Magnús still hadn’t said a word since promising to walk her ‘home’.
Alex tried hard to pretend shewasbeing walked home. Nothing weird about that. Earlier, Jowan had shown her a low white bed, flouncy and floral, in a small upstairs room. She wished it really was hers.
How easy life would be if she could go on pretending she was a castaway with no baggage whatsoever. A fresh start, though impossible what with all the mess left behind – not to mention strewn all over Clove Lore’s beach – seemed blissfully easy in comparison to facing up to all her losses. She tried not to sigh for herself and the shambolic life she was running from.
It was far too windy to speak, and they had to hold tightly to the metal railings and gate posts that lined the wide path between the sloping rows of cottages that made up Down-along.
There was bracken, branches and sand strewn on the dark path beneath Alex’s boots and they made gravelly crunching sounds as she took careful sideways steps.
Just as they reached Jowan’s cottage door and Alex slipped the key in the lock, she felt a panic rise in her chest. She’d be all alone in there with her thoughts, and she didn’t like that idea at all.
Magnús, however, held out two packages, both of which he’d taken the time to place in white paper bags. ‘Your book, remember? And also, some cake for your bedtime snack. Read yourself to sleep. The storm will be gone in the morning if what they say is true.’
He was reading her mind, surely?
