Even though he’d been in the kitchens since seven, his working day only really came to life when Tom dragged the boxes over the harbour side and showed him the catch, all glinting scales, shining eyes – sea-fresh and so simple. Those, he knew how to handle.
His mum’s recipes, memorised years ago, always made the lunch and dinner shifts pass quicker: lobster with thermidor butter, salt-baked seabass on beds of fresh samphire, whole mackerel stuffed with lemon and herb breadcrumbs. Monty loved preparing those dishes, transporting himself from the airless heat of the pub’s chrome ovens to the cosy familiarity of their cottage kitchen when his mum still lived there, the door thrown open to let in the breeze.
Only, the illusory contentedness didn’t last. An indoor, overheated life was harder to adapt to than he’d anticipated, and when the orders for deep-fried frozen scampi and chips flooded in, his love of food was deadened again. He had his own kind of restlessness to deal with now.
‘How do?’ Tom shouted as he moored up alongside the harbour steps, cutting the engine.
‘Home again?’ Monty shouted back, like he always did, catching the rope his brother threw.
He tied the familiar knot and listened to Tom telling him where the best fishing had been that morning, all the while wondering what the answer was to this puzzle of feeling thwarted and landlocked.
Monty was pulled from his thoughts by the wolf whistle.
Tom, always the cheekier and bolder of the twins, was greeting his girlfriend as she approached along the harbour wall with two takeaway coffees in her hands.
‘Sorry, Monty. I didn’t think to get you one,’ Lou told him, smiling in apology as she reached the mooring.
‘No bother. I’ve plenty coffee at the Siren,’ he replied. ‘You two taking a walk? Nice day for it.’
He pictured himself at his spot by the sink, working his knife, and immediately felt churlish for being jealous of their plans.
‘I’ll sluice theBountydown later, OK?’ Tom said, striding up the stone steps and greeting Lou with a kiss. ‘Bit slimy, sorry,’ he told her, before stripping off his waterproof gaiters and waders and throwing them back down into the boat.
Standing there, smiling in jeans and a T-shirt, he was Monty’s double. Only, anyone looking would be able to tell his heart was light like feathers while Monty’s weighed him down like setting concrete.
The fishmonger’s van crawled along the sea wall towards them now too, just as it did every day. Half Tom’s catch went to the Siren; the rest was whisked away to cafés and restaurants inland.
‘You two get going,’ Monty told them. ‘I’ll get the crates in.’
‘Cheers, Monty,’ said Tom, pulling on trainers, his cheeks a ruddy pink in spite of the gentle breeze coming in off the water.
Monty saluted Tom and Lou with a pointed finger to his brow and watched as they walked off along the sea wall.
Those two were getting pretty cosy; in fact, Lou had practically moved in. Old Mrs Crocombe Up-along at the Ice Cream Cottage would be pleased. She’d had Tom in her matchmaking notebook for years with umpteen names crossed out beside his, all girls who’d come to the village for summer jobs or holidays. All, it turned out, just flings.
Monty, on the other hand? The space beside his name was blank. There’d been dates, of course. Weekend-long romances over the years when hen dos and wedding parties came in from across the country, plenty of them, but they always left and Monty was never too sad to see them go.
For a while there, at Christmas, he’d thought Coral, the police officer he’d kept company after the flood, might be sticking around for a while. But as soon as the cordon into the village was lifted, she’d gone back to the station and hadn’t replied to his voicemail asking her back to the Siren’s Tail for supper when she was next off duty.
That one had stung a bit, if he was honest. More so in light of his brother’s newfound happiness. It was definitely harder to be alone in the world when there was a walking, talking reminder of how things could look for him, if only he could find someone willing to stick around. It was made all the worse when he’d walked in on his mirror image making out with Lou in their mum and dad’s cottage up at the top of the slope. Then, after discovering them sharing a cosy bath –whycouldn’t Tom lock doors? – Monty had snapped and he’d asked Finan if he could have a back room at the pub.
He’d moved his stuff in last Valentine’s Day, leaving his brother the freedom of their cottage to do whatever he wanted without fear of Monty stumbling in. Everyone was happy with the arrangement. Even if Monty had this strange new feeling in his chest; a heavy sort of ache he couldn’t put a name to.
The retreating Tom and Lou were reaching the turning down onto the beach as Monty woke from his thoughts to shake the fishmonger’s hand and pass comments on the weather.
He made his way down the steps and aboard the gently rockingBounty. The second his feet touched the planks and the gentle roll of the waves travelled up his body he was comforted.
Three big iced crates waited for them and the sight and scent of the glistening catch settled him all the more. This was the absolute root of him, his earliest memories and his DNA. He hefted the first box into his arms with ease and stepped off theBounty. He helped load the van, keeping his own crate on the harbour side, then waved the fishmonger off after they’d toted up the boat’s pay for the day.
This wasn’t so bad, really. Not if he could keep this new brooding side of him under control. He had a home at the Siren, didn’t he? A place of his own. And at almost forty that was definitely only right and proper. He couldn’t live with Tom in his pocket forever. And he had a secure job too. Far safer than fishing. And Tom kept the boat going, doing what he was programmed to do from his infancy. Yep, this was the most satisfactory outcome for everyone, and he’d just have to make the best of this new normal.
Carrying the haul to the Siren, he let himself enjoy the prospect of preparing all of this beautiful seafood. He already had the recipes in mind and he had everything he needed in his well-stocked pantry – parsley, butter, oil, chilli and ginger, and there were the breadcrumbs he’d prepped first thing too. It really wasn’t all that bad, working at the pub and being alone. Not if he didn’t think about it too hard.
Chapter Three
Radia had only just successfully planted her beach-toy windmill in the soil of the otherwise bare window box when her mum whipped into the little bedroom on the ground floor of the Borrow-A-Bookshop.
‘Careful, Rads. You’ll fall.’
