Sandycove was exactly that, a small harbour beside a sandy cove. Beyond the beach was a rocky outcrop called the Forty Foot where people gathered to swim every day throughout the year. At this time of year and in this heat, it was thronged with families and day trippers, desperate to plunge into the cold sea. It was crystal clear and if you stood with your feet in the sea for long enough, shoals of tiny fish would emerge shimmering around your ankles. Studded in the soft, yielding sand were periwinkle shells and tiny yellow shells, which shone like jewels at the bottom of the sea.
Rosie used to come down here with Grace and the rest of their friends and spend the day on the rocks, away from where the out-of-villagers sat, a hidden place, between the back wall of the harbour, and that of the Forty Foot. It was here that the seals would bask on warm, sunny evenings, all Sandycove residents together. Beyond the harbour was the village, with every kind of shop and two pubs, several pharmacies and delis, along with craft shops and boutiques.
Rosie parked close to the beach, feeling quite excited at this new job she had, free of the hotel, dressed in different clothes. And the thought of Patrick was giving her an extra energy, as though something within her had been lit. Not that she was under any misapprehension that there was anything between them, apart from memories. It was more that she had somehow unearthed an old version of herself, a younger, more optimistic side to her, that had become hidden over the years.
The beach looked beautiful, perfect golden sand which was completely enclosed by two harbour walls, creating a small, safe beach with crystal-clear water in which the guests could swim.
Right. Grace had instructed her in setting up the gazebo and then the lighting of the barbecue. It made sense because you needed shelter if there was wind or rain. It was after 12p.m. and Teddy was bringing the guests down in the hotel’s minibus at 1p.m., along with Grace and all the food.
The gazebo should be simple enough; she’d seen Grace twist the poles and throw the whole thing up in minutes before. However, it transpired it wasn’t as easy as it had looked. The poles were either too big or too small and her hands felt clumsy in the heat, the sun beginning to roast the top of her head. Kneeling on the edge of the beach, beside the wall, she tried every pole in the bag, turning them upside down and trying the other way. She considered perhaps hanging the canvas of the gazebo from the tree and the telegraph pole and creating a kind of shelter. Or perhaps, she should start the barbecue and then focus on the gazebo? It wasn’t windy, in fact there was a strange feeling in the air, as though the oxygen had been sucked out of it. She felt almost light-headed as she stood up, her face felt hot, her skin clammy as a single black cloud made its way across the sky.
The barbecue was large and heavy, but somehow she managed to drag it out of the back of the Land Rover, placing it on the path beside the wall.
‘Howya, Rosie!’ It was Martin Moore, the local handyman and electrician, not in his usual navy overalls, but a pair of tanned, muscular legs sticking out of a pair of loose cargo shorts, a rolled towel under his arm, sandals on his feet. ‘Need any help?’ He paused beside her, eyeing her equipment. ‘Is this for the wedding party?’
She nodded. ‘We’re having a beach barbecue. Would you mind giving me a hand with getting this on to this…?’ She motioned the action, lifting the barbecue onto the wall.
‘Course I can… and do you need me to light it for you?’
‘Oh no…’ She smiled confidently back at him. ‘It’s easy to light a barbecue, isn’t it? Coals and…’ She tried to think what you lit barbecues with. ‘Firelighters and all that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘You go and have your swim and, honestly, by the time you come back, I’ll have the sausages sizzling.’
Another black cloud hung in the sky as she shunted the sack of coals onto her shoulder and poured them into the barrel of the barbecue. Matches? She searched through Grace’s kitbag… lighter fuel, fire extinguisher, fire blanket, extra hickory chips but no matches. For a moment, she considered rubbing two sticks together to create fire, in the manner of ancient humans. Instead, she hunted for the matches, checking the glove compartment, under the seats, and just as she was about to run into the village to buy some, she found the matches which had been in the kitbag all along but had been cunningly disguised in a silver box with a rough side for striking.
The first match blew out immediately. The second stayed lit, as she brought it close to the coals, expecting it to flambé wildly like a crêpe Suzette in a Paris restaurant, she turned her face away to save her eyebrows, but nothing happened, the match burned steadily until she was holding a charred twig. She tried again, and again. Still nothing.
Eyebrows unsinged and barbecue unlit, she dug out the lighter fluid and dowsed the coals. This time, she lobbed a burning match at the coals and she heard a pop in the air as suddenly a fireball screamed into the sky.
‘Jesus CHRIST!’ someone shouted. Everyone on the beach and on the road had all turned to her, horror and terror etched on their faces.
Rosie put on her hotel face. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said, wishing she had asked Martin to help. Why was she like this? Why did she find it nearly impossible to admit she was out of her depth? ‘It’s all under control!’ she shouted. It wasn’t. She wasn’t clammy any longer, cold from the inside out, and hot from the outside in. The flames had died down a little, as they licked their way over the coals, burning any traces of lighter fluid.
It was after 1p.m. now and soon the coals would be burning and all she had to do was put on the rack and then erect the gazebo and put out the cushions.
Except the flames were now dying out to nothing. No glow, no embers. A bit more lighter fluid, she thought, that would get it going again.
She picked up the bottle of lighter fluid and untwisted the cap and brought it an inch closer to the dead, cold fire, when WHHHOOOOOOSHHHHHHH! An even bigger fireball shot into the sky, turning Sandycove into Cape Canaveral.
There were screams from picnickers and swimmers, people standing in horror at this woman who had a death wish or was plotting the destruction of the whole village. Rosie had actually stopped breathing and was existing on mere residual oxygen reserves. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Cliff Top minibus tootling along the road, her father behind the wheel. She tried not to scream. Out of the other eye, she could see Martin, his hair wet, rolled towel now damp, running towards her. He took over, poking the coals as the lighter fluid burned away, and then added some pieces of hickory, which somehow began to glow orange like an actual barbecue.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Not really.’ She sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell burning?’
‘It might be your eyebrows,’ he said, beginning to smile. ‘And your face is black.’ He pointed to his chin. ‘Here. And here.’
Rosie grabbed the hem of her shirt and wiped her face. ‘Not very professional,’ she muttered. ‘Or impressive.’
‘Look, it’s fine,’ said Martin urgently, sensing her panic. ‘Barbecues are terrible fellas. Lighter fluid shouldn’t be anywhere near the things. It’s catching now. It will all be fine.’
The guests were now alighting from the minibus, every single eye still on her. Oh God. And there was Patrick, looking over. She pretended not to notice anything other than the barbecue. She made herself smile as though everything was under complete control.
‘The gazebo,’ she said suddenly. ‘I was meant to put up the gazebo. It’s meant to be a boutique wedding and it’s turned into a scene fromCarry On Camping.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Martin picked up a pole and quickly began screwing pieces together. ‘Look, you have to twist and pull to tighten them.’ Somehow he made a frame and then flung the canopy, tying it to the poles in minutes.
