‘I should add,’ Moira says, a hint of mischief in her voice, ‘that there are no hotels in Bonnie Bay, and the few holiday lets are always booked up. It’s either my cottage or a long walk back to Finnsburgh…’
I’m about to point out that we could get a cab, but Kate speaks before I have the chance.
‘Yes,’ she says, with no hesitation at all. ‘I’ll stay. Of course I will. As for Brody… well, that’s up to him, isn’t it?’
EIGHT
KATE
Moira’s place is tucked away a few minutes from the centre of the village, down past the harbour. Brody is silent as we walk, and surly when we call into the Kestrel to collect our suitcases. I have no idea what’s going on in his head, so I concentrate on what’s going on in mine.
I want this. I want to stay here a while, and not just to avoid sleeping in the train station. I have the time off work booked, so why not use it? It might not be what I imagined, but I can adapt. It’s two weeks, not a lifetime commitment, and I don’t have anything to rush back for.
Ironically, my old friend Lucy got back in touch while we were at Moira’s, returning my missed call and suggesting we meet for a catch-up. We haven’t seen each other in person for years, and I’m excited at the thought of going for a drink. It might only be one night with one pal, but thanks to that spur-of-the-moment phone call, I reached out and made it happen. This is the same – I need to make something happen. I’ve spent too long disappearing from my own life, backing off from my own needs, ignoring any dreams I used to have. Bonnie Bay will be my watershed moment, I decide. I will go home changed, and change is good.
My mood is high as we walk through the village, or possibly I’m on a sugar rush from the delicious apple cake that Joanne produced before we left. We follow Moira’s directions, and pass the village community centre – a ramshackle old building next to the boatsheds. I stop and look at the noticeboard outside it. It’s Friday night, and a poster tells me it’s Bonnie Bay Music Night.
That could be anything from karaoke to bagpipes, I suspect, or possibly an interesting mix of the two. I might even come. I love singing, and I’m not terrible at it – I’ve just always been too nervous to sing in public. A community choir meets in a church hall near my flat, and I often walk past on a Wednesday night and smile at the sound. It’s not perfect, but it’s joyous in the way that joined voices can be. Maybe this will be part of my change. I don’t have to carry on being boring Kate. I could become sparkling Kate, the kind of girl who bashes out Bonnie Tyler on the karaoke and does sexy dancing to the chorus of ‘Holding Out for a Hero’.
Well, maybe one thing at a time. Singing first, sexy dancing later.
There are other flyers on the noticeboard, for yoga, a snooker club, crafting sessions. It’s quite the hotbed of activity, Bonnie Bay.
‘Any of these float your boat?’ I ask Brody, who just shrugs in response. I guess he has a lot to think about, and from his muted response to the idea of staying, he might not be around for much longer anyway. I remind myself that I’ve only known him for a day. That most of that has been spent in silence. That I will be fine here all by myself.
Maybe realising he was being rude again, he adds: ‘I like birds.’
I suck him into a brief conversation about the birds we can see down on the beach, him pointing out oystercatchers on thesand, and the gannets nesting in the cliff sides. He comes to life a little, and it’s strangely sweet.
‘It’s all because of the damn puffins that I’m even here,’ he says heavily, retreating back into his shell. Intriguing. Who knew puffins had such power?
He lapses back into silence, and now we are here, at Moira’s cottage. Standing in front of a small stone building with a sloping slate roof, and a wooden door painted bright red. It’s on a steep path, part of a terrace that leads right up to the top of the village. We can see the sea from the doorstep, and the air is rich with salt and seaweed.
The little courtyard is filled with planters and troughs, and before long the whole place will be a riot of colour and teeming with insects. Now, in early summer, the world is just starting to come alive again. I love this time of year, from spring onwards. I love the way everything feels so optimistic, how even in London the cherry blossom blooms and the air feels lighter.
Brody stares at it, face closed. I see a fairy tale, he possibly sees a horror story. His eyes go to the drainpipe, which is wonky, and to the grid, which is blocked with leaves. I wouldn’t have noticed either thing, I’m so entranced by the cuteness of Moira’s home. He takes the keys, and curses as it takes him three attempts to get the door open. I’m sneakily pleased – it’s good to see he isn’t actually superhuman.
I follow him inside, shivering slightly. The place is cold, chilly in the way of old buildings that have been unoccupied for too long. Moira has been with her sister since her accident – and this house, where she lived with her husband, has been standing empty.
It’s gorgeous, though, I think, wrapping my arms around me and investigating. One big open-plan room with windows at either end, filling the place with light. A cosy living area with sofas around a fireplace, and a kitchen complete with a cast-ironrange. A big pine table takes centre stage, and I run my fingers across its scarred surface. It’s not coated in dust, so someone has obviously been giving the place a spruce-up every now and then.
An acoustic guitar leans up in one corner, and the bookshelves are crammed with paperbacks and maps, guidebooks and poetry compilations. Framed photos show Moira with a man I assume to be her late husband, Angus, as well as a young boy who grows to adulthood before my eyes – from gap-toothed youngster through to university graduation, and later a shot of him at the foot of Sydney Harbour Bridge, wearing a shirt branded with a company logo. That must be Robbie, the grandson. There’s also one of a little girl, which has that bright-but-faded look of shots taken in the eighties. Moira’s daughter perhaps?
There’s a collage of pictures taken in the bookshop, all in one big frame. I smile as I take in the scenes, seeing the place in its former glory. Packed, full of smiling faces, the fire blazing, books scattered on the tables. A shot of Moira herself behind the counter, waving a copy ofFifty Shades of Greywith a devilish grin on her face.
The walls of the cottage are adorned with other pictures, too – larger versions of the ones on our cards. Sweeping landscapes, the sea in all its seasons, dolphins and birds and hare. One of a perfectly poised stag, antlers silhouetted against the sunset in a field of wildflowers. Beautiful, all of them.
Brody is clanging about in a cupboard under the stairs, emerging with a look of triumph. ‘Found the heat,’ he says, pointing at a radiator. ‘Should warm up for you soon.’
‘Oh, great – but I wish we had a fire! Or something to eat…’
He stares at me for a moment, then deadpans: ‘I’ll get right on that. I’m sure I could wrestle one of those deer if I try hard enough.’
He’s joking, I think. I don’t really know him well enough to make that call. In fact, now I come to think of it, this is all decidedly odd. Only a few hours ago I was sitting opposite him on the train, thinking he was a bit of an arsehole. Now, I’m being forced to spend the night with him, sharing the space of a small cottage.
‘I suppose we’ll have to get some supplies tomorrow,’ I say, opening kitchen cupboards and seeing a few packets of pasta and some porridge oats. ‘Or I will at least. Are you… are you staying?’
I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to influence him either way. He gives nothing away, simply saying: ‘I’m not sure yet. You want me to take your case upstairs?’
