As she passes, he takes his pipe from his mouth, nods and says hello. Normally she would smile in response and carry on, saving her breath. But something about the view from this vantage point, the glorious weather, the fact she is on holiday and need not rush, makes her pause. She slows down, returns his greeting and bends to tighten her laces, wipe the sweat from her face.
‘Lovely morning,’ she says.
‘Hmm,’ agrees the man, placing the stem of his pipe between his teeth again. ‘On holiday, are ye?’
‘Yes,’ she says with a half-smile. ‘We’re staying up on Cliff Road, not far away.’ She sighs, unable to think of anything more to say. ‘It really is beautiful round here.’
‘Aye,’ he says with a nod.
They seem to be only capable of stating the obvious to each other.
‘Are you local?’
‘I am that,’ he answers. ‘Grew up round here. As did my wife. Had our two nippers here an’ all. Boys. Worked on the boats like me. While there was work to be had.’
‘What a wonderful place to raise a family,’ says Lottie, blithely looking out to sea, imagining the childhood Josh might enjoy if they lived here; the coast on their doorstep all year round, after-school trips to the beach, the clean air, the sense of community. But then she hears the old man make a loud grunt.
‘Used to be,’ he says. ‘Not what it was. Hasn’t been for years.’
Lottie feels herself colour slightly. She knows he must be referring to the influx of holidaymakers like herself.
‘I can imagine you’ve seen a lot of changes,’ she tries diplomatically. ‘Does the tourism bring much wealth into the area?’
‘For some, maybe. It’s all very well during the season. This is a very different place, come the winter. When everyone disappears back to wherever they came from. And the other lot leave their second homes empty for months on end. Youngsters round here can’t get work, can’t buy a house, can’t afford to live no more.’
Lottie nods sympathetically, about to mention the renovation project next door before she remembers she is on very shaky ground. But at least they are only renting. They haven’t actually taken a property for themselves or deprived someone else, have they?
‘It must be very hard,’ she says.
‘You have no idea,’ the man replies, turning his bloodshot eyes away from hers with an air of finality.
She feels herself chastised and rightly so. It’s true, she doesn’t really understand. But she does care. She has worked in the charity sector for several years now. Has seen the effect of poverty, homelessness, addiction and depression. She considers telling him this but again, thinks better of it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, before she strikes out again, continuing her morning run. She feels her earlier euphoria has deflated somewhat. Her steps are heavier. And the more she runs, the angrier she feels when she imagines the round, wine-flushed face of Tobias, his pathetic excuse for a wife, Olivia, and their two spoilt brats who have no idea how privileged they are.
As she circles back into the town centre, Lottie slows her pace and ducks into a newsagent’s that is now open. It is a traditional minimart with a small selection of pre-packed goods and fresh produce. She resolves to buy something, anything, just to support this small business. She takes a pint of milk and a loafand pays at the till with her phone. The lady behind the counter smiles warmly at her and Lottie feels her heart swell a little.
‘Best part of the day,’ she says as she picks up her things.
‘’Tis,’ says the woman, who has a mass of black springy curls caught up in a clip at the nape of her neck. ‘Been out running, ’ave ye?’
‘Yes,’ says Lottie. ‘It’s gorgeous out there right now.’
‘Quiet too, I reckon. Before the hordes descend,’ she adds with a laugh.
Lottie hesitates, about to leave, but then decides to chat a little more to this woman who seems so friendly.
‘I did meet one old guy, actually,’ she says. ‘Looks like he lives locally. Retired fisherman, smokes a pipe. Up on the cliff.’
‘Old Ted,’ says the woman immediately with another laugh. ‘Part of the scenery round here. Don’t mind him. Probably walking off a skinful he had in The Sloop last night.’
Emboldened by this, Lottie leans closer.
‘Is it really that bad round here these days? Y’know, rich and poor. Tourists and locals? I don’t know whether I’m helping or not by coming on holiday here, to be honest.’
The woman looks her straight in the eye, but there is no resentment to be seen in her gaze, just honesty. And a little resignation.
‘It’s not that bad. It’s not always great either though. We’re all just trying to make ends meet. Make hay, so to speak. But it’s hard to keep businesses going. The old fishmonger’s is the latest to close down. I know, right? A town like this and we can’t support a wet fish shop anymore,’ she adds with a sad shake of her head. ‘I get by—papers, tobacco, ice creams, souvenirs. I do a few extras for folks round here at Christmas, Halloween and Easter. That sort of thing.’ She looks at the milk and bread in Lottie’s arms. ‘People like you do help though. The second-homers, not so much. Oh, they spend when they are here but the winters are long. And some of them leave their placesempty for months at a time. The housing situation – that’s the real problem. But don’t let it spoil your stay. You have a right to come and enjoy your holidays like everyone else.’
