My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!

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J. B. Priestley

As well as her cottage falling apart, the hot water system left a lot to be desired. She’d gone inside to freshen up for the day, but had been seared, then iced, by a relic of an electric shower that was positioned above an avocado-green bath (more shitty green, she’d thought). The whole experience was like something out of a torture movie. She’d had to spring in and out of the piddling stream of water trying to time it right, and washing her hair had been a joke – half the suds were left in as she gave up and clambered out. At least there wasn’t much hair to bother with at the moment: the curls only just growing back, giving her a pixie crop that her sister, Sally, said suited her – a gamine Audrey Hepburn look, apparently. Claire thought she was just trying to be nice.

As she towelled herself dry, she carefully dabbed the ridged scar that ran across her left breast. It didn’t hurt much any more; just the odd weird pain now and again. But she didn’t like to look at it. She was still trying to get used to the change in her body.

She moved to the bedroom. It was slightly better than the bathroom in decor: a pine double bed with blue-and-white patchwork bedding, a cream throw (granny’s crocheted best), and a white-painted dressing table with mirror – an attempt at jaded seaside chic (or plain jaded), which roughly worked. The best part of the room was its French doors, which opened out onto the balcony overlooking the expanse of silver-gold sands and the little stream which wound down beside the two cottages and out to the shoreline.

Claire sat in her underwear on the dressing-table stool in front of the pine mirror. She had always been petite at five foot three, but was rather skinnier than she’d like to be after her illness. She smoothed on some moisturizer, brushed on mascara above her deep-brown eyes – it was great to have eyelashes again – and applied a slick of pale-pink gloss. She’d never been interested in wearing a lot of make-up, and today she wanted to feel the fresh air and sun on her skin. Then she dressed casually in a pale-pink T-shirt and denim shorts.

The first day of her holiday awaited her. She didn’t have to go to work, she didn’t have to get to hospital appointments. The world and this crazy run-down cottage were her oyster. She was determined to make the best of this escape time. What was she going to do with it? She decided to go for a walk along the beach to find the village of Bamburgh. It shouldn’t be that far.

She headed left onto the sands from her beachside garden, a scrubby patch of grass with a battered wooden table and four chairs. As she strolled, she remembered childhood holidays spent in the area with her parents and older sister years ago. It was why she’d chosen this place – happy memories: salt and sand and shivers, warm-towelled hugs and eating yummy-drippy 99 Flake ice-cream cones from the Mr Whippy van that parked in the car park just above the dunes.

She began to feel that familiar tug in her chest. Her lovely dad wasn’t here any more. He had died five years ago, bless him, a heart attack snatching him from his family at only sixty-two. She missed him so much, even now. How life changed. Her own illness had shaken up her life in ways she could never have imagined. She was close to her sister and mum; they’d been so supportive through her treatment. In fact, both had offered to come and stay during her break to keep her company, but she’d just wanted to be on her own, have a bit of time out, so she’d politely but firmly refused their well-intentioned offers.

She slipped off her deck shoes as the sand started creeping in around her ankles, and enjoyed the feel of warm, soft grains beneath her bare feet. The sun was climbing in the sky, sending glints of gold off the lapping waves. Dog walkers passed her, their charges dashing about with glee, tumbling with tennis balls, bounding into the sea, coming out matted and shaggy then shaking arcs of glittering water around them. She’d have liked a dog. They’d had Millie, an affectionate Labrador, when she was a child at home. She’d been part of the family. But Paul, her ex, had never been keen on having a pet, preferring a tidy house and order. Damn it – what was he doing creeping into her thoughts? Push those thoughts aside right now, she told herself. Bury all the hurt he caused in a great big hole in the sand.

Today was about her. And her life from now on. Onwards and upwards. She was going to have a look in the village, get some nice local provisions, then head back, make a salad or something for lunch, chop some veggies for soup, and later she intended to sit and chill in a chair in the garden in the sunshine, reading her latest book and generally pleasing herself. She hoped the family next door wouldn’t appear noisily at that point. Oh well, she chided herself, she wouldn’t be an old misery of a neighbour. Kids would be kids, and they were on a beach, after all – let them play. Oh yes, that was another thing Paul wasn’t keen on: having children. It had never been ‘the right time’, or maybe, she mused wryly, she was just never the right person. The bastard.

The day stretched before her much as the beach did far ahead. She’d been wandering for a while. Exactly how far from her cottage was the village? She knew the towering castle set on the dunes marked the village area, but now she’d turned into the next crescent-shaped bay she still couldn’t see it. It must be bloody miles away.

But she was here to relax, so strolling along the beach on a mild June morning was fine. She was in no hurry. To slip routine, work, the wearing rituals of chemotherapy, radiotherapy – was bliss. She’d made it through – she was a survivor. And she knew full well there were those who hadn’t; she felt a tight knot in her throat just thinking about them, those lovely ladies she’d sat next to for their hour-long chemical shots in the bank of chemo chairs as if they were at some kind of weird hairdressers where they stole your hair instead of tended it. She didn’t want to waste another day, though she didn’t know yet what it was she really wanted. A rest and a bit of time out had been the only things she’d realized she’d needed for now.

One day at a time, Claire. Feel the sun on your skin. Daylight, fresh air. The warmth of a cosy bed, be it a rickety one. Sip a cup of fragrant tea, a glass of chilled white wine or warming Merlot whilst looking out to sea. Hah, or even better, looking at a toned male torso. The memories of this morning’s vision rose in her mind, making her smile.

A man’s body. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch for a long time. Things had started to go wrong between her and her husband even before the cancer. And then afterwards, once she’d been given the ‘all clear’, she’d learnt how very wrong. Nothing like being kicked when you’re down. But no, she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on that this morning. Today was about new starts, fresh hope and enjoying being alive. She’d think about the hunky swimming guy instead.

She picked her way over a cluster of rocks, the lime-green seaweed slimy under her bare feet. The stones, seemingly slick-black in colour, were, under closer inspection, riddled with navy and iron red. She remembered rock-pooling with her gran, dipping in those cane-stemmed fishing nets, trying to catch a shrimp or tiny silvery fish – they were fast, those ones, wriggly little numbers, nigh on impossible. It kept her and her big sister, Sally, entertained for hours. Gran sat watching them from her blanket on the dunes, a book in hand and a huge picnic of goodies stowed in the cool box. They’d stayed, the four of them, Gran, Mum, Sally and her, crammed into a caravan down the coast – five of them once Dad turned up after work. Fish and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar eaten from the newspaper wrapper as they sat on the harbour wall at Seahouses. She could almost smell them now – maybe it was just the salt in the sea air. Yes, she’d have to make a trip there. Happy days! When life was so simple.

The rhythm of her steps took over. Sometimes the sand was grainy, rough between her toes, then it was smooth, moulding to her feet. There were other footsteps in the sand too: shoe prints, paw prints, the tiny slats of a sea bird’s feet, and a mild breeze rippled through the spiky dune grass. Claire sighed, stood for a moment and breathed in the fresh sea air. This was why she was here. It felt good to breathe, to walk, to be.

She turned another corner and there at last was Bamburgh Castle towering in the distance. It was a bit of a relief, to be honest: though she was enjoying the walk, she was beginning to tire. Her energy levels weren’t yet back to normal ‘AC’ – after the chemo. Her cancer nurse had warned her that it could take up to a year to feel back to her old self, and it had only been five months so far.

The castle dominated the skyline, powerful and stunning, perched on its rock base in the dunes. She wondered how long it had been there, what it had been built for? She’d heard something about the Northumbrian kings centuries ago. She’d have to brush up on her history, find out more and do the castle tour one day. The stone of the castle walls was an unusual salmon-pink colour, unlike the cottage she was staying in and the others nearby, which were more honey-coloured with tones of flinty grey.

This part of the beach below the castle was busier, being nearer the village and the car park; there were families on a day out, children building sandcastles and splashing at the shoreline, a couple of young lads kicking a football about. She spotted a teenage girl tracing her initials in the sand with a stick, then adding a ‘4’ and another set of initials with a big bold love heart around them. She smiled. Ah, the easy love and hope of youth. If only life and love were that simple. Claire knew only too well how the waves would come in and wash it all away soon enough.

A track led into the dunes from the beach. Claire decided to follow it, hoping to find a way through to the village. She’d need to buy some provisions to keep her going. Having come on the train in the end, she’d only brought some tea bags, coffee, a couple of apples and a pack of Jaffa cakes. She wound up and through the dunes, following the sandy pathway, spiky marram grass pricking at her bare legs. She sat to put her deck shoes back on, dusting her feet off, but she could still feel itchy grains of sand between her toes as she set off again – a hazard of beach life, she supposed. There was an opening, and she found herself coming out onto a cricket pitch at the far side of the castle. Pretty stone cottages lined the hill, clustering the quaint village green.

She was on a bit of a budget till next week’s pay day now that much of her spending money had disappeared on a train and taxi fare, so she decided to head for the village stores and buy some vegetables to make a big pot of soup. As she was strolling up the hill, she spotted a small delicatessen, squeezed into a cottage front room by the looks of it, halfway up. Artisan loaves were looking enticingly at her from the window display. Maybe she could stretch to a gorgeous freshly baked loaf too. She went in, her mouth watering over a stone-baked rosemary and sea salt and a wholemeal with honey and pumpkin seeds. Decisions, decisions.

‘Hello, pet. How can I help you?’

A short, middle-aged lady with grey-tinged auburn hair smiled from behind the counter.

Claire plumped for the wholemeal and asked for a pack of local butter to go with it.

The lady handed over her change. ‘On your holidays?’

‘Yes, got here last night.’

‘Staying in the village?’

‘Well, just along the road a bit, the cottages down by the beach. Farne View.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The woman’s face seemed to drop, as though she knew of it. But then she smiled encouragingly, adding, ‘Well, I hope you have a lovely time.’

‘Thanks. Do you know where I can get any vegetables? I fancy making some soup to go with your lovely bread.’

The lady told her that there was a greengrocer which stocked everything and more at the top of the village. She was to head for the gap in a red-brick wall. Claire set off, passing a butcher’s. An aroma of freshly baked pies drew her in, as well as the window stacked with goodies and a counter laden with an array of fresh meats. She popped in, unable to resist a homemade steak pie which she decided she’d have for her lunch – the soup would take a while to make so that would do for supper. She also bought some rashers of bacon and a half-dozen eggs for another day. Then she headed for the long brick wall on the top side of the village green, following it until the gap and a sign appeared.

Whoa, this was very different to the Asda down the road from her semi-detached house in Gosforth. It looked more like a walled garden than a shop, yet was filled with all sorts of provisions: fresh herbs, fruit, vegetables. She filled a basket with carrots, a swede, parsnips, leeks and onions, a packet of stock cubes and some milk.

The carrier bag was laden, and, she realized too late, heavy. She’d have to walk all the way back with it. Why hadn’t she thought to bring the rucksack she had at the cottage? She must remember she didn’t have the same energy levels as she used to. Her body was still trying to find its way back to normality. She sometimes wondered if it ever would … Maybe it just needed time to find a new normal.

3 (#u625db4fe-8303-510b-b520-587afd14a95a)

Jelly shoes, sunscreen, floppy hats and sandy sandwiches

It was a slow walk back from the village. Claire sat down on a rock to eat her pie, which was delicious: a crisply baked pastry shell, tender steak and moist gravy. Bliss. She guessed she was about halfway back now. She got up to set off again about fifteen minutes later and rebalanced her load, but her arms felt about four feet long. Her shoulders were searing by the time she got back to the cottage. So much for a pleasant stroll on the beach! She’d have to find out if there were any buses that went by the cottage next time she wanted more than a few items of shopping. The soup had better be worth it.

After a cup of tea to perk herself up, she began chopping the veggies with a half-blunt kitchen knife, the best of a bad bunch of kitchen utensils. Then, after finally working out how to use the hob on the ancient-looking gas stove, she fried the onion off in a little butter. She’d had to use a match to light the flame – luckily she’d found an old packet on the mantelpiece of the fireplace – cautiously poking it towards the hissing noise under the metal ring. She added the veg, a jug of stock and some seasoning; she’d even found some fresh thyme lurking in the flowerbed outside the front door and added a few sprigs for good measure. She gave it all a good stir, popped a lid on the pot, and turned the gas flame low. So that was supper sorted.

What to do with her time? She wished she’d bought a bottle of wine in the village now. Mind you, that would have been even more to carry. But yes, she could picture herself sitting out on the balcony with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio – though funds were tight, she could have made the bottle last a couple of days. Oh well, another cup of tea would have to do.

She made her way upstairs and out onto the balcony, picking up her book on the way. She was drawn to the old wooden deckchair overlooking the beach and the sea; no naked swimmers this time unfortunately, just dog walkers and families. Two children were playing in the stream alongside the cottages that wound its way down to sea, trying in vain to dam it up with large pebbles they’d found nearby, paddling in the cool waters, splashing away happily. She wondered if they might be the children of Adonis next door. Watching them took Claire back to those days of jelly shoes, sunscreen, floppy hats, sandy sandwiches and ice cream. Childhood days when you didn’t have a clue where life was going to take you, when you didn’t even have to think about it.

It was peaceful here. Just what she’d needed. A sense of solitude, and yet there was life going on just outside your door, your beachfront garden, where you could join in if you wanted to, or opt out for a while. No deadlines, no work calls, no hospital appointments, not even texts pinging in, her phone off for now – the signal here seemed pretty poor anyhow. A place where you could just look at the view, breathe in the salt-sea air, and just be.

She finished her cup of tea, picked up her book and started to read, losing herself in the romantic comedy, glad to be in someone else’s world for a while. The beach started to empty, the air began to cool a little, the light thinned to the white-gold of an early-summer evening.

Right, she’d better go check on that soup – didn’t want it burning or sticking to the bottom of the pan. It was meant to be on a slow simmer, but who knew what that ramshackle cooker was capable of. She made her way to the kitchen and peeked under the lid – it should have been thick and the vegetables softened by now, but it was looking watery, with solid cubes. In fact, there was no heat or steam coming off it at all. She peered down at the ring. Nothing, no flame. She took the pan off and tried to relight the flame – nothing. Great. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a pan of raw veg for supper.

She fiddled with the knobs on the cooker. There was no hiss of gas coming through. She checked the electrics were on with a flick of the kitchen light switch, in case that was something to do with anything. An old strip light flickered into use, so that seemed to be all up and running. But as for the cooker, still nothing. She stood staring at it for a while, pondering, as her stomach started rumbling.

She went to find her phone. Standing on tiptoe by the window in the upstairs bedroom to get a single bar of signal, she dialled the number for the owner of the cottage, Mr Hedley, an elderly gentleman she’d spoken to when booking. She listened to the ringing tone. More ringing, no answer, not even an answerphone. Damn.

This seclusion wasn’t all it was cut out to be. Who did you ask for help?

The neighbour. She wondered if he might still be there? She peered out of the front window and spotted his black 4x4 parked on the gravel driveway. It was worth a try – she didn’t have many options left here.

Slipping on her deck shoes, she headed across the driveway to knock on his door. This cottage was larger than hers, and in a far better state of repair: the windowsills were freshly painted in white, unlike hers, which were crumbling with brown rot amidst flakes of peeling paint. A pretty pink rose climbed the wall beside the front door.

She knocked and waited. Nothing. She knocked again, louder this time, and banged the letterbox a few times; there didn’t seem to be a doorbell. Damn, he must be out, maybe on a walk or something if the car was still there. She’d try later, and have to settle for bread and butter in the meanwhile. But just as she was about to turn away, she heard the scraping of a door inside, the sound of footsteps, and a shadow appeared behind the glass.

The front door inched open, ‘Yes?’

It was the guy from the beach this morning.

‘Oh … hi … I’m Claire … next door.’ And all she could think of was his naked body in all its full and gorgeous glory. She felt the colour flushing up her neck, reddening her cheeks. ‘Ah, uhm, the cooker.’ Firm buttocks, muscular thighs. Focus Claire. Get a grip. ‘It seems to be broken. I just wondered if you might be able to help at all?’ She smiled hopefully.

He didn’t smile back, just gave her a rather annoyed look, one eyebrow raised, as though he’d really rather not help. ‘Ah, I see.’ The house behind him seemed quiet, as though he was the only one there.

He wasn’t exactly leaping to the rescue here. Despite his good looks and the cute sandy-blond curls, he seemed a bit odd, to be honest. No ‘Nice to meet you’ or ‘Of course, I’ll pop across and check it for you’. You’d think she’d just asked him to come over and clean out her toilets or something.

‘I’d be really grateful if you could take a look. I have no other means of cooking,’ she tried.

‘Ah, okay … I suppose. Just give me five minutes.’ He had a slight Scottish lilt. And with that he closed the door, leaving her standing on the step.

What was that all about?

Nice to meet you too! she thought and trudged back across the drive. Charming!

Hot bod, no personality – typical. Oh well, it wasn’t as if she had any intention of getting to know her neighbour or anyone else in an intimate or even friendly fashion in any case. She supposed he would or would not appear later.

She’d just put the kettle on, thinking a cup of something might allay the hunger pangs, when she heard a crunching of the gravel outside, then a knock on her own door. She answered it. He was there. Tall, still not smiling, cool, green eyes fixed on hers.

‘The cooker, you say? Gas?’

‘Ah, yes. It’s just not working at all. Like there’s no gas coming through.’

He raised both eyebrows this time. There was a twitch of annoyance at the side of his mouth.

She lifted her brows in response, quizzically. ‘What?’

‘Have you checked your gas bottles?’

‘Uhh …’

‘You know, the big orange things just under your kitchen window. When they empty you need to change them.’ His patience appeared to be thread thin. Trust her to get Mr Grumpy as a neighbour.

‘No, I don’t know anything about those.’ It wasn’t as if the property owner had left any useful instructions or anything for guests. How the hell was she meant to know?

‘And I don’t suppose you know how to change them either?’

Spot on there, matey. ‘Nope.’

‘Right, well I suppose I’d better show you then. Then you’ll know how to do it yourself next time.’ And not bother me was very clearly the next line, though unspoken.

They headed round to the side of the cottage outside the kitchen. Two large orange metal canisters stood propped under the window. Ah.

He lifted one easily; it seemed light. ‘Empty.’

She felt a right idiot for not checking and not knowing anything about gas bottles. It just came piped out of the ground where she lived.

‘Okay, so turn the switch here,’ he continued. ‘Then turn this valve on top until it clicks, like this.’

‘Oh, okay.’ She was nodding, trying to take it in.

He lifted the connection away from the bottle it had been on, shifted the empty canister out of the way and dragged the other into position. ‘Opposite way to fix on, screw valve back, flip switch to “on”. Pretty simple, really.’

‘Right, well, sorry to bother you and all that.’ It had obviously been an inconvenience to him.

‘And you’d better tell old Mr Hedley to get a new one in so you don’t run out altogether next time.’

‘Okay, will do. Thanks.’

He just nodded. ‘Right, well, that’s me done.’ He turned and walked away, back to his tidy beach house, and closed his door. Back to his life. She wondered for a second what it was like, his life? It seemed like he might be there on his own after all. Then she put her thoughts aside. She had her own life to worry about. Her own hurts to heal. It seemed like her neighbour wouldn’t be a nuisance with noise, at least. In fact, he suited her plans for peace and solitude very well.