What will Chris be thinking now, I wonder. Will he have turned to Meg in his distress? Probably.
I don’t want you to think our relationship was all doom and gloom. We rarely argued and, when we managed to grab holidays together, we always got along well. That’s probably why I’m so thrown by what has happened between us.
When I’ve exhausted window shopping, I turn and head back to Sandy Cove beach. I drop by the café again and ask for a coffee to go.
‘In need of a caffeine fix so soon?’ Ida quips.
‘Not for me. There’s a living statue just down the road, on the sea front. I thought I’d take one for him. He said he’s cold.’
‘Ah, George. He’s a regular here. A proud bearer of the loyalty card. He likes a cappuccino, two sugars.’ Ida kicks her coffee machine into life and duly makes one out for me to take away.
The wind is still blowing strong and heading back is as much of a struggle as I’d feared, so I’m doubly glad that I splashed out on my woollies. They have helped to plug some of the draughty gaps in my clothing. It’s not long before I climb the steps from the beach onto the esplanade feeling slightly breathless.
George is sitting chatting on his phone. When he sees me, he hangs up and jumps onto his box, striking a pose.
‘Caught you slacking,’ I tell him. ‘I brought you coffee.’
He relaxes his pose and jumps down to take it from me. ‘That’s lovely,’ he says. ‘I’m not feeling the statue love today. Might give up and go back to my day job.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s not exactly a job,’ he admits a bit sheepishly. ‘I’m writing a novel. Or trying to.’
‘Oh. An author.’
‘Well. Don’t get too excited. I’ve been writing my opus magnum for the best part of five years.’
Perhaps he’s not much better as an author as he is a statue. ‘At least you can do that sitting down.’
‘True.’ George sips his coffee, gratefully. ‘Hmm. Nice and hot.’
‘Ida said it’s what you like.’
‘Thank you. This is very kind of you.’
‘No problem. I didn’t like to think of you being cold.’ I move away as I’ve exhausted the extent of my chit-chat. ‘I should go.’
‘Have a nice day, Jodie.’ He raises his cup to me. ‘Thanks again.’
‘No problem. Good luck with the novel,’ I call as I walk away.
The wind is blustery, puffing in spiteful bursts. Some of the more lusty gusts threaten to blow me off my feet. I lean into it as I walk and am relieved when I finally see Sunny Days coming into view. That was a harder workout than any gym treadmill. Back on the gangway, I pause to catch my breath and notice that there’s smoke curling out of the chimney of the eclectic Sea Breezes next door. Ida’s friend must have returned as I suspected. Though the blinds are all still closed.
Letting myself into Sunny Days, I strip off my inadequate coat and newly acquired hat and scarf and hang them in the hall. There’s no sign of Marilyn and the houseboat is even more immaculate than when I left, if that’s humanly possible.
On the kitchen table there’s a note that says See you tomorrow! Mxx in big, loopy writing. There’s a smiley face drawn beneath it and another plethora of kisses. Joy. It must be nice to go through life like Marilyn, untroubled by woes and perpetually sunny. There’s also a big bunch of vibrant yellow daffodils in a vase in the middle of the table which, I have to admit, is very thoughtful of her. The colour is like shot of sunshine.
I make a cup of tea and, while I drink it, reluctantly flick on my phone again. Nothing more from Chris, but one from Bill which simply says, OK? I message back Fine.
What to do with the rest of my day? The shelves are stacked high with books of all manner – romantic comedies, sporting autobiographies, several I recognise as winning literary awards of some sort. Probably bought by Bill but never read. I don’t get much time to read at home and this should be a luxury, but my attention span is terrible. I’d put on the radio, but I can’t bear to disturb the peace. It’s as if too much sound hurts my brain. And all the songs make me want to weep. It’s nice to hear the gentle shush of the waves, but the caw of the gulls sounds too much like a crying child and I wish they’d be quiet.
I take what’s left of my tea and a blanket from the sofa and head out onto the top deck, which I’ve yet to explore. There’s another couple of steamer chairs here and there are cushions for them in a locker. The cushions have still got the tags on and don’t look like they’ve ever been used. I lay one out and settle myself under the blanket to do nothing more taxing than look out at the sea. George is right, it’s a very beautiful view and, thankfully, the harbour is sheltered from the wind. It’s so quiet and peaceful that I let a sigh escape. There’s a plethora of yachts moored up, then the dark circle of the fort beyond and, further out to sea, there’s an enormous cruise ship going by – probably filled with shiny, happy people enjoying their pre-paid drinks package. I sip my tea.
Chris and I did a cruise. A few years ago now. To the Caribbean. Waking up to a different island every day was blissful. We laughed, drank too many rum cocktails, danced the night away, were careless with our contraception. It was a wonderful holiday. I thought we had it all then.
Due to my largely sleepless night, it’s not long before my eyes begin to grow heavy. The tide must be coming in or going out as I can feel a slight movement of the boat beneath me and that’s helping to make me drowsy too.
Then, just as I’m edging into sleep, there’s an ear-splitting noise which jolts me back to sitting and sets my nerves jangling. It sounds for all the world like someone starting up a chainsaw.
‘What the hell?’ I throw aside my blanket and go and look over the rail. Instantly, I can see who the culprit is.
Chapter Ten
Ida’s friend, Ned Haddon, is on the back of the boat next door. He’s busy attacking a lump of wood and, as much as I’d suspected, using a chainsaw to do it. Despite the cool of the day, he’s just in a white T-shirt and dark trousers, ear defenders and protective goggles. He looks tall, broad-shouldered but, beyond that, I can’t tell you much else.
This won’t do. This won’t do at all.
‘Hey! Hey!’ I shout down to him trying to attract his attention but because of the ear defenders and the nerve-shredding noise of the chainsaw he can’t hear a word of it. Damn him.
Still, if he’s chopping wood for the fire, hopefully he won’t be much longer. However, as I watch it becomes clear that he’s sculpting the wood rather than just hacking it into logs. It isn’t a great leap to make me realise that those pieces on the boat are obviously carved by his own hand. When Ida said he was an artist, I imagined nice watercolour paintings of seaside scenes. Looks as if I was wrong. It appears that Mr Ned Haddon practises the noisiest form of art there could possibly be. Just my luck.
For some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away. His body movements flow as he cuts through the wood, this way and that, almost in a slow dance and, despite being cross at the noise, I’m finding it mesmerising. Eventually, even the buzz of the saw finds a rhythm and, if I had ear defenders on too, it might be considered quite soothing. As I watch, a face starts to emerge in the wood. Chips of bark and sawdust fly everywhere, some bits somersaulting off into the sea. He’s creating the face of a woman in the timber. I can see him shaping her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. It’s strangely sensual to see her emerging beneath his hands. The way he uses the chainsaw is just how an artist would use a brush. The machine he’s wielding isn’t your usual chainsaw, it looks to be lightweight and compact, clearly meant for the job in hand. It’s bloody noisy though. Still, I’m riveted. His talent is obvious and I wonder how long he’s been doing this or how he started. Let’s face it, the chainsaw isn’t the usual medium of choice for an artist.