The Endless Beach Page 2

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  Flora hadn’t been sure if they could keep the Café by the Sea going over the winter, when the tourists departed and the nights drew down so low it was never light at all, not really, and the temptation was very much to stay in bed all day with the covers over her head.

  But to her surprise, the Café by the Sea was busy every single day. Mothers with babies; old people stopping to chat to their friends over a cheese scone; the knitting group that handled spillover Fair Isle orders and normally met in each other’s kitchens who had decided to make the Café by the Sea their home, and Flora never got tired of watching the amazing speed and grace of gnarled old fingers producing the beautiful repeating patterns on every type of wool.

  So much so that she’d realized: this was her job now. This was where she belonged. Her firm in London had originally given her a leave of absence to work with Colton, but that was over and she had to formally resign. Joel had too: he was working for Colton full time. Flora had been putting off going to London, hoping they’d be able to go together to sign off on the paperwork, but it didn’t seem to be very likely.

  So she helped Isla, one of the two young girls who worked with her, open up the Café by the Sea for the day. They’d repainted it the same pale pink it had been until it had gone to seed and started to peel. Now it fit in nicely with the black-and-white Harbor’s Rest hotel, the pale blue of the tackle shop, and the cream of many tourist shops that lined the front, selling big woolen sweaters, souvenir shells and stone carvings, tartan (of course), small models of Highland coos, tablet, and toffee. Many of them were shut for the winter.

  The wind was ripping off the sea, throwing handfuls of spray and rain into her face and she grinned and ran down the hill from the farmhouse, the commute that was all she had these days. It might be freezing—although she had a huge Puffa jacket on that basically insulated her from absolutely everything—but she still wouldn’t swap it in a second for an overheated, overstuffed tube carriage; a great outpouring of humanity pushing up the stairs; hot, cold, hot, cold, pushing past more and more people; witnessing shouts and squabbles and cars bumping each other and horns going off and cycle couriers screaming at cabbies and tubes roaring past, free sheets being blown by the wind up and down the street with fast-food wrappers and cigarette butts . . . No, Flora thought, even on mornings like this, you could keep your commute. She didn’t miss it.

  Annie’s Café by the Sea was lit up and golden. It was plain, with ten mismatched bric-a-brac tables scattered artfully around the large room. The counter, currently empty, would soon be filled with scones, cakes, quiche, homemade salads, and soups as Iona and Isla busied themselves in the back. Mrs. Laird, a local baker, dropped off two dozen loaves a day, which went fairly speedily, and the coffee machine didn’t stop from dawn till dusk. Flora still couldn’t quite believe it existed, and that it was down to her. Somehow, coming back to her old stamping ground and finding her late mother Annie’s own recipe book—it had felt like a happy choice, not a desperate one, or a sad one.

  It had felt like a great, ridiculous leap at the time. Now in retrospect it felt entirely obvious, as if it was the only thing she should have done. As if this was home, and the same people she remembered from her childhood—older now, but the faces were the same, handed down through the generations—were as much a part of her world as they ever were, and the essential things in her life—Joel, the Café by the Sea, the weather forecast, the farm, the freshness of the produce—were more important to her somehow than Brexit, than global warming, than the fate of the world. It wasn’t as if she was in retreat. She was in renewal.

  So Flora was in an unusually good mood as she removed the MacKenzie family butter from the fridge—creamy and salted and frankly capable of rendering all other sorts of spreads redundant—and glanced to see all the locally fired earthenware ready and in a row. There was an English incomer living up past the farms in a tiny little cottage who made it out the back in a kiln. It was thick and plainly fired in earthen colors—sand, and gray and off-white—and they were perfect for keeping your latte warm with a thin, slightly turned-in top and a much thicker base. They’d had to have a polite sign made saying that the mugs were for sale, otherwise people kept stealing them, and the sales had provided a rather handy sideline and a completely unexpected new lease of life for Geoffrey from up off the old Macbeth farm road.

  As soon as she turned the CLOSED sign to OPEN, the clouds parted, making it look as if they might get a ray or two of sunshine with their gale-force winds, and that made her smile too. Joel was away, and that was sad. But on the other hand, once she’d gotten this stupid London trip out of the way she could maybe get Lorna over to watch TOWIE on reruns and split a bottle of prosecco with her. She didn’t make much but they could still go halfers on a bottle of prosecco, and truly, in the end, what more was there to life than that?

  A song she liked came on the radio, and Flora was as full of contentment as anyone can truly feel in the middle of March, when a shadow passed in front of the doorway. Flora opened the door to their first customer of the morning who stepped back slightly from the Arctic draft, blinking as they blocked out the light behind them. Then her good mood dissipated slightly. It was Jan.

  When Flora had first arrived on Mure, she’d met a nice man—a very nice man—called Charlie, or Teàrlach. He led outdoor activity holidays on Mure, sometimes for businessmen and lawyers and organizations, which paid the bills, and sometimes for deprived children from the mainland, which he did for charity.

  Charlie had liked Flora, and Flora, resigned to the idea that she was never going to get together with Joel, had flirted with him a bit—well, more than a bit, she thought. She was always embarrassed to look back on it: how quickly she had gone from one to another. But Charlie was a gentleman and had understood. The other thing was, though, he had been on a break from his girlfriend, Jan, who worked with him. Jan had subsequently decided that Flora was a feckless tart and that it was all her fault that she’d led him astray. She had never forgiven Flora, but instead put her down fairly loudly and publicly whenever she got half a chance.

  Normally this wouldn’t bother Flora terribly much. But on an island the size of Mure, it could be quite tricky to avoid bumping into someone fairly regularly, and if that person didn’t like you, it could get a little wearing.

  Today, however, Jan—who was tall, with short sensible hair, a determinedly square jaw, and a constant conviction that she was saving the world (she worked with Charlie on the adventure holidays) and everyone else was a feckless wastrel—had a smile on her face.

  “Morning!” she trilled. Flora looked at Isla and Iona, both of whom were as surprised as she was at Jan’s jolly mood. They both shrugged their shoulders.

  “Um . . . hi, Jan,” said Flora. Normally Jan ignored her completely and ordered from the girls, proceeding to talk loudly the entire time as if Flora didn’t exist. Flora would have barred her, but she wasn’t really a barring type of person and had absolutely no idea how she’d have done such a thing. Anyway, barring one person who worked with the adventure program while simultaneously funneling food near its sell-by date to the children who came to visit, via Charlie, seemed a little self-defeating in the end.

  “Hello!” Jan was swishing her left hand about ostentatiously. Flora thought she was waving at someone across the street. Fortunately, Isla was slightly more up on this sort of thing.

  “Jan! Is that an engagement ring?”

  Jan flushed and looked as coy as she could, which wasn’t very, and shyly displayed her hand.

  “You and Charlie tying the knot then?” said Isla. “That’s great!”

  “Congratulations!” said Flora, genuinely delighted. She had felt bad about Charlie; the fact that he was happy enough in his life to pop the question to Jan was wonderful news. “That’s just great. I’m so pleased!”

  Jan looked slightly discombobulated at that, as if she’d been secretly hoping Flora would throw herself to the ground and st
art rending her garments in misery.

  “So, when are you doing it?” asked Iona.

  “Well, it will be at the Rock, of course.”

  “If it’s ready,” said Flora. She didn’t know what Colton was prevaricating about.

  Jan raised her eyebrows. “Oh, I’m sure some people know how to get things done around here . . . Do you have any raisin splits this morning?”

  And Flora had to admit, annoyed, that they didn’t.

  “Well, it’s wonderful news,” she said again. Then she didn’t want to push too hard in case it looked like she was angling for an invite. Which she very much wasn’t. More than a few people had seen her and Charlie about town last summer and remembered Jan’s meltdown after she’d found them kissing. The last thing she needed was gossip sprouting again, not when things were finally calm and quiet.

  So she went back behind the counter. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Four slices of quiche. So. I know normally your stuff is too full of sugar and you waste a lot . . . ?”

  Supreme happiness hadn’t dented Jan’s love of stating the worst possible take on practically everything, Flora noticed.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Well,” said Jan, a smile playing on her lips. “We thought you might like to cater the wedding.”

  Flora blinked. She was desperate to get into catering; there was no news on the Rock, and she really did want to turn over some more money. She’d be able to pay the girls a little more. She’d rather not have to watch everyone watch her watch Charlie get married. But on the other hand, she didn’t really care, did she? And they could really, really do with the money. And she’d be backstage all the time, looking after things in the kitchen. Actually, this might be the best possible solution.

  “Of course!” she said. “We’d be delighted!”

  Jan frowned again. It struck Flora that Jan had had some kind of scenario playing out in her head in which she, Flora, would be rendered somehow humiliated by this. She didn’t quite understand where the benefit was, but she certainly wouldn’t give Jan the satisfaction of thinking that deep down, Flora was anything other than pleased.

  Jan leaned closer. “It would make a lovely wedding present,” she said.

  Flora blinked.

  A silence fell, broken only by the bell above the door ringing, as their morning regulars started to file in, and Isla and Iona scuttled along the counter to serve them, judging a safe distance between being away from the difficult conversation and still being able to eavesdrop.

  “Ah,” said Flora, finally. “No, I think . . . I think we’d have to charge. I’m sorry.”

  Jan nodded as if in sympathy.

  “I realize this must be hard for you,” she said finally. Flora could do nothing but look ahead, cheerfully. “You’d think with that rich boyfriend of yours you’d want to do something good for the island . . .”

  Flora bit back from mentioning that that wasn’t how it worked, not at all, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of taking a penny from Joel, ever; in fact, the idea of ever asking him for anything filled her with terror. They’d never even discussed money. She was conscious as she thought this that they hadn’t discussed anything much, but dismissed it.

  Joel, who didn’t understand this kind of thing particularly well, found it something of a welcome relief from the women he had dated in the past who pouted and always wanted to go shopping. But he also assumed that Flora didn’t actually need or want anything, which wasn’t true either.

  But more than that, it was the idea of Jan and her wealthy, well-fed family tucking into one of the Café by the Sea’s famous spreads—lobster, and oysters on ice, and the best bread and butter, and local beef, and the best cheese to be found around, glistening pies, and freshly skimmed cream. That they would take that, guffawing among themselves that they hadn’t paid anything for it . . .

  Flora bagged up the pieces of quiche and rang it up on the till without another word. Jan counted out the money very, very slowly, with a patronizing smile on her face, then left, Flora gazing hotly behind her.

  Iona watched her go. “That’s a shame,” she said.

  “That woman is a monster,” growled Flora, good mood almost entirely dissipated.

  “No, I mean, I really wanted to go to the wedding,” said Iona. “I bet there’ll be loads of good-looking boys there.”

  “Is that all you think about—meeting boys?” said Flora.

  “No,” said Iona. “All I think about is meeting boys who aren’t fishermen.”

  “Oi!” said a party of fishermen who were warming their freezing hands around the large earthenware mugs of tea and tearing into fresh warm soda bread.

  “No offense,” said Iona. “But you are always smelling of fish and having not enough thumbs because you got them tangled in a net, isn’t it?”

  The fishermen looked at each other and nodded and agreed that that was fair enough, fair enough indeed, it was a dangerous business, mind you.

  “Right!” said Flora, throwing up her hands. “I have a plane to catch.”

  Chapter Two

  Flora drove the battered old Land Rover past her friend Lorna MacLeod’s farmhouse on her way to the airport, but missed her by moments. That morning it was very windy, with a breeze off the sea and the white tips of the waves beating against the sand, but it was definitely brightening up—the tide was in, and the beach known as the Endless looked like a long, golden path. You still needed a stout jacket, but in the air you could sense it somehow: something stirring in the earth.

  On the way down from the farm, Milou bounding joyfully at her side, Lorna, the local primary school head teacher (there were two: Lorna took what was commonly known as the “wee” class, which covered the four- to eight-year-olds, and the saintly Mrs. Cook covered the others), saw crocuses and snowdrops and daffodils beginning to push through their snaked heads. There was a scent in the air; over the normal sea spray, which she never even noticed, there was an earthier scent—of growth, of rebirth.

  Lorna smiled to herself luxuriantly, thinking of the months ahead, of the longer and longer days until the middle of the summer when it barely got dark at all; when Mure would be full and joyfully thronged with happy holidaymakers; when the three pubs would be full every night and the music would play until the last whisky drinker was happy or asleep or both. She put her hands deep into the pockets of her Puffa jacket, and set off, her eyes on the horizon, where the last rays of pink and gold were just vanishing and some cold but golden rays of early spring sunshine were pushing over.

  She was also feeling cheerful as she now awoke when it was light, for starters. The winter had been mild, comparatively speaking—the storms had of course swept down from the Arctic, cutting off the ferries and causing everyone to huddle inside, but she didn’t mind that so much. She liked seeing the children charge around in their hats and mittens, pink-cheeked and laughing in the school yard; she enjoyed cozy hot chocolates in town and curling up beside the fire in her father’s old house. She’d inherited the house—to share, technically, with her brother. He worked the rigs and had a cool modern apartment in Aberdeen though, and he didn’t care really, so she’d sold her little main-street flat to a young couple and set about trying to build a home in the old farmhouse in a fit of spring exuberance. In fact, it was a shame she’d missed Flora, as Flora could have done with a good dose of Lorna positivity, for what came after.

  Lorna did, however, see Saif.

  Saif spotted her at the same time from the other end of the beach. He lived in the old manse—the smaller, crumbling one, not the one Colton had lavishly updated—up on the hillside, empty since their vicar had moved to the mainland, the ageing population here no longer large enough to justify a full-time padre on an island which, even though it had strong overtones of religious severity and Knoxism, had never torn itself away entirely from its earlier roots: the many, fierce gods of the Viking invaders; the green earth gods of its primary inhabitants. There was somethin
g on the island that was deeply, utterly spiritual, whatever your beliefs. There were standing stones on the headlands—the remains of a community that had worshipped heaven knows what—as well as an ancient, beautiful ruined abbey, and scattered stern plain churches with stubby steeples standing stiff against the northerly winds.

  The house was rented to Saif as he did his two years’ service to the community in return for which, it was promised, he would receive his permanent right to stay. He was a refugee, and a doctor, and the remote islands desperately needed GPs, although his promised right to stay of course was not guaranteed. Saif had given up reading about British politics. It was a total mystery to him. He was unaware that it was an equal mystery to everyone else around him; he just assumed this was how things had always been.

  He had been having the dreams again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be free of them. Always the clamor, the noise. Being in the boat again. Clutching his leather bag as though his life depended on it. The look on the face of the little boy he’d had to stitch up without anesthetic after a fight had broken out. The stoicism. The desperation. The boat.

  And every morning, regardless of the weather, he woke up determined not to sink beneath his own waves—his own waves of waiting: waiting to hear about his wife and his two sons, left behind when he went to see if he could forge a passage to a better life for them all in a world that had gotten suddenly, harshly worse.

  He had heard nothing, although he called the Home Office once a week. He was unsure if the distant neighborhood he had left behind—once friendly, chatty, relaxed—even existed anymore. His entire life was gone.

  And people kept telling him he was one of the lucky ones.

  Every morning, to shake the night horrors from his head, he would go for a long walk down the Endless to try to get himself into an appropriate state of mind to deal with the minor complaints of the local population: their sore hips, and coughing babies, and mild anxiety, and menopauses, and everything that he must not dismiss as absolutely nothing compared with the searing, apocalyptic misery of his homeland. A couple of miles normally did it. Through the winter, he had walked as the sun barely rose, half by instinct, welcoming the handfuls of hail that felt like rocks being thrown into his face, a phenomenon he had never experienced until he had come to Europe and which he had found almost comically inconvenient.