5

       Fish and chips with lashings of salt and vinegar, a 99 Flake ice cream, and a harbour view

      Her days settled into their own rhythm: waking, walking, reading. It was wonderful not having a schedule, or deadlines, or anyone else to please. If she wanted to lie in, she could, though that didn’t seem to happen – she was still waking up very early. If she wanted to go back to bed with her book in the afternoon, she could. If she wanted to bathe at three a.m., she could – in fact she did just that one night. She could walk, run, sing, dance along to her iPod, bake, wander around naked (she didn’t actually feel like doing that, but she could). She could do nothing, do anything – within reason; no car and little money was a bit of a hold-back. There was a golden beach, an expanse of sky, and a bucketload of time. It was totally up to her.

      The first week of her holiday passed by. She’d walked back to the village again on the Wednesday, chatting to Lynda in the deli, buying some wholemeal flour for her next baking adventure, and some gorgeous local cheese and pâté. She’d also picked up some ‘Bamburgh Bangers’ from the butchers and made herself an epic sandwich with her own fresh bread, sausages and fried onions – the taste was amazing!

      Her favourite spot of an evening was out on the grassy patch of her garden, where she watched the last of the beachgoers drift home, the sea birds pottering about the shoreline until it was time to roost, the changing light, a melting of peach and gold turning the sky into soft, watercolour shades after the bold acrylic colours of the day as she sat on a deckchair with her book and a glass of Pinot Grigio, a cardie slung around her shoulders as dusk crept in. It didn’t get really dark till half past ten.

      It had been a good first week: and she was certainly enjoying her time out, and she was beginning to relax for the first time in ages. Being on her own was working out well.

      Her sister’s car rolled into the gravel driveway at ten o’clock sharp on Saturday morning. Claire had felt a touch of trepidation the night before; they got on well enough, but she knew Sally would take control of the weekend – it was just her way. There had also been a midweek phone call. ‘You’ve got a spare room there, haven’t you?’ And the Saturday day visit had become a nightover, and in fact a weekend break. She hadn’t dared admit to Sally what state the cottage was in. She desperately hoped it would stay sunny and they’d be able to spend most of the time outdoors. Her sister was bringing her car, so having transport would be a bonus, anyhow.

      ‘Hi, Claire.’

      Sally eased out of her BMW saloon with a broad smile, bearing a bunch of sunny peach and yellow carnations. Her sister was taller than her, her hair a richer shade of brunette than Claire’s which fell in a groomed sweep to her shoulders. At thirty-three, she was three years older than Claire. She was wearing her trademark beige chinos with a pink stripy blouse. She was definitely of the ‘Yummy Mummy’ brigade, and Claire always felt slightly scruffy and uncoordinated beside her. She gave Claire a big hug, took her overnight case out of the boot, and strode towards the cottage door, as always moving swiftly and with confidence.

      ‘You’re looking good, sis,’ she said authoritatively.

      ‘Ah, you’re just saying that.’

      ‘No, course not. It’s the hair.’

      ‘What, you mean I’ve got some now?’

      ‘Well, yes. That short crop, though. Suits you. I think I said last time it has a kind of an Audrey Hepburn look about it. Anne Hathaway, even.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Claire’s voice was timid. It had been a long time since she’d felt anywhere near to looking good. She remembered it well, that gutting feeling seven months ago when her hair began to fall out. Oh yes, having your hair coming out in clumps, you realize how pointless it’s been worrying for all those years since your teens about whether it’s too curly, too mousy or too dark.

      ‘Right, well what’s the plan of action?’

      Claire hadn’t really got her head past making them some coffee and possibly taking a stroll on the beach. ‘Coffee?’ She smiled. ‘We can sit out in the garden facing the sea.’ She needed to get her sister out of the house quickly before she could make too close an inspection of the accommodation. ‘It’s just instant, I’m afraid.’ She knew Sally would rather have freshly ground coffee in a cafetière, which actually would have been rather nice, but with the last-minute travel arrangements, there was only so much she could pack, and she hadn’t thought to buy some in the village.

      As they sat overlooking the beach, watching the distant rolling waves – the tide out this morning – they began to reminisce.

      ‘Hey, do you remember being here with Gran and Mum in the school summer holidays?’ Sal started.

      ‘Yeah. I think it was those holidays that inspired me to come and stay over this way.’

      ‘Crammed into that little caravan. That twin bedroom we had was tiny. We were nearly face to face as we slept.’

      ‘Yeah, and when you snored it was literally in my face.’

      ‘I never snored.’

      Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘And then Dad used to come up at the weekends,’ she continued.

      ‘Yeah. Dad.’ They both went quiet, thinking of him, memories slamming into both their minds. That tall, solid man, whose hair had turned from a rich dark brown to white over the years, who’d watched all their netball matches, taken them swimming, played rounders on the beach, given them ice creams, new shoes, wedding dresses, love and support.

      Claire felt that familiar knot in her throat. ‘Bless him.’ They both sighed.

      When he’d died, Claire was about to take her journalism finals after going back to college as a mature student. He’d never got to see her graduation. That was five years ago now. She still missed him so much. His big Dad bear hugs and down-to-earth advice. But sometimes, even now, when times got tough, she’d hear his voice in her head: ‘Come on, Claire, you can do it – show them what you’re made of, love.’

      In a way she was glad that he hadn’t had to see her go through all the cancer stuff. But his hugs would have helped her through it all.

      ‘Yes,’ Claire resumed. ‘And he used to turn up after work at that caravan on a Friday, still in his jacket and tie, laden with sweets. Mum used to go mad, saying they’d ruin our teeth. Then he’d take us all out to that little harbour place for fish and chips.’

      ‘Oh, and those fish and chips,’ Sal took up. ‘They were the best ever. Fresh from the newspaper, sitting down on the harbour wall. The seagulls used to go crazy for the scraps.’

      ‘And remember that one that pooped on Mum’s head!’ Claire grinned. It had ruined her mum’s hairdo, and she’d been livid at the time.

      They laughed, sharing memories of a happy childhood.

      ‘That was Seahouses, wasn’t it? That’s just down the road,’ Claire added.

      ‘We could go there