Christmas at the Gin Shack. Catherine Miller
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So it was nice that they kept this up, keeping their sense of community spirit strong. Along with Richard and Olive, there was Skylar and her seven-year-old son, Lucas, in the next-door hut, and Richard would often spend time with Lucas, making extravagant castles in the sand. There was Paul the fisherman, who still said very little in the way of conversation, but when he did, it was always worth hearing. Tony and Esme were basking in deckchairs, although there wasn’t much sun about to be basking in. Their three boys, TJ and the twins, were playing a game of cricket as they so often did, and Mark and Lily, the lovely couple on the end of the row, were being a bit gooey-eyed and romantic with each other. Next to them (although not with their own beach hut to boast of) were Randy and Veronica who always tagged along, giving fair competition in the most gooey-eyed couple category. Along with Olive, Randy and Veronica completed the Oakley West trio made famous by the media when the Gin Shack had opened. They had hit the headlines for escaping from their rest home at every given opportunity to form the secret club that soon became public news. Nowadays, Olive occasionally felt like a bit of a gooseberry since the pair had become a couple. But they were all pretty good at finding a middle ground between spending time together as friends and allowing the couple all the alone time they might require.
Everyone here was as different from each other as it was possible to be, and yet, there were friendships that would last through many a season. Indeed, through many a storm, as had already proven to be the case.
Perhaps that was why the lazy lounging of a Sunday afternoon was so pleasurable. Everyone came without any expectations or agenda. Here, they were most at ease with each other and the world had a tranquil glow when they were together at the beach. It was a shame they couldn’t manage it more often, but the bar was a going concern now. It was providing an income for the Salter family and everyone wanted to support that. It was, after all, possibly the most exciting thing to have ever happened in Westbrook Bay and its appeal hadn’t faded yet. Not for any of them. Hopefully it never would.
Olive’s eyes were clearly bigger than her belly as she struggled to work her way through the plate of food she’d helped herself to. Cramming another mouthful of pulled pork-filled baguette into her gob, she relaxed on her seat, taking in the scene. It was as blissful as could be.
Everyone was merrily munching, too busy filling their faces for chat. It was only Tony who wasn’t eating, clearly too tired from long hours at the Gin Shack. He was leaning back on his deckchair with his sunhat covering his face.
It was a shame because Olive liked nattering with Tony on a Sunday. The business took up so much of his time that they didn’t get the chance to chat the way they had during his brief period of unemployment.
Richard was too busy chomping away at his food to talk, and more engaged with keeping an eye on Lucas than wanting to make conversation with his dear old mother.
Too stuffed to carry on eating, Olive decided to relax a bit more on her deckchair, allowing her stomach to stretch out. If she was lucky, if she rested, she might find her second wind to enjoy the rest of her plateful. The pulled pork was too yummy to want it to go to waste.
There was comfort in listening to the sea. In the way it could drown out the thoughts that sometimes overcrowded the mind. Olive’s mind was calmer these days, now her son was in her life more. There were still the shadows, but the present-day was more apparent and she herself more content than she’d ever been. Today it was the stupid crafted arse that was troubling her. If there was anything she didn’t like in life, it was bullying and viciousness. However harmless a manifestation the craft-style-graffiti had taken, it still stunk of both. It was possibly the most passive-aggressive form of insult she’d ever come across. It had obviously been planned and meant with intent, and Olive was certain this would not be the end of it. Whoever had placed that sign would be back to cause trouble again. The only questions left were: why had they and why would they even bother? But so far there’d been nothing more, so it was hard to put a finger on why it was still bothering her. She certainly seemed more concerned than anyone else.
There was a new pitch in the air. Above the sound of the waves and the boys playing cricket. It was such a unique sound there was nothing to compare it to. It was somewhere between the sound of snoring and the slurpy noise the bath plug makes when the last of the water exits.
It was the death rattle.
Olive sat up immediately, unable to fathom why she was hearing the sound. Maybe it was an echo. A memory. She’d worked at the hospice for many years until her retirement. She’d lost count of the number of people she’d observed as they passed away. She remembered the last lady she’d been with when she’d died. The family lived an hour away and had opted not to stay overnight. Typically, when the time came, it was during the night and too quick for the family to be by her side. As it was Olive’s last shift, she’d volunteered to stay with the lady to make sure she was comfortable in those final hours. It was more like minutes, and Olive had held that lady’s hand while the warmth remained, but life did not. Her death rattle had been short and sharp, those gasps where the body was grasping for air, but the heart had weakened too much to help the lungs in their battle.
That noise didn’t belong here. Olive glanced over at Randy and Veronica, wondering if the sound of old codgers snogging might create a similar sound effect. Fortunately, despite their obvious affection for each other, they’d not started French-kissing like teenagers at every given opportunity, but there was always a chance they would.
They hadn’t. Instead, like pretty much everyone else, they were busy enjoying the feast on offer today.
Olive told herself she must be imagining things. There were plenty of odd noises to be heard here. Even the seagulls could squawk in a way that made it seem like there was a mass bird strangulation occurring. Maybe they were having a spat over a chip.
And then there it was again.
The rasp. So distinct. So clear. A sound that etched on a soul if heard. That throaty gathering of air that was barely doing its job of keeping the person alive.
Without thinking, Olive moved quicker than she had in the longest time. She knew exactly where the sound was coming from and it was so entirely out of place.
She was old. She should be making that noise. It should be her. Or Randy. Or Veronica. Not Tony. They were so much closer to death than he was. He was barely in his fifties. He had teenage children. He’d started a new career with the Gin Shack. This wasn’t his time.
With two quick manoeuvres, she batted away the hat that had everyone else thinking he was snoring, and did something she’d never had to do before in her life. Whereas previously she’d only had to hold a hand to make sure someone wasn’t taking their final journey alone, this time, there was no way she was letting life exit without a fight.
So, despite its being nearly twenty years since she’d left the NHS, and having never performed it on an actual person, Olive found it within herself to pummel Tony’s chest like life itself depended on it. Because it really did.
And, with every compression, Olive willed it to be the other way round. It should be her trying to die on them in spectacular fashion. Not Tony. It was way too early for Tony.
Entering the hospital doors two days later, Olive let a tremble shake through her still-aching arms. Things could have turned out so differently. Everyone at the gathering had genuinely believed Tony was snoring. Had it not been for Olive’s astonishing actions, Tony’s death rattle stopping might have gone unnoticed.
Olive took Richard’s arm. All at once she felt frail. It hadn’t been long into her CPR efforts that her son had taken over the harrowing task, and he’d done it all while on speakerphone to the emergency services. And while she’d looked on, all the shock and adrenaline had caught up with her.
The history of her past meant emergencies terrified her. The loss of her husband and daughter in an accident had seen to that. But it would seem she had less of an aversion to blue lights than she used to. In fact, since the start of the Gin Shack Club she’d had run-ins with all the emergency