Page 10 of Suddenly Beck

The morning dawns crisp and bright, as if the rain the day before has washed everything clean. I rise with the dawn and head downstairs. I have to admit the full English breakfast had sounded appealing, but not appealing enough to risk running into the insatiable Ms Molly. Instead, I grab a hasty bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice, stuffing some fruit into my pocket as I set out to explore the sleepy little coastal town the locals refer to as ‘the bay’.

There’s a path that leads up and around the headland. The sea is calm today without a cloud in the sky and the sun is glittering against the water. There’s still a brisk wind coming in off the sea, but with a day like today, it’s easy to detect a hint of the onset of summer. Breathing the salty air deeply I feel the tension drain out of me and my body start to relax.

As a London boy, the thought of all this bracing sea air, quaint little cottages and wide-open spaces should horrify me I think with a grin. But the truth is, I have a feeling I could get used to this with very little effort. It wasn’t until I’d left London that I realised just how suffocating it was with the crush of towering buildings, the heaviness and pollution in the air, the constant sounds of traffic and sirens, and the never-ending press of people always in a hurry.

The path curves across the bluffs, and I pass by a gorgeous old ramshackle sea cottage framed with wildflowers and overgrown shrubs and a little white wooden gate. The cottage itself is a beautiful weathered silvery blue with a charming rickety chimney stack, which is listing to the side like a drunken sailor. As I continue past the postcard cottage, I spy another building emerging from its side. The extension is clearly more modern with huge windows, which stretch from floor to ceiling, and I can only imagine the incredible view from inside. Despite the modern addition, it still somehow matches the rest of the cottage, probably because whoever built it kept the same slate roof tiles and clad the back and sides of the building in faded ash.

I wonder who lives in the quirky cottage in such a remote and idyllic spot. Perhaps a grouchy old woman with an army of cats, or a young couple who wanted a project dream house, or maybe it’s just a holiday rental.

Just past the cottage is a little overgrown pathway which seems to be leading down to the beach. Feeling quite adventurous, I squeeze myself through the gap in the brush and start edging down the winding, dusty path. It’s a little steep in places but fairly well worn as if someone uses it often. After a while, the path opens up onto the sand and I hear the loud crash of the waves.

Setting myself down on a large boulder, I reach down and pull my shoes off. I’m onto my spare pair, and I’d rather not trash these ones too. Peeling off my socks I stuff them inside my shoes, rolling the legs of my jeans a fraction and setting my feet down on the sand, giving my toes a little experimental wiggle.

The sand feels damp and a little cool against my skin, sifting between my toes as I give a little helpless chuckle. I know, you’re thinking what a twat. He’s obviously never been outside of London, but that’s just not the case. We travelled loads when I was a kid, just not to quaint little seaside towns. In fact, we didn’t visit many places in the UK at all. My father is a dedicated urbanite, all our family trips were not only awkward and stressful but boring as hell. There was no Disneyland or luxury beaches for Sophia and me. It was always city breaks and centres of culture, Prague, Rome, Paris, Brussels.

I glance along the quiet beach while I sit atop my boulder and spy what I assume are locals as it’s probably still a little too early in the year for the summer tourism to pick up. There’s a little girl with messy pigtails, wearing rolled up jeans and a pink hoodie smeared with wet sand. She’s planted contentedly on the damp ground banging the bottom of an upturned plastic bucket as her mother watches on with an indulgent smile.

I watch in rapt fascination as the little girl lifts the pink plastic bucket with a delighted Ta-dah! Laughing as her mother hands her a little foil windmill on a brightly coloured stick that she plants in the top of her sandcastle laughing as it spins madly in the wind.

I shake my head, while we were busy touring art galleries and museums as kids, we’d have much rather been building sandcastles with cheap plastic buckets and spades.

Pushing myself off the small rock I start down the beach, feeling the uneven slide of sand beneath my feet, it’s still a little cold, but I don’t mind. I wander down the beach aimlessly just enjoying the pace and the fresh air with my shoes swinging from my hand. There’s an older couple heading toward me with a small fluffy dog on a lead, at least I think it’s a dog, it’s a bit hard to tell beneath the little ball of fur matted with wet sand. As they head closer, they both smile widely at me, nodding their heads and calling out a friendly ‘Good Morning.’

I blink and glance behind me wondering who they’re speaking to until it occurs to me that they’re greeting me. ‘Oh… um morning.’ I nod in return as they pass by me and continue along the beach.

How very odd. Back in London, we natives, avoid eye contact at all costs, especially on the tube and the crowded streets. It’s like we have some sort of echolocation, which allows you to skirt around potential obstacles and pedestrians while keeping your gaze firmly fixed on either your phone or the pavement. We never speak to each other, and any kind of random greeting between strangers would be regarded as a serious breach of etiquette, it’s almost an unspoken understanding that we’re far too busy and important to acknowledge each other or engage in small talk as we hurry along, but here, it’s so laid back and… friendly. I continue along the beach in bemusement, maybe it was just a fluke I ponder as I pass a couple with two children who are running ahead.

‘Morning.’ They smile as they pass by.

‘Morning,’ I acknowledge with an amused smile, not a fluke then, maybe this is just how everyone is in this neck of the woods. I see another local up ahead, an older gentleman in his late sixties wearing a brightly coloured neon safety vest. He’s holding onto a bin bag with one hand and a grabbing stick in the other hand, with which he’s busily picking up random pieces of litter. This time I’m prepared as I plaster an amiable smile on my face. ‘Good morning,’ I call out pleasantly.

He fixes me with a highly suspicious look. ‘What’s so good about it?’ he grumbles.

I shake my head and smile as he grunts and returns to his litter picking, so not everyone then, I chuckle to myself.

I’ve walked a fair distance down the beach when the skies turn a little overcast and the wind picks up tugging at my hoodie with playful fingers. I hope it’s not going to rain I think as I glance up and the first fat drops of rain start to fall.

Oh well, that’s British weather for you, one minute it’s bright sunshine, the next the heavens open. I spy some wooden steps up ahead, which lead up to a decked terrace and has some cover. The building is a large, square single story building with a pitched roof and a huge wooden sign that reads ‘Sully’s.’ It looks to be a restaurant judging by the folded chairs and tables out front.

I jog along the remaining distance and trot up the stairs, and just as I reach the covered awning, the rain comes down hard. I awkwardly dust the sand off my feet and pull my socks and shoes back on before turning to glance at the doors. The sign says open, but it doesn’t look like it actually is. In fact, it reminds me a bit of the restaurant from The Goonies, and I absently wonder, as I open the door and tentatively step inside, if I’m going to find the Fratelli’s holed up with a dead body in the back.

‘Hello?’ I call out stepping further inside and seeing that it’s empty.

It’s a really nice space, a little shabby and worn, but welcoming. Running the length of the bank of front windows are a neat row of tables and chairs. Along another wall are several more intimate looking booths. There’s an open plan cooking area and a long bar toward the back, and the large room is scattered with round tables and chairs.

‘Hello?’ I step further into the restaurant, and all of a sudden, I can hear a raised voice, and the door to the back swings open.

A petite, middle aged woman with warm honey-blonde hair swings into the room, her brow folded, and her eyes burning with a mixture of anger and frustration as she holds a phone to her ear.

‘No, Scott, it’s not acceptable. There is such a thing a notice… no… hang on a minute… don’t you dare hang up on m…’ She breaks off, her small fist clutching the phone so tightly her knuckles turn white. She draws in a deep breath and for a minute looks as if she wants to hurl the offending phone across the room until her gaze lands on me.

‘Um,’ I begin inarticulately.

‘Can I help you?’ she finally asks, although her voice is soft, her eyes are still hot with anger.

‘I’m sorry, I’m intruding,’ I murmur. ‘It was raining, and I was looking for somewhere to get a cup of coffee until it lets up. The sign said you were open, but you’re obviously not, so I’ll just let you get back to…’

Her eyes scan my wet hair and damp hoodie.