Chapter 8
The next morning, Lottie is up early. For the first time in a long while, it is not Josh who wakes her at an unearthly hour.
Instead, he has slept one of his longest, least broken slumbers.
Maybe what they say about sea air is true.
So why can’t she sleep? Perhaps it’s the light that creeps around the pretty but ineffective shutters at the windows.
More likely it is the shriek of gulls, calling to each other.
They sound as if they are perched right overhead on the roof.
Having checked on both her son and her husband, who continue to sleep, untroubled, she quietly pulls on her running kit and trainers.
She has been longing for an early run since she arrived, hoping to beat the tourists for once.
Exercise is one of the only things that calms her, releases something in her.
Returns her to sanity. And she needs it this morning.
Her head is fuggy from the red wine last night.
She had stayed up far too late, composing a ranting email to their Airbnb host, and then had taken to social media to see what else she could do to prompt the local community.
As she steps out in the direction of the coastal path and puts one foot in front of the other she drinks deeply of the clean, crisp air, turning her face into the sun before it gains height and strength.
The building site is behind her. Out of sight, out of mind.
This moment is for herself alone. Her pace builds in rhythm as her heart pounds.
She runs past quiet cottages, their occupants still asleep, restaurants and cafés closed for now.
Few people are up and about at this hour and she loves it.
As she steadily reaches the brow of the cliff, she passes one or two dog walkers, quiet and somnolent.
Further along she sees an old man sitting alone on a wooden bench looking out to sea.
He has white hair that curls around his neck and under his cap.
He is wearing a thick navy jumper and is smoking a pipe.
An actual, old-fashioned pipe. It is like he has stepped out of one of the black-and-white photos in the nearby pub.
Clearly he is a local. A retired fisherman, she supposes.
As she passes, he takes his pipe from his mouth, nods and says hello.
Normally she would smile in response and carry on, saving her breath.
But something about the view from this vantage point, the glorious weather, the fact she is on holiday and need not rush, makes her pause.
She slows down, returns his greeting and bends to tighten her laces, wipe the sweat from her face.
‘Lovely morning,’ she says.
‘Hmm,’ agrees the man, placing the stem of his pipe between his teeth again. ‘On holiday, are ye?’
‘Yes,’ she says with a half-smile. ‘We’re staying up on Cliff Road, not far away.’ She sighs, unable to think of anything more to say. ‘It really is beautiful round here.’
‘Aye,’ he says with a nod.
They seem to be only capable of stating the obvious to each other.
‘Are you local?’
‘I am that,’ he answers. ‘Grew up round here. As did my wife. Had our two nippers here an’ all. Boys. Worked on the boats like me. While there was work to be had.’
‘What a wonderful place to raise a family,’ says Lottie, blithely looking out to sea, imagining the childhood Josh might enjoy if they lived here; the coast on their doorstep all year round, after-school trips to the beach, the clean air, the sense of community.
But then she hears the old man make a loud grunt.
‘Used to be,’ he says. ‘Not what it was. Hasn’t been for years.’
Lottie feels herself colour slightly. She knows he must be referring to the influx of holidaymakers like herself.
‘I can imagine you’ve seen a lot of changes,’ she tries diplomatically. ‘Does the tourism bring much wealth into the area?’
‘For some, maybe. It’s all very well during the season.
This is a very different place, come the winter.
When everyone disappears back to wherever they came from.
And the other lot leave their second homes empty for months on end.
Youngsters round here can’t get work, can’t buy a house, can’t afford to live no more. ’
Lottie nods sympathetically, about to mention the renovation project next door before she remembers she is on very shaky ground. But at least they are only renting. They haven’t actually taken a property for themselves or deprived someone else, have they?
‘It must be very hard,’ she says.
‘You have no idea,’ the man replies, turning his bloodshot eyes away from hers with an air of finality.
She feels herself chastised and rightly so. It’s true, she doesn’t really understand. But she does care. She has worked in the charity sector for several years now. Has seen the effect of poverty, homelessness, addiction and depression. She considers telling him this but again, thinks better of it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, before she strikes out again, continuing her morning run.
She feels her earlier euphoria has deflated somewhat.
Her steps are heavier. And the more she runs, the angrier she feels when she imagines the round, wine-flushed face of Tobias, his pathetic excuse for a wife, Olivia, and their two spoilt brats who have no idea how privileged they are.
As she circles back into the town centre, Lottie slows her pace and ducks into a newsagent’s that is now open.
It is a traditional minimart with a small selection of pre-packed goods and fresh produce.
She resolves to buy something, anything, just to support this small business.
She takes a pint of milk and a loaf and pays at the till with her phone.
The lady behind the counter smiles warmly at her and Lottie feels her heart swell a little.
‘Best part of the day,’ she says as she picks up her things.
‘’Tis,’ says the woman, who has a mass of black springy curls caught up in a clip at the nape of her neck. ‘Been out running, ’ave ye?’
‘Yes,’ says Lottie. ‘It’s gorgeous out there right now.’
‘Quiet too, I reckon. Before the hordes descend,’ she adds with a laugh.
Lottie hesitates, about to leave, but then decides to chat a little more to this woman who seems so friendly.
‘I did meet one old guy, actually,’ she says. ‘Looks like he lives locally. Retired fisherman, smokes a pipe. Up on the cliff.’
‘Old Ted,’ says the woman immediately with another laugh. ‘Part of the scenery round here. Don’t mind him. Probably walking off a skinful he had in The Sloop last night.’
Emboldened by this, Lottie leans closer.
‘Is it really that bad round here these days? Y’know, rich and poor. Tourists and locals? I don’t know whether I’m helping or not by coming on holiday here, to be honest.’
The woman looks her straight in the eye, but there is no resentment to be seen in her gaze, just honesty. And a little resignation.
‘It’s not that bad. It’s not always great either though.
We’re all just trying to make ends meet.
Make hay, so to speak. But it’s hard to keep businesses going.
The old fishmonger’s is the latest to close down.
I know, right? A town like this and we can’t support a wet fish shop anymore,’ she adds with a sad shake of her head.
‘I get by—papers, tobacco, ice creams, souvenirs. I do a few extras for folks round here at Christmas, Halloween and Easter. That sort of thing.’ She looks at the milk and bread in Lottie’s arms. ‘People like you do help though. The second-homers, not so much. Oh, they spend when they are here but the winters are long. And some of them leave their places empty for months at a time. The housing situation – that’s the real problem.
But don’t let it spoil your stay. You have a right to come and enjoy your holidays like everyone else. ’
Lottie nods and raises her hand in thanks.
‘I’d steer clear of old Ted though, if I was you,’ the woman adds as an afterthought. ‘He’s not in a good way these days. Tends to take it out on anyone who crosses his path.’
She lowers her voice a little. ‘Lost his grandson, last summer,’ she says. ‘Suicide.’ Her voice quavers and Lottie sees a look of deep sadness pass across her features. That word does not seem to belong here in this cheerful resort with its colourful bunting and picturesque views.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she says for the second time that morning.
The woman nods stoically but there is something about the jut of her chin, the set of her mouth, that suggests that it is a terrible tragedy the whole community has had to come to terms with.
‘I’m Lottie, by the way. I’m here for a week with my husband and little boy.’
The shop owner’s head lifts at this, latching onto her words, and the glassiness of her eyes is blinked away as she smiles.
‘Jan,’ she says, introducing herself in return. ‘Bring them in next time you’re passing.’
‘I will.’
As she steps out of the shop, Lottie thinks about the old man, Ted; the pain she can now see was present in his eyes beneath his cold exterior.
That poor family. She takes a few more steps.
No wonder he comes across as a little bitter and twisted.
She continues on, takes another step. And then the habitual shiver of anxiety creeps upon her.
The one borne of being a female, a mother, a long-time city dweller where paranoia goes hand in hand with vigilance.
And she wishes she hadn’t been quite so open, so chatty.
Wishes, in fact, that she hadn’t told him where they were staying, after all.