Page 12 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“I don’t know yet — maybe until Christmas. It’s really nice here — so peaceful, after . . .”
Marcus nodded his understanding. He was an ex-army medic, so he knew. “I guess it would be. Anyway, I’ll see you later?”
“Yes. I’ll come back after he’s had his dinner.”
“Right. Cheerio then.”
“Cheers.”
Though it was the second week in October it was still a pleasant walk in the afternoon sunshine, down the hill and past the old church. Ahead of him the bay spread far out to the horizon, silver-blue beneath the pale-blue sky.
A few white gulls were soaring and swooping over the waves. Down on the beach a couple of dogs were chasing each other over the sand, and a cluster of small children were building a sandcastle.
He smiled to himself, childhood memories drifting into his mind. His family had lived in Bristol, where his dad had worked for a local television station, but they had come down to Sturcombe regularly to visit his grandparents.
Then when he was nine years old, his dad had devised a new quiz show. None of the British channels had wanted it, but a channel in Canada had snatched it up, so they had moved across the Atlantic to Toronto. It was still running, nearly twenty-five years later, with his dad as producer.
Visits to his grandparents had become fewer until he was in his late teens. Then he had joined the Royal Canadian Air Force and gone to Military College to train to fly fighters — his dream since he’d been a kid. He hadn’t been back to Sturcombe since then, almost fourteen years ago.
Now he could see the small signs of decline: the empty shops on Church Road, the slightly shabby paintwork on the large Victorian houses opposite, mostly now guesthouses instead of private homes.
He read the quaint names on the boards in their front gardens, smiling again — Sunny Dene, Bella Vista, Bay View. How very English!
The hotel, the Carleton, had seen better days, too. Or maybe memories had painted it grander than when he and his brother had chased each other around the terrace or played hide-and-seek in the gardens. It was a shame that the owners didn’t seem bothered about spending a little money on it. It could be a lovely place.
The attractive redhead was behind the reception desk. “Good afternoon, Mr Crocombe,” she greeted him with a professional smile. “Your key.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you enjoying your stay?” she asked pleasantly.
“Very much, thank you.” He picked up the key card. “It’s a very pretty place. Have you lived here long?”
She shook her head. “No, just a few days, as a matter of fact. I came down to visit my sister.”
“And you decided to stay?”
“For a while.”
He smiled. “I can understand why.”
For a moment he considered whether to ask her out for a drink, if she wasn’t working late. But though she was friendly enough, in a professional way, he sensed a kind of ‘keep off’ force field around her. Probably best not to go there.
Another cool smile as she turned back to the computer screen. “Well, anything you need, just let me know.”
He could take a hint. “Thank you. I’ll see you later then.”
“Of course.”
His room was on the second floor, and he took the stairs. The corridor was quiet at this time of the afternoon. In fact, the place was always quiet. It seemed to be barely half full. But his roomwas comfortable and clean, with another stunning view over the bay.
He stood for a long moment at the window, gazing out. Peace, tranquillity, stillness.
He had loved flying jets. But after ten years of the noise, the smells, having to think faster than the speed of sound and the constant awareness of the price of making a mistake, he had felt the need to slow down.
Visiting his grandfather had been his initial reason for coming to Sturcombe, but even though he’d only been here for a couple of days, he already knew that he could easily fall in love with the place. He could live here . . .
“No! Stop!” A woman’s voice, shrill, cut through the quiet. “Leave me alone.”
