Page 32 of Summer at Harbour View House
‘Do you think that was those pasties we bought in that shop? My stomach’s been a little grumbly too.’
Natasha sighed. ‘No, I think they were fine.’ She grimaced at the music continuing to blare from over the hedge. ‘I think I might go and ask that idiot to turn it down a little. It’s after nine o’clock, after all.’
‘Sure. I’ll take Charlie inside and put him in the kitchen.’
Natasha smiled. She had given up reminding Hannah that Charlie was a girl. The egg thing might have been a hint, but Hannah was sticking to her guns.
As Hannah headed inside with Charlie tucked contentedly under her arm, Natasha finished off her glass of wine and headed across the grass. The sun would soon be setting below the horizon to the west, and the clear sky meant the colours were reflected right across the sea as though someone had dropped a bucket of marbling ink into the water. She sighed. You couldn’t get this kind of view in Brentwell.
It was just a shame about the neighbours.
She wasn’t too keen on getting into an argument with the guy next door, but she at least wanted to know what he was doing. She remembered a vague noise from last night, but she’d been so drunk after their afternoon in the pub that she’d slept through most of it, waking just a couple of times to a cat-being-murdered kind of howling. If this was going to be a nightly thing, though, she needed to put a stop to it.
She walked along the lane to the steps leading up to 14A. The blaring hair metal came from the garden right above her. Cautiously climbing the steps, she peered through the hedge alongside, until she spotted a figure standing on the grass. He was twirling a metal pole around, and had long hair, spiked out across the top. Only the wobbling belly over spandex pants revealed that this was indeed the same uncouth neighbour with whom they had had such an unpleasant first encounter yesterday morning.
Standing on the little wooden platform at the end of his garden, he was twisting and twirling to another cheesy hair metal song. The pole, Natasha realised, was a microphone stand he was rocking out with like some faded, fallen star. Only as he performed a sudden twirl and the wig flew off, was the effect broken. With a curse of annoyance, the music suddenly cut out, and Natasha heard the clatter of the microphone stand landing on the wood. Without being seen, she retreated down the steps.
It seemed that the impromptu front garden concert was over for the evening. With at least an hour of decent light left, the sky clear and the air cool but not cold, Natasha decided to take a walk around the village. Down the lane past the pub, she wandered among narrow twisting streets, some cobblestoned or paved. Unlike the other seaside villages she had visited, Penkoe hadn’t been hammered by the tourist wave, with just one small craft shop selling local products, a café, and a fish’n’chips shop. Feeling a little peckish, she bought a small bag of chips and walked down to the harbour, where the tide was fully in, covering all but a thin slip of grey sand, leaving the handful of fishing boats bobbing in the water.
The harbour was deserted. Slowly munching her chips, Natasha walked out along the breakwater, enjoying the smell of the sea air, listening to the call of gulls, wary of a couple that got too close, their beady eyes on her chips. The thrill of swimming with the basking sharks still illuminated her, and she found it hard to think about anything else. Seeing those great, gliding plankton eaters moving around her had made all her worldly troubles seem so small and insignificant. Yeah, so losing her apartment to a fire was a pretty big event in most people’s books, but at the end of the day, no one had been hurt—Mrs. Williams, whose shorted heater had caused the blaze had apparently been out at the time—and she had lost nothing that couldn’t be replaced. And while the friend she had prised out of the debris was already being stolen by a handsome fisherman, she felt a sense of peace like she hadn’t felt in forever. It was weeks until the new school term. Her family and their dramas were far away. The gentle soughing of the sea as it rose and fell against the rocks beyond the breakwater was like an indistinct lullaby, soothing her.
Finishing her chips, she walked back up the breakwater, dropping her wrapper in a litter bin. Lights were on in the pub, so she decided to stop in for a quick night cap.
Lizzie was working alone behind the bar. A pair of older men sat at a corner table, playing a game of drafts. A young couple sat at a window table, a bottle of wine in an ice cooler between them. The man was holding the woman’s hand as they smiled out at the view of the harbour, the last light fading out of the night sky.
‘Pint of something cheap,’ Natasha said.
Lizzie scowled. ‘Water? Pound a glass, or you want something to take the edge off the day?’
‘That’s it.’
Lizzie pulled her a pint of keg ale, light brown bubbles frothing over the edge of the glass. It tasted better than it looked.
‘You survive Matt’s excursion?’ Lizzie said.
‘Better than Hannah, who’ll likely be married into the family by the end of the week. She took quite a shine to Davey.’
Lizzie smiled. ‘Most people do, and not surprisingly. He’s a fine lad. He didn’t tickle your fancy?’
‘He was a bit young. And I prefer less beard.’
‘Ha. It’s an acquired taste. He took you’s out to see the sharks?’
Natasha nodded. ‘It was amazing. I’ve never done anything like it.’
‘Matt took me out once, too. Not long after his old wife died. I think he was looking for a replacement. I enjoyed the sharks, though.’
‘It must have been hard bringing up Davey on his own.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘He might look like he was washed up on the shore—like most of us do—but he’s a good man, is Matt. And Davey came out well. Does the fishing just to keep his old man company, but did you know he has a PHD in civil engineering?’ Lizzie chuckled. ‘I don’t even know what that means, but when he moved back to the village he was known as Doctor Davey for a while.’
‘Matt must be proud.’
‘Oh, he is for sure, but I think he’s terrified at the same time that Davey will move off to Plymouth or Exeter or even up to London, like most of the local kids have done.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Ain’t much work round ‘ere for the kids. And not much chance of getting a place to live, not with prices what they are. Should’ve put a rule on it years ago. Locals only sell to locals. But you get one or two sods being greedy and the rest of us suffer. Can’t buy a patch of hedgerow for less than two hundred grand these days.’
