Page 47 of Summer at Harbour View House
‘Sit down, I’ll fix it. Davey showed me.’
‘I bet he did.’
Hannah grabbed a stool and made Natasha sit down. She then began to massage the back of Natasha’s neck until the muscles felt a little looser.
‘Did you see Ben down on the beach?’ Hannah asked.
‘Yeah, I ran into him. I—’
‘Isn’t it terrible what happened?’
‘Isn’t what terrible?’
‘He told Davey this morning about what happened last January out in Portugal. He kept it from everyone back home, even his parents.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘He had a bad fall off a wave. He was in a hospital in Lisbon for two months. He had to have pins in his collarbone.’
‘He … he looks all right to me.’
‘Davey said he’s fine for a bit of local surfing, but he no longer has the movement or the flexibility for the big waves. In short, his career is over.’
18
Self-reflection and a Dramatic Chicken Rescue
Just because he’shad some bad luck, doesn’t mean I have to like him.Natasha lifted the binoculars and peered through them. She swung them back and forth, looking for the tanker she had seen moments before. It was there, moving slowly across the horizon, heading who knew where.
Natasha lowered the binoculars. The ship became a distant speck on the grey sea. She wondered where it was going, unable to ignore a sense of envy. It had a journey to complete; it was going somewhere.
Where was she going?
She liked being a teacher, but at times it felt like being a hamster running along a circular race track. Sooner or later, she would get back to the start. For that was how it was, you welcomed the new pupils in September, then you spent the next year trying to keep them safe and alive—while ideally educating them a little at the same time—then off they went, and you were back to the start with a new set of fresh faces. Sometimes, if she kept the same form group for two or three years, it could become unbearable watching them grow up. They came in as fresh-faced mites and left as hardened, almost-adults. And all the while, she stayed the same, except for the gradual lining of her face and—eventually, although she had got away with it so far—the greying of her hair.
During term time she had no time to think, forever scrambling to get lesson materials ready or meet a marking deadline. Now, sitting on these cliffs, watching people out there on the sea in the process of moving from one place to the next, she felt an unbearable sense of claustrophobia.
Who am I? Why am I here? Where am I going?
She envied people like Hannah would could define themselves by interactions with other people. Over a couple of weeks Hannah had gone from a dorky imbecile into a young woman with a purpose and a future. At first Natasha had laughed at Hannah’s insistence that she and Davey were a real item, only to have a slightly inebriated Davey leaning over to her in the pub while Hannah had gone to the bathroom, wondering if Natasha thought it was too soon for him to ask Hannah to marry him. Natasha, after getting over the initial shock, had suggested he wait at least a couple of months.
I have a good job. I should be happy. Sure, I’m currently between permanent abodes, but there are plenty of empty flats in Brentwell. And being a teacher isn’t so bad. I’m doing something worthwhile.
Aren’t I?
It was easier to feel otherwise when the pupils seemed to resent her very existence. Tina had once snidely referred to it the same way that kids who loved animals often said they wanted to be a vet, naively unaware of the fact that without exception, every animal they come into contact with will hate or fear them. It was like that with her kids; even the ones who seemed to appreciate her during school hours would shun her and hide if she happened to see them in the supermarket. She gave a wry smile at the thought; she had done exactly the same when she was a kid.
With the sun attempting to break through the patches of grey cloud that lazily threatened rain, Natasha headed back down to Penkoe, where she bought a sandwich and a scone for lunch from the little café near the harbour. It seemed to be a traditionally quiet day in the village, with a few people wandering along the breakwater, a couple more sitting with fishing rods dangling off the edge. The lights were on in the pub; through the windows she saw a couple of people sitting in the window. She wondered about Lizzie: she hadn’t spoken to the old woman since she and Hannah had seen Lizzie crying on the beach, but she had seen her from a distance, unloading beer barrels from a lorry and hauling them through a pub side door.
While her flat had been rented and she had only lived there for a couple of years, she had still felt a knotted sense of displacement as she had watched smoked billowing out of the windows downstairs. She could never go back now even if the building was repaired; she could never get over the paranoia of the same thing happening again. Eventually she would have to find somewhere else to live, most likely another pokey little flat in a different suburb of Brentwell.
How must Lizzie feel, under threat of losing her family home and business? Natasha could barely imagine it, and wished there was something she could do to help. She had occasionally done charity raffles or jumble sales with the school to raise money for repairs or improvements, but what good would a couple of hundred pounds do?
After lunch she headed back to the house. There was no sign of Hannah, who must still be out on her trip with Davey. Natasha smiled at the note she had found that morning, happy for her neighbour-turned-friend but a little lonely at the same time. The house was too quiet without Hannah’s constant chitter chatter, too quiet.
Too quiet—
‘Charlie?’
