Page 31 of Winter at Wishington Bay
‘Ready?’
He nodded and I opened the door, a sharp chill rushing into the house as I did so.
‘Bloody hell,’ Nate frowned as we stepped out. I waited, fussing with Bryan for a moment as Nate locked the door behind us.
‘Wishing you were back home?’
He turned back, his gaze settling on my face. For a moment he said nothing, then he glanced down at the dog who was dancing around, snapping at the cold air rushing up off the sea before looking back up.
‘Nope,’ he said, then made a gesture, indicating I should lead the way along the path that led up away from the beach and through the village.
* * *
We walked in silence for a little while, but it was companionable, rather than awkward. The sound of the sea washing the beach filled the air as twilight settled around us. We walked past a house with a beautifully tended garden, artfully lit, and I told Nate about the lovely older couple that lived there, and how they had created the garden from scratch over the many years they’d lived here.
‘It must be nice to have something like that,’ he said, throwing another glance back at it as we walked on.
‘A garden?’
‘Yeah. Well, one like that. Something that’s grown with you. Changed.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I know what I mean, but I… it’s sounding stupid.’
‘No,’ I reached out, resting my gloved hand on his arm momentarily. ‘It isn’t. I know exactly what you mean. There’s a story in that garden. The plants that have been there from the start, like anchors to the place. The ones they bought on a special trip or were gifts from others. It’s got a history.’
He looked at me for a moment. ‘Yeah. That’s it. That’s it, exactly.’
‘Why are you looking at me so suspiciously?’ I asked, laughing.
He paused, gave a brief hint at a smile and didn’t answer.
We walked on a bit longer until Nate stopped at a lamppost, which Bryan duly watered.
‘What’s this?’ Nate asked, pointing to the poster that had been stuck on there. ‘Is that here?’
‘Yes, the Christmas Victorian Fayre. The village holds it every year. It’s been going as long as anyone can remember.’
‘Since Victorian times?’
I smiled and shrugged. ‘Maybe! I kind of hope so. That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Back to the whole thing about having a story I guess.’
‘Exactly!’ I grinned.
‘So, what happens then? At this fayre?’
‘Well, the whole village gets involved. All the shops are open, and lots of other traders come and set up little stalls selling food and gifts, plus mulled cider and wine, of course. There’s music, and best of all, everyone dresses up in Victorian costumes. I’ve only been to one, last year, but there were times when I glanced round and you really could have been back in Victorian times.’
‘Would you have liked that?’
‘What?’
‘Being back in history.’
‘Oh.’ I tilted my head one way, then the other. My mother used to chide me on this habit, telling me I didn’t need to get my brain to roll around in my skull to produce a simple answer. I begged to differ. That hadn’t gone down well either. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think that things were a lot simpler back then. Life’s so complicated these days, don’t you think?’
‘Seems to be.’
‘But then I sit in a hot bubble bath, in a warm, cosy flat and consider that things aren’t so bad after all.’
