What now, thinks Tobias with a groan and he looks over his shoulder to see an older man standing at the gate, sporting a dour expression. As he tracks back through the garden he recognises him as the old cockle he’s seen about the town; the one who dresses in traditional fisherman’s garb. A real old sea dog if ever he saw one. The man wears a permanent scowl on his face, as though he has been leaning into the sun or wind his whole life. Which he probably has, reflects Tobias.
‘You do go by the name of Woolf?’ shouts the man and Tobias frowns at his manner. These locals can certainly be bluff old coves, that’s for sure. ‘I’m looking for your wife.’
‘Olivia? he asks in surprise. ‘Whatever could you want with her?’
‘She promised me the first month’s rent on the shop up front,’ he says. ‘In cash!’ he adds, leaning on the gate.
‘What?’
‘The fishmonger’s shop, as was. Premises on Quay Lane.’ He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, in the general direction of the town. ‘She’s agreed to let the place. Signed a contract. I’m the owner and I want my money. Soon as.’
Tobias is speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a caught fish, a large vein bulging in his forehead as he tries to make sense of this information.
‘Well, this is news to me, I must say,’ he responds eventually. He feels a stab of betrayal, swiftly followed by anger, run through him like a knife, threatening to wind him.
The man raises a bushy, overgrown eyebrow at this but he continues to lean on the gate ominously.
‘That’s your business. Don’t change the fact I’m owed.’ The old man casts a dark look upwards and over the renovation property. ‘This your place, I take it? Another business venture?’
His voice is dripping with contempt now, his lip curling under the grizzly white stubble.
Tobias rallies and straightens his spine.
‘It is, yes. My wife and I have bought the place to be a second home as a matter of fact. Good job as well. The old place was in danger of crumbling to its knees.’
The man grunts, unimpressed.
‘I used to know the family who lived here once upon a time; three generations, going way before. Back when these houses were for local people. Not just holidaymakers down for a few weeks of the year.’
Tobias feels himself bridle. It is an argument he has heard cast about by the media endlessly but he has no truck with it. It’s all commerce at the end of the day and fair play. After all, he’s investing in the place when local people clearly couldn’t afford to. This town needs families like his or it wouldn’t survive.
‘Yes, well, I suppose we all have to move with the times. I see it hasn’t stopped you wishing to rent your old premises to my wife. Happy to take our money there, eh?’
The man’s face is a black thunder cloud and Tobias takes an involuntary step back, wondering if this brewing storm is about to break. Perhaps he’s pushed the old boy a step too far. But instead the man just glowers at him for a moment.
‘I want my money! Soon as. Or the deal’s off.’ He points a gnarly index finger in Tobias’s general direction. ‘You tell her that from me.’
And with that he turns and begins to stumble back down the hill, away from the property, taking his own weather system with him.
31
Lottie and Tim have decided to go for another hike along the coast path with Josh in the carrier, this time taking a different direction and climbing up to the top of the headland. It’s a great place to admire the view and catch some much needed fresh air. The craggy fingertips of ancient rocks stretch out into the sea beneath the sheer drop of the cliff side and the sun has an almost alchemic effect on the water as the tide pushes and pulls along the shoreline.
Lottie gulps this air down into her lungs and it feels brand new, like no one else has ever inhaled it before. The breeze blows right through her, her eyes clamping shut, her ears aching a little but it is so refreshing up here and it makes her feel alive. She turns to adjust the sun hat so it is secured over Josh’s head to keep out the elements but he is sheltered in the backpack. Only his arms and legs are hanging free as he kicks at the air, reaches out and grabs at the wind as though he might capture it.
‘Let’s find somewhere to sit and eat,’ says Tim whose hair is whipping about in the breeze too, though his eyes are bright and shining and he looks happy. They continue on walking for a while, pleasantly buffeted by the wind as it blows this way and that, like a physical entity that shoves them playfully. Finally they find a vacant bench, set a little way back from the cliff in a warm, quiet spot and sit down on it gratefully.
Lottie unloads items from her rucksack; sandwiches, carrot and cucumber slices, cubes of cheese and breadsticks. Apples. A water bottle. She breaks a breadstick in half and hands it toJosh who proceeds to suck on it until it is soft and mushy. They all three of them sit back and contemplate the long sweep of the bay as it stretches out far beneath them. Tim starts up one of his meandering lessons about different types of rock; why some beaches are natural and others man-made, how sand is created from shale, which is actually broken pieces of shell and stone, finely ground down over years until it is the minuscule grains we walk on and build castles out of now.
She knows he is saying much of this for Josh’s benefit, even though most of it seems to go way over her son’s head at this age, but she can’t help zoning out as she chews slowly on her sandwich while keeping a watchful eye out for greedy seagulls. Her mind wanders to review the last few days. How she had been so irate at the beginning, her anger almost threatening to spoil her family’s one and only precious holiday this year. She won’t let it. Neither will she rise to it any more, or give into her fury. She must learn to control her temper from now on. This week feels like it has been a test but one that she is slowly passing.
She still believes that something should be done. The law should be changed, the council should do more, new housing should be built exclusively for local people, greater taxes placed on second-home owners. But then the rich would just continue paying it, because they can. Or passing the cost on to the consumer, pricing out people like her and Tim from the market, so that they wouldn’t be able to afford to come on holiday at all. And she feels a sense of resignation wash over her. Perhaps this is why Tim is so sanguine. In the end, you know you can’t beat them. So you have to join them. And so the cycle continues.
Sitting forward, she finishes her roll and dusts the flour from her hands. She is beginning to pack up some of the leftovers when she sees it. A plaque on the bench. It is a fairly new and shiny one and as she considers the wooden bench again, she sees it is also a recent addition, unlike the others which look older and silvered with age. Lottie reads the inscription.
in memory of luke andrew stark
beloved brother, son and grandson
