Page 18 of The Seaside Cocktail Campervan

And with that they clinked glasses.

Chapter 10

Jack had spent the whole morning disinfecting, scrubbing, buffing; getting Ruby ship-shape for their next event. He liked to know that his campervan companion was clean to the point of sparkling. And now he found himself with the afternoon free. The coast was calling.

He decided to take a jog along the dunes and the cliff path between Beadnell and Craster. A gorgeously scenic stretch of six miles each way. A twelve-mile run didn’t faze him; he’d done half marathons, including the Great North Run, many a time, raising money in memory of his brother. Running came easily to him; that sense of pace and freedom.

Dressed in shorts and a sports T, with his favourite (to the point of being worn down) running shoes on, he set off from the beach-side car park at a steady jog. The view as he hit the bay was stunning: a panorama of sea, sky and sand, in a palette of blues, greys, and golds. There were dog walkers aplenty, and young children toddling down to the shoreline to find shells, filling their colourful castle-shaped buckets with salty water and seaside treasures, their parents close behind. He didn’t mind kids, they were fine, he just never imagined having one of his own … not for a long time yet.

Fresh air pumped through his body. He felt energised and his limbs felt strong as he strode out over the sands. Onwards, rhythmic, along the two-mile beach then up the dune bank, over a wooden footbridge, and up and along the short grassy banks of a low cliff. A further sweeping bay and then the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle rose on the skyline ahead, ragged where they had crumbled and tumbled over time, yet still managing to appear grand. What battles and stories had those ruins to tell? Jogging on with the sea crashing softly against low rocks now, the village of Craster came into sight.

Jack stopped for a harbourside coffee at the small village, with its cluster of stone cottages. Felt the sun warm on his salt-sweaty skin, enjoyed the rich earthy taste of the coffee, the kick of caffeine. He soon set back off, away from the tourists who were gathered like noisy herring gulls at the little port. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle. In less than two hours he was back at the start, guzzling a much-needed bottle of water. Shower facilities were non-existent in Ruby’s converted interior, so a dip in the sea was the next best thing. He tore off his sweaty T-shirt, and jogged back down to the shore, dashing in. The rush of the salt water welcomingly cool and refreshing, invigorating. The North Sea always being on the chilly side. He swam out confidently, enjoying a spell rolled on his back, bobbing over the swell of the deeper waters, watching the beach and its dwellers who looked small and cartoon-like from a distance.

The wind was warm and dried most of the salty water off of his skin as he walked back up the bay. He finished off by towel drying back at his campervan. Jack felt a pang of hunger then, and grabbed a tasty bacon sandwich and a Diet Coke from the Beach Shack kiosk at the car park. Beadnell was busy today, a Friday in late May; it was a popular spot with tourists and locals alike. So, Jack thought he’d head on to somewhere quieter for the evening.

There were several spots he knew of, at the end of no-through-road seaside lanes, where you could park up, walk the dunes, find an isolated spot and do a bit of unofficial wild camping. His two-man tent (he’d only ever used it for one), his camping stove, a snack and a couple of beers were all he needed at those times. Where all you had to do was take in the peaceful wash of amazing colours in a fading sea and sky – pale blues, infused with pinks, orange, gold and greys, that deepened by the second. Matt was used to Jack and Ruby disappearing for a day or two, so his housemate wouldn’t be concerned if he didn’t come home tonight.

He took to the road, heading north along the coast, to a hidden stretch of shoreline, well away from the main tourist spots. Sun, sand, sea and … solitude.

Afternoon rolled into evening and Jack enjoyed a simple supper of Frankfurter sausages from a can – warmed on the little gas stove he kept handy in Ruby – served in soft bread rolls with some fried onions and ketchup. Nothing gourmet but damned tasty, followed by a couple of apples for good measure. He didn’t like to exist merely on junk food. He sat on an old tartan rug with his back against a large driftwood log, and opened his second can of beer which gave a fizzy hiss. Real ale, thirst-quenching, still cold from his cool bag – bliss.

The sea was a gentle swell this evening, rolling in with a low, reassuring rumble. The sky now softening to a dusky deep navy. A couple of stars glowed way up high, intriguingly. What was out there? He thought of Daniel. Was he all gone? Jack wasn’t religious, he thought that that was that, a life extinguished … and yet, now and again, there was a sense of his brother’s spirit. Maybe it was just within him, his memories, his love for his brother, that made him feel that way.

His mind drifted. Daniel had had a serious girlfriend for a couple of years at uni: Emily. Jack had met her back at home in Alnwick on a couple of occasions. Dan had been proud to introduce her to his folks, who of course made her feel very welcome. They’d all thought that an engagement might have been on the cards.

Afterwards, she and Jack had kept in touch for a while – united by grief – just the odd message, but even that had drifted these latter years. It all just seemed too hard, too pointless. Jack wondered now if she was with someone else. Of course, she would be by now, it was over eleven years ago. Did she find someone new, get married? Did they have kids? It was weird, seemed so unfair, to think that someone else was now living his brother’s life.

He needed an outlet for these intense emotions.

Under a sky full of stars, and by the light of his iPhone, Jack took up a pen and began to write.

Chapter 11

Lucy was delighted to hear she’d managed to secure a weekly position for All Fired Up at the Alnwick market. The market was held every Thursday on the quaint cobbled square of this historic Northumbrian town, with its old stone buildings and local shops, not far from its imposing castle and the famous and rather magical Alnwick Gardens. Lucy had been nervous when pitching for this slot, trying to be her most charming when talking to the organiser on the telephone, and making sure to tell him all about the fresh local ingredients she sourced for her toppings. A regular slot was a good step forward in building her business!

The first event quickly swung around and Lucy was there bright and early and all set up, ready for the market’s eight thirty start. The clock tower of the town hall showed that it wasn’t yet nine, and already it was brilliant how many customers had called by for a slice of ‘breakfast’ pizza! A bit of a brainwave she’d had when she realised the market would start so early. Her crispy bacon, Northumbrian sausage and mushroom pizzas were going down a storm – the word, as well as the aroma, soon spreading around the stallholders who seemed to be the first in line.

She’d even had the forethought to bring a kettle, milk and some eco-friendly takeaway cups to make good-quality instant coffee and tea to serve alongside her food – ever the entrepreneur. Lucy really hoped this event would become the bread and butter of her new business venture.

‘Have you got a wedge of that there breakfast pizza, lass?’ A burly-looking, grey-bearded chap in a red lumberjack shirt and jeans, approached with a warm smile. ‘Never tried anything like it before, but Alf on the veg stall says it went down a treat, so I’ll give it a go.’

‘Of course. And can I get you anything to go with it? I’m doing coffees and teas too.’

‘Aye, go on then, I’ll have a coffee – white, two sugars. Mind, don’t let Maggie see what you’re up to – she’s the hot-drinks van – you don’t want to be putting her nose out of joint.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t meant to tread on anybody’s toes …’ Lucy floundered. Crikey, market politics were creeping in already, and she’d only been open for an hour. She hadn’t even considered that might come into play.

‘Hey, only teasing, kiddo.’

Kiddo? She was over thirty.

‘Look, each to their own,’ he continued with a wink. ‘She does all that fancy bore-ista stuff. I’m not really into all that.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m sure she’ll have plenty of customers still wanting her fancy-pants stuff.’

‘Well, I hope so.’ Lucy began to feel uneasy. She didn’t want to be upsetting anybody so early on in her new pitch.

‘Ah, it’ll be fine. I shouldn’t have said nowt. I’m Derek, by the way. The plant-stall man.’ He gestured towards a tented stand full of nursery plants and garden tools. He then offered his hand in greeting, which Lucy shook. It was rough and a little bit calloused; the weathered palm of a real hands-on gardener.

‘Ah, well nice to meet you, Derek. I’m Lucy.’ She served him an extra-large slice of the pizza. ‘And if you’re still peckish around lunchtime, or later on, I’ll have lots more flavours on offer then too … a classic margherita, local chorizo with peppers, BBQ chicken, and a char-grilled veg.’