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‘Hey.’ Her smile is tender. From her hat, a lick of black curl.
Her lack of fury is disconcerting. He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his combat trousers.
‘Naomi,’ he manages. ‘Hey.’
In the stroller, a baby sleeps – eyelids red-threaded like chard leaves, mouth a tiny pink cyclamen. The blanket is blue. A boy then.
‘He’s… he’s my friend’s,’ Naomi says, as if in a rush and despite the fact that he hasn’t asked. Her white cheeks flush pink beneath her freckles. ‘His name’s Tommy. Thomas. He’s… he’s my friend’s baby. My friend Cheryl’s.’ She fusses a moment with the blanket, though it is perfectly tucked in, the baby undisturbed.
‘Are you… were you going for a walk?’ Asking the question, he has the impression he is trying to help her out of her embarrassment. It occurs to him that she might feel as awkward as he does, seeing him like this after so long, the last time a hazy memory of insults shouted down a flight of stairs, himself cringing, hurrying out to the van, his meagre belongings in his arms.
But she is not shouting at him. There has been no scratch of sarcasm, no disdainful narrowing of eyes. Instead, she looks behind her, towards the thick, sloping girth of the Cobb, the boat masts thick reeds in the harbour. And back, meeting his eye, but only briefly. She always looked away and back at him when she was about to lie.
But, ‘I was just in Chideock,’ is all she says.
‘Is that… is that where you’re living now?’
She shakes her head. ‘Still in Brid.’
‘You still in the flat?’ Their flat. Hers now: his parting gift, his apology.
‘You still living with Joyce?’ she counters.
He rolls his eyes, an attempt at humorous self-deprecation. ‘Saddo. Still living with my gran.’ He tries to laugh. Fails. ‘I’ll start looking for somewhere now things are opening up again. Hopefully we’re through the worst.’ His feet feel heavy; the soles of his boots are clogged with clay. He wonders if she is about to make some caustic remark about his choice to live with Joyce during lockdown, the choice that finished them in the end.
But again, ‘You still landscaping?’ is all she asks.
‘Yeah. It’s not been too bad. Outdoors, you know. We’ve been busy actually. You still at the doc’s?’
She presses her mouth tight. Her eyebrows rise – well, here we are then, is the expression. ‘I was thinking,’ she says, ‘I might go and sit on the beach for a bit.’ She shivers – the kind of shiver Joyce would call someone walking over her grave, though to be fair, it has grown chilly. She appears to be suggesting they go together, that she’d like to go and sit with him amidst the ghosts of day-long picnics here on this beach, their giggling games of dare –dare you to run into the cold sea without stopping; dare you to kiss me, properly, in front of everyone; dare you to slide your finger inside my swimming costume right here, right now.
He shakes the images away, ignores the heat climbing up his neck.
He clears his throat. ‘Might be a bit cold for sitting about.’ He glances down at his hiking boots, the brown splashes of mud on the bottom of his khaki combats. When he returns his gaze to her, she looks away. He has rejected her, he thinks. A small rejection to open the wound of the much, much larger one. She will not like that one bit.
‘We could grab a coffee?’ he asks, to make amends, the beginnings of old panic low in his gut. It is not what he wants to do at all. God knows, he can barely look at her, let alone sit opposite her in some warm café with no easy means of escape.
Thankfully, she thumbs over her shoulder to the rows of cars at her back. ‘I’d better get him back. To his mum, you know?’ A rejection for a rejection. Touché.
‘Of course.’ He is nodding too vigorously but can’t stop himself. ‘I’ll… I’ll walk you to your car.’
‘If you like.’
They cross the car park, to the back of the beach huts. He can hear the crash of sea on stones, the yelp of a dog. Sulphurous air: black wigs of seaweed stranded by the tide.
At her car, she stops, opens the back door and lifts the top of the buggy out of its frame with easy expertise. The baby stirs, blinks awake. His eyes are blue, like Sam’s own. His romper suit has a hood with cute fluffy animal ears on it, his head hidden, his eyebrows no more than a white downy fuzz. A fair, blue-eyed child. He groans, a half-hearted protest, both arms coming up, fists tight as Venus flytraps. His eyes find Sam’s, stare at him, into him, almost. Something in him shifts.
Her friend’s kid, she said. She definitely said that.
‘I’d better get him back,’ she says.
‘Yes.’ He nods, confusion growing by the second, a faint familiar churning in his gut. ‘Back to his mum, you said.’
She casts her gaze behind her, towards the Ladies’ by the bowling green, back to him. ‘Bye, Sam.’
A year ago, he had to break free of her just to carry on breathing. Now, at the thought of her going, he is filled with the urge to grab the sleeve of her coat, to say,Stop. Wait. Just…
‘Look after yourself,’ is what makes it out of his mouth. The words sound flat and lame.
