A hot, bubbly bath
Awake again. The rickety bed creaked as she moved. Pitch black. There were no streetlights out here, just the sound of the rush and pull of the waves on the shore for company.
God, her left boob was uncomfortable. She must have shifted to lie front-down in her sleep and crushed it a bit. The scar was still tight sometimes, and then that weird taut pain nipped down her arm from the armpit. She wriggled her fingers, loosening them up.
She lay there thinking. She’d done it, made her escape to her cottage by the sea. Got away for a while. A chance to breathe again.
It felt like she’d been in limbo since the op and the chemo, the radiotherapy thereafter. She’d grown used to that new life of appointments, hospital visits – it had structured her days and become her norm. She’d become friendly with the nurses and the other patients, and in an odd kind of way she missed them. Even though it was for the best-ever reason that she could jump ship and leave that weird journey. It had felt strange trying to settle back into her old life, which had come as a surprise after longing for that day so much. Yet nothing seemed the same once she was back working at the newspaper, catching up with her lovely friends Andrea, Jo and the girls in the office. When they started chatting about which shoes to wear with which dress for their Friday night out, it felt like a world away from where she’d just been. She should have been leaping around with joy, but she just felt quiet inside, more thoughtful than she’d ever been. Yes, it was good getting back to work, but it was like the axis of her world had shifted.
She travelled back in her mind to the line-up of fake leather chairs, the chemo ward – sitting there with magazines and chit-chat, everyone’s lines attached to a drip like something out of a sci-fi movie. The hour’s wait, unnerving at first, but then you got used to it. She’d made it through … She felt tears prick behind her eyes. Others hadn’t. Rebecca, Leanne … the friends she’d chatted with, looked forward to seeing on her weekly visit, a nod and a wave to their families as they passed, saying hello, goodbye. Talking, planning what they’d all be doing when they got out of this place. Bloody hell – some of them had never got out of that place, and she owed it to them to make the best of this life she’d been given back.
Claire had the feeling that change was about to happen, but she didn’t know quite how yet, which way things were going to go. All she knew for sure was that she couldn’t waste the rest of this life, this new chance.
Yes, she was beginning to find her feet, though life still seemed a little wobbly at the moment. She must hold on to the fact that she’d been given the all clear, or as clear as they could promise for now. And for now was a good enough place to start.
It was still dark outside – she could see from the crack in the curtains. It must be the early hours of the morning. She should try and get some more sleep, but her head was way too busy. She’d get up and make a cup of camomile tea.
Venturing downstairs, she popped the kettle on and waited for it to come to a boil in the cranky kitchen. After steeping the teabag, she took her mug through to the lounge. She didn’t bother to put the light on. It was peaceful standing there just gazing out at the night sea, the silver flickers on the crests of waves under the light of a crescent moon. The warmth from the mug in her hands was calming.
She thought she saw a glimmer of light flick on, then off, possibly from the cottage next door? Maybe she wasn’t the only one up at weird hours in the night. She’d put the light on in the kitchen – had that disturbed him? After all, it was three a.m. Oops, he might be an even grumpier neighbour tomorrow.
Claire woke up groggy after her restless night. Tea on the balcony time.
Huddled in her dressing gown, she went downstairs to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Crikey, even in summer it was chilly in this place. She hadn’t spotted a radiator or any kind of electric heater yet, just the real fire in the lounge. Thank heavens she hadn’t booked a winter break.
While the tea was brewing, she spotted a few tattered books on the kitchen shelf – recipe books; there was one on baking bread. She took it down and flicked through a few pages. She’d always been partial to a bit of armchair baking, watching the trials, tribulations and fabulous creations on The Great British Bake Off. Maybe she should give it a go. She had plenty of time on her hands. And that loaf from the deli yesterday was scrummy; she wondered if it was hard to make?
She took the book out with her. She enjoyed a cup of Earl Grey on her upstairs balcony in the rickety yet comfy deckchair. And pondered what to do with her break. How was she going to make the best of her time? A list started forming in her mind. Yes, she was meant to be relaxing, but she couldn’t help being a ‘to-do list’ kind of girl. Hmm, the first thing she fancied was a hot, deep and very bubbly bath.
So, number 1: Soak in a hot, bubbly bath.
What next? Hmn, yes, number 2: Sip a glass of chilled white wine with the sun on her face, the sound of the sea, and a lovely view. Perfect. She just needed to go and buy the bottle of wine.
Number 3 (she was getting into the swing of this now): Watch the world go by for a while and hopefully listen to the sound of children’s laughter – there were bound to be some kids on the beach at some point. That was always guaranteed to make you smile.
And if she was desperate for company later in the holiday, it would be lovely to invite her two small nephews up for the day. They always made her smile too. She remembered them finding her prosthetic bra insert when she’d stayed over at her sister’s house after the mastectomy. She’d slept in her younger nephew Ollie’s bedroom overnight, and he and Jack had spotted the mystery item lying on the bedside table the next morning. They’d been fascinated and had decided to use it as a Frisbee, chucking it around the room – she’d come back from the shower to find them mid-throw. Her sister, Sally, had been mortified and gave them a right telling-off, but Claire had seen the funny side – they were just kids playing. She’d ended up laughing until it made her sore.
Number 4: make some homemade bread. Yes, she’d have a go at that. So along with the wine she’d need to pick up some bread-making ingredients.
Number 5: watch that gorgeous (if grumpy) guy next door get naked again. She’d have to be alert early in the mornings, just in case. So, he might be a bit unsociable, but that didn’t stop a girl wanting to take a look. But, there was no sign of Mr Gorgeous-but-Grumpy’s toned naked butt on the beach this morning, though. Shame. Perhaps knowing that she was there next door had put him off. Bloody empty gas bottles. If she hadn’t had to knock on his door, he might never have realized she was there, and the morning swims might have continued, brightening her day. She vowed to be alert during her stay in case, however.
Number 6: dance in the rain. She wasn’t sure where that idea came from, but it seemed like a nice, carefree thing to do. When it next started to pour down (and, being Northumberland, that might not be long), she’d head out onto the sands and do a jig – just because she could.
Number 7 (she was on a roll now): make a new friend. Someone here in Bamburgh. The lady in the deli came to mind; she seemed nice and chatty.
Number 8: what else made life feel good? A cup of tea, a glass of wine (already got that), cocktails. Hmm, yes, before all the treatments she’d been partial to the odd mojito in Bella’s Bar with Andrea down at the quayside in Newcastle, but maybe not now. Sex on the beach, now where did that thought come from? But not the cocktail, oh no, the real deal. Wow! That would be pretty cool and extremely sexy – or gritty and sandy, but worth a try. But, that could prove difficult to achieve, since she was staying here on her own and indeed she didn’t actually intend to have anything to do with men for quite some time. One day, maybe. Never say never. Her list could carry forward!
Number 9 wasn’t forthcoming, so she decided to leave that and number 10 to be confirmed. There was no point wasting wishes till you knew what you wanted.
She wondered if there was a post-cancer wish fairy. Like a tooth fairy. You lost a boob and got a few wishes for it. Wow, how did her brain come up with this stuff?
Actually, thinking of her list, maybe she should be less selfish and wish everyone she loved or knew good health, bucketloads of happiness and some magic moments for themselves. That could be number 9 sorted after all.
She sipped her tea and leafed through the bread recipes; they didn’t look too daunting, and the ingredients wouldn’t be expensive. That was one thing she could definitely do today. And next – no time like the present – she’d take a leisurely bath.
She left the balcony and headed for the bathroom, where she turned the taps to full. At least there seemed to be plenty of hot water today. She poured in some of the Molton Brown bubble bath she’d saved from Christmas, removed her robe, trying not to look at her scars, and sank below the surface to chin level, bubbles of fragrant ginger-lily bursting lightly around her. Bliss. She should be drinking bubbles in here too, sipping a chilled glass of champagne – but the budget didn’t stretch to that. Still, maybe she could pop along to the everything-and-more store in the village for that bottle of white wine for later. She’d be ticking off her wish list at a rate of knots!
She reached for the baking book, topped up the hot water and lost herself in a world of ‘00’ flour, rosemary focaccia, and stone-baked crust. She emerged after forty minutes pale and prune-like, but relaxed and content.
Half an hour later, armed with rucksack and cagoule, she set off up the beach again. The clouds were gathering dramatically on the horizon, a shaft of grey cutting down to the sea where the rain was sheeting offshore; definitely a sunshine and showers kind of day. She’d head for the deli – they’d hopefully have the flour and yeast she needed. She could picture herself kneading away in the 1950s kitchen like Mary Berry. Actually, what she could really picture was herself imagining it was her husband’s face she was slapping and pounding. Boomph. Just when she’d thought life might return to normality after all the treatments. Paul … That bombshell. She was still shaking from it. How hadn’t she guessed? ‘In sickness and in health …’ He’d hung in there just because he’d felt sorry for her, only to dump it on her like a shedload of shit, right at the moment that should have been the happy ending.
Okay, enough of feeling sorry for herself. She wasn’t going down that route. Stop all negative images, right there. She was here for peace and quiet, not violent thoughts. But maybe a bit of dough beating would be good therapy.
The beach was quieter today; the weather was keeping people away. There were some hardy anoraked holidaymakers and dog walkers about, and one stoical family camped out with windbreaks.
After a forty-five minute stroll, she reached the village. At the deli she was greeted with a warm smile by the same lady. Today she was wearing a cheerful vintage-style flowery apron.
‘Hello, pet – back again then?’
‘Yes – the loaf I bought here yesterday was gorgeous. I’ve been inspired to try and have a go at baking some bread myself. I’m after flour and some yeast if you have it?’
‘Oh, marvellous. How exciting. I just love home baking. I do all the artisan loaves here myself.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive. So you created the wholemeal honey loaf?’
‘Well, yes I did, and thank you. Right well, you say you’ve never baked before, so I’d suggest trying something simple for starters.’
‘Absolutely. I’ve found a recipe in an old cookbook for a basic bloomer.’
‘Sounds as good as any to start with, my lovely. First things first, you’ll need some strong 00 bread flour. Do you want to make white or wholemeal?’
‘I’ll start with a basic white.’
‘For yeast I’d recommend the dried sachets. They’re as good as anything and easier to work with. Oil – do you have any oil, just to work the dough? Olive or sunflower?’
‘Sunflower.’
‘And salt?’
‘I think there’s some back at the cottage.’ She’d spotted a Saxa pot lurking in a kitchen cupboard. Mind you, the packaging looked like something her gran had had when Claire was a kid. ‘Actually, it’s probably been there since the 70s, so yes please, I’ll take some salt too.’
‘Okay.’ The lady busied herself at the shelves at the back of the store, gathering the goods. ‘Where was it you said you were staying?’
‘The Hedley cottage, away along the beach. It’s called Farne View.’
She turned, her eyebrows arching up. ‘Ah yes, I do know of it.’ Her lip twitched; the cottage’s reputation must precede it. ‘And you’re okay there?’ She looked sceptical.
‘Yes, it’s fine. A bit basic, but fine.’
‘Right, well, I’m Lynda, by the way. Nice to meet you.’ She wiped the flour from her palms onto her apron, then offered her hand over the countertop.
‘Claire. I’m staying for a few weeks, so I’m sure I’ll be back in.’
‘Great. I look forward to seeing you, Claire. Have a lovely stay. And good luck with the bread. You’ll have to pop in and tell me how it works out.’
‘Hah, yes – and no doubt next time I’ll be coming back to buy one of yours!’
‘You never know, you might just have the knack for it. You might be a natural.’
‘I’ll see.’ She wasn’t so sure. Though she loved to watch other people baking, it had never been her thing so far. A few half-risen cupcakes had been her highlight.
She settled up and headed out just as a young mum and toddler were coming in.
‘Thanks. Bye, Lynda.’
‘Bye, my lovely.’
It was nice chatting to the locals. And, Lynda seemed really genuine and friendly. At least not everyone was grumpy round here.
Right, how difficult could this bread-making malarkey be then?
Firstly, she’d need some kitchen scales. Would there even be any kitchen scales here? After a full investigation of the cupboards, she found an ancient set made of black painted metal that had the proper individual weights on one side and a scoop balanced on the other. Boy, they were heavy to lift out. Luckily the old cookbook was in imperial measures as all she had were pounds and ounces for weights. She needed a pound of the strong flour, and she guessed at a sachet of the yeast as the recipe stated half an ounce of fresh. Some oil – she’d use sunflower; it said vegetable, but that would be fine. She then measured out the water she needed from the tap into a glass jug.
Okay, here goes. Everything went in at once, apparently. Oops, but not all of the water; she quickly stopped pouring. ‘Mix to a firm dough,’ she read. Her hands went in and were soon covered up to her wrists in soft, gloopy paste. This was sooo messy. It reminded her of Play-Doh from when she was a kid, but even that stuff hadn’t been half as mucky as this. This was more like something you’d fill cracks in the walls with. Actually, it might just come in handy for the cottage – stick the old walls back together where they’d begun to crumble.
‘Push with the heel of your hand and fold back in.’ She had to keep oiling the work surface as the dough kept sticking to it, but gradually it started to become firmer, more elastic. She was meant to do this for ten minutes. That hadn’t sounded bad, but after five minutes her hand was aching and the mix didn’t seem anywhere near bouncy and smooth like it was supposed to be. Smooth? Knobbly and falling apart was more like it. She kept going. Push out and roll in. At least the rhythm of kneading was taking her mind off things. After a while it appeared to be rolling as one piece and felt springy under her palm. Eleven minutes; that would do. Next she had to put it in an oiled bowl. She covered the dough with a tea towel as directed and left it on the side.
She felt less like Mary Berry and more like the contender who gets chucked out in the first round. Or more likely one of the ones who never actually made it as far as the Bake Off tent.
The deed was done, the bread was left to rise. The recipe said it needed at least an hour and a half for this stage. Time to pour herself a nice chilled glass of the Pinot Grigio she’d picked up from the all-in-one store after visiting the deli, and sit outside. The clouds had dispersed after a short, sharp shower and – wonderfully – the sun was back out. Claire found a fusty-looking wine glass in a kitchen cupboard, gave it a wash and then took the bottle from the fridge and unscrewed the lid. The smell was fragrant and fruity; she poured herself a medium-sized glass.
She went outside and sat on one of the wooden put-me-up chairs at the little wonky table in her small patch of scabby-grassed garden. Looking out across the sea with its breezy, choppy waves glinting in the sunlight, she took a long, slow sip of her wine. Apples and herbs and vanilla hit her all at once. Wow, it was great to taste properly again. The chemo had dulled every sense, diminishing her taste buds, but gradually they were coming back. She wouldn’t drink too much alcohol, of course, wary of abusing her body that had already been through so much. But a little of what you fancied …
She’d taken her phone out with her – hopeful, considering the poor signal; but within a few moments a text beeped through.
It was her sister, Sally. How’s it going, Clairebo? x A nickname struck up between them over a penchant for Haribo sweets.
Fine, all good x, she texted back. Short and sweet. She’d try and ring her later, walk up a dune and catch a better signal.
Sure? Sally bounced back. Protective about her little sis as always.
Of course. Just chilling here. Enjoying the sea view.
Not bored of your own company yet then?
No, I’m not that bad company am I?
Nah, course not. How’s the cottage? Cute?
Hah. Claire gave a wry grin. Thank God Sal couldn’t see it falling apart behind her. Quirky was the most honest answer she was going to give.
Thinking of coming down to see you for the day next Saturday. Okay with you?
Bang went her solitude. But hey, they’d always got on, even if her sister could be a bit bossy at times; that seemed to be par for the course with older sisters. And Sal had always looked out for her, had been a good shoulder to lean on throughout her cancer treatment.
Yes, that’d be nice. I’ll ring you in the week. Tell you how to find the cottage.
Great.
Mark and the kids fine?, Claire tapped in.
Yeah, all good here. See you soon x
See you next week! x
So she’d be getting a visitor.
An hour passed. Claire went back in to sneak a look at her creation. The dough had doubled at least, so she must have done something right. She then thought she’d better turn on the oven at that point. Gas Mark 6, the recipe said – this gas stuff was so unfamiliar; her oven at home was electric and in Celsius. She turned the knob, then realized there was also an ignition button, pushed at it with the cooker door open so she could see what was happening, and watched a blue flame run along the back of the oven. All seemed fine.
Half an hour later she was back inside kneading the dough again. She’d thought it would be ready to go in the oven at this stage, but on rereading the recipe she realized it needed a further hour of ‘proving’ after she’d done a bit more kneading and shaped it into an oval-styled bloomer. Blimey. All this for one loaf of bread. It had better be worth it. She could have walked to the deli and back a couple of times by the time it would be ready and picked up something probably a lot more yummy from Lynda’s artisan bread basket.
Finally the loaf was ready to go into the oven with a dusting of flour on the top. It would be ready in thirty minutes, apparently. She checked her watch. It was four hours since she’d started. Oh my.
Half an hour later, she opened the oven door cautiously … Here goes. The loaf looked rather pale. She took it out, but it didn’t feel quite right under her touch. Should it be bouncier, crispier? She hazarded a guess that it wasn’t quite done and popped it back in for ten minutes. It was smelling lovely, there was nothing quite like the scent of freshly baked bread. Maybe some things were worth waiting for.
The bloomer finally came out looking golden and generally the right kind of shape. She ought to let it cool, but the fresh-baked smell kept drawing her back to the kitchen. She couldn’t wait any longer and was soon slathering butter onto a just-cut slice. Hmm, pretty good. It was tasty – maybe a touch on the doughy side, but not at all bad for a first attempt. It would go well with the rest of the soup for supper, or perhaps make a scrummy bacon sandwich.
As evening approached after a long, relaxed afternoon with her book, she sat out on the deckchair on her first-floor balcony watching shades of bold pink and peach diffuse the sky over a sunset sea. With her second glass of chilled white wine to hand, she sat quite still, listening to the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves lapping the shore. A pair of black-and-white terns swooped steadily across the bay, then headed inland over the dunes to roost.
She’d popped a cardigan on over her T-shirt. It was a balmy evening nonetheless, calm and still. It was beautiful here, so very peaceful; the solitude restful. Yes, she’d enjoy seeing her sister at the end of next week, but for now this was what she needed. In fact, despite the run-down state of the cottage, this was just about perfect.
The next morning, Claire was up early again. She wandered out onto the bedroom’s balcony to greet the day and spotted the six a.m. pile of clothes – a little further up the beach this time. Her heart gave a little leap. Damn, she must have missed him going out. But hey, she was definitely going to settle down on the deckchair for the view on his way back in. Her cup of tea could wait.
Of course he was much further away from the cottages this time, probably being cautious now he knew there was someone next door. She sat watching for a while, and then there he was, swimming towards the shore and rising out of the water, tall, toned, dripping in salt water and stark-bollock-naked yet again. Oh yes, what a body. It felt like her guilty secret – lurking in the shadows of her balcony admiring the ‘sea view’. But she just couldn’t resist. Even if he was a grumpy-ass, she didn’t have to speak with him to admire his fit physique.
She had a pretty chilled-out day after that. She toasted some of her homemade bloomer for breakfast with butter and strawberry jam – scrummy. She spent a pleasant couple of hours reading, and then went for a leisurely stroll, in the opposite direction from Bamburgh this time, enjoying the views towards Seahouses and the Farne Islands. She dipped her feet in the cool North Sea and let the breaking waves froth over them, rising up to her shins.
She heard the engine of a car revving close by that evening, a scrunch of gravel, and then there were no lights on next door after that, so he must have gone home. It was Sunday. He might well be a weekender, she mused. She really was on her own in that little cluster of cottages now.
It seemed very quiet and dark that night: the woodwork creaking in the wind, a rattle of the window frame, a loose gutter flapping, and that was about it. She snuggled down under her duvet, wondering if he owned the house next door, if he might be back next weekend, or if he had just been on holiday himself and that was the last she’d ever see of him.