Page 17 of The Second Chance Supper Club

‘Well, I’ve been trying. It’s not been that bad. It’s just all new. And building friendships can take a while …’

‘Cath, darling, I can tell you’re not yourself. That’s it, I’m coming up. No ifs or buts. It’s time you had a bit of company. And of course, I’d love to see your cottage …’ This was nosiness at its fore.

Oh, Lord, it sounded a done deal. Was her friend eager to report back, give the old group the rundown on her new home, on her? Cath felt a sense of foreboding, but what could she say? She hadn’t even had a chance to mention her supper club event, the fact that she was actually establishing a few friends. But her defences were down and some of this conversation rang true, in all honesty. Cath wasn’t sure what to say without sounding rude. She’d already put Helen off a couple of weeks ago. ‘Ahm, well …’

‘Next weekend, I’m free. Geoff’s got a golf tournament on then, too. It’ll be ideal. You’ll not have any plans, will you?’

‘Ah, umm, noo.’ She felt railroaded. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Helen, they’d been good mates over time and their children had virtually grown up together, but she could be rather bossy, and a bit overpowering.

They ended the call with the usual pleasantries, but as Cath pressed the ‘call over’ button, she felt a sense of doom. Helen was no doubt online this very minute, booking her train tickets. Oh, bugger, she was coming up to stay in the cottage the following weekend. And well, that was that.

Blimey, after that call and the impending arrival of a full-on Helen, perhaps another trip out, even if it was on her own, might be exactly what she needed, especially now that she was finding herself at a loose end with the supper club event over. A change of scene was a good idea – time to get in the car and head out to one of the stunning Northumbrian beaches that lay just twenty minutes’ drive away. Time for some fresh sea air, time to take herself out of this contemplative mood, and go off on a coastal hike.

Taking a zig-zag of country lanes, the hawthorn hedges each side bursting with a froth of wedding-white Maytime bloom, a dotting of sheep in the grassy fields and cattle with young calves, she whizzed on by in her Mini. Cath headed to the coast, crossing over the A1, back on to twisty lanes, over the railway crossing, and towards the village of Bamburgh with its impressive castle. The ancient stone fortress, which bordered the sandy beach on its far side, with a picturesque village nestled on its other, stood grand and enchanting before her.

She turned into a lane called The Wynding, following the road to a car park, where she pulled up. Turning her back to the castle and the miles of sandy beach, she headed away from the tourists, taking the coastal path that meandered below the golf course, over rocks, past seaweed-twirled salty pools, striding out over the golden sands that led towards Budle Bay. The rush of waves came foaming in to shore, the cry of gulls filled the air, and above bloomed an expanse of blue-grey sky with a hint-of-pink-edged cloud.

The rhythm of her steps, the cool salt-sea air, with nature all around her, served to lift her spirits. This was why she’d escaped the city, and the never-ending hum of traffic, the constant round of ‘who had what’, be it the latest cars, clothes, makeup … her friends had even started comparing their grandchildren’s achievements, for goodness’ sake. Life wasn’t a competition. All of that had felt exhausting at times.

It wasn’t what you had, it was who you were … and where you were, the here and now; seeing, feeling it, experiencing the magic of the world around you. A gorgeous view, a heart-pumping walk. The warmth of the sun on your face, and the tangle of the wind in your hair. As well as lifting the spirits, it helped to ground you.

Her mind wound back to childhood holidays here in Northumberland all those years ago. The happy times in the no-frills, but always fun, caravan with Mum and Dad. In stark contrast, she remembered nursing her mother through those last few traumatic weeks, firstly at home and then nearer the end in the hospice. Bittersweet emotions swirled within, as a pang of grief unfurled in Cath’s chest. That sense of loss was never far away when she thought about her parents.

She strolled on, finding a flattish area to perch on a rocky outcrop, and sat for a while looking out to sea. More memories … Cath found herself once again thinking of Matty, her first love and holiday romance. She was sweet sixteen, he was seventeen, both probably quite naïve compared to the youth of today. A lovely lad he was, good-looking with his dark wavy hair. He’d seemed so kind that week too, there was a gentleness about him. Thinking of him now made her smile. They’d spent a day here on the beach at Bamburgh, along with her sister and parents. A picnic and a game of cricket, all very innocent that day. Then, a stroll in the dunes, holding hands. A kiss … or three, the heady newness of it all, and a powerful teenage crush that felt very like love. Stolen moments the next day, just the two of them, and then the going home, and all the angst that followed thereafter. Those further memories shot up unbidden.

A splash of waves and a shower of salt spray took her out of her reverie. The tide must be coming back in, but she sat a while longer. She watched a pair of gulls circle above. Her thoughts moving on to The Trevor Years, the early days of love and marriage, and motherhood with Adam. Those blissful, busy, tiring years as a young mother. That all enveloping love. Being a wife, a mother, caring for them all, keeping them close and safe. Working, teaching, all those young adults she tried to coach, doing her utmost to get them to reach their potential. It had always been about others she realised … but what about her?

And now, what now? What came next in the life of Catherine Taylor? The pages were yet to be written. The sky above was now a watery grey-blue, and beautiful, despite the threat of the rain clouds that were beginning to swell over the sea. The breeze that whirled around her was brisk and invigorating. She didn’t have all the answers, after all, she was learning how to live all over again. But she needed to look up, not down. Forward, not back …

Chapter 13

However hard she tried, Cath couldn’t stop her old life catching up with her. Inevitably, the weekend of Helen’s visit rolled around. At least the impending arrival had given Cath a new focus, filling her time with getting the house and the spare bedroom ready for its first staying visitor. She’d have much preferred to have had Adam back, or her sister Susie staying, who’d be far easier company, but as the Saturday morning approached, she found herself looking forward to seeing her old friend once more. There was a lot of catching up to do.

Helen landed in her sporty BMW, having decided to drive. She arrived with a flurry of air kisses, a waft of heady floral perfume, and a clatter of high heels. Perched on the threshold, she gave her friend a thorough lookover that resulted in a slight frown – oops, Cath remembered that she still hadn’t got to a hairdresser as yet. ‘Hello, there. Well, you’ve certainly settled into the country look well.’

Cath’s smile turned into a part-grimace at the backhanded compliment. ‘Well, come on in. Welcome to my new home.’

After touring the cottage, which didn’t exactly take long – Helen declaring it was ‘sweet and compact’– she handed over a thoughtful gift of a cream pottery jug which was actually very pretty and would suit the kitchen. Cath then helped her in with her luggage, and got her settled in the ‘quaint’ spare room. She let her friend know that they’d be sharing bathroom facilities; no en suites here. She saw Helen’s eyebrows twitch at that.

After a lunch of poached salmon, watercress and new potatoes, served with a glass of chilled white wine, the two friends were now sat in the garden, enjoying some afternoon sunshine and a cup of Earl Grey, catching up on old times. The initial conversation and trip down memory lane weren’t anywhere near as bad as Cath had feared. It touched briefly on some Trevor moments, but mostly those that involved the whole gang. There were eight of them in their regular posse; being four couples who’d got on particularly well. They’d had some fun times over the years; dinner parties, New Year’s Eve nights, and when the children were younger, fireworks parties with soup and hot dogs in one of their back gardens, with the torch-and-taper-bearing dads ready to light the rockets somewhere down the far end of the lawn.

So far, they’d managed to steer clear of any in-depth information on Trevor, and that was fine by Cath, who was enjoying catching up on their grown-up children’s latest activities, at uni, home and worldwide. Those same little kids who’d dashed around the gardens with their sparklers. Where had all the years gone … ?

The low hum of a tractor working in some nearby fields filled the air, but it wasn’t too distracting; Cath was becoming used to the sounds of the countryside already. There was birdsong and the buzz of bees, too. Her garden was looking rather lovely now, with its bluebells fading and various shrubs and roses coming into bloom. The borders were full of surprises this first spring and summer of living here – thanks to Reggie and his keen gardening over the years. She had no idea what was going to pop up next. However, a new, and not so fresh, surprise was about to hit them. It was when the ladies decided the yardarm had stretched enough to pour a second glass of wine, that the offensive smell hit their nostrils.

‘Bloody hell, what on earth is that stench?’ Helen screwed up her face.

The hum of the tractor was closer, and so was the aroma.

Pig muck! It had to be.

‘Oh God, that is bad!’ Cath felt slightly nauseous. ‘I think the farmer is fertilising.’

Strong and pungent ‘aroma de pig poo’ hit them, and it was going nowhere fast. Ideal as a fertiliser, no doubt, but not great to sip a glass of white wine alongside.

‘Sorry, Cath, but that is foul. I don’t think I can stand it. Can we go inside?’ Helen was up on her feet and heading for the back door as fast as she could, muttering, ‘We certainly don’t get any of this in Roundhay!’

Cath had a rather stronger constitution, but still, she had to agree that the smell wasn’t pleasant. A day or two at the most and she knew it would pass, but for now, no more sitting in the garden, and no supper soiree for the two of them in the summerhouse either. She had considered that as a nice way to spend the evening. But having Helen here, and witnessing her already prickly approach to country life, Cath now felt glad that her converted shed would remain private, and remain as her little haven – her supper club secret.