hour nobody was about. He wouldn’t have to make polite small talk. He could do a few lengths of the pool and be back in the cottage before anyone else was up. He sure as hell could do with the exercise.
Pulling his trunks on and shrugging his arms into the denim overshirt he’d been slobbing around in for the last few days, he grabbed a towel from the bathroom and let himself out of the cottage.
Ignoring the neat path around the lawn that led down to the pool, he leapt over the small wall for a more direct route, enjoying the feel of the dewy grass under his bare feet as he ran down the slope.
Leaving his things on a poolside chair, he walked to the deep end and stood for several seconds looking down before taking a breath and executing a dive into the water. Surfacing half a length down the pool he covered the remaining distance with a slow front crawl to catch his breath before turning and upping his pace. As always, he lost himself in the rhythm of the strokes and concentrating on the number of lengths swum.
He finished on twenty lengths, happy he was still fit enough to manage that amount, turned on his back and began to float slowly down the pool to the steps. That had been the best swim in ages – since the hotel pool in Paris with Hugo when Melissa had…
Guy turned on his front and began a slow, deliberate breaststroke down the pool. As he swam he silently repeated his mantra of the past few months. It’s in the past. Let it go.
He grabbed the steps rail to haul himself out of the pool, taking deep breaths to steady his breathing. A quick towel down, shirt on and he was making his way back to the cottage.
‘Good morning. The coffee’s on, if you’d care to join me?’
Startled, he was about to shake his head and mutter ‘no thanks’ when, perversely, he heard himself say ‘Thanks’ and began walking towards The Bosun’s Locker.
‘I’m Bruce Adams,’ Bruce said, holding out his hand. ‘How d’you like your coffee?’
‘Black, please. Guy Widdicombe,’ he said, grasping the offered hand and noticing the flag hanging limply on its lanyard, not yet pulled up the flagpole. ‘Shall I do the honours with this, while you fetch the coffee?’ he added, looking at the flag.
‘Thanks. Rare to have company this time of day. Couldn’t you sleep either?’ Bruce asked.
Guy muttered an incoherent reply to Bruce’s back, and concentrated on pulling the rope. Seconds later and the Devon flag was fluttering in the morning breeze as Guy looped the lanyard around its cleat.
Bruce reappeared with two mugs of coffee and the two men stood looking out to sea.
‘Coffee out here first thing sets me up for the day,’ Bruce said.
Guy nodded. ‘I can understand that.’
‘My late wife, Gabby, used to enjoy an early morning swim,’ Bruce said. ‘Me, I’m not much of a swimmer. I’d organise breakfast and coffee while she did her hundred laps.’
‘She must have been fit to do that many laps,’ Guy said. ‘I only managed twenty this morning.’
‘She was.’ Bruce took a gulp of his coffee. ‘Always took life at a gallop.’
Guy waited, wondering if Bruce was going to volunteer more information. Bruce turned to look at him.
‘You married?’
‘Sort of. It’s complicated,’ Guy muttered. Damn. Why hadn’t he just said the truth? Yes, I’m married. He waited for the inevitable questions to follow.
Instead Bruce regarded him thoughtfully before saying, ‘I’m going into town this morning, at about eleven. Want a lift?’
Guy shook his head. ‘No, thanks. Thought I’d take a walk along the coast.’ He drained his mug and placed it on the table. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Any time. Something stronger on offer at sundown if you want.’
Guy smiled, raising his hand in acknowledgement before turning away and making for No. 3.
Standing under the shower, relishing the needles of hot water hitting his body and washing away the lingering chlorine smell after his swim, Guy closed his eyes. Not since he was at college had he spent so much time navel-gazing.
Sitting around doing nothing had always been totally alien to him. Once he’d hit the big wide world of photo-journalism in his early twenties, he’d revved up the speedometer of his life, allowing precious little time for reflection. The harder he worked, the more recognition he gained, the more money he earned, the more successful he was in the eyes of the world. Now the years had disappeared, while life had happened to him and around him almost without him noticing.
This solitude he’d desperately felt in need of was wearing thin. Cabin fever was getting to him, he decided. Ten minutes later, decision made, he was closing the cottage gate and making for the coastal path. His walk came to a premature end, though, when he heard a whimpering in the hedge just one hundred yards from the cottages. Cautiously he approached and discovered a small black and white dog huddled into the undergrowth, its body trembling and regarding him with frightened eyes.
Carefully Guy moved his hands over the dog’s body. ‘Steady. I won’t hurt you. I wonder if you can stand?’ Gently he lifted the dog onto its feet but it could barely stand and made no effort to move. Guy sighed. He was pretty sure the female dog had nothing broken but was painfully thin and weak. Nothing for it but to pick the poor thing up and carry it back to the cottages and get some help.
He went straight to The Bosun’s Locker in the hope that Bruce would still be in.
‘D’you have a number for a taxi?’ he said as Bruce appeared. ‘Found this poor dog up on the path. Need to get to the vet’s.’
‘I’ll take you,’ Bruce said, grabbing his car keys from the hook.
Ten minutes later they were in town and Bruce pushed open the vet’s door as Guy gently carried the dog into the crowded waiting room.
‘What’s happened to her?’ the receptionist said, looking at the dog.
‘No idea. I found her out on the coastal path,’ Guy said.
‘Take a seat and I’ll push you through as quickly as I can.’
‘I’m next in line, the dog can take my place,’ a woman called out. ‘My cat’s only here for her annual check-up. She can wait.’
Bruce and Guy smiled their thanks before following the receptionist into a small consulting room and placing the dog on the table in front of the vet, who briefly introduced herself as Holly before turning her attention to the dog.
‘Mmm,’ Holly said ten minutes later. ‘I can’t find anything broken. She’s very thin and dehydrated. I’d say she’s about eighteen months old. Not micro-chipped so I suspect she’s been dumped and has been struggling to survive for some time. I’ll give the local refuge a ring and get them to pick her up. They’ll nurse her back to health before rehoming her.’
‘No,’ Bruce said. ‘I’ll keep her. Get her well again.’
Both
