Summer at 23 the Strand. Linda Mitchelmore
he looked in the early morning, fresh from sleep, his hair tousled, his cheeks still pink from warm slumbers. Cally would have to cut off his blond curls soon – already they were reaching his shoulders and more than one person had thought he was a girl, much to Noah’s indignation.
‘We can’t,’ Cally told him, ‘because I haven’t brought wellies.’
Noah stopped hopping, thumped his feet down hard on the wooden floor of the chalet and folded his arms across his chest and went into a sulk. Riley followed suit. And Cally made a mental note to add ‘be prepared for every weather situation when you take the boys out’ to her list for Jack, should the worst happen to her.
‘We could bake instead,’ Cally said, trying to save the situation. She’d packed the bare essentials of flour and sugar and butter. And raisins, because the boys loved to snack on raisins. ‘Welsh cakes. You love those.’
Cally’s Aunt Frances had made Welsh cakes regularly, even on holiday. Cally breathed in deeply and it was as though the scent of cinnamon was in the air – that and the acrid aroma of slightly charred mixture where the cakes had been left a bit too long on the griddle. Cally had loved those burnt bits. Everyone knew burnt anything – toast, barbecue food, Welsh cakes – could be cancer-producing, didn’t they?
‘Yeah!’ Noah said, punching the air. Riley followed suit.
‘Then, that’s what we’ll do. Until the rain stops and then we’ll think again. You can watch CBeebies until we’re ready to bake.’ She reached for the remote and switched on the tiny TV that sat on a small shelf just above the mock fireplace. ‘There you go,’ she said, finding the right channel. Both boys sat, thumbs in mouths, ready to watch.
Cally could make Welsh cakes without having to read a recipe because she could judge the quantities fairly accurately as her aunt had done before her. Cally felt a pang that her aunt had died – at fifty-two, which was far too young to die. Cancer. Did it run in families? Cally had a feeling it did. She shivered just thinking about it.
‘She would have adored them,’ Cally said as she wiped off the countertop ready for baking.
‘Who would? What?’ Jack asked.
‘Aunt Frances. Our boys. Sorry, I didn’t realise I’d spoken out loud. She used to make Welsh cakes. My brain was making the connection.’ There were tears in her eyes and she turned away from Jack in the hope he wouldn’t see them.
But Jack had obviously seen because he said, ‘You okay?’
Cally bit the insides of her cheeks to stop the tears from falling. She’d read somewhere in a magazine that that was what celebrities did, what royalty did, so they didn’t cry in public. It worked for Cally now anyway. She turned round to face Jack, a smile on her face.
‘Fine. There’s only a little ceramic frying pan to make the Welsh cakes in but it should do. We’ll only be able to make a few at a time though.’
She bustled about collecting the ingredients, finding the pan.
Jack came and stood behind her, put his arms around her waist and pulled her gently back towards him.
‘Did you sleep better last night? You were dead to the world when I looked in on you at half past nine.’
Dead to the world? Why did you choose that expression, Jack? Why?
‘Heaps better, thanks,’ Cally said, forcing her shoulders to go down from somewhere up around her ears. She leaned in to him, jiggling her shoulders to get a better fit.
‘You talk in your sleep, you know?’ Jack said, kissing the side of her neck.
Cally, startled, felt herself stiffen in his embrace. Do I? What might I have said?
‘Do I?’ she asked, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘That was a very concerned “Do I?” Jack remarked. He kissed the side of Cally’s neck again, letting his lips linger, making a little sucking movement.
‘Jack, I’m sorry but I just don’t have time for this,’ Cally said. ‘The Welsh cakes. You know. The boys will get bored of the TV in a minute and…’
She reached for Jack’s hands and pulled them apart where they rested on her waist.
‘There you go, not finishing your sentence again. I don’t believe for a second you’re fine,’ Jack whispered in her ear. ‘There’s something. I know there is. And I’m scared. Scared it’s something to do with you and me.’
‘No, not that,’ Cally said, turning to face him.
‘But there is something,’ Jack said. ‘You’ve all but gone and admitted it with that response.’ He cupped her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Your reluctance to make love, your…’
‘What are you two arguing about?’ Noah asked. ‘I don’t like it.’
Cally disentangled herself from Jack and rushed to Noah, folding him in her arms.
‘We’re not arguing, darling. We’re just talking about something. Come on. Welsh cake-making time.’
And the moment passed. The boys loved watching the bubbles rise in the cakes as they cooked. Cally even let Noah flip one over and helped Riley do the same. When they’d cooled a bit she dusted them with sugar and they ate them warm and fragrant and full of memories for Cally of when she’d done the same with her Aunt Frances and her cousins.
‘Oh, I have to get a photo of that,’ Cally said, pointing at the boys, both with sugar all over their lips. Riley even had some in his hair – it looked like snow crystals. She reached for her phone. Either Cally or Jack had taken photos of the boys at every stage of the Welsh cake making. More memories for Noah and Riley. Even though Jack didn’t know – yet – that was why Cally was taking so many.
‘Can we go out when we’ve eaten these?’ Noah asked. ‘I can eat lots and lots!’
He reached for a second Welsh cake and began to cram it into his mouth.
‘Not too many,’ Cally said, wagging a finger at him, mock stern. ‘And we’ll go out if the rain eases off a bit.’
But the rain did not ease off. Cally began to feel suffocated in the small space of the chalet.
‘Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve just got to get out.’
‘Okay. It’s not cold. The boys can go barefoot on the sand. They’ll probably go in the sea and get wet anyway.’
‘No. On my own, I mean.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t sound like that about it,’ Cally said. She fingered the amethyst she’d worn around her neck since the minute she’d found it there waiting for her. Her gift. It made her feel calm touching the cold stone, as though it held some sort of healing quality.
‘Like what?’
‘Defensive.’
‘Well, how am I supposed to sound? I’m getting the brush-off at every turn…’
‘You’re not! I’ve told you, I’m just very tired, and I’ve been stressed at work. I couldn’t work if my mum didn’t have the boys, but I have to drive them there and fetch them afterwards and… and we’re in danger of arguing and you know the boys don’t like it when we do.’
‘Which isn’t often, is it?’
‘No. It isn’t,’ Cally had to agree. ‘But I really must get out. Clear my head a bit. Get a bit of exercise.’
‘Okay,’ Jack said, sounding resigned. ‘Seems we’re not wanted on this voyage, boys.’ He ruffled the boys’ small curly heads with his large, tanned hands.
How safe they look in his hands. They’ll be fine.