The Burnout(14)

“Is Terry still running the shop?” I say with sudden eagerness. “Is he giving surf lessons?”

Could I get up on a board again? I haven’t surfed in years, but maybe this could be Step 21.

“No, no.” Keith shakes his head. “Terry’s long retired now. Sold the Surf Shack to a new owner. Down for the surfing, then, are you?” He eyes my Hula-Hoop curiously.

“Not really,” I admit. “Just having a break. I want some peace and quiet. Yoga. That kind of thing.”

“Peace and quiet!” His face lights up with humor. “Well, you’ll get that, for sure, in February. Not a soul about in February. Guesthouses are shut, beach is empty, whole place is dead.”

“I don’t mind a bit of solitude,” I say honestly. “I’ve been a little stressed out recently. I just want a nice, tranquil, feel-good break. Get my head straight.”

“Well, there’s nowhere more tranquil than Rilston Bay.” Keith nods wisely. “Nowhere more feel-good. Scotch egg?” He offers me a paper bag, and I shake my head politely. “So, did you visit often as a child?”

“Every year till I was thirteen. That’s twenty years ago.”

It feels impossible when I say it out loud. Twenty years?

Keith’s face quickens with interest. “Were you there the year of the kayak accident? That was twenty years ago.”

“Yes,” I say, frowning as I remember. “Yes, I remember the accident. A boy nearly drowned.”

“That was a scandal,” says Keith, taking a bite of Scotch egg. “Not that there were any deaths, in the event, but there could have been, that’s what I say.”

“Right.” I nod. “Well, it was a long time ago.”

I feel self-conscious about writing any more in my bullet journal, so I put it away and get out the book of beach paintings Mum gave me. I’m hoping our conversation will end there, but Keith leans forward confidentially.

“You know it was all down to Pete?”

“I hardly remember it,” I admit. “I just remember being told to get out of the sea. We went bowling.”

“Ah well. Big investigation, they had, and Pete was fined. Ruined him,” Keith adds with relish. “He shut down, left the area. New couple took over. Never made a go of it, though. The Scullys, remember them?”

“We never went back after that year,” I say shortly.

That kayak accident was the week that Dad was diagnosed. In fact, we were on our way back from holiday when we found out. Mum and Dad got the call and Kirsten overheard them talking, and—

I close my eyes as an old, dull whoomph of pain rushes through me. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. But finding out that our lives had changed forever at a motorway service station was … suboptimal. I’ve blanked a lot of memories from that week, and this conversation is really not what I need.

“As I say, I just want a nice restful break. You know. Peace and quiet.”

“Of course you do.” Keith nods. “Peace and quiet. Nowhere like Rilston Bay for peace and quiet.” His face lights up again. “Were you there the year they got the venomous jellyfish? Now, that was a bad business. Three children rushed to hospital. Blamed the coastguards, they did, and to be fair, where were the warnings?”

Venomous jellyfish, now?

“No,” I say a little tightly. “I don’t remember any venomous jellyfish.”

“What about the big food-poisoning scandal?” He looks at me expectantly. “You know how many people were taken ill that week? At least twenty-three, and don’t you believe any different. They tried to make out it was eleven, hush it up, but you talk to the local doctors.” He wags a finger at me. “Dodgy prawn sandwiches, it was, though some say it was the mayonnaise. Fresh, you see? Eggs. Lethal.” He points to his Scotch egg and takes another bite.

OK, that’s it. I cannot listen to this man anymore. He’s bad for my health. In fact, he’s bad for the whole train carriage. A woman to my right is eavesdropping on us, aghast.

“Actually, I’ve got to listen to a podcast for work,” I fib, getting out my phone. “So I’d better do that.”

“You go ahead,” says Keith cheerfully, biting into his Scotch egg again. “Nice to chat. Oh, young love,” he adds.

“What?” I stare at him, feeling a prickly defensiveness at the mention of love.

“Young Love.” He jabs a finger at the cover of my book. “The painting. The Mavis Adler. That’s Rilston Bay, that is.”

“Right.” My eyes run over the painting, which is of a teenage couple kissing on a beach. It’s pretty famous—I’ve seen it on cards and posters. And, actually, I think I did know it was of Rilston Bay, but I’d forgotten.

“Maybe you’ll find young love!” quips Keith. “Or are you attached?”

“No,” I say tightly, searching for my earphones. “I’m not. And I doubt I’ll find love on an off-season beach.”

“Never say never! Staying with a friend, are you?” he adds, as I grope with more urgency in my bag.

“No, at the Rilston,” I reply automatically, then instantly wish I’d been more guarded.

“The Rilston!” He whistles with a kind of incredulous humor. “The Rilston!”