I open up the 20 Steps app and scroll through, looking for advice, till I find the section on meditation.
Try writing troublesome worries down. Don’t filter, just write. Then thank your brain for its thoughts and put them aside for now.
OK. Good idea. I pick up my pens, turn to the back of my bullet journal, and start writing furiously.
Half an hour later, I look up blearily and realize I have writer’s cramp. What the hell? Almost in bewilderment, I leaf back through the pages I’ve filled. I had no idea I had so many thoughts about Zoose. I had no idea I was so … Well. Livid.
I rub my face and breathe out. Maybe that was good. I’ve emptied my brain of bad stuff, and now I can let in the positive stuff.
Thank you, brain, for your thoughts, I say firmly to myself. But now let’s move on, OK?
I turn to the front of the bullet journal, write a big heading—BURNOUT CURE: 20 STEPS—and then decorate it with my gel pens. I’m just about to add some stickers when we arrive at Reading and some more passengers come on. Most of them see my pink Hula-Hoop and immediately head the other way （I don’t blame them）， but an elderly man in a yellow waistcoat seems undaunted by the sight and comes to sit right opposite me, even though there’s a spare four-seater table across the way.
“Going to join the circus, are you?” he quips, and my heart sinks slightly, because he’s clearly a talker. Sure enough, after the inspector’s checked our tickets and explained to me about changing at Campion Sands, the elderly man leans across the table, his eyes beady.
“Going all the way to Rilston Bay, are you? You’ll need help getting your stuff off and onto the shuttle train at Campion Sands. Lucky for you, I’m going to Campion Sands. I’ll help you onto your next train, if you like.”
“Thank you so much.” I shoot him a grateful smile, hoping it also conveys, Let’s stop talking now, but he ignores that bit.
“Live in Rilston, do you?”
“No, I’m just going to stay there.”
“Didn’t think I knew you.” He nods, satisfied. “Been there before?”
“When I was a child, we went on holiday every year.”
“Then you’ll remember me!” he exclaims, animated. “I’m Keith Hardy. Or I should use my other name—Mr. Poppit! HELLO, BOYS AND GIRLS!” he suddenly screeches, to my horror, making everyone in the carriage jump. “It’s Mr. Poppit! Big red puppet, stripy hat? I have a stand on the beach every year. You must remember Mr. Poppit! You must have watched my show!”
This all rings a dim bell. But I find puppets totally creepy, so there’s no way I would have watched his show.
“Maybe,” I say cautiously. “I do remember Terry, who ran the Surf Shack.”
“Well, of course you do,” says Keith, his face falling a bit. “Everyone remembers Terry. Who doesn’t know Terry?”
It’s all coming back to me now. There were two surf shops, right next door to each other on the beach. The general assumption was that they were deadly rivals and you had to pick your side, like the Montagues and the Capulets. There was the Surf Shack, run by Terry, and Surftime, run by Pete, but all the regulars went to the Surf Shack, because Terry was the most awesome surf teacher in the world. The most awesome person in the world. Some people in life are just head and shoulders above everyone else. They’re superior to the rest of us. And everyone recognizes it.
Terry was prematurely gray, but he had a body as tough as a tree and blue, twinkly eyes, and he knew us all. Pete was friendly enough—but he wasn’t Terry. I can still hear Terry’s brusque voice in my head, hoarsened by years of shouting over the wind. In fact, his words of wisdom quite often come back to me at random times. “Don’t worry!” he’d exclaim, if some nervous child was overthinking it. “Why are you worrying about the sea? The sea sure as hell isn’t worrying about you!”
Memories of the Surf Shack are rushing into my head. The dimness as you went in, after the glare of the beach. The smell of neoprene. The grown-up surfers hanging out on the little deck, wearing bright board shorts or wetsuits undone to the waist, exchanging stories. I remember queuing for a bodyboard, popping with impatience because we were missing the best waves with every second. Rilston is famous for its massive swell in winter—but those smaller summer waves were perfect for us children, still learning how to clamber up onto a board. Terry’s wife, Sandra, would take our names, write down the entries in the book, never hurrying, never skipping a detail. “Name?” she said every single time. She knew our names, but we still had to spell them out.
“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—