My Summer of Magic Moments: Uplifting and romantic - the perfect, feel good holiday read!. Caroline Roberts

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       Jelly shoes, sunscreen, floppy hats and sandy sandwiches

      It was a slow walk back from the village. Claire sat down on a rock to eat her pie, which was delicious: a crisply baked pastry shell, tender steak and moist gravy. Bliss. She guessed she was about halfway back now. She got up to set off again about fifteen minutes later and rebalanced her load, but her arms felt about four feet long. Her shoulders were searing by the time she got back to the cottage. So much for a pleasant stroll on the beach! She’d have to find out if there were any buses that went by the cottage next time she wanted more than a few items of shopping. The soup had better be worth it.

      After a cup of tea to perk herself up, she began chopping the veggies with a half-blunt kitchen knife, the best of a bad bunch of kitchen utensils. Then, after finally working out how to use the hob on the ancient-looking gas stove, she fried the onion off in a little butter. She’d had to use a match to light the flame – luckily she’d found an old packet on the mantelpiece of the fireplace – cautiously poking it towards the hissing noise under the metal ring. She added the veg, a jug of stock and some seasoning; she’d even found some fresh thyme lurking in the flowerbed outside the front door and added a few sprigs for good measure. She gave it all a good stir, popped a lid on the pot, and turned the gas flame low. So that was supper sorted.

      What to do with her time? She wished she’d bought a bottle of wine in the village now. Mind you, that would have been even more to carry. But yes, she could picture herself sitting out on the balcony with a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio – though funds were tight, she could have made the bottle last a couple of days. Oh well, another cup of tea would have to do.

      She made her way upstairs and out onto the balcony, picking up her book on the way. She was drawn to the old wooden deckchair overlooking the beach and the sea; no naked swimmers this time unfortunately, just dog walkers and families. Two children were playing in the stream alongside the cottages that wound its way down to sea, trying in vain to dam it up with large pebbles they’d found nearby, paddling in the cool waters, splashing away happily. She wondered if they might be the children of Adonis next door. Watching them took Claire back to those days of jelly shoes, sunscreen, floppy hats, sandy sandwiches and ice cream. Childhood days when you didn’t have a clue where life was going to take you, when you didn’t even have to think about it.

      It was peaceful here. Just what she’d needed. A sense of solitude, and yet there was life going on just outside your door, your beachfront garden, where you could join in if you wanted to, or opt out for a while. No deadlines, no work calls, no hospital appointments, not even texts pinging in, her phone off for now – the signal here seemed pretty poor anyhow. A place where you could just look at the view, breathe in the salt-sea air, and just be.

      She finished her cup of tea, picked up her book and started to read, losing herself in the romantic comedy, glad to be in someone else’s world for a while. The beach started to empty, the air began to cool a little, the light thinned to the white-gold of an early-summer evening.

      Right, she’d better go check on that soup – didn’t want it burning or sticking to the bottom of the pan. It was meant to be on a slow simmer, but who knew what that ramshackle cooker was capable of. She made her way to the kitchen and peeked under the lid – it should have been thick and the vegetables softened by now, but it was looking watery, with solid cubes. In fact, there was no heat or steam coming off it at all. She peered down at the ring. Nothing, no flame. She took the pan off and tried to relight the flame – nothing. Great. She was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a pan of raw veg for supper.

      She fiddled with the knobs on the cooker. There was no hiss of gas coming through. She checked the electrics were on with a flick of the kitchen light switch, in case that was something to do with anything. An old strip light flickered into use, so that seemed to be all up and running. But as for the cooker, still nothing. She stood staring at it for a while, pondering, as her stomach started rumbling.

      She went to find her phone. Standing on tiptoe by the window in the upstairs bedroom to get a single bar of signal, she dialled the number for the owner of the cottage, Mr Hedley, an elderly gentleman she’d spoken to when booking. She listened to the ringing tone. More ringing, no answer, not even an answerphone. Damn.

      This seclusion wasn’t all it was cut out to be. Who did you ask for help?

      The neighbour. She wondered if he might still be there? She peered out of the front window and spotted his black 4x4 parked on the gravel driveway. It was worth a try – she didn’t have many options left here.

      Slipping on her deck shoes, she headed across the driveway to knock on his door. This cottage was larger than hers, and in a far better state of repair: the windowsills were freshly painted in white, unlike hers, which were crumbling with brown rot amidst flakes of peeling paint. A pretty pink rose climbed the wall beside СКАЧАТЬ