Page 40 of Washed Up

‘I can’t believe you told Dylan he was 105,’ said Frankie.

‘A girl’s gotta keep a little mystery, eh?’ said Sally with a wink.

After breakfast they made their way down to the harbour. Sure enough, about fifty people, newly arrived off the boat, were milling about around the gift shop and the central square, trying to get their bearings. Jake gave her a little wave from the back of the tractor as he headed off in the direction of the hotel.

And there, in the middle of the crowd, walking towards them with a big smile on his face was Dr Mac, who was not remotely anywhere near 105 but more like thirty-five, with blond swept-back hair and brown eyes that twinkled whenever he smiled, which was often. Although no one knew for sure, the rumour was that he had a wife and young family in St Peter Port. It didn’t stop them giggling about his considerable bedside manner whenever they had the chance, though.

Frankie returned his smile, although her mind and heart were on a helicopter somewhere over London. He’d nearly be there by now. Why the bloody hell didn’t I give him my number?

‘Hi, Dr Mac,’ said Sally, her tongue practically hanging out.

‘Hello, ladies,’ he drawled. ‘Where’s the patient? Or should I say, how is he?’

‘In the pub,’ said Frankie. ‘Not sure if that’s the best place for him but you try arguing with him. He’s okay, I think. He’ll play it down when he tells you about it, but it was horrible, it was a massive statue that fell on him.’

‘Okay, noted. I’ll give him the once over.’

‘Thanks so much for coming, Doctor.’

‘Ah, you know I love buzzing over here,’ he said, shouldering his backpack. ‘I don’t get to do it enough but when I do, there’s always something exciting going on. Beats treating old men with haemorrhoids in St Peter Port, that’s for sure.’

Sally laughed heartily at this and Frankie threw her a look.

‘This way, Doc,’ said Sally, ignoring Frankie and giving him her best smile.

‘Lead the way,’ he said.

Once they’d established that her father was, in fact, completely fine, and Sally and Lily had flirted with Dr Mac for at least an hour, Frankie got back to work and desperately tried to put Dylan out of her mind. Which wasn’t helped by the fact that she decided to choose this moment to listen to a few of the Misdemeanours’ songs. More than a few. In fact, by lunchtime she’d already made a playlist of her favourites. It was so surreal, to be listening to him, to be able to do it whenever she wanted. A comfort, somehow. Dylan’s voice was even more gravelly when he sang. The whisky-breathed sound of it made her feel warm all over. A little too warm in places.

And sure, she may have checked his Instagram feed a few (dozen) times to see if he’d posted anything new, perhaps, maybe, about how he’d been to Herm and met the love of his life, for example, but mostly, she was working hard. It wasn’t until she had to head back to Heron Cottage to check on its new arrivals that she really began to pine.

How could she ever face that little cottage again?

She was in and out as quickly as she could, just long enough to ensure the new couple who’d arrived had everything they needed. Then she headed back down the hill, his songs and that husky voice in her ears as loud as it would go to drown out the horror of her own thoughts. Her own regrets.

Frankie finished work about 3pm. The rule on the island was, there were no rules. Yes, they were a team and everyone pitched in to do all kinds of jobs, whatever needed doing at the time, but the bonus was that you finished when you finished and then you wandered about in freedom and peace and stillness. It was one of the many things she loved about the place. That and the puffins, who could be seen off the southern coast on a clear day.

The sun was shining brightly, and Frankie was tempted to take a walk along the cliff path to see them but for some reason, which definitely had nothing to do with a certain man, she found herself drifting in the direction of Shell Beach instead, passing small crowds of tourists heading for the ferry home. Day visitors were their life blood: buying sandwiches and ice creams from the kiosks at every beach on the island; cleaning Michael out of tacky gifts; and, of course, using the pub and hotel for their lunches. Some Guernsey residents simply popped over to Herm for a glass of wine or afternoon tea. After a day like yesterday, they needed the trade.

The late afternoon sun was hot on her back as the path grew increasingly sandy underfoot. Her conversation with Dylan replayed over and over as she walked, the long grasses swaying either side of the pathway, only the odd broken branch or debris on the path hinting at the storm that had just passed their way. The air was scented with wildflowers and always, always, the salty tang of the sea. As she approached the beach, miles and miles of golden sand stretched before her and Frankie slipped off her shoes and sat in her usual spot near the dunes, burying her toes and exhaling slowly.

Only a few families remained now, the lucky ones staying on the island, yes, but mostly the ones braving the wait for the last ferry, weighing the risk of missing it altogether against the joy of spending a couple more hours in that warm, golden afternoon sun. She liked those people. Admired their spirit.

She watched as two small children in the distance ran backwards and forwards from the surf, dipping their feet and squealing in delight as the water lapped around their ankles.

He’d said he’d come back.

‘It’s a date,’ that’s what he said. Did a person mean that when they said it? Was it just something to say? She looked along the beach. He’d be a fool not to, after all. All he’d seen so far was the cottages in the rain, the pub, the chapel – God, the chapel. Her poor dad. She shuddered at the memory of him lying on the floor.

Dylan had missed all of this. He saw none of the island’s raw, indescribable beauty. The blue of the sea with the sun sparkling off its surface, the wildflowers that bloomed bright and long in the tiny microclimate, and the quiet, the stillness, the beauty of each dawn and sunset, on their tiny little pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere. Home.

Talk about a muse, thought Frankie, dipping her head onto her knees. Come back and write songs about this place, she thought, willing him to hear her, somehow, across the sea. No one ever does.

After a few moments like that, breathing slowly, in and out, calming her heartbeat, she finally did what she’d been thinking about doing all day. She took out Sally’s phone, which she definitely hadn’t borrowed without permission, snapped a shot of the beach in front of her and dropped casually into his direct messages on Instagram.

Frankie: Hey Dylan, it’s me, Frankie. I’m on Sally’s phone. Just at Shell Beach, check it out. Best beach ever. Anyway, thought I’d drop in to say a quick hi. Hope the gig went well. Great to meet you yesterday.

Yesterday. How could it have been only yesterday?